Part 14

"For they made me just a little more like my dear love," She said to herself. "They brightened me and gave me the music. My dear loves me to be pretty and he loves my music."

But it was not all so easy for Norval. There were times when, alone with Donelle in the wood-cabin, the crude side of love made its tremendous claim.

How desirable Donelle was when, casting her violin aside, she flung herself in a chair by the hearth and said:

"Come, put the paints away and wipe the brushes carefully. Come tell me a story and then, dear man, I'll stir you some maple and put in a lot of nuts. Oh! but I will make it good."

Norval, at such commands, felt his strength departing.

"There's one story I'd like to tell you, little woman," he once flung back to her desperately.

"And that is what?"

"A story of a man and woman."

"Go on, go on," Donelle urged. "That will be the best of all."

"You bet it will!" Then Norval tossed his brushes aside.

"I'm coming over to take you in my arms and kiss you, sweet!" he warned, but did not move.

"Well, why don't you? And then we can tell Mamsey."

Norval frowned.

"Shall I come to you, dear man?"

Oh! how she lured and tempted from her safe, innocent love. "I trust you now. I beg your pardon because I once did not. I will come half the way."

"My sweet, when I take you in my arms to tell you the story I mean to tell you, I will come all the way! Now stir the syrup, you hard little bargainer. Throw in an extra handful of nuts for the crimes you commit but know not of."

"And now you are laughing!" cried Donelle.

"Far from it, I'm thinking of swearing."

"At what?" Donelle was cracking the nuts.

"At the absolute stupidity of----Good Lord, child"--Norval sprang toward her--"your skirt was on fire! He crushed the sparks and held her for a moment.

"If anything happened to you," he muttered.

"What would you do?" Donelle trembled a little in his arms.

"I'd go--don't look at me that way, Donelle--I'd go to St. Michael's-on-the-Rocks."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THE BLIGHTING TRUTH*

Then spring came softly, fragrantly up the hill from the river. Almost every day a new little flower showed its head. Tom Gavot came back grim, tired, and eager. He found his cabin swept and shining, a fire upon the hearth, and a bunch of timid snow blossoms in a cracked mug on the table--that made him laugh. But at the sight of them Tom's weariness vanished and he sat down by his own fireside with a sigh of complete content.

Jo sang at her work that spring, actually sang "A la Claire Fontaine." She sang it boldly, without reservations, and Nick forgot his years and a growing dimness of the eyes. He smelled around among the delectable new things in the woods, found the scent for which he was searching, and trotted off gaily, feeling young and dapper once again. Molly, the sturdy horse, felt her oats; she almost ran away once, tossing Jo from the shaft into the muddy road.

But Jo only laughed aloud. It was all so absurd and natural.

"The little red cow," Jo said to Donelle that spring, "is old, old. I really do not know that it's wise to keep her longer. She eats her head off."

"But you are going to keep her, Mamsey, aren't you? You just couldn't send her away? Think of all her pretty calves, and she has been so faithful."

Suddenly Mam'selle recalled the night before Donelle came: when she and Nick had bided with the little red cow.

"Of course," she blurted out, "I am going to keep her. I was only supposing."

"Oh! Mamsey, you are such fun, and you never hide any more. You're really getting to be handsome. Do you know Mr. Alton, Mr. Richard Alton, says he'd like to paint you as 'The Woman With the Hoe.' He says you'd show the man--I don't know who he means--what a hoe can do for the right sort."

"Well, Mr. Richard Alton isn't going to mess me up in his paints. It's an awful waste of time for a full-grown man to make pictures all day. I wonder when he's going home?"

"I wonder?" whispered Donelle.

"We'll never have another boarder like him, child."

"Oh! never, Mamsey."

"I wish he'd stay through the summer. I'd like to fling him in the teeth of Marcel's boarders."

"Oh! Mamsey."

"The Captain says he's all ready for folks now; he's opened sooner because Father Mantelle prophesies an early summer."

Then one night, after everyone was in bed, the _River Queen_ sneaked up to the wharf--there is no other word for her action--and a lone figure, with several bags and a trunk, was deposited.

Jean Duval, who had swung out the lantern from the pole, took charge.

