Chapter IV: Part 4

As she walked along the muddy road, picking her way as she could, Jo was thinking of how much or how little she should tell of her relations with Donelle. She had grown to accept what she felt people believed and it no longer caused her indignation; there were graver problems. But the incident that Donelle had related of her conversation with Dan Kelly had thoroughly aroused her. Her consciousness of injustice could not save her from the shock of the brutal meaning of Dan's attitude.

"They'll get to think the girl's common property if I don't set her above their reach," muttered Jo, and then wondered whether it would be safer to lay the truth bare to Father Mantelle. Would it be safer for Donelle to come forth in her true character, as the daughter of a supposed murderer, or to remain as she was, the supposed love-child of a deserted woman? For herself Jo Morey took little heed; the self-respect that had always upheld her came to her support now. Had Donelle been hers, she believed her inheritance would have been better than that which was rightfully hers from her real mother.

"A minister's words can't make or mar these things," she muttered, "and since my blood doesn't flow in the girl's veins, my common sense can save her, God helping me!"

As she plodded on poor Jo thought of Langley himself. She had never believed the accusation brought against him. She could not, but what proof had she to support her belief? And somewhere, in the world, possibly, that man was still alive who had brought forth the charge. Might he not at this late day materialize and menace Donelle were she, Jo, to let the full light of truth on her?

What reason was there for that strange man to want to get possession of Langley's child? Was he afraid of her? Did he want to silence her, or--and here poor Jo stopped in the road and breathed hard--had he believed that Donelle was his?

For a moment Jo grew dizzy. Suppose he did think so. How could she prove the contrary? Would her insistence as to resemblance or her innate belief in her love going true, weigh against any proof which that unknown man might have?

Less and less did Jo believe that Donelle would ever recall the past. And if she did, what would it avail?

"I think I will have to let the poor child stagger along with me tacked to her past," she concluded, "her chances for safety are better, though she may never know it. I may be able to keep her from hearing, people do forget, and my money and her learning may help." Jo sighed and trudged on.

The relations between Father Mantelle and Mam'selle were very peculiar. The old priest admired her intelligence and was amused by her keen wit and independence. He simply could not account for her and that added to his interest. He had not been in Point of Pines long, he rarely left it, and never had company unless a passing father stopped for refreshment or a report. In short, Mantelle was as much a mystery as Mam'selle, and for that very reason they unconsciously respected each other.

They never discussed religion, but Mantelle's attitude toward Jo had been always one of esteem and neighbourliness.

"In loneliness the poor soul has worked out her own redemption," Mantelle had decided. At first he had pondered upon Mam'selle's loneliness, but had never questioned it, having much sympathy for any one who, for any reason, could not mingle freely with his fellows.

When Jo entered the priest's house his servant, an old Indian woman, showed her to a rear room in which she had never been before.

It surprised Jo by its comfort and even luxury. Books lined the walls, rugs covered the rude board flooring; there were comfortable chairs, broad tables, and a clear fire burning on the spotless hearth.

The old man sat before the fire, and as he looked up and saw Jo his delicate face flushed. Something in his manner caught her attention at once. Subtle as it was, she was keenly sensitive of it.

"He's heard!" thought Jo, and stiffened.

Father Mantelle had heard and he thought, he certainly hoped, that the erring daughter had come to confess. It was not in the church, but that did not matter; more was dragged out of heavily-burdened souls in that comfortable room than was ever got in the small church on the hill.

The priest meant to be very kind, very tolerant; he knew the world outside Point of Pines and was extremely human when men and women deserved his kindness. But until they were brought to the proper state of mind, mercy must be withheld, and this disclosure of Jo's past had shaken him tremendously. Certainly whatever he had thought about her, he had not thought this! He felt that he, in his office and character, had been grossly deceived. He had been permitted to associate on equal terms with a woman outside the pale. It was outrageous.

Something intangible, but strangely like Dan Kelly's manner toward Donelle, marked Mantelle's attitude at the present moment. A half-concealed familiarity, an assumption of authority.

"Well, well, you have come, daughter," he said, and pointed Jo to the chair across the hearth. He thought Jo had been driven to him in her extremity, he had never addressed her as "daughter" before.

"Father," Jo began bluntly, "I've come to ask your help with this young girl I've adopted."

The priest thought Mam'selle hard. Indeed Longville had told him, in strict privacy, that she was hard and defiant. For the good of her own soul and the soul of other women likely to defy the laws of God and man, she must be brought to a repentant state. Now that he understood conditions, Mantelle was prepared to reduce Jo to that desirable state. He smiled kindly, blandly; he was a bit daunted but he realized that, erring as Mam'selle was, she was no ordinary woman.

He kindly led her on.

"Though you have seen your duty late, daughter," he said gently, "there is still time to strive for the child's best good."

Then Jo told him quite concisely of her desires for Donelle.

"I want to have her learn all that you can teach her, Father," she said, "and after that--well, I have no plans, but my money and life will be devoted to the girl."

There was a suspicion of defiance and bitterness in Mam'selle's tone.

