CHAPTER VIII
The “big white house” was overflowing with music, or, rather, with musical acrobatics. Scales, major and minor, octaves, arpeggios, and all other musical combinations were madly chasing each other up and down the keyboard.
“Come on, Paul.” A girl’s black head appeared at the window. The player merely glanced at her and went on with his fireworks. “Oh, come on, you lummix! Shut up this row and come on. We’re going round the ranch and then down the west trail to the river.”
The player’s sole answer was a wave of his left hand, his right still careering madly up the chromatic scale.
“Aw, Paul, won’t you come?” A little girl whose face was screwed up in a bewitching pout came to the door.
“Now, Peg, you know I don’t quit till I’m done, and I’ve got half an hour yet. Come back for me then, Peg.”
She came close to him. “I don’t want to go with Asa and Adelina without you. They—they—I don’t want to go.”
“Oh, go on, Peg, for a run as far as Pine Croft driveway and back again. Go! See, the rain is all gone. It’s a lovely day. Run now, that’s a good girl. I’ll come when I’m through my practice.”
“You’re a mean old thing. You don’t care a bit about me,” said Peg, bouncing indignantly out of the room.
But the boy paid no heed. He was hard at his scales again with an enthusiasm which amounted almost to a passion. All else, for the time being, was as nothing to him. He was at double octaves now, his fingers roaring up and down the keys. In the full tide of the uproar Colonel Pelham appeared at the door of the dining room where his wife was engaged in her domestic activities.
“What a row the chap makes!” he said. “You’d think it was a full grown man at the thing.”
“He has wonderful fingers,” said his wife, pausing in her work. “Listen! How, that is really quite unusual work.”
“Is it? You ought to know. It’s all fury and fuss to me. But I like the way he sticks it. The other youngsters were trying to pull him away—I saw them at it, but it was no go.”
“He loves his music. He’s quite mad about it,” replied his wife.
“He may be,” said the Colonel, “but it’s not that. It’s a point of honour with him. He has a kind of feeling his mother would like it.”
“He’s a queer little chap, you know. He has queer ideas about things.”
“What do you mean exactly?” inquired the Colonel. “Queer in what sense?”
“Well,” said his wife thoughtfully, “he has queer ideas about God. He says he sees Him. One day I found him with an intense look upon his face, and his explanation was that he was listening for God.”
“‘Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth,’” quoted the Colonel to himself.
“But, my dear,” protested his wife, “you know that sort of thing was quite all right for those times. But now-a-days, in British Columbia—well, you know, it’s a little unusual.”
“‘If any man hear My voice and open the door,’” again quoted the Colonel softly.
“Oh, come now, Edgar. You don’t think those things are to be taken literally in these days—voices, and all that sort of thing. You’ll be off into all sorts of Spiritualistic nonsense. Heisqueer. As a matter of fact, he is almost uncanny, unreal, unnatural.”
“Unnatural? Unreal? Well, he is a bit of a mystic, I confess. And he came by that naturally enough; got it from his mother. And not a bad thing, either, in these materialistic days, and in this country. But all the same, he’s a real boy, a game sport. He can ride, swim, shoot, and for a boy of twelve shows an extraordinary sense of responsibility.”
“Responsibility? He’s as mad as a March hare at times,” said the Colonel’s wife. “Forgets food, drink, sleep. He has appalling powers of absorption, of concentration. I know he leads Peg into all sorts of scrapes.”
“Leads Peg!” exclaimed her husband. “Good Lord! Does any one lead Peg? He’s a real boy, he gets into scrapes, but I still contend that he has an extraordinary sense of responsibility. Do you realise that every day of his life he has a certain routine of study, music, Catechism, Bible lesson, and that sort of thing, that he has kept up since his father left him? I believe it was his father—a queer thing too!—who put it up to him and who made it a matter of loyalty to his mother.”
“He is certainly devoted to his mother’s memory. But there again he is queer. He has an idea that his mother knows, hears, understands all that he does.”
“Why not?” asked the Colonel.
“Oh, I don’t know. I have no use for these spooky things. But the boy is queer, and he is unpractical.”
“Well, it is hardly to be wondered at. He has his father’s artistic temperament and his mother’s mysticism. But, after all, is he unpractical? Don’t you know that once a week, winter and summer, for the last year and a half, with Indian Tom he has ridden the marches of the ranch? The Lord knows he’s always reporting fences broken and cattle and horses straying over to Sleeman’s herd,” added the Colonel ruefully.
