ANDY:It's over! Poor Katherine! I'm going to leave her body here under the snow and the pines. It came quite suddenly at the last. She just could not stand it.I'm glad I went the rest of the way with her. I never could have done it except that you showed me the path. You've been here with me close, old friend, all these months. I wonder if you can understand me when I say that I am glad for Katherine, for her alone, that she is safe under the snow? It is easier to think of her so, than to remember the losing battle she waged for her health. I'm sure my being here made her less lonely, and she grew so tender and generous, so understanding.She begged me to return to Point of Pines. She never knew about Gavot.And now, Andy, before you get this, I will be on my way over-seas to offer what I have to France. I'm strong, well, and have nothing to hold me back. I can do something there, I'm sure.Law looked at the date on the letter, then noticed that the postmark was nearly a month later. There was no need to hurry back; Norval was gone.Law did not tell Donelle or Jo of his news. Everything was being tossed into the seething pot; the outcome must be awaited with patience and whatever courage one could muster.When spring came the littleRiver Queencame regularly to the dock. She came quietly, reverently, bearing now her children home: the sick, the tired, the hopelessly maimed, the boys who had borne the brunt of battle and had escaped with enough mind and body to come back. Some of them had news of others; they had details that waiting hearts craved. Under the soft skies of spring they told their brave stories so simply; oh! so divinely simply. The bravado, the jest were stilled; they had seen and suffered too much to dwell upon glory or upon the tales of adventure.Poor old Pierre went from one to another with his question:"Tell me about my Tom."Tom had been transferred here, there, and everywhere. Only an occasional comrade who had left home with him had been near him overseas. But one or two had stories about Tom that soon became public property."Old Tom was always talking about being afraid," said one. "In the trenches, while we were waiting for orders, he'd beg us to see that if he were a coward his home folks might not know the truth. He always expected to be the cur, and then, when the order came, up the old duffer would get and scramble to the front as if he was hell-bound for suicide. It got to be a joke and the funny part was, when it was over, he never seemed to know he'd done the decent thing. He'd ask us how he had acted. He'd believe anything we told him. After awhile we got to telling him the truth."Marcel wept beside her little row of graves after hearing about Tom and wished, at last, that a son of her own could be near that poor Tom of Margot's.Jo's eyes shone and she looked at Donelle. She felt the girl's big heart throb with pity, but she knew full well that even in his tragic hour of triumph Tom had not called forth Donelle's love.Sometimes she was almost angry at Donelle. Why could not the girl see what she had won, and glory in it? What kind of reward was it to be for Tom to have her "keep her promise?""Women were not worthy of men!" she blurted out to Anderson Law. "Think of those young creatures offering all they have to make a world safe for a lot of useless women!'"They ought to be spanked, the useless women," Anderson remarked solemnly."That they should!" agreed Jo."Ah, well, Mam'selle," Law's face grew stern, "we are all, men and women, getting our punishment alike. But what has the rebel, Donelle, now done?""She will not see Tom Gavot, her husband, as he is! She only sees him as a brave soldier. Instead, he is a man!""Ah! Mam'selle Jo, wait until he comes home andneeds her. Then she will give him the best she has to give. Is that not enough?""No!" Jo exploded. "No! it is not. She ought to give him, poor lad, what she has not in her power to give."Then they both laughed.It was full summer when the word came that Tom Gavot had made the supreme sacrifice.Law brought the official announcement, the bald, hurting fact. He had, on his way past Dan's Place, rescued Pierre before he had begun drinking."Come to Mam'selle Morey's," he commanded calmly. "I have news of your boy.""And he is still brave? It is good news?"Gavot shuffled on beside Law."He's still brave, yes.""That's good; that's good. Tom was always one who began by trembling and ended like iron."Jo was at her loom, Donelle at her knitting, when the two men entered the sunny home-room of the little white house."This has come," said Law, and reverently held up the envelope.They all knew what it was. In Point of Pines the bolt had fallen too often to be misunderstood. By that time every heart was waiting; waiting."It's Tom?" asked Donelle and her face shone like a frozen, white thing in the cheerful room.Law read the few terrible words that could not soften the blow, though they tried hard to do so."The war office regrets to announce——"Pierre staggered to his feet."It's a lie!" he said thickly, "a lie!" Then he began to weep aloud like a frightened child.Law went to him and shook him roughly."Stop that!" he said sternly. "Can't you try to be worthy of your boy?""But—but I wanted him to know how I have been trying, even when I couldn't quite make it. And now——""Perhaps he does know," Law spoke more softly, "perhaps he does."Jo did not move, but her eyes seemed to reflect all the misery of her stricken country."Mam'selle, can you not help us?" Law spoke from his place beside the groaning Pierre."I—I'm afraid not, Mr. Law. Not just now." Poor Jo; for the first time in her life she was overpowered. "I somehow," she spoke as if to herself, "I somehow thought I understood how it felt when I saw the others. But I didn't; I didn't." Then she turned to Donelle. "Where are you going?" she asked."Mamsey, I'm going down to—to Tom's hut. It seems as if he will be there."Then Jo bent her head."Go, child," she said with a break in her hard voice. "Go."And later Law found Donelle there in the little river-hut. She was sitting by the open door, her face, tearless and tragically white, turned to the river whose tide was coming in with that silent, mighty rush that almost took away the breath of any one who might be watching."Dear, little girl!" said Law soothingly, taking his place at her feet, "I wish you would cry.""Cry? Why, Man-Andy, I cannot cry."She was holding an old coat of Tom's, the one he had discarded for the uniform of his country."I wish we could have known just how he went—my Tom!""We may some day, child. But this we both know: he went a hero.""Yes, I'm sure of that. He would be afraid, but he would do the big thing. He was like that. I think such men are the bravest. Listen, Man-Andy!"Law listened. The strange, swift, silent, incoming tide filled his ears."I have been thinking," Donelle whispered, "thinking as I sat here of a wide, shining road and a great many, many men and boys rushing along it making the sound of the river. I think it is that way with the many boys who have died so suddenly; so soon. They are hurrying along some safe, happy road; and oh! Man-Andy, it seems as if it were Tom's road. All the afternoon as I have been sitting here in the only place he ever knew as home," Law glanced back into the pitiful, plain, empty room, "I have seen Tom at the head of the great crowd going on and on. He seems to be leading them, showing them the way over the road he loved."The water was covering the highest black rocks, the rushing, still sound was indeed like the noise of boyish feet hurrying eagerly home.Law stood up and took Donelle in his arms. She frightened him by her awful calm."Little girl," he whispered, "try to cry. For God's sake, try to cry!""But, Man-Andy, how can I? If only I could have kissed him just once so he could have remembered——" And then Donelle broke down. She relaxed in Law's arms; she clung to him sobbing softly, wildly."Why, Man-Andy, I'm going to remember always that I couldn't give him what he deserved most in all the world.""My dear, my dear! You gave him of your best, he understands that now as he could not before.""And oh!" here Donelle lifted her tear-stained face, "I'm so thankful I did not bar the door against him."Law thought her mind was wandering."What door, child?" he asked."This door, the night we were married. He—he knew, I am sure he knew, as he watched outside, that I trusted him."Law's eyes dropped."Your husband was a big man," was all he said.CHAPTER XXIINORVAL COMES BACKAnderson Law was sawing wood behind Mam'selle's little white house. He was mighty proud of his success in manual labour; to help Jo with her wood pile was a delight, altruistically and vaingloriously.The summer with its heart throbs had made people indifferent to the winter on ahead, but the days were growing colder and shorter and even the most careless were aware that some provision must be made at once if one were to escape needless suffering.Law was thinking as he worked, and occasionally wiped the perspiration from his brow. There were so many things to think about in Point of Pines; to think about, smile about tenderly, and grieve about.There was old Pierre, the Redeemed, he was called now. Since Tom's going the wretched father had ceased drinking, was housed by Father Mantelle, and had fallen into a gentle, vague state that called forth pity and tolerance.Early and late he was on the highway with his shovel or rake making the road easy for the feet of his boy!If any one came over the hill into Point of Pines the wandering, bleary eyes would be raised and the one question would break from the trembling lips: "Have you seen my Tom?"If any one went away over the hill, Pierre had a message:"Tell my Tom I'm filling in the ruts. He won't find it such hard travelling when he comes back."Anderson Law often kept old Gavot company—for Tom's sake. Even Mam'selle had forgiven him and, quite secretly, helped the priest in his generous support.The Longvilles, the Captain at least, had forsaken Pierre. Marcel, poor soul, gave what, and when, she could.As Law bent to his task at the wood pile, the priest hailed him from the road."I go now," he explained as he declined the invitation to enter, "to pray for rain. The forest fires are bad, but until the crops were in I would not pray."So simply did the curé say this that Law refrained from smiling, but he did say, looking afar to where the heavy smoke-cloud hung above the trees:"Ah! well, Father, now that the harvest is in, you had better give the Lord a free hand or there will be a sad pay-day on ahead.""I go to pray," Mantelle rejoined and passed on.Amused and thoughtful, Law looked after the tall, thin, bent figure. He recalled how the patient old soul taught and encouraged the children, held the older