by the side of the house watching Ruth, who with strong brown arms
bare above the elbow was working away contentedly in their little
patch of garden. They nudged each other as Jeffrey rode up and left
his horse, but they made no sign to Ruth.
So Jeffrey stepping lightly on the soft new earth came to her unseen
and unheard. He took the hoe from her hand as she turned to face
him. Up to that moment Jeffrey had not known what he was to say to
her. What was there to say? But as he looked into her startled,
pain-clouded eyes he found himself saying:
"I hurt God once, very much. I did not know what to say to Him. Last
night He taught me what to say. I hurt you, once, very much. Will you
tell me what to say to you, Ruth?"
It was a surprising, disconcerting greeting. But Ruth quickly
understood. There was no irreverence in it, only a man's stumbling,
wholehearted confession. It was a plea that she had no will to deny.
The quick, warm tears of joy came welling to her eyes as she silently
took his hand and led him out of the little garden and to where his
horse stood.
There, she leaning against his horse, her fingers slipping softly
through the big bay's mane, Jeffrey standing stiff and anxious before
her, with the glad morning and the high hills and all French Village
observing them with kindly eyes, these two faced their question.
But after all there was no question. For when Jeffrey had told all,
down to that moment in the dark road when he had found God in his
heart, Ruth, with that instinct of mothering tenderness that is born
in every woman, said:
"Poor boy, you have suffered too much!"
"What I suffered was that I made for myself," he said thickly. "Cynthe
Cardinal told me what a fool I was."
"What did Cynthe tell you?"
"She told me that you loved me."
"Did you need to be told that, Jeffrey?" said the girl very quietly.
"Yes, it seems so. I'd known your little white soul ever since you
were a baby. I knew that in all your life you'd never had a thought
that was not the best, the truest, the loyalest for me. I knew that
there was never a time when you wouldn't have given everything, even
life, for me. I knew it that day in the Bishop's house. I knew it
that morning when you came to me in the sugar cabin."
"Yes, I knew all that," he went on bitterly. "I knew you loved me, and
I knew what a love it was. I knew it. And yet that day--that day in
the courtroom, the only thing I could do was to call you liar!"
She put up her hands with an appeal to stop him, but he went on
doggedly.
"Yes, I did. That was all I could think of. I threw it at you like a
blow in the face. I saw you quiver and shrink, as though I had struck
you. And even that sight wasn't enough for me. I kept on saying it,
when I knew in my heart it wasn't so. I couldn't help but know it. I
knew you. But I kept on telling myself that you lied; kept on till
yesterday. I wasn't big enough. I wasn't man enough to see that you
were just facing something that was bigger than both of us--something
that was bigger and truer than words--that there was no way out for
you but to do what you did."
"Jeffrey, dear," the girl hurried to say, "you know that's a thing we
can't speak about--"
"Yes, we can, now. I know and I understand. You needn't say anything.
I _understand_."
"And I understand a lot more," he began again. "It took that little
French girl to tell me what was the truth. I know it now. There was a
deeper, a truer truth under everything. That was why you had to do as
you did. That's why everything was so. I wasn't innocent. Things don't
_happen_ as those things did. They work out, because they have to."
The girl was watching him with fright and wonder in her eyes. What was
he going to say? But she let him go on.
"No, I wasn't innocent," he said, as though to himself now. "I fooled
myself into thinking that I was. But I was not. I meant to kill a man.
I had meant to for a long time. Nothing but Rafe Gadbeau's quickness
prevented me. No, I wasn't innocent. I was guilty in my heart. I was a
murderer. I was guilty. I was as guilty as Rafe Gadbeau! As guilty as
Ca--!"
The girl had suddenly sprung forward and thrown her arms around his
neck. She caught the word that was on his lips and stopped it with a
kiss, a kiss that dared the onlooking world to say what he had been
going to say.
"You shall not say that!" she panted. "I will not let you say it!
Nobody shall say it! I defy the whole world to say it!"
"But it's--it's true," said the boy brokenly as he held her.
"It is not true! Never! Nothing's true, only the truth that God has
hidden in His heart! And that is hidden! How can we say? How dare we
say what we would have done, when we didn't do it? How do we know
what's really in our hearts? Don't you see, Jeffrey boy, we cannot say
things like that! We don't know! I won't let you say it.
"And if you do say it," she argued, "why, I'll have to say it, too."
"You?"
"Yes, I. Do you remember that night you were in the sugar cabin? I was
outside looking through the chinks at Rafe Gadbeau. What was I
thinking? What was in my heart? I'll tell you. I was out there
stalking like a panther. I wanted just one thing out of all the world.
Just one thing! My rifle! To kill him! I would have done it
gladly--with joy in my heart! I could have sung while I was doing it!
"Now," she gasped, "now, if you're going to say that thing, why, we'll
say it together!"