“Sleeman’s herd! My opinion is that the chronic state of disrepair in those fences can be easily accounted for. I observe that Sleeman’s calves last year and this year too show a strong Saddle-back strain, and as for his colts they are all Percheron. I don’t like the man Sleeman. I don’t trust him.”
“Neither does Paul,” said the Colonel. “Of course, Paul has quite made up his mind that Sleeman is going to hell, so he doesn’t let his various iniquities worry him too much. Sleeman will receive a due reward for his misdeeds. Paul has warmly adopted the Psalmist’s retribution point of view.”
“What do you mean?” inquired his wife.
“‘Fret not thyself because of evil doers, for they shall soon be cut down like the grass and wither as the green herb.’ The little beggar brought me the quotation not long ago with great satisfaction. He thinks that Asa too is heading toward the same untimely end.”
“Why!” said his wife, “I thought that Paul held a most liberal doctrine of forgiveness, which practically wiped out hell.”
“Don’t imagine any such thing,” asserted her husband. “I know his ‘seventy times seven’ theory, but he is careful to insist that this is only for the man who turns and repents. He would be terribly disappointed, I imagine, if Sleeman should ever show any signs of repentance. Of course, he doesn’t expect this. Oh, he’s a relentless little devil in his hatred and his theories of judgment. And with a fighting strain in him, too.”
“What do you mean?” asked his wife. “Fighting?”
“Why, you remember last autumn when he came to me with the calm request that I teach him to fight. He had evidently had some trouble with Asa. When I asked him why he wanted to learn to fight, his answer was characteristic enough, ‘I don’t want to fight exactly,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want to feel afraid to fight.’ Rather a fine distinction, I think. And every week since that time the little beggar insists upon his ‘fighting’ lesson.”
“Well,” said his wife with a slight smile, “he couldn’t have come to a better master of the art, I fancy, if college rumours mean anything. Wasn’t it light-weight championship you held for a year at Oxford?”
“Three years, my dear,” modestly corrected the Colonel.
“There is one thing I do like in the boy,” continued Mrs. Pelham, “and that is his devotion to old Jinny. Of course, Jinny worships the ground he walks on. She has all that fine old Scotch spirit of devotion and loyalty to the family that this age and this country know nothing about. She is an old dear, and immensely helpful about the house. But I do like Paul’s way with her. I always say that there is no truer sign of breeding than the way people treat their servants, and Paul certainly has that fine touch.”
In a pause of the conversation weird sounds were heard coming from the music room. The musical acrobatics had ceased. Both sat listening for some moments.
“Now what is he on?” the Colonel inquired. “I don’t know that thing.”
“Nor I, and I’ve looked over all his father’s things which he is continually trying. Listen! Sounds like a Chopin Nocturne. But, no! That’s not Chopin. He must be improvising. He told me one day he was playing all the things out of doors, a kind of Nature Symphony, the Pine Croft out of doors, as it were—the stream tumbling down beside the bungalow, the pines and the poplars and the flowers and the clouds. He told me he was playing the great yellow splashes of sunlight on the valley. He kept me an hour that day, fascinated, playing the different colours in the landscape—blue of the sky, light, sweet, smooth-flowing, a Handel sort of thing; reds and yellows were set forth in dashing, smashing chords and runs, a Liszt or Tschaikowsky effect; then, for sunset gold and saffron he used a kind of Mozart thing, rich, full, sweet. It was quite marvellous. He is queer, undoubtedly queer. Why! Do you know he had the audacity to even play ‘God’ to me that day. He was like an inspired thing. Played ‘God smiling at him from the clouds.’ He protests he sees God, you know, and hears Him. Oh, he’s quite spooky!”
“Spooky? Nonsense! That’s not the word. There are artistic and mystic strains in him, that’s all. But all the same, I wonder when his father is coming back, or if he is coming back at all. That Pine Croft Ranch is going bad. I simply can’t keep it on.”
“Of course you can’t. You were mad to take it on at first.”
“My dear Augusta, what could I do? The man was distracted, broken. I was actually afraid for his brain. I really was. You remember those days. Well—then came his request and the formal will—by Jove! Now I think of it, it was you who offered to take the boy.”