Now Mantelle had only seen Jo's adopted daughter at a distance. Having no authority over the parish of St. Michael's he had not connected the girl's past with the institution there. He had asked Longville whence Mam'selle Morey had brought the girl, but as Longville did not know, he had let the matter drop as non-essential, but it puzzled him.

"You think it wise to keep the child in Point of Pines?" he asked. "You think it for her good, after all these years, to--to bring the unfortunate past to the--the surface?"

"Yes," Jo answered and her lips drew close. She was thinking of Dan Kelly, but she believed Father Mantelle and she could outwit him.

"My daughter, do you think this would be fair to the girl?"

"Why not?"

"Is it right, or just, that she should suffer for the wrong of a--another?"

"No, it is not right." Jo said this as a general truth.

"But you think your money can buy favour? Mam'selle, you are wrong. There are some things money, not even years of blameless life, can buy.

"Your people, I am sure, have treated you kindly, compassionately, and they will continue to do so, if you show the proper spirit. But you must not, daughter, think that gold can wipe away the result of defiance to the laws of God and man. You must be repentant, prove that you have the best interests of this girl at heart, and then, then only can the future be secure."

The thin, delicate face was pale and stern, the deep eyes burned. Not only the sanctity of Mantelle's authority, but his position among men was being questioned by the woman before him. And Jo was defiant, there was no doubt about that.

"Your kind heart, daughter, has betrayed you into error. Before bringing this child here you should have consulted me. Much might have been saved for us all."

"What would you have advised?" Mam'selle dropped her eyes and the forbidding brows seemed to hide every kindly expression of her face.

"I should have strongly advised against letting the innocent suffer for the guilty!" Mantelle's voice was stern.

"Yes, but she had to have a home; care, the best possible."

"To give that, daughter, is not in your power. In violating the most sacred emotions of life, in spurning the very safeguards of society, you put yourself outside the pale, as far as the child's best good is concerned. Women should fully understand this before they take the fatal step. The price must be paid! If, by assuming your duty at this late day you could condone the past, I would help you, but I cannot advise keeping this girl here. For her truest good, she should be saved, where only such unfortunates can be saved."

"And that is?" Mam'selle's voice was slow and even.

"In the bosom of the church, daughter. Send the child to St. Michael's; let them train her there for a life of devotion and service in a field where temptation, inherited weakness----"

Mantelle got no further for Jo--laughed!

The priest rose in his chair, white with anger.

"You laugh?" he said as if his hearing had betrayed him.

"Forgive me, Father, but it struck me as being rather hard on the girl that, for a wrong she never committed, she should be condemned to--to exile; not even given a chance of her own."

"You stole that from her, daughter!"

"I? Why, how could I? And is the Church able to accept whatever service, my--this young girl might give, while the world is unable to do so?"

"It can."

Then Mam'selle stood up. Her patient, work-worn hands were folded before her, she raised her deep, sad eyes.

"Father," she said calmly, "you feel that you have a right to assume this attitude toward me, without even hearing my side? My life, as you know it, has done nothing to save me from this--this mistake of yours. You have taken my money, what help I could give, and I believed that you were my friend."

"I am; your real and only friend." Mantelle was deceived by the tone and words.

"You have shown me that a man cannot be a friend to a woman! He cannot give her justice."

"You are not speaking to a man, daughter!"

The desire to laugh again consumed Jo, but she mastered it.

"In that capacity alone did I regard you, Father Mantelle, and you have failed me. For the rest, I let no one stand between my conscience and my God! No. If I ask help again it will be from a woman; she at least can understand."

"A woman is hardest upon women in such cases as yours, Mam'selle!"

Jo was thankful that at last the priest had dropped the objectionable "daughter."

"She will be the first who will turn against you."

"And was it a woman who came to you, Father, with my--my trouble?"

Mantelle's face flushed and Jo shook her head sadly.

"I see it was not. So the first and second who have turned against me have been men. Good day, Father, and"--Mam'selle stopped at the door--"if you ever need help in giving that poor Tom Gavot his chance, I stand ready to do what I have always promised to do, and I do it for the sake of his mother."

Condemnation and contempt rang in Jo's voice. It was her last arrow and it sank home.

The priest was practical and having done his Christian duty he could afford to be human.

"It speaks well for your good sense, Mam'selle," he said; "that you do not utterly shut yourself away from your people." Then Mantelle paused, "Mam'selle!" he said.

"Yes, Father." Jo turned and lifted her deep eyes to his face.

"I wonder if you _have_ something to tell me that I should know in justice to you?"

"You should have thought of that first, Father. It is too late now."

"We may"--the man's recent manner fell from him like an unnecessary garment--"be friends, still?"

Again Jo laughed. She felt that she had by some kindly power regained something of her lost position with this lonely old man. Since he could not understand her, save her, he was willing to accept her.

"Father, I have too few friends to cast them off heedlessly."

And then she went out, more of a mystery than ever to Mantelle.

*CHAPTER IX*

*WOMAN AND WOMAN*

It was early June when Mam'selle heard that the Walled House, the country place of some rich people from the States, was to be opened.

It had been closed for many years, but recently the master had died and his wife, with a staff of servants and an old, blind, white-haired man, had returned.

The moment Jo heard that, her spirits rose. Here was a most unlooked-for opportunity for advice and, perhaps, assistance.

