Joyce of the North Woods Part 42

It was over at last. There was nothing now to do but to take up her cross and follow as she could; there was no more to be said.

Drew waited for her a moment, still standing behind the chair. Then he spoke clearly and firmly:

"Ruth, in Phil's going he left our love to us; for we are permitted to remember the splendid man in spite of the weakness which crippled him.

We must carry out every wish of his. I think when this is done--his brave soul will be free from every earthly stain. The good he did; the man he was, must claim recognition as well as the sin that stamped him.

Both are actual and real.

"We'll find John Dale if he is to be found. We'll give him all that is his own--his own. But I pray G.o.d he is still man enough to claim no more.

"And now, go to bed. You may sleep safely, for you have made yourself ready even for--sacrifice."

"No! no! Ralph."

"Yes! yes!"

He opened the door of the study, and with bowed head she pa.s.sed out.

Then Drew turned and mechanically banked the fire, and left the room orderly, as was his habit.

As he followed a few moments later, the little clock struck the half-hour of one. Much had been lost and gained in an hour's time.

CHAPTER XVI

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 rea.s.sure 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 G.o.ds 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 rea.s.serting 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. Ange. If coming events cast their shadows before, then Tate's future looked as if it might be one encompa.s.sed by darkness.

When Billy reached Gaston's shack a silence of desolation pervaded it.