ones—children too, in their simplicity and superstition—to the plain, common paths of life with what success he might; remembered how day or night he travelled near and far to watch with the dying or comfort those from whom death had torn their sacredest and best."At such," Law thought, "one cannot scoff."And just then a fragrant odour came to Anderson Law. Pleasant and welcome it was. He looked up and, at a little distance, saw Mam'selle at her outdoor oven, pushing into its yawning mouth a tray of noble loaves of bread.Down went Law's saw, out came his sketching pad; Jo before that oven was a sight for the reverent."Eighteen loaves!" called Mam'selle, not realizing that she was becoming immortal, "eighteen loaves at a lick, Mr. Law, and but a drop in the bucket. The boys, whatever else was knocked out of them over there, managed to keep their stomachs. There's no filling the lads up, but the good Lord knows that it's little enough for us to do, trying to fill them.""To-morrow will be Friday," cried a cheery young voice from the highway, "so we must fish to-day, Mam'selle. I'm off to the river, but I swear I cannot get past the smell of your oven. And I wanted to tell you, I have my old job back. Hereafter I swing the light from the dock."Law and Jo turned. A boy in the garb of a great country stood leaning on his crutches, smiling; smiling, but with that look in his eyes that was never to depart. The look the trenches had put there; the hall mark of the world's wrong to its young."Ah! it's that nice boy, Jean," laughed Jo eagerly. "Wait, son," the wounded and sick were all "sons" to Mam'selle now, "wait, here is a large, brown, hot loaf. Take it along to munch while you catch your fish. And it's glad I am about the job, Jean. No one ever swung the lantern as you did. TheRiver Queenwill perk up when she sees you back."Jean laughed and patted his hot loaf of bread."Ah! Mam'selle. And to think I used to run from you when I was a silly lout of a kid. I did not know your great heart then, Mam'selle," he said.The boyish eyes were lifted to Jo's face as she pressed the crisp loaf in his bag."It's my turn to run after you now," she said softly. "It is worth the run, though, son. You're good sorts, the lot of you."Law was watching and listening. Jo affected him strangely. Lately he was aware of a glow whenever he got to thinking of her. If he meant ever to escape from Point of Pines he had better make a hasty retreat. That was what the glow meant. As if to challenge this state of mind Jo now came toward him."It's a noble pile you've cut, Mr. Law," she said. "For a painter-man you're not the useless truck one might expect. Mr. Law, I'll think of you often when I burn this wood. And now that I'm rather soft in my feelings for your sex—those hurt boys have pleaded for you—I might as well tell you that I'm going to put my stove in the outhouse and open up the chimney in the living room.""Mam'selle! This is surrender indeed! A triumph of soul over matter!" cried Law."This winter you can think of me toasting my shins and shivering up the back, Mr. Law." Jo smiled broadly.Anderson Law threw his head back and laughed. Jo's plain, unvarnished Anglo-Saxon was like a northwest wind to his mind.And just then the postman jogged in sight, reading the postcards with relish and letting his old horse find his own way along the road."Where is Donelle?" Law was asking as the mail man paused at the gate. Jo's eyes darkened."Knitting and thinking down in the river-cabin. Nick's with her. Mr. Law, there are times when I think that dog has a soul.""I never doubt it, Mam'selle. One look in his eyes is enough. But what, now, about Nick?""When he thinks the child has been alone long enough he goes after her. She says he tugs at her skirt until she follows. He cries if she holds back. Mr. Law, I fear Donelle is—is—taking to Tom's road."Poor Jo turned away."Nonsense, Mam'selle."Law often thought this, too, so his denial was doubly intense."We'll find a way yet to get Donelle on the road that belongs to her. Ah! a letter," he broke in, seeing the postman waving an envelope from the cart.Law went forward and took the letter, tore it open, and read the few words enclosed. It was from his lawyer. For a moment Anderson Law could not speak. The bright day seemed suddenly to darken. Then he said slowly, though his thoughts were swift:"Mam'selle, Jim Norval is back in New York. He's not able to see just now; something's gone wrong with his eyes, and his legs, too. There's hope, but I must go." Then, as if inspired, "Mam'selle, I must take Donelle.""No!" Jo sprang back as if Law had hit her."Mam'selle, I must take Donelle. Have these hurt boys, here, not taught you a lesson?""But, Mr. Law, this is not decent.""Norval's wife died last summer, Mam'selle. He went abroad because there was nothing else for him to do. Now may I have Donelle?"Jo reflected."But it will kill her," she said half-heartedly, "the strangeness. And what may happen.""It will cure her," Law went on; "no matter what happens. She's part of it all; she must bear what is hers.""Mr. Law——""Ah! Mam'selle," and here Anderson Law took Jo's hand, "there is so little, after all, that we older ones can do for them. May I have Donelle?""Yes. God help us all, Mr. Law." And poor Jo bowed her head."Thank you, Mam'selle. The conventions have all crumbled, we're all stripped down to our bare souls. We cannot afford to waste time looking forward or back. Keep that fire burning on the opened hearth, Mam'selle. Some of us will come back to you, God willing, soon. We must hurry. See! there is the child coming up the Right of Way, Nick clinging to her skirt. Donelle!"Law called to her and went to meet her."Child, I'm going to take you to the States with me. Norval needs you!"Just for an instant the white face twitched and the yellow eyes darkened."When do we go?" was all the cold lips said. Never a doubt; never a pause."What did I tell you?" Law turned to Jo. "Conventions be damned!"To-day we start, Donelle. And, Mam'selle, just you 'tend to that fire!"When Norval had been landed in New York he was taken to a hospital—to die. But he did not die, though he tried hard enough, and gave no end of trouble to his doctors and nurses."Whom shall we send for?" he was asked when, helpless and blinded, he lay in the small, quiet, white room."Am I going west?" The phrase clung like an idiom of a foreign language."Good Lord, man, no! You're getting on rippingly." The young house doctor was tireless in his service to this stricken man."Then send for no one. I'm not eager to have a chance acquaintance gaping at my useless legs and sightless eyes.""But you're going to come around all right. It's the effect of shock, you know. How about your relatives?""Haven't got any, thank the Lord." Norval's chin stiffened. The young doctor gripped the clasped hands on the counterpane."I wish you'd try a bit to buck up," he said."What for?""Well, just for your country's sake.""My country! Why isn't my country where I have been, helping to lower the temperature of hell?"The bitter tone rang through the words. Norval was glad for the company of this young doctor; glad to have someone, who, really did not matter, share with him the moments when the memory of horrors he had witnessed overwhelmed him."Our country is going to be there soon!" The doctor's voice was strained. "A big country like this has to go slow.""Slow be damned! This is no time to put on brakes. Are they, are they actually steaming up, Burke? You're not saying this to—to quiet my nerves?""No. Your nerves are settling into shape. Yes, our country is heaving from the inside.""Thank God!" Norval sighed."And you bet, Mr. Norval, I'm going on the first ship if I have to go as a stoker. If there's one blessed trick of my trade that can help fellows like you, lead me to it!""Burke, you're a devilish good tonic."A week later Norval had young Burke again to himself."Old man, I feel that I am not going west. It's rotten bad form for me to be holding down this bed any longer. I suppose I could be moved?""Yes, Mr. Norval. It would do you good, I think you ought to make an effort."I don't see why, old chap, but—here goes! Send for this man," he named Law's lawyer. "There is only one person in God's world I care to have see me now. Let them send for him."So the lawyer came to the hospital, viewed Norval with outward calm; felt his heart tighten and his eyes dim, then wrote the short, stiff note that reached Anderson Law by Mam'selle's wood pile.From that moment events moved rapidly. Taken from the still place where death seemed to have crushed everything, Donelle aroused herself slowly. She simply could not realize the wonderful thing that was happening; the marvellous fact that life still persisted and that she was part of it."He—he will not die?" she asked Law over and over again, apparently forgetting that she had put the question before."Die? Jim Norval? Certainlynot," vowed Law with energy born of fear and apprehension."And," here Donelle's eyes would glow, "he did his duty to, to the last! I am so glad that he stayed with her, Man-Andy, until she needed him no longer. Then I'm glad he went over there to help. There will be nothing to be sorry for now. It was worth waiting for. And does he know about Tom, my husband?"The word husband seemed to justify the rest."He does not, Donelle. And see here, child, we've got to go slow. Norval is going to come around all right and God knows he needs you, though he may not know it himself.""But why, Man-Andy? And what is the matter with him, exactly? You have not told me."There had been so much to say and do that details had been artistically eliminated."Well, his legs are wobbly." Law sought for the least objectionable symptoms."Wobbly? But hehasthem, hasn't he?" Donelle thought of the boys of Point of Pines who—had not."Legs? Jim Norval? Well, I should say so! But they've rather gone back on him for the moment. And his eyes——""His eyes?" Donelle clutched Law. "What about his eyes?""Now, see here, Donelle. I'm taking you to Norval because I believe you alone can cure him; make him want to live, but you've got to behave yourself. My girl, I don't know much myself, they've simply sent for me."The river steamer was nearing New York. It was early morning and the gray mysterious mists were hiding the mighty, silent city. It was like a dream of a distant place. A solemn fear that strengthened and hardened Donelle rose in her at Law's words. She groped for, found, and held his hand like a good comrade."Whatever it is, Man-Andy," she whispered, "I'm ready. If—he never walks again, I can fetch and carry. If—if his dear eyes can never see the—the things he loved, he shall use my eyes, always."Law then understood that the girl near him drew her strength and force from