The Lindsays of the Walled House had always mingled freely with their neighbours; Mr. Lindsay was a Canadian. Jo, in her earlier days, had often served them; had sold her linens and wools to them at, what seemed to her, fabulous prices. Mrs. Lindsay, having taken a fancy to Mam'selle, often tried to annex her to her establishment, but to that the independent Jo would not consent.

"Well, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay had said during the last interview they had had, "if I ever can help you, please let me."

"I'll go to her now!" decided Mam'selle.

A week later, dressed in her absurd best, she made the journey in her caliche. Her days of sitting on the shaft by Molly, her economies in clothes, were over, she was living up to her ambitions for Donelle and her defiance of Point of Pines' morality. Outwardly, Jo was fairly awe-inspiring and even Dan Kelly was impressed; inwardly, Jo was a good deal chastened by her visit to Father Mantelle.

There were doubts now in her heart as to the role she had assumed for Donelle's sake. Perhaps it would be better to let the girl shoulder her father's possible crime and her foolish mother's wrongdoing, rather than the disguise which Jo had self-sacrificingly wrought for her.

And yet, even now she could not bring herself to lay the dead Langley open to a charge she did not believe, but could not disprove, and the girl, herself, to danger. And so as she drove to the Walled House she was very quiet, very subdued, but her faith was strong. She meant to give as much as she dared of the past to the woman whose sympathies and assistance she was about to interest. She was ready to put all her future wools and linens at Mrs. Lindsay's disposal in return for any help she could obtain for the betterment of Donelle. Poor Jo was ready to abdicate, if that were best. After her months of happiness with the girl, after living in the dear companionship and love of the sunny young nature, she was willing to stand aside for the girl's future good.

"She shall not be condemned to death!" Jo snorted, and Molly reared. "St. Michael's shall not get her. But there must be a place for her, and I love her well enough to get out of her way. I only took her for the best, her best, and if I cannot keep her, I can let her go!"

Jo found Mrs. Lindsay on the beautiful shaded porch, found her changed, but none the less lovely and kindly.

"Why, it is the dear Mam'selle of the wonderful linens!" Alice Lindsay cried, stretching out her slim hands in welcome. "I have been thinking of you. How glad I am to see you. You have heard?" Mrs. Lindsay looked down at the thin black gown she wore.

"I have heard," Jo said and her throat grew dry.

"I--I have come back because my husband seems more here than anywhere, now. He loved the Walled House so much; he loved his Canada, Mam'selle."

Jo was thinking of two bleak, lonely weeks in her own past when she had stolen away and gone to Langley's deserted cabin because he, _the he_ that she had known and loved--seemed more there than anywhere else. She had buried her hatred and bitterness toward him there. She knew it, now, as she had never known it before. The two women were drawing close by currents of sympathy.

They had tea together, they talked of future linens and wools, and then Jo told her story, taking small heed of the impression she was giving. She was blindly thinking only of Donelle, and Mrs. Lindsay did not hurt her by question or voiced doubt.

That night, when a great silence reigned over the Walled House, broken only by the soft, tender tones of a violin played at a distance in the moonlit garden, Alice Lindsay wrote a long letter to Anderson Law, her father's oldest friend, her own faithful advisor and closest confidant.

Law was an artist and critic. Old Testy he was called by those whom he often saved from the folly of their false ambitions; The Final Test, by those who came humbly, tremblingly, faithfully to him with their great hopes. To a few he was Man-Andy, the name that Alice Lindsay had given to him when she was a little child.

MAN-ANDY: I have had a wonderful day. I have waited to tell you that your advice as to my coming here was good. I know it is cowardly to run away from one's troubles, dear. Troubles, as you say, have their divine lessons, but I could not believe, at first, that I would find Jack here. I dreaded the emptiness and loneliness, but you were right, right! I am not desolate here and I have the blessed feeling of peace that can only come when one has chosen the right course.

I felt that everything worth while had been taken: Jack, my babies. Only the money remained, and that I hated, because it could not keep what I wanted. But you were splendid when you said, "make the thing you despise a blessing!" I've tried, Man-Andy, to make it a blessing to others, and it is becoming a blessing to me. I feel I am using it for Jack and for the babies and that they are making it sacred. I feared that in this big, empty house the ghosts would haunt me; not the strange old history ghosts of great ladies and dashing men who used to forget their homesickness for their mother-countries by revelling in this shelter in the New World. I did not think of them, for do you not remember Jack's comical ghost hunts? How he joked about it, saying that he'd yet lure some old English or French aristocrat to stay and sanctify our presence by his sponsorship? But oh! I did fear the memories of my man's dear, jovial ways, the pretty babble of my little babies.

And then--I know I am rambling shamefully, but I cannot sleep, the moonlight is flooding the garden--I hear Professor Revelle's violin. Andy, he has actually recovered to the extent of music when he thinks I do not know. As I look at the dear old soul, so like a gentle wraith, I remember how you and father and Jack adored his music and how Jack grieved when illness and poverty stilled it. But you found him, Man-Andy, and you lent him to me to save, and his music at least has been given back to him. Not with its old fire and passion--I think if any demand were made upon him he might be aroused. I may take lessons myself some day. But he plays dreamily, softly when he is alone, generally in the garden and at night. He forgets his blindness then.

