Joyce of the North Woods Part 50

"To Hillcrest. I start from there to-morrow morning, after another talk with the little fellow I mentioned. I'm going to keep to the woods for a few days--they always brace me--then I'm going to make a break--for the coast."

"You'll--write--to--me--Jock?"

For a moment Filmer hesitated; then he said eagerly:

"Yes; as long as I'm fighting, I'll keep in touch. If I get down--you'll know by my--not writing. And Drew, I want to tell you something. That religion of yours is all right. It was the first kind that ever got into my system and--stayed there. It's got iron, red-hot iron in it, but it's got a homelike kind of friendliness about it that gives you heart to hope in this life, and let the next life take care of itself."

"Thank you, Filmer. That's going to make me--fight."

Another quick, strong handclasp--and then Drew turned toward the glowing windows of his home.

Filmer stood with uncovered head in the driving storm, and looked, with a great, hungry craving, up to the house that held the motive-power of his new life, and then, with a dull pain he grimly set his face toward--the coast.

CHAPTER XIX

Drew waited until after Christmas before he took a decided part in the affairs of Gaston and Joyce. Indeed he purposely avoided any information regarding what was going on at the shack among the pines. He was determined that St. Ange's first, true Christmas should be, as far as he could make it, a perfect one; and it was one never to be forgotten. It set a high standard; one from which the place was never again to fall far below.

The snowstorm raged furiously for hours, and then the weather cleared suddenly and gloriously.

Blue was the sky, and white the world. A stillness held all Nature, and the intense cold was so disguised that even the wisest native was misled.

Early on Christmas morning, right after the jolly family breakfast, Drew called to Constance as she pa.s.sed his study door:

"Connie, we cannot have Filmer with us, after all. He's gone away."

The girl stopped suddenly. Her arms were full of gifts, and her bright face grew still.

"Where has he gone?" The question was put calmly, but with effort.

"It's quite a yarn, Con; can you come in?"

"I can hear from here, Ralph; go on."

"You know that rich old fellow on the Pacific Coast who has just died, Jasper Filmer, the mining magnate?"

"Yes."

"He's was Jock's--father."

Drew heard a package drop from his sister's arms. She stooped and picked it up. From his chair Drew saw that her face never changed expression.

"So then, Filmer did not take the trouble to change even his name?"

The voice was completely under control now.

"No. I imagine this was no case of the town-crier being sent out. When the prodigal got ready to return, under prescribed conditions--the calf was there."

"I see. And has he--has Jock accepted the--conditions?"

"He's gone to make--a big fight, Con. He will not take the fortune unless he wins. Filmer's got some of the old man in him, I bet."

"Yes. Is--is his mother living? Has he any one to go to--out there?"

"No one, Con. From what he told me, I gathered that it was to be a fight with the odds--against him."

There was a long pause. A package again dropped to the floor. The girl outside stooped to gather it up; dropped two or three more, then straightened herself with an impatient exclamation.

"He'll win out!" The words sounded like a rally call. With that the girl fled down the hall, trilling the merriest sort of a Christmas tune.

At three o'clock St. Ange turned out in force, and set its face toward the bungalow.

Leon Tate had decided that to put a cheerful front to the foe was the wiser thing to do, so he closed the Black Cat and arrayed his oily person in his best raiment, kept heretofore for the Government Inspector and Hillcrest potentates, and drove his wife himself up to Drew's fete.

"Do you know," he said, as they started, "Brown Betty looks as played out as if she had been druv instead of loafing in the stable."

"She do look beat," Isa agreed. "What's that in the bottom of the sled, Tate?" she suddenly asked.

Tate picked it up.

"Now what do you think of that?" he grunted, and held the object out at arm's length.

It was a baby's tiny sock; unworn, unsoiled. The little twisted foot that had found shelter in it for so brief a time had not been a restless foot.

"Give that to me," Isa said hoa.r.s.ely, and tears stood in her grim eyes.

"What the--what does that--mean?"

"How should I know, Tate? But it set me thinking. Things often let loose ideas, you know. This being Christmas--and the stable and the manger and--and--the baby. It all fits in."

Tate looked at his wife in an almost frightened way.

"You mean"--he tried awkwardly to follow her confused words; "you mean--a baby has been borned in--our manger?"

"Lord! Tate what are you thinking of? St. Ange may be wilder than Bethlehem in some ways, but there ain't never been no baby borned in _my_ manger."

"Then what in thunder do you mean?"

"Nothing, Tate"; and now the tears were actually falling from Isa's eyes.

"I guess"--she strangled over her emotions--"I guess--it's more like--a flight inter Egypt--than--than--a birthday party."

"Get up, Bet!" Tate was routed by the event. Finally he said slowly, "See here, old woman, I'm going to look inter that--baby boot, and don't you forget it. This ain't no time and place maybe, but Tate's going to have his senses onter any job that takes his possessions for granted.

Give me--that flannel boot."