hidden sources. He knew that he could depend upon her. He tightened his clasp of the little hand."And now," he explained, gulping unvoluntarily, "you'll understand why I cannot take you right to Norval.""Yes, Man-Andy." The white face grew set."I'm going to have him moved from the hospital to my studio. I've got plenty of room and he'd like it there.""Yes, have him moved, have him moved." Donelle said the words over as if learning a lesson. She was trying to visualize the helpless man."As for you, little girl, I'm going to send you to Revelle. He's waiting for you. I telegraphed from Quebec. There's a nice young body keeping house for him, a Mary Walden, who once mistook love of artforart. She got saved and is now making a kind of home for—well, people like you and old Revelle. She's found her heaven in doing this and you'll be safe and happy with her until you can come to Norval.""Yes. Quite safe and happy, Man-Andy."And through the days that followed Donelle made no complaint; no demands. She kept near Revelle; listened to his music with yearning memories; grew to love Mary Walden, who watched over her like a kind and wise sister.Law came daily with his happy reports. Norval was gaining fast; had been overjoyed at the change from hospital to the studio; had borne the moving splendidly.But still there was no mention of Donelle going to him, and the girl asked no questions.At last Law was driven into the open. He was in despair. He'd got Norval to the studio, but there he seemed to find himself up against a wall.He took Donelle into his confidence."Perhaps if we could get him to Point of Pines," she suggested, her own longing and homesickness adding force to the words. The noise and unrest of the city were all but killing her."No," Law shook his head. "I touched on that but he said he'd be hanged, or something to that effect, if he'd be carried like a funeral cortege to Point of Pines.""Doesn't he ever speak of me?" The question was heavy with heartache and longing."No, and I wonder if you can get any happiness out of that? You ought to."The deep eyes were raised to Law's."Yes. I see what you mean," Donelle smiled. Then: "Man-Andy, there are times when I think I must go to him. Fling everything aside and say 'here I am!'""There are times when I've wished to God you could, Donelle, but I asked the doctor and he said a shock would be a bad thing. No, we must wait."Then he turned to Mary Walden, who was quietly sewing by the window. The plain, comfortable little woman was like a nerve tonic."Mary," he said, "I'm going to ask you to do something for me.""Yes, Mr. Law." The voice in itself restored poise to the poiseless."I'm tuckered out, I want you to come for two or three hours each day and read to Norval. My voice gets raspy and he absorbs books like a sponge. Besides, I want to paint. I've got an idea on my chest. Revelle can take care of Donelle while you are with me."And then, so suddenly that Law fell back before the onslaught, Donelle rushed to him."Why can't I go?" she demanded. No other word could describe the look and tone. "He could not see me!""But, good Lord, he still has his hearing, devilish sharp hearing.""I could talk like Mary Walden! Why, Man-Andy, always I could act and talk like others, if I wanted to. Mamsey could tell you. I used to make her laugh. Please listen——"And then in a kind of desperation Donelle made an effort, such a pitiful one, to speak in the calm, colourless tones of Mary Walden. They all wanted to laugh, even Revelle who, at the moment, entered the room, but the strained, tense look on the girl's face restrained them.But a week later Donelle made a test. From another room she carried on quite a conversation with Law and, until she showed herself, he could have sworn he was talking to Mary Walden."Now, then!" Donelle exclaimed, confronting him almost fiercely, "you've got to let me try. Mary Walden and I have worked it all out. I'm to wear a red wig and a black dress with white collar and cuffs. If the bandages should slip, and he happened at that moment to see, he wouldn't know me. My voice is—is perfect, Man-Andy, and besides," here Donelle quivered, "I'm going to him, anyway!""In that case," and Law shrugged his shoulders, "I'll surrender. You're a young wonder, Donelle."Then Law laughed, and laughs were rare treats to him those days.And that night he broke the plan to Norval in the following manner:"See here, boy, I'm willing to go on with this job of getting you on your feet provided I have my usual half holidays.""I know I'm using you up, Andy. Why not put me in a home for incurables?""Nothing doing, Jim. They'd discover you even in this disguise.""It's a sin not to have a law that permits the demolishing of derelicts." Norval's chin looked grim."So it is, but there you are!"There was a pitiful pause. Then Law brought forth his suggestions as to a certain Mary Walden."She could read you to sleep while I daub, Jim.""She? Good heavens! What is it, a pretty young female thing yearning to do her bit?""On the other hand, she's as plain as a pipe stem and is an equal wage advocate. She's red-headed," Law had seen the new wig, "dresses for her job, and is warranted to read without stopping for three hours at a stretch.""Good Lord." Norval moved uneasily."Shall we corral her, Jim?""Yes, run her in mornings, I can smoke and snooze afternoons, and the evenings are your best times, Andy. You're almost human then. Yes, engage the red head."So Donelle, after a few days of further practice in mimicking Mary Walden's calm, even voice, went to Norval.CHAPTER XXIIIBOTH NORVAL AND DONELLE—SEEWhen Donelle stood on the threshold of Anderson Law's studio and looked within, her courage almost deserted her. There, stretched on the steamer chair, was Norval, his eyes bandaged, his helpless legs covered by a heavy rug. He was very still and his long, thin hands were folded in a strange, definite way that seemed to say eloquently, "Finis."The tears rose to Donelle's eyes, overflowed, and rolled down her white cheeks. She stretched out her empty, yearning arms toward the man across the room. Law, standing by, shook his head warningly. He feared the beautiful, dramatic plan was about to crumble, but in another moment he realized that the strength of Donelle lay in her depths, not her surfaces."Jim," he said, "here's Miss Walden."Norval was alert on the instant. Making the best of things, as both Donelle and Law saw, he smiled, put out a hand, and said:"Glad to see you, Miss Walden. It's awfully good of you to spend hours making life a little less of a bore to a fellow."Donelle tried her brand-new voice:"One has to make a living, Mr. Norval. This is a very pleasant way to do it."Mary Walden had framed that speech and had coached her pupil. Then:"May I go in the inner room and take off my hat?""Law, show her, please. You see, Miss Walden, I'm a squatter. This is Mr. Law's place."In ten minutes Donelle was back, red wig, trim gown, white collar and cuffs, a demure and tragically determined young person.Law began to enjoy the sport now that he knew Donelle was not going to betray him."I'm going over to the north end of the room," he said, "and daub. There's a book on the stand, Miss Walden, that Norval likes. There's a cigarette stump between the pages where we left off.""Reading will not disturb you, Mr. Law?" Donelle was reaching for the book when suddenly Norval started up as if an electric current had gone through him. Donelle shivered, that cigarette stump had made her careless."What is the matter, Mr. Norval?" she asked in Mary Walden's most casual and businesslike tones."Oh! just for a moment, please excuse me, but you made me think of someone I once knew. The blind are subject to all sorts of fancies. Law, did you notice——" but Norval stopped short and Anderson Law waved frantic hands at Donelle.She did not let go of herself after that for many days; not until her assumed voice became so familiar to Norval that those undertones lost their power over him.Donelle read tirelessly, her practice with Jo stood her in good stead. Books, books, books! Greedily Norval demanded them, motionless he lay upon his couch, and listened while Law at the north window painted and dreamed, and then painted his dreams. He got Jo at the oven on canvas for the spring exhibit. Donelle silently wept before it, kissed the blessed face, and gave Law a bad half hour painting off the kiss!Always while life lasted Donelle was to look back upon those studio days as a sacred memory. Life was using her and she was ready to pay—to pay. New York, until years later, meant to her only three high notes: terror of its bigness and noise, patience while she waited with Mary Walden until she was used, glory as she served the man she loved.The flights through the city streets grew to be mere detail. She neither saw nor heeded the bustle and unrest. She was like a little, eager soul seeking, unerringly, its own.There was to be a time when Donelle would know the splendour and meaning of the City, but not then. She was conscious at that time only of the crude joy of existence near her love.He depended upon, watched for her; the maternal in her was so rapidly developed that at length Norval, from his dark place of helplessness, confided in her!"Your voice is tired," he said one day; they had been reading Olive Schreiner's "Dreams.""Oh, no, I'm not tired, only the little Lost Joy sort of filled me up." That was an expression of Jo's."But it's infernally true," Norval went on, "these 'Dreams' are about as gripping as anything I know of. If we cannot have exactly what we want in life, we are as blind as bats to, perhaps, the thing that is better than our wishes." Then, so suddenly that Donelle drew back in alarm, he asked:"Are you a big young person, or a little one?""Why, I'm thin, but I'm quite tall." The voice was sterner than Mary Walden could have evolved."You think me rude, presuming?""Oh! no, Mr. Norval. I was only wishing I was, well—rather nicer to talk about."Law, by the north window, went through a series of contortions that lightened the occasion."You know, here in the dark where I live now, one has to imagine a lot. Lately I've wanted to know exactly—exactly as words can portray, just how you look. Andy?""Yes, Jim. What's up?""Come here."Law came forward, smudgy and dauby, pallette on thumb."Tell me how Miss Walden looks. I want to place her. She has a ghastly habit of escaping me when I'm alone and thinking her over. I can't seem to fix her.""Well," Law stood off and regarded Donelle seriously, "She's red headed and thin. She ought to be fed up. I don't believe she can stand the city in summer. She doesn't walk very well, she's at her best when running.""Oh! Mr. Law." Donelle found herself laughing in spite of herself."Well, you are. I've