Billy arose the morning after his eventful evening, with a feeling of
physical discomfort. He attributed it to his neglected duty, when in
reality it was merely a disordered stomach.
The past day or two, ending in a feast of unwonted dainties, had created
havoc with Billy's newly acquired, higher nature.
He was sulkily belligerent with Maggie, but Maggie viewed the lapse with
considerable relief. Billy of the night before awed her in spite of
herself. Billy of the morning after cast no reflections on her own
inferiority.
Poor Peggy wondered, in her dull way, if she had been dreaming the
astonishing things that had set her heart beating. To reassure herself
she took a candle and went out to the wood-shed. No; there, in the dim
shadows of the cobwebby place, was the stanza that was proof of her
son's genius. Then Peggy reflected with a glad heart that it was the
accepted belief of the world that geniuses were always cranky and
uncomfortable, and, womanlike, Peggy gave thanks that it was permitted
her to have a genius for her own.
Soon after breakfast Billy began his life work with a dull pain in the
region of his heart.
He went up to Filmer's shack and found him out; he then hauled and
pulled the tagged bundles of pine trees, which Jock had left standing by
the door, down to the Station.
"What in the name"--Tom Smith paused to expectorate--"of all," (it is
needless to enumerate the name of the gods by which Tom swore) "yer
doing with them sapling pines?"
"Mind yer business," Billy returned, panting under the last load. "Put
'em on the train; that's you're lookout; and here's the money to pay for
their ticket down State." Billy had found the money in an envelope tied
to the trees.
"Well, I'll--be--blowed." Tom spelled out the address and took the
money.
"Where does these hail from?" he asked.
"From the bungalow," Billy replied with unlooked-for promptness.
Tom had nothing more to say. The bungalow people had the right of way on
the branch road. To and from the Junction the name of Drew was one to
conjure with.
"I guess," Tom spat wide and far, "I guess she's aiming to decorate the
hull blamed town, back there, with greens. She don't mind slashing, she
don't."
"Shut up!" Billy commanded. Tom turned to look at the boy, who in the
recent past had been his legitimate property, in common with others, to
kick and swear at.
"Well by--" But he neither kicked nor swore at Billy. He relieved
himself by expressing his feelings to inanimate objects.
Then Billy went up to the tavern. The dull pain was relaxing. The fine,
cold air was clearing his muddled wits, and he felt the milk of human
kindness reasserting itself in his new-born nature.
"Mr. Tate," he asked boldly, stepping behind the screen to the men's
side. "Any letters here for Joyce?"
Tate, bending over a cask of beer, raised himself, and gave Billy the
compliment of a long, hard stare.
"Your voice changing, Billy?" he asked blandly. "Gosh! you've growed up
terrible suddint. What you doing home in the middle of the season?"
"Got--sick," Billy muttered quite truthfully. "Any letters for Joyce?"
"I don't keep letters on _this_ side, son."
Tate felt compelled to cater to what he recognized in Billy. "And
whoever heard of Joyce having letters? If you mean Gaston's mail she's
sent for, then I reply straight and honest, and you can tell her--I know
_my_ business!
"When Gaston calls for his mail, he gets it. When he wants Joyce to have
it--he's got to send order for same. The Government down to Washington,
D.C., knowed who it was selecting when it chose Leon Tate for
Postmaster.
"Billy, you've changed more in a few months than any one I ever seed.
You--" he hesitated, and grinned foolishly--"you feel--like a drink o'
anything?"
The subtle compliment to his manhood thrilled Billy; but oh! if Tate had
only known to what that manhood was due.
"No, thank you," Billy replied, pulling his trousers up ecstatically. "I
don't want nothing to drink--to-day. But won't you please look and see
if there ain't a letter for Joyce--with her name to it?"
Tate walked around the screen, followed by Billy, and began fumbling in
the row of slits that answered for letter-boxes.
"Bet she's expecting word from Gaston."
Tate moistened his dirty fingers, and shuffled the envelopes.