But to-day I had a caller. I wonder if you remember the nice Mam'selle Jo Morey that Jack and I used to talk about? You have some of her linens in your studio. You may recall the incident of the summer when we told you of her troubles; her desertion by a man of the place and the death of her imbecile sister? I had almost forgotten it myself, so much has happened since then, but it all came back to me to-day when she came with her story.

Andy, her story is quite the most tragic a woman can have; such things happen even here. She did not cringe or whine, I would have hated her if she had; you know how I feel about such things. My Mam'selle Jo does not whine!

There was a child, and now that Mam'selle can afford to do well by it, she has taken it. She has done this so quietly and simply that it has shocked the breath out of the very moral Point of Pines. Still, before the breath left the body of the hamlet, it hissed! And when it recovers its breath it is going to hound this poor Mam'selle, whose shoes it is not worthy to touch. It's going to hound and snarl and snap, two of its inhabitants have done it already, and the Mam'selle Morey is not going to have her child harried for what she is innocent of!

Isn't this a situation?

The Mam'selle knows her world, however, and all worlds are pretty much alike, Andy, and she is prepared, in exchange for her child's happiness, to renounce her! It almost broke my heart as she told me; she saw no other way and she fiercely demands that justice be shown the girl. I tell you it takes the fine, large courage to renounce, when love tempts. Mam'selle loves this child as such children often are loved, passionately because they cost so much.

And this Mam'selle Morey came to me. She felt I could understand, advise. Well, I do understand because of Jack's attitude toward such things, and yours and father's. Thank God, the men I have known have helped me uphold my standard, and I understand because of my dear, dear babies, who left so much of themselves with me when they had to go away.

I grew hot and cold as I listened, Man-Andy, and I grew puffed up and chesty, too. How I gloried, for the moment, in my power. It's all right to have power if you keep it in its proper place.

I kept saying to myself, "Mam'selle, you and I will win out! And you shall not be the sacrifice, either! Together we can play the game; two women ought to be able to see that one innocent child has its rights!"

Man-Andy, I rolled up my sleeves, then and there, and that dear old poem you love came to my mind, it often does; that one about tears:

By every cup of sorrow that ye had
Loose us from tears and make us see aright
How each hath back what once he stayed to weep
Homer, his sight; David, his little lad?

I thought of dear old blind Revelle; he has something back, even though much is withheld. He has safety, and his fiddle. And then I vowed that this brave, strong Mam'selle Morey should have her little lass. She shall not be taken from her; I will help, and give the girl her chance, I am quite fierce about it. And my Mam'selle shall keep her in the end, somehow I'll manage that. With other things, this girl shall get a comprehension of--her mother!

Man-Andy, tell me what you think of all this and tell me of yourself; of the Norvals, and the rest of the folks I love but do not need just now. And tell me of your sad duty, dear man. Do you go every week to the Lonely Place? Some day, when it is all past, you will come here to this Walled House. You and I will go out on the highway and kneel under one of the tall black and white-tipped crosses and give thanks! Man-Andy, to-night I can give thanks that I am being used, that the power my money can give is being used, and that I am not left to my tears.

To this long outpouring of the heart Anderson Law replied within the month.

MY GIRL: you have only proved yourself. It took a little time, but I knew you were not the sort to hide your face and run. Revelle and his fiddle are about the best combination I know, I certainly hadn't counted on the fiddle. I thought with care and safety he'd find peace and I knew he would be good for you; but I feared his blindness would kill his music.

It's a great thing, too, girl, that your children did not shut the door of your motherhood when they went out. You'd hardly have been worthy of them if you had not learned the lesson they taught.

As for us here: Jim Norval is doing some good things in his moments of genius. When plain talent grips him, he's not so good. Katherine, from perfectly exalted motives, is driving him to hell. It's the most puzzling situation I ever saw. You cannot advise a man to leave a high-natured, moral, devoted wife just because she's pushing him to perdition and depriving him of his birthright, but that's the situation in the Norval family. Their child somehow did not get its lesson over!

The Lonely House still holds my duty, but if the time ever comes when I can stand beside you under the cross, there will be many things, hard to bear now, that will then make thanks possible. ANDY.

Law's letter came after Donelle had entered the Walled House where she was to stay from Monday till Friday of each week. The week-ends belonged to Mam'selle Jo!

"For awhile, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay had said, holding Jo's hands as she had made plain her understanding, "I will teach the child myself and learn to know her. We need not plan far ahead. There is a dear, old, blind musician living with me; if the girl has any inclination for music, she will be a god-send to him."

"I am sure she will have, Mrs. Lindsay," Jo's plain face was radiant, "her father had, and she sings the day through."

"You must bring her at once, Mam'selle, and believe me, whatever comes or does not come, she will always be yours. She is your recompense."

And within the week Donelle Morey came to the Walled House.

Her entrance was dramatic and made a deep impression upon Mrs. Lindsay.

There had been a struggle between Jo and Donelle before the matter had been arranged, so, while not sullen, the girl was decidedly on guard.