caught you running two or three times on the street. You looked as if you had your beginnings in wide spaces and could not forget them.""I—I am a country girl," the practical young voice almost broke. "I hate the city. Maybe I do run sometimes. I always feel that something is after me.""What?" asked Norval, and he, too, was laughing.His old depression seldom came now when his faithful reader was present."I cannot describe it. I read a child's story once about a Kicker. It was described as a big, round thing with feet pointing in every direction. One didn't stand a chance when the Kicker got after him. The city seems like that to me. The round thing is full of noise, noise, noise; it just hurls itself along on its thousands of feet. I do run when I get thinking of it."Norval leaned his head back with a delighted chuckle."Law," he asked presently, "does Miss Walden ever remind you of any one?"Law looked at the red wig."No," he said contemplatively, "she doesn't."A week after that, it was a warm, humid day, the windows of the studio were open."I suppose you'll go away when summer comes?" Norval asked."And you?" Donelle laid down her book."No. I'll stay on here. I mean to get a man to look after me. I'm going to send Law on an errand.""I wish," Donelle's eyes were filled with the yellow glow so like sunlight. "I wish, Mr. Norval, that you would try to walk. Your masseur says you are better.""What's the use, Miss Walden? At the best it would mean a crutch or a cane. I couldn't bring myself to that. A dog would be better, but I never saw but one dog I'd cotton to for the job.""Where is that dog, Mr. Norval?""The Lord knows. Gone to the heaven of good, faithful pups, probably.""Mr. Norval?""Yes, Miss Walden.""I wish, while Mr. Law is out every morning for his airing, that you would try—you could lean on my shoulder—to walk! Just think how surprised he'd be some day to find you on your feet by the north window.""Would that please you, Miss Walden, to act the part of a nice little dog leading a blind man?""I'd love it! And you must remember, your doctor says your eyes are better. Mr. Norval," here the words came with almost cruel sternness, "I think it is—it is cowardly for you not to try and make the best of things. Even if you can't see very well, or walk very well, you have no right to hold back from doing the best you can! It is mean and small."Ah! if Norval could have seen the eyes that were searching his grim face."You may be right. I begin to feel I am not going to die!" Norval drew in a deep breath, his lips relaxed."The shock is passing," Donelle's voice softened. "You will recover, I know you will—if you are brave.""The shock! Good God, the shock! It was like hell let loose. For months I heard the splitting noise, the hot sand in my face——!"It was the first time Norval had spoken of the war, and the drops of perspiration started on his forehead."Don't talk of it, Mr. Norval. Please let me help you to your feet. Just a few steps."Donelle was afraid of the excitement she had aroused.In self-defense Norval let her help him. He would not lie still and remember. His self-imposed silence, once broken, might overpower him. Something dynamic was surging in him."I cannot stand," he said weakly. "You see?""Of course the first time is hard. You may fall halfway, but I'll catch you, and I—I won't tell."Norval laughed nervously."You're a brick," he faltered."Now then, Mr. Norval. Put your hand on my shoulder, the other hand on this chair. Why, you're not falling. Come on!"Two, three steps Norval took, while the veins stood out on his temples."Good God!" he muttered under his breath, "I'm not crumbling, that's a sure thing."The next day he did a little better; the tenth day he reached the north window with the aid of the chair and the little shoulder, that felt, under his hand, like fine steel. They kept their mighty secret from Law."What's on the easels?" Norval asked on the morning of the fourteenth day when he felt the breeze from the north coming in through the half-opened window."One easel has a girl on it; a girl with a fiddle."Norval breathed hard, then gave a laugh."Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight," he whispered."Yes. Why, yes, Mr. Norval. Those words are on a piece of paper hanging from the frame. How did you know?""Miss Walden, I painted that picture. You may not believe it, but I did. It is a portrait of about the purest soul I ever met.""Can you tell me about her?""No, she's not the kind to tell about.""I beg your pardon, Mr. Norval." But Donelle's face was aglow."And the other easel?" Norval was asking. "What's on that?""Such a dear, funny woman. She's standing by a big oven, an outdoor oven; she's got loaves of bread on something that looks like a flat spade."Norval's face was a study."Where do they use those ovens?" Donelle asked."Oh! somewhere in Canada.""Did you ever know this dear, funny woman, Mr. Norval.""She's not the kind oneknows. I've seen her, thank heaven! I'm glad to be able to recall her when I'm alone.""Yes—she looks like that kind." Donelle threw a kiss to the pictured Jo.Another week and then the chair was discarded. Quite impressively Norval, his hand on the small, steady shoulder, did the length of the studio."It's great," he said like a happy boy. "Miss Walden, you ought to have the cross, iron, gold, or whatever it is they give to brave women.""I have," Donelle whispered delightedly; "I have.""What is it made of, Miss Walden, this cross that you have won?""You'll have to guess.""You're a pert young secretary if that is the title your job goes by. Aren't you afraid I'll bounce you?""I'm going to bounce myself.""What!" The hand on the shoulder tightened. "You're going away?""Yes, I cannot stand a summer in the city. That Kicker almost caught me this morning.""You treat me like a spoiled child, Miss Walden. Amusing me, coaxing me; you'll be bringing me toys next.""You're a strong man, now, Mr. Norval, that is why I'm going away. Soon you will not need me. The doctor told Mr. Law yesterday that surely you would see.""Did he? Don't fool me, Miss Walden. I do not want to be eased up. Did he say that?""Yes, I heard him."A growing excitement stirred Norval and that afternoon he met Law halfway across the room! Not even the little shoulder aided him. He stretched out his hand and said:"Andy, here I am!"For a moment Law reeled back. Of late he feared that Norval would defeat all their hopes by his indifference."You—you've done this?" he said to Donelle, who stood behind Norval, her trembling hands covering her quivering lips."No, he did it quite by himself, Mr. Law. He's been so brave," she managed to say, the tears in Law's eyes making her afraid that she might lose control over her own shaking nerves."Lord, Jim!" Law was gripping Norval's hand. "I feel as if—well, as if I'd seen a miracle."The next day the specialist confirmed what Donelle had said about the eyes."You're going to see again, Norval," was the verdict. "You'll have to go slow, wear dark glasses for awhile, but most of all, forget what brought this about. Your nerves have played the deuce with you.""Yes," Norval replied, "for some time I've had that line on my nerves, ever since Miss Walden bullied me into walking."The afternoon of that same day Norval surprised Donelle by announcing that he was dead tired of reading."I want to talk," he said. "Where is Law?""He went to—to see Professor Revelle. He said he wanted some music; that you," the pale face broke into a pathetic smile, "that you had got on his nerves. Unless he got out he'd be——""What, Miss Walden? What, exactly?""Well, he'd be damned! That is what he said, exactly.""He's beginning to treat me like a human being, Miss Walden. I love Law when he's at his worst. I suppose I've been a big trial, moping here. Have I injured your nerves?""No—o! Not for life.""You're a comical little codjer. Excuse me, Miss Walden. There are times still when you remind me of someone to whom I once dared to speak my mind."Then, quite suddenly:"Where are you going this summer?""I have not decided yet, Mr. Norval. Why?""Nothing, I was only thinking, but I'll have to speak to Law first. One thing is sure, I'm not going to be an ass much longer. See here, Miss Walden, you're a sturdy sort; you've stuck it out with me at my lowest. I'm going to repay you for the trouble I've made you by making more for you. I'm going to go away this summer, too. I've wanted to go lately. I've got to dreaming about it. I'm going to a little place hidden away in Canada. I have something to do there.""Yes?" The word was a mere breath."For a time I couldn't contemplate it; I was too proud to show my battered hulk. Now it seems that I have no longer any right to consider myself. I was going to ask Mr. Law to carry a message for me to a young girl there; the girl on that canvas by the window. Instead—I'm going to carry it!"Donelle's hands gripped each other. She struggled to keep her voice steady, cold."I think you ought to carry your message yourself, if you can. You have no right to consider only yourself," she faltered."I wasn't, entirely." This came humbly from Norval. "The girl to whom I am going is the sort who would be deeply sorry for me; she'd go to any lengths to make up to me, if she could. Of course, you understand, I would not let her, but I'd hate to make life harder for her.""Perhaps she has a right to—to judge for herself." Donelle was holding firm."Well, I don't know, Miss Walden. Such a woman as you might judge wisely—even for yourself. She wouldn't. She's the kind that risks everything; she's what you might call a divine gambler.""Poor girl!""Yes, that's what I often say of her—poor girl!"It was twilight in the quiet studio; there was no one to see Donelle's tears."I'm going to tell you something," Norval said suddenly, "something that has been troubling me lately. At first it didn't seem vital, it seemed rather like a detail. I'm wondering how a woman would consider it.""I'd love to hear unless you'd rather have me read to you, Mr. Norval.""No, for a wonder, I'd rather tell you a story."
ANDY:
It's over! Poor Katherine! I'm going to leave her body here under the snow and the pines. It came quite suddenly at the last. She just could not stand it.
I'm glad I went the rest of the way with her. I never could have done it except that you showed me the path. You've been here with me close, old friend, all these months. I wonder if you can understand me when I say that I am glad for Katherine, for her alone, that she is safe under the snow? It is easier to think of her so, than to remember the losing battle she waged for her health. I'm sure my being here made her less lonely, and she grew so tender and generous, so understanding.
She begged me to return to Point of Pines. She never knew about Gavot.