"I'll just take you up to Captain Longville's," he said. "The Captain can manage."

The following morning Donelle found, upon going to the living room, that Alton had departed at daybreak.

"He wanted to see the sunrise on the river," Jo explained; "he took lunch enough to feed a dozen; fried chicken and doughnuts and pickles. He's the biggest pickle eater I ever saw," Jo laughed. Then added: "Donelle, I'm going to the village to-day with my linens. The man in the shop over there has offered a tidy sum for them. I don't think I can get back to-night. Molly acts like a colt, but her staying powers are nothing to boast of. You better go to Marcel----"

"But I hate to, Mamsey."

"Child, I'd rest easier----"

"Then I'll go, Mamsey. I'd even go to that dirty old Pierre's or to the Kelly's if you would rest easier, Mamsey. Isn't life just like a book?"

"It is!" murmured Jo with conviction. "It certainly is wonderfully like a book."

After Jo had gone and Donelle had put the little house in order she closed the door and windows and whistled to Nick.

"Come on, you old dear," she said, "and how thankful I am you can't talk, Nick. You can look and thump your tail all you want to; no one understands that. Nick, when _he_ gets back, he'll be tired. We'll be there to meet him. Come on, Nick!"

The sun was warm and bright, it filtered through the trees and reached the brave spring flowers showing in the moss and the rich, black earth.

"Don't step on the flowers, Nick. Where are your manners?" Donelle gave a laugh and Nick made wide circles. And so they came to the wood-cabin and went inside. Donelle left the door open for she meant to make a rousing fire, and the day was too fine to be shut out. Nick pattered around the room for a few moments and then curled up in the window seat.

"There, now," said Donelle at last, "I think everything is right and cosey, I can finish that book."

So she took the story she and Norval had been reading and, buried in the deep chair, with her back to the door, she was soon absorbed.

She heard a step outside, smiled, and made believe she was asleep.

Someone entered, saw her, and quickly drew conclusions; bitter, cruel conclusions, but conclusions that drove an almost defeated sense of duty to the fore.

"Good morning. Is this Mr. Norval's--" there was a pause--"studio?"

Donelle sprang up as if she had been shot. A thin, desperately sick-looking woman in rich velvet and furs confronted her. The incongruous garments, the strangely haunting name, made Donelle stare.

"Is this Mr. Norval's--studio? I asked." The thin, sharp voice seemed to awaken Donelle at last.

"No," she replied, "this cabin is where Mr. Richard Alton paints his pictures."

"Indeed! He's changed his name, I see. I--" and now the stranger came in and closed the door after her, closed it with an air of proprietorship--"I am Mrs. James Norval," she said, sitting down. "And you, I suppose, are--let me see if I can recall your name, it is rather an odd one. Now I have it, Donelle Morey. That's right, isn't it?"

"Yes." Donelle stood staring. She was not quite sure that she was awake, but--yes, there was Nick snoring on the window seat and the lovely river picture was on the easel. Besides, like a stab, the name she had just heard became vividly familiar, it belonged to the Walled House.

"Yes, I'm Donelle Morey," she managed to say faintly.

"I know all about you. Mrs. Lindsay was my friend. I thought Mr. Law was going to look after you. Has he been up here, Mr. Anderson Law?"

Katherine Norval was glancing about the room, her keen eyes taking in the pictures. How splendid they were!

"No, Mr. Law has never been here."

Donelle was groping, groping among other familiar names in this suddenly quickened moment.

"I suppose he sent Mr. Norval?"

A righteous anger seized upon Katherine Norval; she felt she understood. Anderson Law had urged her husband to act for him. Norval had come, disguised, and had taken his own method of solving matters. He was making "cause" for his divorce undoubtedly, while at the same time he was deluding an innocent and trusting girl.

A stern sense of duty arose in her. "I will save the girl as far as I can," she thought, "but what a dastardly thing!"

"My dear," she said, "I do wish you would sit down. You make me feel quite uncomfortable." Katherine meant to disregard, before Norval's victim, what she really believed.

Donelle groped toward a chair and sat down.

"I quite understand your surprise," said Katherine. "You have known my husband as--as Richard Alton. You see, Mr. Law was going abroad; he was to have carried out Mrs. Lindsay's wishes for you, but he sent my husband instead. I suppose Mr. Norval wanted to know you well before he disclosed his errand."