Propelled by Jo she came into the great, sunny hall. She was very pale and her yellow eyes were wide and alert.

"My dear," Alice Lindsay had said, "I hope you are going to be very happy here."

"I did not come to be happy, I came to learn," Donelle returned, and her voice saved the words from rudeness.

"Perhaps you can be both, dear," but Donelle looked her doubts.

Still from the first she played her part courageously. She studied diligently and, when she was given the freedom of the library, she showed a keen and vital interest.

She was not indifferent, either, to the kindness and consideration shown her, but the wildness in her blood reasserted itself and she often felt, as she had felt at St. Michael's, a desire to fly from restraint; even this kindly restraint. Point of Pines had given her a sense of liberty that was now lacking. The refinements and richness of the Walled House oppressed her, she yearned for Jo, for the hard, unlovely tasks, for the chance talks with Tom Gavot. But, oddly enough, it was the thought of Tom that kept her to her duty. Somehow she dared not run away and hope to keep his approval. Something of her struggle Alice Lindsay saw, and she considered it seriously. To win the girl wholly from her yearnings just then might mean winning her from Mam'selle. While not a child, Donelle was very unformed and might easily, if she were conquered, be lost to Jo whom she regarded simply in the light of an adopted guardian. She was grateful, she loved Jo, but the secret tie that Alice Lindsay believed existed held no part in her thoughts.

"But she shall be saved for Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay vowed. "I will not permit any other solution. If the time ever comes when she understands she shall know the splendour of this dear soul."

So Alice Lindsay took Jo into her confidence.

"You must not, Mam'selle," she said, "even think yourself renouncing her. She is yours and you ought not to forget that, nor deprive her of yourself. Take things for granted; let her see you as I see you!"

Jo's face twitched.

"There's no earthly reason," Alice Lindsay went on, "for blotting you out. Why, the girl will never know another woman as fine as you, Mam'selle. Think of how you have studied and thought yourself into a place that many a woman with untold advantages has not attained!"

"Donelle's father was a scholar," Jo faltered, not knowing how to act in the strained moment. "He taught me, not only books, but how to think."

"Yes, and to suffer, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay controlled her true emotions. Then:

"Mam'selle, Donelle must learn to appreciate her inheritance from you. She shall, she shall! Now throw off your usual manner with her; let her see you!"

"She always has, Mrs. Lindsay."

"Very well, don't let go of her now!"

And so Jo permitted herself the luxury of doing what her heart longed to do, she put off her guarded manner and played for the first time in her life.

It was during Donelle's week-end visits home that she first came forth in her new character of comrade. In an especially fine spell of weather she suggested camping out in the woods. Donelle and Nick were beside themselves with delight, for Mam'selle was a genius at camping. Never had she so truly revealed herself as she did then, and Donelle looked at her in amazement.

"Mamsey," she said, "is it because I'm away from you so much that you seem different? You are wonderful and you know about the loveliest wood things and stars. It's like magic."

It was like magic, and Jo rightly concluded that something in Donelle's early life responded to these nights in the woods. She recalled the girl's delirium, her references to weary wanderings.

"It seems," Donelle once said, hugging her knees beside the glowing fire, "it seems as if I'd been here before."

"One often feels that way," Jo replied as she prepared a fragrant meal, "and I'm not saying but what we do pass along the same way more than once. It may take more than one little life to learn all there is to know."

And then Donelle talked of a book she had been reading and they grew very chummy. Once Jo suggested--it was when Donelle told her how she lived through the weeks, only because the week-ends were in view--that Nick should stay at the Walled House.

"Nick, would you leave Mamsey?" Donelle held the dog's face in her hands. It was an awful moment for Nick. He actually slunk.

"I'd hate you if you would!" Donelle continued. "Now, sir, who is your choice?"

Nick saved the day, he ambled over to Jo and licked her hand.

"There!" exultingly cried Donelle; "that shows his blood."

"It shows his common sense," laughed Jo.

Once Tom Gavot shared their campfire for a night. He was waiting for them when they dismounted, his eyes shining. He wore a new, and whole, suit.

"I am going away," he explained. This was no news to Jo, but it took Donelle by surprise.

"I am going to Quebec," he went on. "Father Mantelle has a friend there who is to take me into his office. I'm going to learn about roads. You see, I always knew I'd get a chance!"

He was very gay and full of hope.

"And how does your father take it?" asked Jo, bending over the flames.

The boy's face darkened.

"Father Mantelle talked to him," was all he said.

But that evening Jo was wondrously kind. She gave permission to Tom to make his own pine-bough bed in the woods; she even seemed to be asleep when, by the fire, Donelle, holding her body close, her pale face shining in the glow, said to Tom:

"I am never going to forget about roads, Tom Gavot. I always think of them as real things, I always have ever since you told me how to see them. I'm sure your roads are going to be very splendid ones."

"They'll be mighty lonely, just at first," Tom, stretched by the fire, smiled grimly.

"Yes," Donelle nodded, "yes; they will. Why, Tom, I stand by the gates of the Walled House and look at the road and it is the loneliest feeling. I think of Mamsey at one end and something in me goes stretching out until it hurts. It goes stretching and pulling along the road until I can scarcely bear it."