And now, Andy, before you get this, I will be on my way over-seas to offer what I have to France. I'm strong, well, and have nothing to hold me back. I can do something there, I'm sure.
Law looked at the date on the letter, then noticed that the postmark was nearly a month later. There was no need to hurry back; Norval was gone.
Law did not tell Donelle or Jo of his news. Everything was being tossed into the seething pot; the outcome must be awaited with patience and whatever courage one could muster.
When spring came the littleRiver Queencame regularly to the dock. She came quietly, reverently, bearing now her children home: the sick, the tired, the hopelessly maimed, the boys who had borne the brunt of battle and had escaped with enough mind and body to come back. Some of them had news of others; they had details that waiting hearts craved. Under the soft skies of spring they told their brave stories so simply; oh! so divinely simply. The bravado, the jest were stilled; they had seen and suffered too much to dwell upon glory or upon the tales of adventure.
Poor old Pierre went from one to another with his question:
"Tell me about my Tom."
Tom had been transferred here, there, and everywhere. Only an occasional comrade who had left home with him had been near him overseas. But one or two had stories about Tom that soon became public property.
"Old Tom was always talking about being afraid," said one. "In the trenches, while we were waiting for orders, he'd beg us to see that if he were a coward his home folks might not know the truth. He always expected to be the cur, and then, when the order came, up the old duffer would get and scramble to the front as if he was hell-bound for suicide. It got to be a joke and the funny part was, when it was over, he never seemed to know he'd done the decent thing. He'd ask us how he had acted. He'd believe anything we told him. After awhile we got to telling him the truth."
Marcel wept beside her little row of graves after hearing about Tom and wished, at last, that a son of her own could be near that poor Tom of Margot's.
Jo's eyes shone and she looked at Donelle. She felt the girl's big heart throb with pity, but she knew full well that even in his tragic hour of triumph Tom had not called forth Donelle's love.
Sometimes she was almost angry at Donelle. Why could not the girl see what she had won, and glory in it? What kind of reward was it to be for Tom to have her "keep her promise?"
"Women were not worthy of men!" she blurted out to Anderson Law. "Think of those young creatures offering all they have to make a world safe for a lot of useless women!'
"They ought to be spanked, the useless women," Anderson remarked solemnly.
"That they should!" agreed Jo.
"Ah, well, Mam'selle," Law's face grew stern, "we are all, men and women, getting our punishment alike. But what has the rebel, Donelle, now done?"
"She will not see Tom Gavot, her husband, as he is! She only sees him as a brave soldier. Instead, he is a man!"
"Ah! Mam'selle Jo, wait until he comes home andneeds her. Then she will give him the best she has to give. Is that not enough?"
"No!" Jo exploded. "No! it is not. She ought to give him, poor lad, what she has not in her power to give."
Then they both laughed.
It was full summer when the word came that Tom Gavot had made the supreme sacrifice.
Law brought the official announcement, the bald, hurting fact. He had, on his way past Dan's Place, rescued Pierre before he had begun drinking.
"Come to Mam'selle Morey's," he commanded calmly. "I have news of your boy."
"And he is still brave? It is good news?"
Gavot shuffled on beside Law.
"He's still brave, yes."
"That's good; that's good. Tom was always one who began by trembling and ended like iron."
Jo was at her loom, Donelle at her knitting, when the two men entered the sunny home-room of the little white house.
"This has come," said Law, and reverently held up the envelope.
They all knew what it was. In Point of Pines the bolt had fallen too often to be misunderstood. By that time every heart was waiting; waiting.
"It's Tom?" asked Donelle and her face shone like a frozen, white thing in the cheerful room.
Law read the few terrible words that could not soften the blow, though they tried hard to do so.
"The war office regrets to announce——"
Pierre staggered to his feet.
"It's a lie!" he said thickly, "a lie!" Then he began to weep aloud like a frightened child.
Law went to him and shook him roughly.
"Stop that!" he said sternly. "Can't you try to be worthy of your boy?"
"But—but I wanted him to know how I have been trying, even when I couldn't quite make it. And now——"
"Perhaps he does know," Law spoke more softly, "perhaps he does."
Jo did not move, but her eyes seemed to reflect all the misery of her stricken country.
"Mam'selle, can you not help us?" Law spoke from his place beside the groaning Pierre.
"I—I'm afraid not, Mr. Law. Not just now." Poor Jo; for the first time in her life she was overpowered. "I somehow," she spoke as if to herself, "I somehow thought I understood how it felt when I saw the others. But I didn't; I didn't." Then she turned to Donelle. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"Mamsey, I'm going down to—to Tom's hut. It seems as if he will be there."
Then Jo bent her head.
"Go, child," she said with a break in her hard voice. "Go."
And later Law found Donelle there in the little river-hut. She was sitting by the open door, her face, tearless and tragically white, turned to the river whose tide was coming in with that silent, mighty rush that almost took away the breath of any one who might be watching.
"Dear, little girl!" said Law soothingly, taking his place at her feet, "I wish you would cry."
"Cry? Why, Man-Andy, I cannot cry."
She was holding an old coat of Tom's, the one he had discarded for the uniform of his country.
"I wish we could have known just how he went—my Tom!"
"We may some day, child. But this we both know: he went a hero."
"Yes, I'm sure of that. He would be afraid, but he would do the big thing. He was like that. I think such men are the bravest. Listen, Man-Andy!"
Law listened. The strange, swift, silent, incoming tide filled his ears.
"I have been thinking," Donelle whispered, "thinking as I sat here of a wide, shining road and a great many, many men and boys rushing along it making the sound of the river. I think it is that way with the many boys who have died so suddenly; so soon. They are hurrying along some safe, happy road; and oh! Man-Andy, it seems as if it were Tom's road. All the afternoon as I have been sitting here in the only place he ever knew as home," Law glanced back into the pitiful, plain, empty room, "I have seen Tom at the head of the great crowd going on and on. He seems to be leading them, showing them the way over the road he loved."
The water was covering the highest black rocks, the rushing, still sound was indeed like the noise of boyish feet hurrying eagerly home.
Law stood up and took Donelle in his arms. She frightened him by her awful calm.
"Little girl," he whispered, "try to cry. For God's sake, try to cry!"
"But, Man-Andy, how can I? If only I could have kissed him just once so he could have remembered——" And then Donelle broke down. She relaxed in Law's arms; she clung to him sobbing softly, wildly.
"Why, Man-Andy, I'm going to remember always that I couldn't give him what he deserved most in all the world."
"My dear, my dear! You gave him of your best, he understands that now as he could not before."
"And oh!" here Donelle lifted her tear-stained face, "I'm so thankful I did not bar the door against him."
Law thought her mind was wandering.
"What door, child?" he asked.
"This door, the night we were married. He—he knew, I am sure he knew, as he watched outside, that I trusted him."
Law's eyes dropped.
"Your husband was a big man," was all he said.
CHAPTER XXII
NORVAL COMES BACK
Anderson Law was sawing wood behind Mam'selle's little white house. He was mighty proud of his success in manual labour; to help Jo with her wood pile was a delight, altruistically and vaingloriously.
The summer with its heart throbs had made people indifferent to the winter on ahead, but the days were growing colder and shorter and even the most careless were aware that some provision must be made at once if one were to escape needless suffering.
Law was thinking as he worked, and occasionally wiped the perspiration from his brow. There were so many things to think about in Point of Pines; to think about, smile about tenderly, and grieve about.
There was old Pierre, the Redeemed, he was called now. Since Tom's going the wretched father had ceased drinking, was housed by Father Mantelle, and had fallen into a gentle, vague state that called forth pity and tolerance.
Early and late he was on the highway with his shovel or rake making the road easy for the feet of his boy!
If any one came over the hill into Point of Pines the wandering, bleary eyes would be raised and the one question would break from the trembling lips: "Have you seen my Tom?"
If any one went away over the hill, Pierre had a message:
"Tell my Tom I'm filling in the ruts. He won't find it such hard travelling when he comes back."
Anderson Law often kept old Gavot company—for Tom's sake. Even Mam'selle had forgiven him and, quite secretly, helped the priest in his generous support.
The Longvilles, the Captain at least, had forsaken Pierre. Marcel, poor soul, gave what, and when, she could.
As Law bent to his task at the wood pile, the priest hailed him from the road.
"I go now," he explained as he declined the invitation to enter, "to pray for rain. The forest fires are bad, but until the crops were in I would not pray."
So simply did the curé say this that Law refrained from smiling, but he did say, looking afar to where the heavy smoke-cloud hung above the trees:
"Ah! well, Father, now that the harvest is in, you had better give the Lord a free hand or there will be a sad pay-day on ahead."
"I go to pray," Mantelle rejoined and passed on.
Amused and thoughtful, Law looked after the tall, thin, bent figure. He recalled how the patient old soul taught and encouraged the children, held the older ones—children too, in their simplicity and superstition—to the plain, common paths of life with what success he might; remembered how day or night he travelled near and far to watch with the dying or comfort those from whom death had torn their sacredest and best.
"At such," Law thought, "one cannot scoff."
And just then a fragrant odour came to Anderson Law. Pleasant and welcome it was. He looked up and, at a little distance, saw Mam'selle at her outdoor oven, pushing into its yawning mouth a tray of noble loaves of bread.
Down went Law's saw, out came his sketching pad; Jo before that oven was a sight for the reverent.