“The boy? Yes, I did. But the ranch was a different thing. And that Sleeman sniffing round, I simply can’t bear him.”
“Sleeman? I don’t much care for him myself. He may be honest enough, but he’s sharp. Says he holds I O U’s for loans and such like from Gaspard. True enough, Gaspard was hard up. You know the Bank had closed down on him. He could get no more extensions. Frankly, I am worried. The stock is running wild, as you say.”
“Edgar, I forbid you to worry. It’s not worth it. We’ll look after the boy. The bungalow is closed up, everything all right there; old Tom looks after it. The ranch and stock must simply take care of themselves.”
At this point a louder crash than usual on the piano arrested their attention. A wild whoop followed, and Paul stood in the doorway.
“Oh, Uncle Colonel, where are they? Did you see them go?” he burst forth.
“Come, Paul,” said the Colonel’s lady severely. “It’s not customary to rush in upon people like that.” The boy flushed to his hair roots.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Augusta. Awfully sorry, Uncle Colonel. But did you see them go, sir?”
“Yes, they went up toward Pine Croft Ranch. But you ought to be able to track them easily, for the rain has softened the trail.”
“Oh, splendid! I’ll do it. I’ll just get Joseph and find them.”
“By the way, what were you playing last, Paul?” asked the Colonel. The boy flushed.
“Oh, just some nonsense, Uncle Colonel. I was through with my lesson,” he said apologetically, “and I was just fooling a bit—like Daddy used to do sometimes—” he paused, “for Mother and me, you know.” He stood quietly, looking out the door, his eyes on the far mountains.
“All right, boy. Off you go,” said the Colonel.
“Lunch at one, Paul, remember,” said Mrs. Pelham.
“I’ll try, Aunt Augusta. But it’s awfully hard to remember sometimes.”
“I want Peg at one,” said Mrs. Pelham firmly. “We have something on after lunch. I depend upon you, Paul.”
“Oh, all right, then, I’ll have to remember.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and extracted something which he began to wind around his finger.
“What’s that, old chap? String, eh?”
“A ’lastic band—to remember me about one o’clock. I hate having to remember,” he added impatiently.
“Hey day!” exclaimed Mrs. Pelham. “What sort of a boy would you be if you couldn’t remember?”
“All right, Aunt Augusta, but I hate it all the same.”
“He’ll remember,” said the Colonel. “He feels he’s on his honour.”
“Yes, he’ll remember. He’s a reliable little beggar.”
In a surprisingly short time the lad appeared on his pony, a beautiful pinto, bred from an Arabian sire out of an Indian pony, a strain of which his father was inordinately proud and in the breeding of which he had been unusually successful. The boy went flashing past the window, riding cowboy fashion, straight leg and with lines held loosely in his left hand, his cap high in his right, making right for the bars at the end of the drive.
“What the—— By Jove, he’s done it! Must be quite four feet.”
With never a halt the pony had taken the bars in his stride, and was off down the road, head down and at racing speed.
“Superb, Augusta! Couldn’t have done it better yourself, what?”
“He can ride,” said his wife. Her eyes were upon the flying figure. “He is quite without fear and has the true rider’s instinct for what his mount can do. Wonderful pony of his that. There’s a mate to it in Gaspard’s bunch I’d like for Peg.”
“Oh, thanks, my dear; Peggy is quite sufficiently well mounted. Tubby does her quite well. I have no desire to see my daughter tearing like a mad thing after that race horse.”
“Poor old Tubby! She does her best, but I fear she is a continual source of humiliation and heartache to her rider when out with the pinto. Perhaps next year, eh? She will be quite ready to ride with me by that time.”
“With you? The Lord forbid! You know quite well, my dear, when once you are astride a horse you are conscious only of one consuming passion.”
“Well, I like to hear you talk!” And it must be confessed there was ground for her scorn. For in cross-country work in the Homeland there was just one place in the hunt that gave any real satisfaction to the little Colonel, as daring a hunter as ever rode to hounds.