"Here's five or six for Gaston hisself--one done up with a broad streak
of black round it. It's got a dreadful thick envelope! Well, if I ain't
blowed. Here _is_ one for Joyce, and did you ever?" Billy was beside him
now. "Done in printing. Well, if that don't beat the Injuns. Mis' Joyce
Lauzoon--that's good, Lauzoon! No wonder it didn't strike me first; I
guess I read it Jude Lauzoon. Here, you want to tote it up the hill?
Shouldn't wonder if it was _from_ Jude. If he's got over his sulks, and
finds no one to do for him, it's just like him to wheedle his woman
into coming back and--beginning all over."
Billy had grasped the letter with trembling hands. He was breathing
short and hard. Jared had evidently written the letter before talking to
Jude.
"Do you know who that's from?" Tate eyed the boy suspiciously.
"How should I?" Billy impudently turned away, "_I_ ain't Postmaster, am
I?"
Tate glared after the fleeing figure. He did not like the sense of
insecurity that pervaded St. Angé. If coming events cast their shadows
before, then Tate's future looked as if it might be one encompassed by
darkness.
When Billy reached Gaston's shack a silence of desolation pervaded it.
Had all reputable St. Angé gone a-visiting?
Jock's absence, and now Joyce's, gave Billy a creepy feeling such as a
cat must feel who has been deserted by them he trusted.
But there had been no fire in Filmer's shack; on Gaston's hearth a
roaring, recently builded fire gave evidence of late companionship.
"Joyce!" called Billy. There was no reply. Then the boy opened the door
leading into the lean-to. He had no reverence for retreats. If any door
opened to Billy's hand, Billy's feet carried him further.
A fresh fire also blazed on the hearth of Gaston's sanctuary.
All at once Billy's childhood rose supreme over his recently gained
moral viewpoint. Ever since he and the other St. Angé children had spied
upon Gaston as a stranger, Gaston's possessions had filled their souls
with curious wonder.
Maggie was responsible for the story about a certain chest.
"It's as big"--here Maggie had stretched truth to the snapping
point--"as this! And it's all thick with iron strips, and it has a lock
as big as my head. Once I saw him open it--I was in the next room--"
"What was in it?" St. Angé youth whispered.
"That's telling," Maggie had sniffed.
But after all the earthly wealth that St. Angé greed then held in the
way of strings, old postage stamps, etc., had been laid at her feet,
Maggie revealed what she had _not_ seen.
"There's hundreds of dollars of gold. Umph! And candy
and--and"--Maggie's imagination in those days had been awakened by
Gaston's fairy-lore--"and a box tied up with a blood-stained cord! And a
gun, and a knife, with queer spots on it, and things that made me turn
sick as I looked!"
As Billy viewed the chest now--somewhat dwindled as to size--the old
story moved him.
There was no low curiosity of a thieving kind in his feverish longing
to test the truth of that old story of Maggie's. Money had no lure for
him, candy he was surfeited with, but he'd chance much to get a glimpse
of the box tied with the blood-stained cord, and the knife with the
queer spots.
Joyce had apparently gone on an errand. Billy stepped back into the
living room, then went to the wood-shed, and all around the house.
Perhaps she had gone to the store by a back path--she had a love for
unfrequented places.
Billy returned to the shack, laid the letter on the table of the outer
room, and tiptoed back to the lean-to.
The particular kind of thrill he experienced then was delicious. Quite
different was it from the one that had driven him almost mad with fear
as he listened to Jude and Birkdale a time back. This was a thriller
that appealed to the familiar in him,--the impishness that died hard.
He went across to the chest and leaned over it. The fire crackled--and
he leaped back! Then, loathing himself for his weakness, he knelt before
the treasure trove and tried the key in the lock.
It turned easily, and the lid flew back; for the chest was filled to the
brim. Several small articles, like letters, pictures and books, fell
onto the floor; but Billy heeded them not. He was after bigger game. He
tossed the contents hurriedly out. Maggie had lied foully--not a blood
stain anywhere, nor knife, string, nor box! Not even a gun, nor candy
nor gold dollars.