"Eighteen loaves!" called Mam'selle, not realizing that she was becoming immortal, "eighteen loaves at a lick, Mr. Law, and but a drop in the bucket. The boys, whatever else was knocked out of them over there, managed to keep their stomachs. There's no filling the lads up, but the good Lord knows that it's little enough for us to do, trying to fill them."
"To-morrow will be Friday," cried a cheery young voice from the highway, "so we must fish to-day, Mam'selle. I'm off to the river, but I swear I cannot get past the smell of your oven. And I wanted to tell you, I have my old job back. Hereafter I swing the light from the dock."
Law and Jo turned. A boy in the garb of a great country stood leaning on his crutches, smiling; smiling, but with that look in his eyes that was never to depart. The look the trenches had put there; the hall mark of the world's wrong to its young.
"Ah! it's that nice boy, Jean," laughed Jo eagerly. "Wait, son," the wounded and sick were all "sons" to Mam'selle now, "wait, here is a large, brown, hot loaf. Take it along to munch while you catch your fish. And it's glad I am about the job, Jean. No one ever swung the lantern as you did. TheRiver Queenwill perk up when she sees you back."
Jean laughed and patted his hot loaf of bread.
"Ah! Mam'selle. And to think I used to run from you when I was a silly lout of a kid. I did not know your great heart then, Mam'selle," he said.
The boyish eyes were lifted to Jo's face as she pressed the crisp loaf in his bag.
"It's my turn to run after you now," she said softly. "It is worth the run, though, son. You're good sorts, the lot of you."
Law was watching and listening. Jo affected him strangely. Lately he was aware of a glow whenever he got to thinking of her. If he meant ever to escape from Point of Pines he had better make a hasty retreat. That was what the glow meant. As if to challenge this state of mind Jo now came toward him.
"It's a noble pile you've cut, Mr. Law," she said. "For a painter-man you're not the useless truck one might expect. Mr. Law, I'll think of you often when I burn this wood. And now that I'm rather soft in my feelings for your sex—those hurt boys have pleaded for you—I might as well tell you that I'm going to put my stove in the outhouse and open up the chimney in the living room."
"Mam'selle! This is surrender indeed! A triumph of soul over matter!" cried Law.
"This winter you can think of me toasting my shins and shivering up the back, Mr. Law." Jo smiled broadly.
Anderson Law threw his head back and laughed. Jo's plain, unvarnished Anglo-Saxon was like a northwest wind to his mind.
And just then the postman jogged in sight, reading the postcards with relish and letting his old horse find his own way along the road.
"Where is Donelle?" Law was asking as the mail man paused at the gate. Jo's eyes darkened.
"Knitting and thinking down in the river-cabin. Nick's with her. Mr. Law, there are times when I think that dog has a soul."
"I never doubt it, Mam'selle. One look in his eyes is enough. But what, now, about Nick?"
"When he thinks the child has been alone long enough he goes after her. She says he tugs at her skirt until she follows. He cries if she holds back. Mr. Law, I fear Donelle is—is—taking to Tom's road."
Poor Jo turned away.
"Nonsense, Mam'selle."
Law often thought this, too, so his denial was doubly intense.
"We'll find a way yet to get Donelle on the road that belongs to her. Ah! a letter," he broke in, seeing the postman waving an envelope from the cart.
Law went forward and took the letter, tore it open, and read the few words enclosed. It was from his lawyer. For a moment Anderson Law could not speak. The bright day seemed suddenly to darken. Then he said slowly, though his thoughts were swift:
"Mam'selle, Jim Norval is back in New York. He's not able to see just now; something's gone wrong with his eyes, and his legs, too. There's hope, but I must go." Then, as if inspired, "Mam'selle, I must take Donelle."
"No!" Jo sprang back as if Law had hit her.
"Mam'selle, I must take Donelle. Have these hurt boys, here, not taught you a lesson?"
"But, Mr. Law, this is not decent."
"Norval's wife died last summer, Mam'selle. He went abroad because there was nothing else for him to do. Now may I have Donelle?"
Jo reflected.
"But it will kill her," she said half-heartedly, "the strangeness. And what may happen."
"It will cure her," Law went on; "no matter what happens. She's part of it all; she must bear what is hers."
"Mr. Law——"
"Ah! Mam'selle," and here Anderson Law took Jo's hand, "there is so little, after all, that we older ones can do for them. May I have Donelle?"
"Yes. God help us all, Mr. Law." And poor Jo bowed her head.
"Thank you, Mam'selle. The conventions have all crumbled, we're all stripped down to our bare souls. We cannot afford to waste time looking forward or back. Keep that fire burning on the opened hearth, Mam'selle. Some of us will come back to you, God willing, soon. We must hurry. See! there is the child coming up the Right of Way, Nick clinging to her skirt. Donelle!"
Law called to her and went to meet her.
"Child, I'm going to take you to the States with me. Norval needs you!"
Just for an instant the white face twitched and the yellow eyes darkened.
"When do we go?" was all the cold lips said. Never a doubt; never a pause.
"What did I tell you?" Law turned to Jo. "Conventions be damned!
"To-day we start, Donelle. And, Mam'selle, just you 'tend to that fire!"
When Norval had been landed in New York he was taken to a hospital—to die. But he did not die, though he tried hard enough, and gave no end of trouble to his doctors and nurses.
"Whom shall we send for?" he was asked when, helpless and blinded, he lay in the small, quiet, white room.
"Am I going west?" The phrase clung like an idiom of a foreign language.
"Good Lord, man, no! You're getting on rippingly." The young house doctor was tireless in his service to this stricken man.
"Then send for no one. I'm not eager to have a chance acquaintance gaping at my useless legs and sightless eyes."
"But you're going to come around all right. It's the effect of shock, you know. How about your relatives?"
"Haven't got any, thank the Lord." Norval's chin stiffened. The young doctor gripped the clasped hands on the counterpane.
"I wish you'd try a bit to buck up," he said.
"What for?"
"Well, just for your country's sake."
"My country! Why isn't my country where I have been, helping to lower the temperature of hell?"
The bitter tone rang through the words. Norval was glad for the company of this young doctor; glad to have someone, who, really did not matter, share with him the moments when the memory of horrors he had witnessed overwhelmed him.
"Our country is going to be there soon!" The doctor's voice was strained. "A big country like this has to go slow."
"Slow be damned! This is no time to put on brakes. Are they, are they actually steaming up, Burke? You're not saying this to—to quiet my nerves?"
"No. Your nerves are settling into shape. Yes, our country is heaving from the inside."
"Thank God!" Norval sighed.
"And you bet, Mr. Norval, I'm going on the first ship if I have to go as a stoker. If there's one blessed trick of my trade that can help fellows like you, lead me to it!"
"Burke, you're a devilish good tonic."
A week later Norval had young Burke again to himself.
"Old man, I feel that I am not going west. It's rotten bad form for me to be holding down this bed any longer. I suppose I could be moved?"
"Yes, Mr. Norval. It would do you good, I think you ought to make an effort.
"I don't see why, old chap, but—here goes! Send for this man," he named Law's lawyer. "There is only one person in God's world I care to have see me now. Let them send for him."
So the lawyer came to the hospital, viewed Norval with outward calm; felt his heart tighten and his eyes dim, then wrote the short, stiff note that reached Anderson Law by Mam'selle's wood pile.
From that moment events moved rapidly. Taken from the still place where death seemed to have crushed everything, Donelle aroused herself slowly. She simply could not realize the wonderful thing that was happening; the marvellous fact that life still persisted and that she was part of it.
"He—he will not die?" she asked Law over and over again, apparently forgetting that she had put the question before.
"Die? Jim Norval? Certainlynot," vowed Law with energy born of fear and apprehension.
"And," here Donelle's eyes would glow, "he did his duty to, to the last! I am so glad that he stayed with her, Man-Andy, until she needed him no longer. Then I'm glad he went over there to help. There will be nothing to be sorry for now. It was worth waiting for. And does he know about Tom, my husband?"
The word husband seemed to justify the rest.
"He does not, Donelle. And see here, child, we've got to go slow. Norval is going to come around all right and God knows he needs you, though he may not know it himself."
"But why, Man-Andy? And what is the matter with him, exactly? You have not told me."
There had been so much to say and do that details had been artistically eliminated.
"Well, his legs are wobbly." Law sought for the least objectionable symptoms.
"Wobbly? But hehasthem, hasn't he?" Donelle thought of the boys of Point of Pines who—had not.
"Legs? Jim Norval? Well, I should say so! But they've rather gone back on him for the moment. And his eyes——"
"His eyes?" Donelle clutched Law. "What about his eyes?"
"Now, see here, Donelle. I'm taking you to Norval because I believe you alone can cure him; make him want to live, but you've got to behave yourself. My girl, I don't know much myself, they've simply sent for me."
The river steamer was nearing New York. It was early morning and the gray mysterious mists were hiding the mighty, silent city. It was like a dream of a distant place. A solemn fear that strengthened and hardened Donelle rose in her at Law's words. She groped for, found, and held his hand like a good comrade.
"Whatever it is, Man-Andy," she whispered, "I'm ready. If—he never walks again, I can fetch and carry. If—if his dear eyes can never see the—the things he loved, he shall use my eyes, always."
Law then understood that the girl near him drew her strength and force from hidden sources. He knew that he could depend upon her. He tightened his clasp of the little hand.
