The End Of The Rainbow Part 20

"Och, she has a way with her, and she can get anything she wants. It would be through Alfred Wilbur--the poor lad the boys will be calling such a foolish name."

"Yes, Afternoon Tea Willie. What's he after now?"

"Indeed I think he will be after Miss Murray," said the old man, his eyes twinkling. "He seems to be always following her about. And he managed to get young Fred Hamilton to take Billy up to the camp. Fred is going up to his father's shanties with a gang of men in about a week."

Roderick's heart sank. Here was a lost opportunity indeed. He had failed to help his father, and had missed such a splendid chance to help her.

"If you've got anybody else who needs a job, Dad, I'll try to do better next time," he said humbly.

"Oh, indeed, there will always be some one needing help," his father said radiantly. "Eh, eh, it will be a fine thing for me to know you are helping to care for the poor folk on the Jericho Road. Jist being neighbour to them. It's a great business, the law, for helping a man to be neighbour." The old man sat and gazed happily into the fire.

Roderick fidgeted. He was thinking that some of the work of a lawyer did not consist so much in rescuing the man who had fallen among thieves as falling upon him and stripping him of his raiment.

"Law is a complicated business, Dad," he said, with a sigh.

There were prayers after that, and a tender farewell and benediction from the old people, and Roderick went away, his heart strangely heavy.

He was to be absent only a short time, perhaps not over two weeks, but he had a feeling that he was bidding his father a lifelong farewell--that he was taking a road that led away from that path in which the man had so carefully guided his young feet.

It was not entirely by accident that Roderick should be walking into Algonquin just as Helen Murray was coming out of the Hurd home. He had been very wily, for such an innocent young man. A shadow on the blind, showing the outline of a trim little hat and fluffy hair, had sent him back into the shadows of the Pine Road to stand and shiver until the shadow left the window and the substance came out through the lighted doorway. Gladys came to the gate, her arm about her teacher's waist.

They were talking softly. Gladys's voice was not so loud nor her look so bold as it once was. She ran back calling good-night, and the little figure of the teacher went on swiftly up the shaky frosty sidewalk. A few strides and Roderick was at her side. She was right under the electric light at the corner when he reached her and she turned swiftly with such a look of annoyance that he stopped aghast.

"Oh, I beg your pardon--" he stammered, but was immensely relieved when she interrupted smiling.

"Oh, is it you, Mr. McRae? I--didn't know--I thought it was--some one else," she stammered.

Roderick looked puzzled, but the next moment he understood. Just within the rays of the electric light, across the street, was Afternoon Tea Willie, waiting faithfully with chattering teeth and benumbed toes.

He stood and stared at Roderick as they pa.s.sed, and then slowly followed at a distance, the picture of abject desolation. Roderick found it almost impossible to keep from laughing, until he began to consider his own case. He had plunged headlong into her presence, and now he felt he ought to apologise. He tried to, but she stopped him charmingly.

"Oh, indeed, I wanted to see you, before you go away," she said, and Roderick felt immensely flattered that she knew so much about his affairs as to be aware that he was going away.

"Yes? What can I do for you?" he asked shyly.

"I wanted to ask about poor Billy Perkins. Mr. Wilbur got work for him, you know."

"Indeed, my father tells me it was you did the good deed," declared Roderick warmly.

"No, no, I only helped. But I am anxious about Billy." She spoke as though Roderick were as interested in the Perkins family as his father.

"Is there any one up at Mr. Hamilton's camp, I wonder, who would keep an eye on him. He is all right if he's only watched, so that he can't get whiskey. There's young Mr. Hamilton, he's going, isn't he?"

"Yes." Roderick felt that if the young man mentioned watched Fred Hamilton and kept him from drink it was all that could be expected of him. However, he might try. "I'll speak to him," he said cordially, "and see if he can do anything for Billy. I see you've taken some of my father's family under your care," he added admiringly.

"Oh no. I'm just helping a little. I'm afraid I'm not prompted by such unselfish motives as your father is. I visit down here just for something to do and to keep from being lonely."

It was the first time she had made any reference to herself. Roderick seized the opportunity.

"You don't go out among the young people enough," he suggested. She did not answer for a moment. She could not tell him that she was very seldom invited in the circles where he moved. She had been doomed to disappointment in Miss Graham's friendship, for after her first generous outburst the young lady seemed to have forgotten all about her.

"I like to come here," she said at last. "I think it's more worth while. But don't talk any more about my affairs. Tell me something about yours. Are you going to be long in the woods?"

It was a delightful walk all the way up to Rosemount, for Roderick managed to get up courage to ask if he might go all the way, and even kept her at the gate a few minutes before he said good-bye, and he promised, quite of his own accord, to visit Camp Hamilton if it was not far from Beaver Landing, his headquarters, and when he returned he would report to her Billy's progress.

CHAPTER X

"THE LIGHT RETREATED"

About two weeks after Billy Perkins had gone north, Helen Murray went down to Willow Lane from school to see his family. She had been there only the evening before, and had found them doing well. The faded little mother had never been quite so courageous since Minnie's death, but Bill's new start had put them beyond the immediate possibility of want and given fresh hope. There had been two very cheery letters from him which Helen had read aloud, so the little wife was trying to be happy in her loneliness, and was looking forward hopefully to Billy's return in the spring.