Meantime the pinto and his rider had tracked the others up to the Pine Croft bungalow, along the upper trail, and down again toward the big rapid. To Paul, who for the past two years had been trained in sign reading by Indian Tom, his father’s ancient factotum, the trail lay plain as the open road. After the first wild gallop he was in no hurry to catch up. The glory of the early June day filled his world, right up to the blue sky. With his eyes open to the unending variety of colour and form in the growing things about him, he cantered slowly along, his lithe form swaying in unison with every motion of his pony. He had the make of a rider and his style was a curious mixture of his father’s and Indian Tom’s. His hands were his father’s; the easy yielding sway of his body he had from Indian Tom. But, whatever its source, every movement of every part of his body was smooth, easy, graceful. As the pinto carried him along in swallow-like movement, his mind following his eye went first to the pictures that kept composing and dissolving themselves on either side, and from them to those pictures which from his earliest years he had watched his father call into being in his studio. Where was his father now? For three years there had been silence, from that dreadful day when his father, gaunt, broken, his great frame heaving with deep-drawn sobs, had ridden down the Golden trail, followed by Indian Tom, leaving him with Colonel Pelham. Two words only had his father spoken, two unforgettable words. “Paul, your mother has gone to God. Let every morning bring back to you her words.” And the other, “Some day I will come back to you—point of honour,” using a phrase common to those three when the word was pledged. Those two words he carried in his heart. With every opening dawn his first thoughts went to his mother. He was dismayed to find how few were his mother’s words that came to him as he sat down deliberately to recall them. To his delight he stumbled upon a plan. When struggling with his Catechism—it was a point of honour that he should complete the task his mother had not seen completed—he found upon reviewing the questions he had discussed with her that floods of memories were let loose upon his mind. With painful care, for, though he had his father’s fingers and was clever with them, he had made no very great progress with his penmanship, he undertook to set down, in one of his father’s sketch books, all her sayings that came back to him. The words associated with the Bible stories were much easier to recall. The chirography and orthography would have quite paralysed the intelligence of learned experts, but to himself the record was perfectly intelligible, and with its increasing volume became an increasingly precious possession. This record he kept hidden from mortal eyes, but somehow he had the conviction both God and his mother knew all about it. The two were very really and vitally associated in his thought. Indeed, God had come nearer since his mother had passed out of his sight. His mother, he knew, was intimately involved in his life, sharing his thoughts, his imaginations, his dreams. And since she had gone to God, naturally it followed that God must be somehow, somewhere, quite close at hand. He no longer saw God’s face up in the blue between the clouds. He was deeply grieved that he never could visualise that kindly face looking down, so quiet and so kind, “as if He liked him.” It seemed as if God had moved much nearer to him, so near that he seemed to be aware of Him, and by intently “listening with his ears inside,” as he explained to Indian Tom who seemed to quite understand, he could “hear God thinking.” “And so,” as he confidently asserted to the gravely sympathetic Indian, “I always know what He wants me to know.” Life was a very simple proceeding with Paul. He had only to listen carefully and, having heard, to give heed.
But where was his father, and when would he come back? The little Colonel was quite silent upon that question, and upon that question the boy was equally reserved with the Colonel. With a maturity ripened by responsibility, the boy had fallen into the habit of keeping an eye upon the ranch matters. His own observation was quickened by the rare but penetrating comments of Indian Tom who, though deficient in initiative and inclined when not impelled to activity by necessity to alaissez faireattitude towards life, was nevertheless, when once set upon a trail, tenacious of his quest as a bloodhound on the scent. It was a remark of Indian Tom’s that gave the Colonel’s lady the clue as to Sleeman’s Saddle-backs and Percherons. It was a grunt of Indian Tom’s that had set Paul off one day on a tour round the ranch, and that first tour with Indian Tom proved so fascinating that once a week for a year and a half, through rain or shine, cold or heat, Paul had ridden round the line of fences of the ranch. He had come to know that things were not going well, and this knowledge intensified in him the longing for his father’s return.
The sound of shouting broke the current of his thoughts. He pulled up his pony and stood listening. “They’re away beyond the big rapid,” he said to himself. “Must be down by the creek.” Again the shouting came to him, and in an instant he was off at a gallop. A short run brought him to the edge of a rapidly flowing stream along which a cow path ran. Following this path he came upon an open grassy meadow through which the stream had cut its way between overhanging banks. At a little distance he saw his friends, and as he drew near learned the cause of the shouting. The stream had cut a channel about eight feet wide, through which the water ran, deep and swift, to a pool some thirty yards farther down, from which it tumbled over jagged rocks to a bench below. Across this flowing stream Asa and his sister were jumping their horses in high glee, and taunting Peg to attempt the same exploit.