Donelle was experiencing the same sensation she had felt when Pierre Gavot, upon the lonely road, had spoken the terrible word years and years before!

"I see I have surprised you, child?"

Katherine Norval was growing restive under the look in the wide, glowing eyes fixed upon her. "It is always a bit of a shock to find that someone has--played with you. But I'm sure my husband meant no harm, at first; and then he would not know how to get out of his scrape. That would be like him, too." A laugh followed the words, a hard, thin, but sweet laugh.

Still Donelle sat looking straight before her and keeping that awful silence which was becoming irritating.

"Perhaps you do not believe me," Katherine said rather desperately and with a distinct sense of the absurdity of her position. "See here!"

Taking a locket from her bosom she opened it and held it before Donelle's staring eyes.

"These are my husband and baby!"

The picture of Norval was perfect; the child, young and lovely, seemed to be smiling trustfully at him.

"It's a pretty baby," Donelle said, and her voice seemed to come from a long distance. Then she got up quickly.

"Where are you going?" asked Katherine Norval.

"I--I don't---- Oh! yes, I'm going to Tom Gavot's."

"Don't you think you better wait here with me until--until Mr. Norval returns? He will speak openly to you then and explain everything."

"No, oh, no, I couldn't!"

A great fear rose in Donelle's eyes.

"My dear, I am very sorry for you!" And Katherine spoke the truth. She was sorry, deeply so, but she was more shocked and indignant than she had ever been in her life before. It was to Norval's credit that she did not believe the worst of him. She concluded that stupidity, rather than viciousness, had led him on to deceive this simple girl without realizing what the actual result would be.

"And so you will not wait with me?" She watched Donelle cross the room. "I am so sorry, child. I wish now that I had come before."

"Good-bye!" Donelle gave her a long, sad look. Then she whistled to Nick and went out, closing the cabin door behind her as one does who leaves a chamber of death.

She walked along slowly, feeling nothing keenly, but noticing with a queer sort of concentration the flickering shadows; there were clouds coming up, it was growing darker. She was glad that she had closed the little house before leaving. If there were a storm all would be safe. Presently she came to Tom Gavot's hut and went in, thankful that it was empty, though she knew Tom would soon be coming.

She made a fire, brushed the hearth, and sat down upon the floor, trying hard to think--think! But she could not get very far. Round and round the one fact her thoughts whirled. The man she loved, the man she had trusted, had wronged her in the deadliest way. He had killed something in her, something that had made her happy and good. She did not want to remember anything now; she wanted to put herself beyond the reach of the look Norval had once given her, and of his later words--words which had made her trust him. Donelle grasped at the thought of St. Michael's with a yearning that hurt her. If little Sister Mary were there, she would understand. Donelle was sure the lost look in Sister Mary's eyes would make her understand. But St. Michael's was a long way off, and Donelle meant to place herself out of reach of more hurt before Norval could see her. Pride, love, shame, and then--desperation swept over the girl. Everything had failed her, everything, and all because her father had left her mother! That was why people dared to--to play with her.

And just then Tom Gavot came in, shaking the wet of a sudden shower from his fuzzy coat.

"Well!" he cried, looking at Donelle with startled eyes; "what's the matter?"

"Tom, I wonder if you would do--something for me? It's a big thing, and you'd just have to trust me more than any man ever trusted a girl before." A feverish colour flamed in Donelle's cheeks.

The light flickered in Gavot's eyes, his lips twitched as he looked at her.

"I guess you know there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, Donelle," he said, coming close and standing over her protectingly.

"It--it isn't fair to you, Tom, but I'll live my whole life making it up to you. And you know I can keep my word."

"What is it, Donelle?"

"Tom, I want you to--to marry me. Marry me, now, this very afternoon!"

"My God!" murmured Tom and sat down, leaning forward over his clasped hands.

"It's this way," Donelle went on slowly, as if afraid she might not make herself clear and yet fearing more that she might wrong another in her determination to reach safety. "It is Mr. Richard Alton. He--he isn't Mr. Alton at all, he's Mr. Norval. Mrs. Lindsay used to talk about him, and he came here to--to get to know me without my knowing him. And then--something happened!"