But January had set in bitterly cold and there had been a heavy snow fall during the morning. Helen feared that Eddie might not have been able to get the wood in, so as soon as Madame and her flock had departed, she turned down towards Willow Lane. She had been in Algonquin only a little over three months but already the self-forgetting tasks she had set herself, were beginning to work their cure. She had not regained her old joyousness, and often she was still very sad and lonely; but there had come a calm light into her deep eyes, and an expression of sweet courage and strength to her face, that had not been there in the old careless happy days. She was growing very fast, these busy days, though she was quite unconscious of it in her complete absorption in other people's troubles.

She had left the Perkins family in such comfortable circ.u.mstances, the day before, that she was startled and dismayed to find everything in confusion. The neighbours were running in and out of the open door, the fire was out, the baby was crying, and the little mother lay on the bed prostrated.

"What is it?" cried Helen, stopping in the open doorway in dismay.

"Oh, what's the matter?"

Mrs. Hurd and Judy Ca.s.sidy were moving helplessly about the room. At the sight of their friend the latter cried out, "Now praise the saints, here's the dear young lady. Come in, Miss Murray! Och, wurra, wurra, it's a black day for this house, indade!"

Gladys was sitting on the old lounge beside the stove awkwardly holding the baby.

"Oh, Miss Murray," she cried shrilly. "Somethin' awful's happened!

Billy Perkins's gone to jail. He got drunk and he's been steal--"

Her mother shook the broom at her. "Hold your tongue," she said sharply. For Mrs. Perkins, her face grey with suffering, had arisen on the bed. "Oh, Teacher, is that you!" she cried, bursting into fresh tears. Helen went and sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hand.

"What is it?" she whispered. "Perhaps it's not so bad!" she faltered, making a vague attempt to comfort.

But when the pitiful story came out it was bad enough. Mrs. Perkins told it between sobs, aided by interpolations from her neighbours.

Billy had been working steadily up till last Sat.u.r.day, quite happy because he could not get at the drink. But on Sat.u.r.day he went into the village to buy some fresh meat from a farmer for the camp. And there was a Jericho Road up north too, it seemed, where thieves lay in wait for the unwary. And Billy fell among them. He went into the tavern just for a few minutes, leaving the meat on the sleigh outside, and when he came out it was gone. Billy had gone on towards the camp despairingly, in dread of losing his job, and praying all the way for some intervention of Providence to avert the result of his mistake.

For in spite of many a fall before temptation, poor Billy, in a blind groping way, clung to the belief that there was a G.o.d watching him and caring for him. So he went on, praying desperately, and about half-way to camp there came an answer. Right by the roadside, as if dropped there by a miracle, lay a quarter of beef, sticking out of the snow.

It was evidently a small cache some one had placed near the trail for a short time, and had Billy been in his normal senses he would never have touched it. But the drink was still benumbing his brain, and quickly digging out the miraculous find he loaded it upon his sleigh and hurried to camp.

But retribution swiftly followed. The stolen meat had belonged to the Graham camp, and it seemed it was a terrible crime to steal from a rich corporation, much worse than from a half-drunken man like poor Billy.

The first thief was not arrested, but Billy was, and he was sent to jail. He would not be home for ever and ever so long and what was to become of them all, and what was to become of poor Billy?

The little wife, accustomed though she was to hardships and griefs, was overcome by this crushing blow. With all his faults and weaknesses, Billy was her husband and the stay and support of the family, and besides, she had a dread of jail and its accompanying disgrace. By the time the sad tale was finished, she was worn out with sobs, and sat still, looking straight ahead of her into the fireless stove. But the baby's cries roused her, and she took him in her arms, making a pitiful attempt to chirrup to him. The idiot boy, feeling dimly that something was wrong, came and rubbed his head against her like a faithful dog, whining grievously. She stroked his hair lovingly. "Pore Eddie," she said, "it'd be better if you an' me an' the biby, was with Minnie;" and then with sudden compunction, "but wot would pore Bill do without us?"

Helen told the sad story at the supper table at Rosemount, that evening, and asked for help. Miss Armstrong promised to send a basket of food down the next day, though she did not approve of the Perkins family. She had found that to help that sort of shiftless people only made them worse. Why, last Christmas, there was one family on Willow Lane who received five turkeys from the Presbyterians alone, and the Dorcas society was always sending clothes to that poor unfortunate Mrs.

Perkins. Mrs. Captain Willoughby herself, who was the President, had seen the little Perkins girl wearing a dress just in tatters, that had been given to her in perfectly good condition only the week before.

Wasn't the girl old enough to go out working?

"The little girl died last fall of tuberculosis," said Helen, in a low voice. "She was just ten."

Miss Annabel's big blue eyes suddenly filled. "Oh, the poor dear little thing. Minnie used to be in my Sunday-school cla.s.s, and I wondered why she hadn't been there for so long. But we've been so dreadfully busy this fall, I simply hadn't time to hunt her up.

Elinor, we must send a jar of jelly to the poor woman, and I think I shall give her that last winter coat of mine. We'll ask Leslie for some, she simply doesn't know what to do with all her old clothes."

"Oh, please don't," said Helen in distress. She could not explain that which she had so lately learned herself, that what a woman like Mrs.

Perkins needed was not old clothes nor even food, but a friend, and some knowledge of how to get clothes and food. "I don't think she really needs anything to wear just now. If we could get her some light work where she might take the baby, it would be so very much better for her."