"And now," he explained, gulping unvoluntarily, "you'll understand why I cannot take you right to Norval."
"Yes, Man-Andy." The white face grew set.
"I'm going to have him moved from the hospital to my studio. I've got plenty of room and he'd like it there."
"Yes, have him moved, have him moved." Donelle said the words over as if learning a lesson. She was trying to visualize the helpless man.
"As for you, little girl, I'm going to send you to Revelle. He's waiting for you. I telegraphed from Quebec. There's a nice young body keeping house for him, a Mary Walden, who once mistook love of artforart. She got saved and is now making a kind of home for—well, people like you and old Revelle. She's found her heaven in doing this and you'll be safe and happy with her until you can come to Norval."
"Yes. Quite safe and happy, Man-Andy."
And through the days that followed Donelle made no complaint; no demands. She kept near Revelle; listened to his music with yearning memories; grew to love Mary Walden, who watched over her like a kind and wise sister.
Law came daily with his happy reports. Norval was gaining fast; had been overjoyed at the change from hospital to the studio; had borne the moving splendidly.
But still there was no mention of Donelle going to him, and the girl asked no questions.
At last Law was driven into the open. He was in despair. He'd got Norval to the studio, but there he seemed to find himself up against a wall.
He took Donelle into his confidence.
"Perhaps if we could get him to Point of Pines," she suggested, her own longing and homesickness adding force to the words. The noise and unrest of the city were all but killing her.
"No," Law shook his head. "I touched on that but he said he'd be hanged, or something to that effect, if he'd be carried like a funeral cortege to Point of Pines."
"Doesn't he ever speak of me?" The question was heavy with heartache and longing.
"No, and I wonder if you can get any happiness out of that? You ought to."
The deep eyes were raised to Law's.
"Yes. I see what you mean," Donelle smiled. Then: "Man-Andy, there are times when I think I must go to him. Fling everything aside and say 'here I am!'"
"There are times when I've wished to God you could, Donelle, but I asked the doctor and he said a shock would be a bad thing. No, we must wait."
Then he turned to Mary Walden, who was quietly sewing by the window. The plain, comfortable little woman was like a nerve tonic.
"Mary," he said, "I'm going to ask you to do something for me."
"Yes, Mr. Law." The voice in itself restored poise to the poiseless.
"I'm tuckered out, I want you to come for two or three hours each day and read to Norval. My voice gets raspy and he absorbs books like a sponge. Besides, I want to paint. I've got an idea on my chest. Revelle can take care of Donelle while you are with me."
And then, so suddenly that Law fell back before the onslaught, Donelle rushed to him.
"Why can't I go?" she demanded. No other word could describe the look and tone. "He could not see me!"
"But, good Lord, he still has his hearing, devilish sharp hearing."
"I could talk like Mary Walden! Why, Man-Andy, always I could act and talk like others, if I wanted to. Mamsey could tell you. I used to make her laugh. Please listen——"
And then in a kind of desperation Donelle made an effort, such a pitiful one, to speak in the calm, colourless tones of Mary Walden. They all wanted to laugh, even Revelle who, at the moment, entered the room, but the strained, tense look on the girl's face restrained them.
But a week later Donelle made a test. From another room she carried on quite a conversation with Law and, until she showed herself, he could have sworn he was talking to Mary Walden.
"Now, then!" Donelle exclaimed, confronting him almost fiercely, "you've got to let me try. Mary Walden and I have worked it all out. I'm to wear a red wig and a black dress with white collar and cuffs. If the bandages should slip, and he happened at that moment to see, he wouldn't know me. My voice is—is perfect, Man-Andy, and besides," here Donelle quivered, "I'm going to him, anyway!"
"In that case," and Law shrugged his shoulders, "I'll surrender. You're a young wonder, Donelle."
Then Law laughed, and laughs were rare treats to him those days.
And that night he broke the plan to Norval in the following manner:
"See here, boy, I'm willing to go on with this job of getting you on your feet provided I have my usual half holidays."
"I know I'm using you up, Andy. Why not put me in a home for incurables?"
"Nothing doing, Jim. They'd discover you even in this disguise."
"It's a sin not to have a law that permits the demolishing of derelicts." Norval's chin looked grim.
"So it is, but there you are!"
There was a pitiful pause. Then Law brought forth his suggestions as to a certain Mary Walden.
"She could read you to sleep while I daub, Jim."
"She? Good heavens! What is it, a pretty young female thing yearning to do her bit?"
"On the other hand, she's as plain as a pipe stem and is an equal wage advocate. She's red-headed," Law had seen the new wig, "dresses for her job, and is warranted to read without stopping for three hours at a stretch."
"Good Lord." Norval moved uneasily.
"Shall we corral her, Jim?"
"Yes, run her in mornings, I can smoke and snooze afternoons, and the evenings are your best times, Andy. You're almost human then. Yes, engage the red head."
So Donelle, after a few days of further practice in mimicking Mary Walden's calm, even voice, went to Norval.
CHAPTER XXIII
BOTH NORVAL AND DONELLE—SEE
When Donelle stood on the threshold of Anderson Law's studio and looked within, her courage almost deserted her. There, stretched on the steamer chair, was Norval, his eyes bandaged, his helpless legs covered by a heavy rug. He was very still and his long, thin hands were folded in a strange, definite way that seemed to say eloquently, "Finis."
The tears rose to Donelle's eyes, overflowed, and rolled down her white cheeks. She stretched out her empty, yearning arms toward the man across the room. Law, standing by, shook his head warningly. He feared the beautiful, dramatic plan was about to crumble, but in another moment he realized that the strength of Donelle lay in her depths, not her surfaces.
"Jim," he said, "here's Miss Walden."
Norval was alert on the instant. Making the best of things, as both Donelle and Law saw, he smiled, put out a hand, and said:
"Glad to see you, Miss Walden. It's awfully good of you to spend hours making life a little less of a bore to a fellow."
Donelle tried her brand-new voice:
"One has to make a living, Mr. Norval. This is a very pleasant way to do it."
Mary Walden had framed that speech and had coached her pupil. Then:
"May I go in the inner room and take off my hat?"
"Law, show her, please. You see, Miss Walden, I'm a squatter. This is Mr. Law's place."
In ten minutes Donelle was back, red wig, trim gown, white collar and cuffs, a demure and tragically determined young person.
Law began to enjoy the sport now that he knew Donelle was not going to betray him.
"I'm going over to the north end of the room," he said, "and daub. There's a book on the stand, Miss Walden, that Norval likes. There's a cigarette stump between the pages where we left off."
"Reading will not disturb you, Mr. Law?" Donelle was reaching for the book when suddenly Norval started up as if an electric current had gone through him. Donelle shivered, that cigarette stump had made her careless.
"What is the matter, Mr. Norval?" she asked in Mary Walden's most casual and businesslike tones.
"Oh! just for a moment, please excuse me, but you made me think of someone I once knew. The blind are subject to all sorts of fancies. Law, did you notice——" but Norval stopped short and Anderson Law waved frantic hands at Donelle.
She did not let go of herself after that for many days; not until her assumed voice became so familiar to Norval that those undertones lost their power over him.
Donelle read tirelessly, her practice with Jo stood her in good stead. Books, books, books! Greedily Norval demanded them, motionless he lay upon his couch, and listened while Law at the north window painted and dreamed, and then painted his dreams. He got Jo at the oven on canvas for the spring exhibit. Donelle silently wept before it, kissed the blessed face, and gave Law a bad half hour painting off the kiss!
Always while life lasted Donelle was to look back upon those studio days as a sacred memory. Life was using her and she was ready to pay—to pay. New York, until years later, meant to her only three high notes: terror of its bigness and noise, patience while she waited with Mary Walden until she was used, glory as she served the man she loved.
The flights through the city streets grew to be mere detail. She neither saw nor heeded the bustle and unrest. She was like a little, eager soul seeking, unerringly, its own.
There was to be a time when Donelle would know the splendour and meaning of the City, but not then. She was conscious at that time only of the crude joy of existence near her love.
He depended upon, watched for her; the maternal in her was so rapidly developed that at length Norval, from his dark place of helplessness, confided in her!
"Your voice is tired," he said one day; they had been reading Olive Schreiner's "Dreams."
"Oh, no, I'm not tired, only the little Lost Joy sort of filled me up." That was an expression of Jo's.
"But it's infernally true," Norval went on, "these 'Dreams' are about as gripping as anything I know of. If we cannot have exactly what we want in life, we are as blind as bats to, perhaps, the thing that is better than our wishes." Then, so suddenly that Donelle drew back in alarm, he asked:
"Are you a big young person, or a little one?"
"Why, I'm thin, but I'm quite tall." The voice was sterner than Mary Walden could have evolved.
"You think me rude, presuming?"
"Oh! no, Mr. Norval. I was only wishing I was, well—rather nicer to talk about."
Law, by the north window, went through a series of contortions that lightened the occasion.
"You know, here in the dark where I live now, one has to imagine a lot. Lately I've wanted to know exactly—exactly as words can portray, just how you look. Andy?"
"Yes, Jim. What's up?"
"Come here."
Law came forward, smudgy and dauby, pallette on thumb.
"Tell me how Miss Walden looks. I want to place her. She has a ghastly habit of escaping me when I'm alone and thinking her over. I can't seem to fix her."
