Part 40 (1/2)

”And Billy, there's another thing. I want you to go to Gaston's shack; tote water and wood for Joyce--and keep your mouth shut. And lay this by in your const.i.tution. Gaston is a man so far above anything G.o.d ever created round here, that you can't understand him, but you _can_ try to chase off the dirty insects that want to sting him. Catch on?”

”Yes”; murmured Billy, while unfulfilled duty clutched his vitals with remorse.

”I'm--I'm going up to Gaston's to-morrow,” he said.

”And now, you old rip,” Filmer shook off his strange mood, ”walk up to a fellow's bunk with him. It's good to keep clean company when you can--and for as long as you can.”

”Shall--shall I stay all night with you?”

Billy asked this doubtfully from the new instinct that was stirring within him. For an instant a gleam of pleasure lighted Filmer's face. It almost seemed like a yearning, then he said roughly:

”No, get home! You're afraid? If you are I'll turn back.”

”What you take me for?” Billy sniffed scornfully, and then they parted company.

It was just when the hands of the clock in Drew's study pointed to half-past twelve, that the young master, sitting before the glowing logs, bestirred himself preparatory to turning in for the night.

A satisfied feeling had kept him up after the others had bade good night. He always enjoyed the anticlimax of pleasure, and the day had been a happy one.

He felt well. The companions.h.i.+p of the widowed wife of his closest friend, added interest to the new life in the woods. She had brought news and had awakened memories, but she had timed the Past and the Present to perfect measure. At last he could hope that the old wound was healed and that he could live among his people--his people! the thought thrilled him--with purpose and content. The rough men and women about him were drawing closer. He knew it in the innermost places of his heart. He was brightening their lives. He was holding their children for them, and opening a way for them to seek higher paths. It would all come out as he desired. It was a splendid field of work that had been given him--and he had rebelled so in his ignorance!

How he wished that Philip Dale could have lived to see and know. Of all the men whom he had known, Dale was the one man who could have comprehended this opening for service. What a n.o.ble fellow he had been!

How his personality and charm struck one at the first glance. He had been one of those men who claimed friends as they came his way, without pledge of time or intimacy. He knew what was his own in life, and gripped it without question or explanation. He had been the first to understand Drew's ambition, so different from the ones of the social set in which they both moved.

”You'll always find me at your elbow, Drew,” he had said, ”in any scheme you start.” But when the time came--Dale had slipped out of life as bravely and cheerfully as he had always lived. ”And he had his own deep trouble,” Drew mused as he prepared to bank the fire; ”he never talked about it; but it made him what he was. One must go through some sort of fire to be of real service.”

A light tap on the door startled him. He had been, in thought, far, far from St. Ange.

”Come!”

The door opened slowly and Ruth Dale entered.

She was all in white--a soft, long, trailing gown. Her hair had been loosened from the coronet, and fell in two s.h.i.+ning braids over her shoulders. She looked very girlish as she came to the fire and dropped into a deep chair.

”Please put on more logs,” she said softly. ”Father Confessor, I've come to confess.” There was something under the playfulness that touched Drew. ”I told Connie that I wanted to talk to you about a plan of mine; well, so it is, but I want you to put the stamp of your sage approval upon it.”

Drew shook his head.

”Hardly that,” he said with a laugh, ”but I'm willing to plot with you.”

”I always think of you now,” Ruth Dale continued, leaning toward the crackling logs, and holding her little benumbed hands open to the heat, ”as 'the man who lives in his house by the side of the road, and is a friend to man'. Ralph, I need a friend! I must have one or I shall fail in that which I have set myself to do.”

There was no lightness in the woman's manner now. She looked tragic; almost desperate.

Ralph Drew waited for her to go on. He was prepared to follow, but he could not lead.

Her youthfulness of appearance struck him now as it often had before; but the worn look in the eyes emphasized it to-night.

”You look tired, Ruth,” he said kindly; ”won't to-morrow--or”--for he saw it was well on toward one o'clock--”later in the day do?”