"That's the way it will be with me, Donelle," then poor Tom's face flushed a deep red. "You won't mind, will you, if I tell you something?"

"I'd love it." Donelle smiled happily.

"You see, I haven't ever had any one who cared since my mother died. I never dared tell any one but you about the roads. You seemed to understand; you didn't laugh. And when I'm off in Quebec and something in me goes stretching over the road until it hurts, it's going to be you at the other end! You're not laughing?"

"No, Tom Gavot, I'm--I'm crying a little."

"I think it's your eyes, they're like lights. And then you are kind, kind."

Just then Jo shook herself and awoke.

A few days later Tom was off for Quebec and Donelle's homesickness and longing for Mam'selle were to be lessened by an unlooked-for occurrence.

Mrs. Lindsay had not thought of Donelle being in the slightest musical, though Jo had suggested it, for she never sang in the Walled House as she did at Point of Pines. There were lessons and walks and drives; Mrs. Lindsay was growing genuinely attached to the girl, and more and more determined to see that life should play fair with her, but the idea of interesting old Professor Revelle did not occur to her. The shy, delicate old man shrank from strangers with positive aversion. He was not unfriendly, but his loss of eyesight was recent. His late poverty and illness, from which Anderson Law had rescued him, had left their scar, and he kept to the rooms Mrs. Lindsay set aside for him with gentle gratitude. Sometimes she dined with him there; often sat evenings with him; but for the most the old man was happiest alone.

Then came the day when the silent garden tempted him. He had heard the carriage depart earlier and thought that Mrs. Lindsay and the stranger girl had both gone driving.

With his violin under his arm Revelle groped his way from the house; he was learning, slowly, as the lately-blinded do, to walk alone. At the far end of the garden there was an arbour, Revelle knew it was rose-covered by the fragrance, and he loved to play there, for no one ever disturbed him. To-day he found the place and sat down. His old face was growing peaceful, full of renunciation; the fear and bitterness were gone.

The roses thrilled him, he could touch them by reaching out his hand; they were soft and velvety, and he hoped they were pink. He had always loved pink roses. And then he played as he had not played for years.

Close to him sat Donelle. She had been reading when he entered. She did not move or speak though she longed to help and guide him. She knew all about him, pitied and respected his desire to be alone in a very lonely and dark world, but she had never heard him play before. As she listened the yellow eyes darkened. Never had Donelle heard such music; never had she been so gloriously happy. Something in her felt free, free! Then something, quite beyond her control, floated after the notes; it rested and throbbed, it ... but just then Revelle, with a wide sweep of the bow, stopped!

Donelle crept to his side, his quick ear caught the sound.

"Who is it?" he asked sharply.

"It's--it's Donelle, Donelle Morey. I--couldn't go away; please do not mind--if you only knew!"

"Knew what?"

"Why, it's what I've wanted all my life. I did not know; how could I? But now I know, the music has told me."

The voice, the intensity and passion stirred the old man.

"Come here!" he said, reaching out his hand. "The love you have, does it mean that you sing? Your voice is--is rather fine. Let me have the fingers."

Half afraid, Donelle placed her hand in his.

"Oh!" Revelle was feeling every inch of the slim hand and fingers. "The long hand and wide between the fingers! And the finger tips; it is the musician's hand unless nature has played a trick. Will you let me find out if nature has spoken true?"

"I--I do not know what you mean."

"Are you a young child?"

"No, I am old, quite old."

"Stand up, let me feel how tall you are. Ah! you are of the right age! Young enough to obey; old enough to hunger. Are you beautiful?"

"Oh! No. I'm sure I'm ugly."

"Of the light or the dark?"

"I'm white, I--I am thin, too."

"May I touch your face?"

Quite simply Donelle knelt again and quivered as the delicate fingers passed over her brow, eyes, and mouth.

"You have a soul!" murmured Revelle.

"A soul?" murmured Donelle.

"Ah! yes. You do not know. One never finds his soul until he suffers. You are young, but you have a soul. Keep it safe, safe; and while you wait, let me see if nature has made you for use. If you can learn, I shall find joy. I had thought my life was over."

And so Donelle began to find her way out upon her road.

*CHAPTER X*

*PIERRE GETS HIS REVENGE*

The first year passed, with those blessed weekends coming now, not as the only bright spots, but always loved.

"The girl may not have the great genius," Revelle told Mrs. Lindsay, "she may not go much further, but as she goes, she goes radiantly. Her tone it is pure, her ear it is true, and her soul, it is a hungry soul, a waiting soul. She will suffer, but she will be the better for that. If she is ever to be great it will be when she has learned to know suffering."

Donelle had a strange habit that amused them all; she played best when she could move about. Gropingly, painstakingly, she practised with the old, blind man beside her. At times she would wander under the trees on the lawn, her violin tucked lovingly under her chin.

"Pretty, little pale thing," Alice Lindsay often said. "What is life going to do with her?"