The big boy, holding the trembling girl closer in his arms, understood
nothing but that she wanted to stand with him, to put herself in
whatever place was his, to take that black, terrible shadow that had
fallen on him and wrap it around herself too.
"My poor little white-souled darling," he said through tears that
choked him, "I can't take this from you! It's too much, I can't!"
After a little the girl relaxed, tiredly, against his shoulder and
argued dreamily:
"I don't see what you can do. You'll have to take _me_. And I don't
see how you can take me any way but just as I am."
Then she was suddenly conscious that the world was observing. She drew
quickly away, and Jeffrey, still dazed and shaken, let her go.
Standing, looking at her with eyes that hungered and adored, he began
to speak in wonder and self-abasement.
"After all I've made you suffer--!"
But Ruth would have none of this. It had been nothing, she declared.
She had found work to do. She had been happy, in a way. God had been
very kind.
At length Jeffrey said: "Well, I guess we'll never have to misunderstand
again, anyway, Ruth. I had to find God because I was--I needed Him.
Now I want to find Him--your way."
"You mean--you mean that you _believe_!"
"Yes," said Jeffrey slowly. "I didn't think I ever would. I certainly
didn't want to. But I do. And it isn't just to win with you, Ruth, or
to make you happier. I can't help it. It's the thing the Bishop once
told me about--the thing that's bigger than I am."
Now Ruth, all zeal and thankfulness, was for leading him forthwith to
Father Ponfret, that he might begin at once his course of instructions
which she assured him was essential.
But Jeffrey demurred. He had been reading books all winter, he said.
Though he admitted that until last night he had not understood much
of it. Now it was all clear and easy, thank God! Could she not come
home, then, to his mother, who was pining for her--and--and they would
have all their lives to finish the instructions.
On this, however, Ruth was firm. Here she would stay, among these good
people where she had made for herself a place and a home. He must come
every week to Father Ponfret for his instructions, like any other
convert. If on those occasions he also came to see her, well, she
would, of course, be glad to see him and to know how he was
progressing.
Afterwards? Well, afterwards, they would see.
And to this Jeffrey was forced to agree.
Old Robbideau Laclair, when he heard of this arrangement, grumbled
that the way of the heretic was indeed made easy in these days. But
his wife Philomena, scraping sharply with her stick, informed him that
if the good Ruth saw fit to convert even a heathen Turk into a husband
for herself she would no doubt make a good job of it.
So love came and went through the summer, practically unrebuked.
Again the Bishop came riding up to French Village with Arsene LaComb.
But this time they rode in a jogging, rattling coach that swung up
over the new line of railroad that came into the hills from Welden
Junction. And Arsene was very glad of this, for as he looked at his
beloved M'sieur l'Eveque he saw that he was not now the man to have
faced the long road up over the hills. He was not two, he was many
years older and less sturdy.
The Bishop practised his French a little, but mostly he was silent and
thoughtful. He was remembering that day, nearly two years ago now,
when he had set two ambitious young souls upon a way which they did
not like. What a coil of good and bad had come out of that doing of
his. And again he wondered, as he had wondered then, whether he had
done right. Who was to tell?
And again to-morrow he was to set those two again upon their way of
life, for he was coming up to French Village to the wedding of Ruth
Lansing to Jeffrey Whiting.
Jeffrey Whiting knelt by Ruth Lansing's side in the little rough-finished
sanctuary of the chapel which Father Ponfret had somehow managed to
raise during that busy, poverty-burdened summer. But Jeffrey Whiting
saw none of the poor makeshifts out of which the little priest had
contrived a sanctuary to the high God. He was back again, in the night,
on a dark, lone road, under the unconcerned stars, crying out to find
God. Then God had come to him, with merciful, healing touch and lifted
him out of the dust and agony of the road, and, finally, had brought him
here, to this moment.
He had just received into his body the God of life. His soul stood
trembling at its portal, receiving its Guest for the first time. He
was amazed with a great wonder, for here was the very God of the dark
night speaking to him in words that beat upon his heart. And his
wonder was that from this he should ever arise and go on with any
other business whatever.
Ruth Lansing knelt, adoring and listening to the music of that
_choir unseen_ which had once given her the call of life. She had
followed it, not always in the perfect way, but at least bravely,
unquestioningly. And it had brought her now to a holy and awed
happiness. Neither life nor death would ever rob her of this moment.
Presently they rose and stood before the Bishop. And as the Shepherd
blessed their joined hands he prayed for these two who were dear to
him, as well as for his other little ones, and, as always, for those
"other sheep." And the breathing of his prayer was:
That they be not afraid, my God, with any fear; but trust long in Thee
and in each other.
THE END
Printed in the United States of America.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Shepherd of the North, by Richard Aumerle Maher