"What?" The word issued from Tom's lips like a snarl.

"We loved each other very much, Tom. We couldn't help it, but you see I am the kind of girl that makes it seem as if it did not matter very much, I guess. I am sure he didn't mean to hurt me; it just happened, and neither of us could help it, Tom."

"God! I'll kill him."

"Oh! no, Tom, you will not, you shall not hurt him. You will just help me, and then he'll think, I--I--did not care very much, that I was playing, just as he was. I want him to think that, more than anything else, for then everything will be easy. He must not think I care!"

"Did he tell you that he would marry you?" asked Tom with a terrible understanding in his eyes.

"Well, not exactly," Donelle tried to be very just, very true, "it was the big love, you know, and I just thought of being always with him."

"Why have you stopped thinking so?"

"Well, Tom, I will tell you. I was up in his cabin, waiting for him this morning, and his wife came. I know about her, too. When I heard her name I knew everything. And she told me many things and she showed me their baby's picture. It is such a pretty baby--oh! Tom."

The misery on Donelle's face roused in Gavot a cruel hate.

"Blast his soul!" he cried, then took Donelle's face in his cold hands and looked deep into her eyes. His soul revolted at the question he was about to put, it was like giving poison to a child: "Donelle, tell me before God, has he done to you what--what your father did to Mam'selle Jo?"

For an instant Donelle repeated the words in her inner consciousness until the meaning was quite plain. Her lovely eyes never faltered, but suddenly a new knowledge rose in them.

"No," she whispered, "no, Tom, not that. It was only--the love."

"Thank God, then, I've got you in time."

"Yes, in time, Tom. That's what I meant. He would never hurt me that way, Tom--never! But I do not want him to know that he could hurt me at all! Don't you see, Tom, if he thought that I was caring for you all the time and just playing with him, it----"

The quivering face writhed in Tom's hands.

"Oh! Tom, I know it is wicked for me to ask you to do this for me, but all my life long I will repay you!"

The man looked down at the girl, who was pleading with him to take that for which his soul hungered--at any price! Full well he knew that she would keep her bargain, poor little hurt thing. And he could slave and work for her--he could shield her from harm and make her safer than she could be in any other way. The devil tempted him, and for the moment, claimed him.

"Yes, by God!" he cried. "I will take you to Father Mantelle's now! We'll make our future beyond the reach of that infernal scoundrel, Norval, or whatever his name is!"

"Tom, never any more must we talk about him. We must just begin from now--you and I. All these years Mamsey has let people think well--of my father. I think I am a little like Mamsey, Tom, and from now on, it is just you and I. You must promise or I could not marry you."

"Come on, Donelle! See, it is raining, you must wear this heavy coat, it will quite cover you. Come!"

Tom had appropriated her, taken command. His face was almost terrible in its set purpose.

She followed him mutely, obediently, as any little hill woman might have done. Her face was ghastly, but she did not tremble. Side by side they made their way to Father Mantelle's; the rain poured upon them, their steps sloughed in the soft earth, and behind them trudged Nick, looking old and forsaken!

Father Mantelle did his duty--as he saw it. He made sure that Tom fully understood what he was undertaking; he made sure that Donelle was wiser than he had believed her. He winced as she confessed that her love for Mam'selle Morey had, after full comprehension of their relation, brought her back and kept her silent. She had known about herself all along.

"And that's why," Tom put in, "that we insist upon silence now. I'm going to run things hereafter."

And so Father Mantelle married them and put the blessing of the Church upon them.

It was quite dark when they left the priest's house; dark and still storming in the quiet, persistent way that spring knows.

"Was Mam'selle going to leave you in the house with--with that man to-night?" Tom asked suddenly.

"No--I was going to Marcel's. But, Tom, I must go and feed the animals." Almost Donelle had forgotten the helpless creatures. She was terribly afraid that she might encounter the man she most dreaded in the world, for he was quite one of the family and often made his own meal when Jo and Donelle were away. But if he had gone to the wood-cabin first, she argued, he would not come to the little white house. Of that she felt sure!