When three years had passed, Donelle was no longer a simple girl. Point of Pines was as detached from her real interests as St. Michael's was. She loved to be with Jo and Nick, but the luxury and comfort of the Walled House had become part of her life. She wished it might be that Jo and Nick could come to her; not make it necessary for her to go to them. She was not more selfish or ungrateful than the young usually are, but she was artistic and temperamental and her mind and soul were full of music and beauty. Unconsciously, she was pressing on into life by the easiest way. Life, she must have; life to the full, that had always been her ambition, but she had yet to learn, poor child, that the short, direct path that stretched so alluringly from the Walled House was not the best one for her own good.

For Mrs. Lindsay she had a deep affection; for Revelle a passion of gratitude and yearning. He it was who had opened her heaven for her; he it was who subtly developed her. With no set purpose, but with the insistence that Art always demands, he brought to bear upon Donelle the arguments of devotion to her gift, her God-given gift, he reiterated. She must not let anything, any one stand in its path. She was not worthy of it unless she forsook all else for it.

Donelle had accepted what was offered to her. She believed Jo Morey had the best of reasons for burying the past. As she grew older, she saw the wisdom of forgetting much and in proving herself worthy of becoming what Jo, what Mrs. Lindsay, and most of all Revelle, hoped for her.

The St. Michael days were blotted out, they were but an incident at best. Jo was giving her every advantage, she must do her part. She saw the Point of Pines people on the road as she drove with Mrs. Lindsay or Jo and they were like shadows to her, they had no place in her sheltered, beautiful life. She heard indirectly from Tom Gavot, he was bravely hewing and hacking his road, poor chap. He was helping to support his unworthy father; he was coming home some day to show himself, but the time went by and he did not come!

And then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Lindsay decided to close the Walled House and go abroad. Professor Revelle's health was restored and Anderson Law had obtained employment for him.

"I want to take Donelle with me," Alice Lindsay said. "She's quite your own, Mam'selle; you stand first with her, so I can take her with a clear conscience and give her all the advantages she should have. She will come back to you in the end, or you will come to her."

Jo's lips drew close.

"Will my linens pay for this?" she asked.

"They will help, Mam'selle, and you have no right to stand in Donelle's way now that we have gone so far. Some day Donelle can repay me herself, she has great gifts."

Jo thought hard and quickly. In her heart she had always felt this day would come, lately she had been haunted by it. It was inevitable. Only God knew how she dreaded the separation, but she would not withhold her hand.

"I suppose, Mam'selle, this is what Motherhood means?" Alice Lindsay spoke the fact boldly, splendidly.

"It's all right," said Jo, "it's all it should mean. I'm glad I do feel as I do about her."

"And, Mam'selle, this girl loves you very tenderly. Sometimes I think we ought to tell her----'

"No, no, Mrs. Lindsay." Jo started and flushed.

"When she's found her place and made it sure: when she has so much that this won't matter, then she shall know everything. I haven't overlooked this, but I couldn't stand it now. I want her to be able to understand."

"All right, Mam'selle. And now it is your part to make her feel that it is your desire that she should make the most of her gifts. Send her forth happy, Mam'selle, that will mean much to her."

So Jo began the new role and actually made Donelle unhappy in the effort to achieve the reverse. Alone, in the white house at Point of Pines, Jo found her father's old clothes and contemplated them gravely. She was slipping back, poor soul, to her empty life.

Donelle had not accepted the proposed plans without a struggle. She was wonderfully sensitive and compassionate and her quick imagination made it possible for her to understand what the future would mean to poor Jo. Then, too, she shrank from the uprooting. Her dreams of what lay before were exciting and thrilling, but with sincere kinship she loved the quiet hills, the marvellous river, and the peace, freedom, and simplicity which were her birthright.

"Sometimes I fear," she said to Mrs. Lindsay, "that it will deafen me, hush me, kill me!"

"It will not, dear; and I will always be near."

"Unless you were, I would not dare. You are the only hope, Mrs. Lindsay."

"That's not so, Donelle. The real hope is your gift. You are taking it there to make it perfect."

"I hope so. And when I have learned, I must get Mamsey into my new life, quick."

"Indeed, yes!" Mrs. Lindsay nodded cheerfully.

"Isn't it queer how some people are part of you? Mamsey is part of me, Mrs. Lindsay." Then softly, "I suppose you know how Mamsey got me and from where?"

Alice Lindsay started.

"Yes, Mam'selle told me," she said.

"I never speak of it. Mamsey thought best that I should not; but I do not forget! Often, when we are driving past St. Michael's--I remember."

"Donelle, why do you tell me this now?"

"Just because I want you to understand how I feel about Mamsey. She didn't have to do things for me, she chose to, and I know all about her spinning and weaving and--the rest. I have cost her a good deal, and I mean to make it all up."

Proudly, happily Donelle stood. And looking at her, Mrs. Lindsay fervently wished the real truth might be kept away from the girl. Better the uncertainty of birth to such a spirit than the ugly fact. Safer would her relations with Mam'selle be if she could keep her present belief.

"Come," she said suddenly, "take your violin and stand--so! This is the way my good friend Anderson Law is to paint you."

Donelle took the violin; she tucked it under her chin and drew her bow lovingly across it. The uplifted face smiled serenely. Donelle was no longer afraid; something bigger than herself caught her and carried her to safety.