Billy's contempt for Maggie at that moment was too deep for expression.
Disappointedly he began to replace the poor trash that Gaston evidently
prized--the last thing to put back was a photograph--and from sheer
disappointment Billy was about to vent his disgust by tearing this in
two, when the face riveted his attention. It was a face that once seen
could never be forgotten. Pale and sweet it looked up at him. It was
part of the clean, better life that he was trying to lead. It made him,
all in the flash of an eye, see what a mean, low scamp he was to--
The outer door of the shack opened and shut! Hurrying feet ran across
the floor of the living room, the lean-to door was flung back, and, all
palpitating and wide-eyed, Joyce confronted the boy.
"You--Billy!" The glorious light died out of the big eyes, the pale,
expectant face set into lines of hopeless disappointment. "I thought--"
the mouth quivered pitifully, and Billy felt the added sting of
discovered shame.
In a moment things steadied themselves, Joyce was mistress of the
situation.
"What have you there?" she asked sharply. In the distraction she had not
noticed that the chest was open.
"Her picture!"
"Her! Who?" Joyce came over to Billy, and looked at the face he held at
arm's length.
Something numbed every sense but sight. That sense must convey the image
of the girl-face to Joyce's brain, and implant it there so effectually
that it could never be forgotten. And that very morning Joyce had seen
its counterpart on the highway!
"Who--is--that?" she demanded.
"It's her up to the bungalow. They call her--Ruth. See! here it is writ
on the back--'Ruth'; her other name is Mis' Dale."
The face was burned in now for all time; and the other faculties began
to throb into life.
"Billy, where did you get that?"
Then both boy and woman looked at the desecrated chest--and all was
told.
Even while she was wildly pushing facts from her, Joyce saw, rising
before her, a completed structure of John Gaston's past.
That exquisite girl was she who had held his love before--and she had
married the brother! Then Gaston's name was Dale. Oh! how vividly,
hideously clear it was. It seemed as if she had always known it. Even
the pictured face was as familiar now as Gaston's own. But Joyce's cold
lips were forming the words:
"Billy you lie! You brought that over to show me. Tell me the truth."
She had him by the shoulder, and her fierce eyes frightened him.
"I have told you the truth; so help me! There she is now; look!"
Joyce turned as Billy pointed to the window.
Outside, near the grave of _her_ baby, stood Constance Drew and the girl
whose picture Billy held limply in his hand.
Constance Drew was talking, but the stranger's sweet face was turned
toward the house, and Joyce saw that her eyes were full of tears.
"Billy"; Joyce clutched the thin shoulder; "put that back! Now lock the
chest, and listen. If you ever tell a living soul what you have
done--Mr. Gaston will--kill you!"
Billy obeyed with dumb fear.
"Now, go out of the shed door. Go--don't let them see you!"
Billy was gone, forgetting even to mention the letter lying on the
living-room table.
Then Joyce waited. Out in front, they two--Miss Drew and that
girl--seemed rooted to the spot near the baby's grave.
Feeling had departed from Joyce--she simply waited.
Finally they, outside, turned. They walked directly to the house, and
knocked. They knocked again.
"It's etiquette to go in, if the house is empty." It was Constance
Drew's voice. "St. Angé and New York have different ideas. Leave things
as you find them, that's the only social commandment here." A hand was
on the latch.
"Connie, I cannot! It does not seem decent." _That_ voice sank deep into
the listening heart behind the barrier.
"Well, then, I'll write her a letter. I'm sorry I asked Jock Filmer to
take a verbal invitation. She might think--"
"That's better, Connie, and while you and Ralph drive over to Hillcrest
this afternoon, I'll bring it here; perhaps she will be at home then."
Joyce heard them turn. She watched them until the pine trees hid them;
then her heart beat feebly.
Presently she went to the table, and there her eyes fell on the letter
Billy had brought. Quietly she took it up, opened it, and read it once,
twice, then the third time.
Finally it dropped to her feet, and, with hands groping before her,
Joyce staggered to Gaston's deep chair and fell heavily into it.