“Hurrah! Out of the way there!” shouted Paul, heading his pony toward the jump. With his ears pricked forward the pinto approached the stream on an easy lope. “Up there, old chap,” cried Paul, lifting his pony with the reins. With never a pause, the pony gathered himself in two or three quick strides and went sailing over the stream like a bird.
“That’s nothing,” cried Asa, a stocky youth of fourteen, mounted on a fine rangy cow pony. “Watch old Kicker do it.” He took his broncho back a few yards and at racing speed cleared the stream with ease.
“That’s the way we do it, eh?” he shouted back at the others.
“Aw, pshaw! Who couldn’t do that?” cried Paul scornfully.
“Shecan’t! She’s afraid!” jeered Asa, pointing to Peg, who, sitting quietly on the fat and placid Tubby, was looking gloomily upon the swift-flowing water.
“Come on Peg,” called Asa, “if old Tubby can’t jump she kin float acrost.”
“Of course she can jump it if she wants to,” said Paul, who had taken in the whole situation. “But Peg needn’t do it if she doesn’t want to.” As he spoke he circled round on the pinto and once more cleared the stream.
“She daren’t. She’s afraid.” Asa’s laugh made Peg wince.
“I’m not afraid to jump, but I don’t think Tubby wants to try,” she said to Paul. Asa shouted.
“I came acrost as easy as anything,” said Adelina sweetly. “An’ I kin do it again.”
“O’ course you did. An’ yeh kin do it again any ole time yeh want to,” said her brother.
Paul’s glance wandered from one girl to the other. Peg’s face was pale and set. She was the youngest of the party, tall for her age, but slight in body and of a highly nervous and sensitive temperament. Asa’s taunting jeers disturbed her but little, but Adelina’s smooth superior tone stung her like the lash of a whip. Her pale face flushed a bright red.
“I’mnotafraid, and I can do it if I want to,” she said with quick defiance.
“Go it then! Let’s see you!” cried Asa.
“Don’t you do it, Peg, if you don’t want to,” said Paul quietly. “Never mind him!”
“Here, young feller, you keep y’re mouth shut,” said Asa truculently, rushing his broncho at Paul.
“I’m going to do it,” said Peg, as Paul swerved his pinto out of Asa’s way.
“Don’t try it, Peg,” said Adelina’s smooth voice. “You know old Tubby’s pretty slow, an’ she might fall in.” The insult was more than Peg could bear, to whom Tubby was a friend greatly beloved.
“I’m going, Paul,” said Peg, between her shut teeth.
“All right, Peg, I’ll go with you. Come on, we’ll take it together.” As he spoke they took their ponies back and went at the jump full gallop.
“Hai-yai!” yelled Asa, as, thundering down on them from behind, he put his broncho between the ponies. Whether it was the sudden yell that caused poor old Tubby to lose her stride, or whether it was the sudden rush of the broncho’s feet behind her that made Peg lose her nerve, as Tubby rose for the leap Peg pulled hard and next instant Tubby was floundering in the swift running water and Peg floating down toward the pool.
“Swim, Peg,” shouted Asa, rather alarmed at the event, springing from his broncho and running toward the bank. But poor Peggy’s swimming powers, at best of the smallest, were more than neutralised by the shock and terror of her sudden plunge, and it was all she could do to keep afloat while she was being swept down toward the pool and the rocks below. The roar and splash of the rapids struck terror to her heart.
“Oh, Paul, save me!” she shrieked, beginning to splash wildly.
“All right, Peg, I’ll get you,” cried Paul. Like a flash he swung his pony on its heels, dashed down the stream and plunged into the pool. As the water came up over the saddle he slipped off, holding to the stirrup. “Here you are, Peg,” he shouted, as the pony headed off the floating girl from the rapid. Reaching out, he seized her dress and held firm, while Joseph gallantly made for the farther bank and clambered up to safety, Tubby meantime managing to scramble out of danger.
“All right, Peg, eh?” gasped Paul, holding the child close to him.
“Oh, Paul,” cried Peg, crying and choking. “It wasn’t—Tubby’s—fault. I pulled her.”