Alice Lindsay's eyes grew dim.

"Life is not all that is lying in wait for the child," she thought. "What is love going to do with her?"

And then, it was two days before they were to start for the States, Donelle went for a walk along the quiet highway! She had bidden Jo good-bye! Her heart ached with the haunting fear that she had not been quite sure about Mamsey. Was it enough that she was going to prepare for life? Were her purpose and joy quite unselfish? How about those long empty days, when the Walled House would be but a memory?

And Nick! The dog had acted so strangely. His awful eyes, yes, they were quite awful, had been fixed upon her a long, long time, then he had gone--to Jo! After that he could not be lured from her. It was as if he said:

"Very well, think what you choose, _I_ will never desert Mamsey!"

Jo had tried to force the dog from her; had scolded him sharply, but he would not stir.

His silent protest had angered Donelle, and she remembered it now, walking on the road. She felt her tears rising.

It was a day of calm and witchery. Never had the trees been more splendid, never the river more changing and beautiful. And the quiet, was there in all the world so sacred and safe a place as this?

And just then, toward Donelle, came a staggering, wretched figure. The girl stopped short and the man, seeing her, stopped also, not twenty feet away.

"It's Tom Gavot's terrible father," thought Donelle. She had never been so close to anything so loathesome before. She was not really frightened, the day made things safe enough, but she estimated the best chances of getting by the ugly thing and escaping from it.

Gavot knew her. All Point of Pines knew her and snapped their hateful remarks about her at Dan's Place. They were like a pack that had been defeated. Even Father Mantelle had the feeling that he had been incapable of coping with a situation that should not exist. It was putting a premium on immorality.

"Ha!" Pierre Gavot reeled and laughed aloud. When he was in the first stages of drunkenness he was diabolically keen. His senses always put up a revolt before they surrendered.

"So!" he called in his thick voice and with that debauched gallantry that marked him, "So! it is Mam'selle's bastard dressed and ready to skip out as her damned father did before her, leaving the Mam'selle to make the most of the broken bits. Curse ye, for what ye are!"

The veins swelled in Gavot's face, a confused, bestial desire for revenge on somebody, somehow, possessed him.

"Ye've taken all she had to give, as your father did before ye, blast him! And now, like him, ye kick her out of your way. Her, who spent herself."

The words were scorching into Donelle's soul, but they numbed sensation as they went. It was later the hurt would come! Now, there was but one thing to do, pass the beast in the road and get behind the walls of safety.

And so Donelle darted forward so suddenly that Gavot staggered aside in surprise. She gave him one horrified look and was gone!

No one saw her enter the house. She was breathing hard, her face was like a dead face, set and waxen. In the great hall was a book stand. On it was a dictionary.

Donelle was repeating over and again in her mind a word. A strange, fearful word, she must know about that--word. It would explain something, perhaps.

The trembling hands found it, the wide eyes read it once--twice--three times.

Slowly, then, the heavy feet mounted the shallow stairs. As old, blind Revelle used to grope in the upper hall, so Donelle groped now. She reached her room, closed the door and locked it. Then she sat down by the window and began to--suffer. The safe ground upon which she had trodden for the last few years crumbled. At last she managed to reach St. Michael's. Yes, she remembered St. Michael's, but how long she had been there before Jo found her she could not remember!

But it was clear: Jo, not her father, had put her there. Jo had made up the sad story to save her, Donelle! She bore Jo's name, and that was to save her, too. And her father had deserted poor Mamsey long ago and she had made the most of the bits that were left!

That is what the horrible man had said. And they had all known, always. That was why people never came to the little white house; that was why Jo had put her in the Walled House, to save her. And Jo had stayed outside as she always had done, outside, making the most of the bits!

At last, a wild, hot fury smote the girl, a kind of fury that resented the love that placed her in a position which unfitted her for the only part she could decently play. Of course they must have realized that she would know some day, and have to give up! She could not go on with the sham and be happy. They had defrauded her of life while thinking they had saved her for life. It was cruel, wicked! The yellow eyes blazed and the slender hands clenched.

"What have they done to me?" she moaned.

And so through the afternoon, alone and driven to bay, Donelle suffered. The sun went down, leaving its benediction on the wonderful river which glistened and throbbed as it swelled with the high, full tide, but there was no peace for Donelle. A shame she could not understand overcame her. Her unawakened sex battled with the grim spectre.

Then memory helped the girl and she became a woman as she sat alone in the still room; a woman so pure and simple that Jo was saved.

How great poor Jo's love must have been, always! How little she had asked, how bravely she had borne her punishment!

The care and devotion of the long nights, when Donelle was so ill, returned like dreams and haunted the girl. That was the beginning of Jo, and this was the end? But was it?

It was all in her, Donelle's, hands, to decide. She could keep still! She could take her life, make it beautiful, and by and by she could come back to Mamsey. Then she would say, "This I have done for you! But I could not do it then! I could not give up then," Donelle murmured.

Then the present held the girl, drove away the temptation. There was the little, lonely white house under the hill at Point of Pines and Mamsey who that morning had said:

"Child, I'm gladder than you know to be able to give you your chance."

Her chance!