So she and Tom fed the animals and made them safe for the night. In doing the homely, familiar tasks Donelle felt a certain peace, but she had not yet recovered from her terrible shock; she was spiritually numb.

"Come, now!" Tom said at last. "We must get back to the hut, you're wet to the skin and I haven't eaten since morning."

"Tom!" Donelle was aghast; and then she remembered that she, too, had fasted since breakfast.

So, silently, stolidly they went down the Right of Way to the river-hut. The fire was still burning on the hearth, the room was hot and still.

"Come in, Nick!" called Tom to the dog who had kept close to them; "come in!"

Wet and bedraggled Nick slouched in and, eyeing Donelle as if she were a stranger, passed to the far side of the room and lay down, his head upon his paws, his eyes alert.

Tom brought out food and they all ate, Nick condescending to come nearer.

The heat, the weariness and suffering of the day, began to tell upon Donelle and presently a terror seized her--a terror she had never known in her life before. She looked at Tom with wide eyes, her face became livid.

The rain outside beat against the window and pattered on the roof.

The devil that had tempted Tom earlier was taking control of the situation. His face was tense, his eyes burning. He was thinking, thinking, and his thoughts scorched. He was thinking of women, women, his mother, Mam'selle Morey--even that unknown woman, the wife of the man who had all but ruined Donelle. Then he thought of Donelle herself, but he dared not look at the pale little thing by the fire. She was his! She had done him a great injustice, it was only fair that he should hold her to her bargain. She had only thought of herself, how to save herself, she ought to pay for that.

Pay--pay--pay! The word was hateful and ugly. Again Tom thought of his mother, and her face rose sharply before him.

Then the finest thing that Tom ever did in his life he did at that moment.

In the still, hot room, with eyes at last resting upon Donelle's bowed head, he vowed to his God that _she_ should not pay, not if it cost him all that life held dear! If the time ever came when she could give--Tom breathed hard. Then he spoke.

"Donelle," his voice was deep and solemn, "you're tired, done almost to death, but you're safe--safer than you know. I want you to go to that bed"--Gavot pointed to his cot in the far corner by the side of which Nick lay curled--"and you are to sleep. I'm going to pile the fire high, and----"

"Tom, let me go to Marcel's just for to-night, please, Tom!"

The agony in Donelle's eyes made Gavot shudder.

"I guess I'd rather have my wife stay here," he said. Then added, "You must do what I say, Donelle. I've done my part, you've got to do yours."

"I will, Tom. I will."

Gropingly she walked across the room, while Tom piled wood on the fire. In the dark shadows she waited. Then Tom rose up, took his heavy coat, his fur cap, and went toward the door.

"Good-night," he said. It was like a groan. "Good-night, and you're safe, Donelle, so help me God! After I am gone, draw the bar across the door."

Then Donelle was alone with Nick. She stood and looked blankly after Tom. Then she tiptoed across the room, took the bar in her hand, paused, lifted it, and--let it fall! Proudly she went back, her eyes were aflame, her heart beat until it hurt. She lay down upon the wide cot, drew over her the heavy blankets Mam'selle had donated for Tom's comfort, and fear left her.

"Nick," she whispered, "Nick, come here!"

The dog came close, licked the hand reaching out to him in the darkness, then lay down close to the bed.

For an hour Donelle listened, waited, then she began to suffer. But she made no moan and always no matter how she thrashed the matter over, she saw St. Michael's-on-the-Rocks. It seemed like home after a hard journey; her home, the place where she belonged. The only place to which she had a right to go.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*TOM GAVOT SETTLES THE MATTER*

The rain had detained Norval. He had watched the sunrise on the river and he had caught as much of it as his soul could take in. He had eaten a hasty lunch at noon and then became absorbed by the beauty of the gray mists that were rising, where, but a little time before, the glory had controlled everything. He painted until mid-afternoon, then a raindrop caused him to glance up.

"Hello!" he said, and scrambled for his belongings. In a few minutes he was on his way back, but to protect his sketches, he had to pause every now and then, when the downpour was heaviest.

He had meant to go right to Jo's and get dry clothing, but by skirting the road he could reach the cabin _en route_, leave his paints and canvases, and the rest did not matter. It was after five when he came in sight of his cabin.