“No! It wasn’t Tubby’s fault, nor your fault. It was that—that—that—damn beast, Asa,” pointing across the stream to the bigger boy who stood, white and shaken, beside his sister. “I don’t care, I’ve said it and I mean it and I say it again. He’s a damn, damn, damn beast! So he is!”
The boy was beside himself with fury. “And I don’t care either. I won’t repent. It’s true! And God doesn’t want me not to tell the truth, and he is a beast and a damn beast, and he will go to hell, I know. And he just deserves to go. And I’ll ask God to send him there.”
“Oh, Paul!” gasped Peg in sobbing delight. “I think you’re just lovely.”
“Here!” said the boy in a gruff voice, pulling off his coat and wringing it dry. “Put this on and let us get home. It must be nearly one, and I promised.”
Meekly Peg put on the coat. The warm June sun soon had their soaked garments steaming. Paul caught Tubby, helped Peg to mount, swung himself on Joseph and with never a glance at the others across the stream rode off at a gallop to keep his one o’clock appointment. For a full half mile he let the pinto have his head, to the great and audible distress of old Tubby, heroically resolved not to be distanced. Suddenly he pulled up and waited for Tubby to draw level.
“Your mother will be awful mad,” he growled.
“I don’t care,” said Peg serenely. Already she was revelling in the thrills which would follow her tale. “Oh, Paul, you were awful mad, weren’t you?” said Peg with a delighted shiver at the memory of Paul’s terrible outburst. Never had he used such dreadful words in all his life, no matter what the provocation. Indeed, she had often heard him gloatingly predict Asa’s post mortem state because of his indulgence in that very same sort of language.
“Oh, shut up!” said Paul rudely. “It was all your fault.”
“I know it was, Paul,” replied Peg sweetly. She understood quite well what Paul meant, and she was not a little pleased that she had been the occasion of Paul’s moral downfall, the depth of which was but the measure of his regard for her. She was never quite sure of her standing with Paul when Adelina was about. Adelina was so much stronger and braver and could do so many more things that boys could do. Too often had she endured silent agonies of jealousy and humiliation over Paul’s evident admiration of Adelina’s many masculine virtues. Today she was quite sure that Paul would never have flung himself headlong from his pinnacle of moral rectitude for Adelina’s sake. Her mother might be “mad at her,” might indeed punish her. In her present mood of exaltation she felt she would enjoy punishment. Paul glanced at her face, puzzled not a little at her pleased serenity, and all the more deeply enraged because of that serenity.
“It was your fault,” he repeated, “and I just know I’ll have to repent—or go to hell. And I don’t want to repent. I just hate to.”
“Oh, never mind, Paul,” comforted Peg. “I don’t think God will care about Asa. He’s just a horrid boy, and he’s going to hell anyway, you know.”
But this view of the matter brought Paul little cheer. Not but that he was quite clear in his mind as to Asa’s destiny, but he was equally clear that he could not keep up his feeling of righteous indignation against him, that in very truth before he went to sleep that night he would have to repent, a thought most distasteful to him. He turned wrathfully upon his companion.
“Much you know about it,” he said scornfully, and, disdaining further conversation with her, he set off again at a gallop, lest he should fail of keeping his “point of honour” engagement.
The meeting with Aunt Augusta, if a matter of no great concern to Peg, was fraught to Paul with a certain amount of anxiety. It was an accepted if tacit understanding that on these excursions Peg was under his charge and for her he must assume responsibility, by no means an insignificant burden, as he had discovered on more occasions than one. He had no notion of seeking to escape trouble. There was no escaping Aunt Augusta’s penetration, and to do him justice it never occurred to Paul to attempt to do so. He was fully prepared to accept the full consequences of the escapade. A greater burden, however, weighed down his spirits, the burden of his moral delinquency. For the ordinary sins of his daily life, the way to forgiveness and to consequent restoration of his peace and of his self-respect was quite plain. The removal of this sin, however, by the simple method of repentance and forgiveness was complicated by new and perplexing elements. It was a grave complication, for instance, that repentance was an antecedent condition to forgiveness. He was at present conscious of no regret for his language. Back in the shadows of his mind he knew there lurked a secret and distinctly pleasurable satisfaction in recalling the phrase in which he had described the boy who had undoubtedly acted in a thoroughly beastly fashion. The phrase he had used continued, even while violating his sense of rectitude, to give him a thrill of unholy joy. How could he repent of that phrase which he felt to be at once true and wholly adequate? Then, too, the pathway to pardon was hedged by the condition of his forgiving Asa. In his mood that was hopelessly impossible.