"Well," Law stood off and regarded Donelle seriously, "She's red headed and thin. She ought to be fed up. I don't believe she can stand the city in summer. She doesn't walk very well, she's at her best when running."
"Oh! Mr. Law." Donelle found herself laughing in spite of herself.
"Well, you are. I've caught you running two or three times on the street. You looked as if you had your beginnings in wide spaces and could not forget them."
"I—I am a country girl," the practical young voice almost broke. "I hate the city. Maybe I do run sometimes. I always feel that something is after me."
"What?" asked Norval, and he, too, was laughing.
His old depression seldom came now when his faithful reader was present.
"I cannot describe it. I read a child's story once about a Kicker. It was described as a big, round thing with feet pointing in every direction. One didn't stand a chance when the Kicker got after him. The city seems like that to me. The round thing is full of noise, noise, noise; it just hurls itself along on its thousands of feet. I do run when I get thinking of it."
Norval leaned his head back with a delighted chuckle.
"Law," he asked presently, "does Miss Walden ever remind you of any one?"
Law looked at the red wig.
"No," he said contemplatively, "she doesn't."
A week after that, it was a warm, humid day, the windows of the studio were open.
"I suppose you'll go away when summer comes?" Norval asked.
"And you?" Donelle laid down her book.
"No. I'll stay on here. I mean to get a man to look after me. I'm going to send Law on an errand."
"I wish," Donelle's eyes were filled with the yellow glow so like sunlight. "I wish, Mr. Norval, that you would try to walk. Your masseur says you are better."
"What's the use, Miss Walden? At the best it would mean a crutch or a cane. I couldn't bring myself to that. A dog would be better, but I never saw but one dog I'd cotton to for the job."
"Where is that dog, Mr. Norval?"
"The Lord knows. Gone to the heaven of good, faithful pups, probably."
"Mr. Norval?"
"Yes, Miss Walden."
"I wish, while Mr. Law is out every morning for his airing, that you would try—you could lean on my shoulder—to walk! Just think how surprised he'd be some day to find you on your feet by the north window."
"Would that please you, Miss Walden, to act the part of a nice little dog leading a blind man?"
"I'd love it! And you must remember, your doctor says your eyes are better. Mr. Norval," here the words came with almost cruel sternness, "I think it is—it is cowardly for you not to try and make the best of things. Even if you can't see very well, or walk very well, you have no right to hold back from doing the best you can! It is mean and small."
Ah! if Norval could have seen the eyes that were searching his grim face.
"You may be right. I begin to feel I am not going to die!" Norval drew in a deep breath, his lips relaxed.
"The shock is passing," Donelle's voice softened. "You will recover, I know you will—if you are brave."
"The shock! Good God, the shock! It was like hell let loose. For months I heard the splitting noise, the hot sand in my face——!"
It was the first time Norval had spoken of the war, and the drops of perspiration started on his forehead.
"Don't talk of it, Mr. Norval. Please let me help you to your feet. Just a few steps."
Donelle was afraid of the excitement she had aroused.
In self-defense Norval let her help him. He would not lie still and remember. His self-imposed silence, once broken, might overpower him. Something dynamic was surging in him.
"I cannot stand," he said weakly. "You see?"
"Of course the first time is hard. You may fall halfway, but I'll catch you, and I—I won't tell."
Norval laughed nervously.
"You're a brick," he faltered.
"Now then, Mr. Norval. Put your hand on my shoulder, the other hand on this chair. Why, you're not falling. Come on!"
Two, three steps Norval took, while the veins stood out on his temples.
"Good God!" he muttered under his breath, "I'm not crumbling, that's a sure thing."
The next day he did a little better; the tenth day he reached the north window with the aid of the chair and the little shoulder, that felt, under his hand, like fine steel. They kept their mighty secret from Law.
"What's on the easels?" Norval asked on the morning of the fourteenth day when he felt the breeze from the north coming in through the half-opened window.
"One easel has a girl on it; a girl with a fiddle."
Norval breathed hard, then gave a laugh.
"Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight," he whispered.
"Yes. Why, yes, Mr. Norval. Those words are on a piece of paper hanging from the frame. How did you know?"
"Miss Walden, I painted that picture. You may not believe it, but I did. It is a portrait of about the purest soul I ever met."
"Can you tell me about her?"
"No, she's not the kind to tell about."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Norval." But Donelle's face was aglow.
"And the other easel?" Norval was asking. "What's on that?"
"Such a dear, funny woman. She's standing by a big oven, an outdoor oven; she's got loaves of bread on something that looks like a flat spade."
Norval's face was a study.
"Where do they use those ovens?" Donelle asked.
"Oh! somewhere in Canada."
"Did you ever know this dear, funny woman, Mr. Norval."
"She's not the kind oneknows. I've seen her, thank heaven! I'm glad to be able to recall her when I'm alone."
"Yes—she looks like that kind." Donelle threw a kiss to the pictured Jo.
Another week and then the chair was discarded. Quite impressively Norval, his hand on the small, steady shoulder, did the length of the studio.
"It's great," he said like a happy boy. "Miss Walden, you ought to have the cross, iron, gold, or whatever it is they give to brave women."
"I have," Donelle whispered delightedly; "I have."
"What is it made of, Miss Walden, this cross that you have won?"
"You'll have to guess."
"You're a pert young secretary if that is the title your job goes by. Aren't you afraid I'll bounce you?"
"I'm going to bounce myself."
"What!" The hand on the shoulder tightened. "You're going away?"
"Yes, I cannot stand a summer in the city. That Kicker almost caught me this morning."
"You treat me like a spoiled child, Miss Walden. Amusing me, coaxing me; you'll be bringing me toys next."
"You're a strong man, now, Mr. Norval, that is why I'm going away. Soon you will not need me. The doctor told Mr. Law yesterday that surely you would see."
"Did he? Don't fool me, Miss Walden. I do not want to be eased up. Did he say that?"
"Yes, I heard him."
A growing excitement stirred Norval and that afternoon he met Law halfway across the room! Not even the little shoulder aided him. He stretched out his hand and said:
"Andy, here I am!"
For a moment Law reeled back. Of late he feared that Norval would defeat all their hopes by his indifference.
"You—you've done this?" he said to Donelle, who stood behind Norval, her trembling hands covering her quivering lips.
"No, he did it quite by himself, Mr. Law. He's been so brave," she managed to say, the tears in Law's eyes making her afraid that she might lose control over her own shaking nerves.
"Lord, Jim!" Law was gripping Norval's hand. "I feel as if—well, as if I'd seen a miracle."
The next day the specialist confirmed what Donelle had said about the eyes.
"You're going to see again, Norval," was the verdict. "You'll have to go slow, wear dark glasses for awhile, but most of all, forget what brought this about. Your nerves have played the deuce with you."
"Yes," Norval replied, "for some time I've had that line on my nerves, ever since Miss Walden bullied me into walking."
The afternoon of that same day Norval surprised Donelle by announcing that he was dead tired of reading.
"I want to talk," he said. "Where is Law?"
"He went to—to see Professor Revelle. He said he wanted some music; that you," the pale face broke into a pathetic smile, "that you had got on his nerves. Unless he got out he'd be——"
"What, Miss Walden? What, exactly?"
"Well, he'd be damned! That is what he said, exactly."
"He's beginning to treat me like a human being, Miss Walden. I love Law when he's at his worst. I suppose I've been a big trial, moping here. Have I injured your nerves?"
"No—o! Not for life."
"You're a comical little codjer. Excuse me, Miss Walden. There are times still when you remind me of someone to whom I once dared to speak my mind."
Then, quite suddenly:
"Where are you going this summer?"
"I have not decided yet, Mr. Norval. Why?"
"Nothing, I was only thinking, but I'll have to speak to Law first. One thing is sure, I'm not going to be an ass much longer. See here, Miss Walden, you're a sturdy sort; you've stuck it out with me at my lowest. I'm going to repay you for the trouble I've made you by making more for you. I'm going to go away this summer, too. I've wanted to go lately. I've got to dreaming about it. I'm going to a little place hidden away in Canada. I have something to do there."
"Yes?" The word was a mere breath.
"For a time I couldn't contemplate it; I was too proud to show my battered hulk. Now it seems that I have no longer any right to consider myself. I was going to ask Mr. Law to carry a message for me to a young girl there; the girl on that canvas by the window. Instead—I'm going to carry it!"
Donelle's hands gripped each other. She struggled to keep her voice steady, cold.
"I think you ought to carry your message yourself, if you can. You have no right to consider only yourself," she faltered.
"I wasn't, entirely." This came humbly from Norval. "The girl to whom I am going is the sort who would be deeply sorry for me; she'd go to any lengths to make up to me, if she could. Of course, you understand, I would not let her, but I'd hate to make life harder for her."
"Perhaps she has a right to—to judge for herself." Donelle was holding firm.
"Well, I don't know, Miss Walden. Such a woman as you might judge wisely—even for yourself. She wouldn't. She's the kind that risks everything; she's what you might call a divine gambler."
"Poor girl!"
"Yes, that's what I often say of her—poor girl!"
It was twilight in the quiet studio; there was no one to see Donelle's tears.
"I'm going to tell you something," Norval said suddenly, "something that has been troubling me lately. At first it didn't seem vital, it seemed rather like a detail. I'm wondering how a woman would consider it."
"I'd love to hear unless you'd rather have me read to you, Mr. Norval."
"No, for a wonder, I'd rather tell you a story."