Before he had reached a solution of these moral and theological problems, they had arrived at Peg’s home. At the door they were welcomed by Peg’s mother.
“Why, Peggy!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean by wearing Paul’s coat a hot day like this?”
“Oh, Mamma,” cried Peg, her voice vibrant with excitement, “Paul put it on me to keep me from taking cold.”
“Taking cold, child? Why should you take cold? Here, let me see you.” She pulled the coat off the little girl and discovered her soaked condition. “Why, good heavens! What has happened to you? Where have you been? What does this mean, Paul?” she added severely, turning to Paul.
“She fell into the creek, Aunt Augusta. We were jumping our horses across, and Tubby slipped and fell in.”
“Oh, Mamma—” began Peg in high excitement.
“It was our fault, Aunt Augusta,” cut in Paul, meantime scowling heavily at Peg, hoping to check the exuberance of her recital. “Asa and I were jumping our horses across the stream, and Peggy tried and Tubby fell in.”
“Well, you ought to have known better, Paul. I trust Peggy to you, and you ought to take better care of her.”
“I know, Aunt Augusta, and—and—and I’m awfully sorry.”
“You have a right to be sorry,” said Aunt Augusta indignantly. “Well, get your horses away and come in to lunch. And take off those wet things. Come away, Peg. You are a foolish little thing.”
When Paul returned to the house after rubbing down the ponies and turning them loose in the paddock, he found Aunt Augusta’s mood quite changed, and he knew that Peggy must have told the whole story. Whether her recital had covered the story of his moral collapse remained an anxious uncertainty in his mind. He could only await developments.
“Come here, boy,” said the Colonel, as Paul entered the room. “You are a plucky little chap, and I want to tell you that I shan’t forget what you did for Peg today.” The little Colonel’s voice grew suddenly husky. He shook Paul warmly by the hand and turned away, leaving Paul standing overwhelmed with embarrassment and filled with rage at Peggy. But an even more trying experience awaited the unhappy Paul, when Aunt Augusta came to him and, putting her arms around him, drew him close and kissed him, a most unusual proceeding with her.
“Paul,” she said, “I am sorry I spoke to you as I did. And I am glad it was not your fault. I know I can trust Peggy with you always. Now, come away to lunch.”
Paul found himself gulping and fighting hard to keep back the tears, tears caused partly by Aunt Augusta’s unusual demonstration of affection and partly by his furious indignation at Peg, that she should have given him away. It did not help matters much that Peg insisted during the lunch hour of reiterating her various thrilling experiences, her emotions of fear and despair and relief and joy, her admiration of Paul’s heroic courage, her gratitude, and all the rest of it. Paul was grateful, however, that apparently up to this point Peg had so far observed the decencies as to make no reference to his lamentable “fall from grace.”
Immediately after lunch, with the timely assistance of Aunt Augusta, who seized upon Peg and promptly put her to bed, Paul was able to effect his escape from the household, and betook himself to the solitude of Pine Croft Ranch. There, under the pines on the hill at the back of the bungalow, which had become to him a holy place, a very temple of God, where he was wont to hold his secret communions with his own spirit and with the world unseen, he entered upon the soul conflict which had to be fought out before he could sleep in peace.
How it came he could not tell, but somehow, before the pines at the far horizon across the river had cast their long lance-shaped shadows upon the plain below, he had found his way to peace. As he lay upon his back, looking up through the waving tops of the great pine trees into the blue of the sky above, the surging tides of furious rage against Asa and his sense of ill-desert which had deepened within him throughout the early afternoon faded, in some mysterious way, from his soul, as the mists before the rising sun. There, beneath the pines, he became aware of a mighty Presence, comforting, cleansing, healing, that made all else seem insignificant. He was his own man again, and once more in tune with those vast infinities in the midst of which he moved and had his being. Chastened and at peace with himself and all his world, he returned to the big white house, ready to meet with a serene heart whatever life might bring to him.
It was well that it was so, for the morrow had in store for him experiences that should test to the uttermost the quality of that serene peace.