Part 15

"By all that's holy," he said, and laughed, "that little rascal is there, she's made a fire. Of course this is all wrong, she mustn't---- But to think she has no fear!" Somehow this elated Norval considerably. He hastened on, meaning to get Donelle and start out at once for Mam'selle's, as it was growing very dark.

He opened the door with an amused smile on his face, then he fell back.

"My God! Katherine," he said, "what does this mean?"

"I think, Jim, you better come in and close the door. I cannot go out in this rain and we can have our talk here." Katherine spoke as if her presence there was the most natural thing in the world; her voice was hard and even. She knew her duty; she had even acknowledged, during the hours she had sat alone after Donelle went, that part of the blame for all this confusion rested upon her. She had fallen short in her estimate of her original duty to Norval. She had deserted him, not without some cause to be sure, but no matter what his selfishness and indifference had been in the past they had not made it right for a wife to forsake the sacred tie that bound her.

After Donelle had left the hut Katherine went over and over the matter from the day when with her "Awakened Soul" in her hands she had demanded a freedom that it was in no man's power to bestow. It had taken her a long time to learn her lesson, but once having learned it, having come back, her path of duty was, to her, quite plain. She gave not a moment's thought to the shock her sudden appearance would give Norval; she was rallying from the effects of the shock that Donelle had given her. She must make sure, of course, but the more she considered, the more confident she became that no real harm had been done. She had come in time.

Self-centred, incapable of wide visions, Katherine Norval had leaped over non-essentials and had arrived at safe conclusions. But her husband was unnerving her; he made her feel as that white slip of a girl had and she resented it.

Norval was deliberately taking off his wet coat. Having done this he put on an old velvet jacket, came to the fire, leaned his arm on the mantel-shelf and looked down upon his wife. That she was still his wife he had to confess, though she seemed the merest stranger.

"I don't suppose there is a chance that I am dreaming?" he said grimly in an effort to relieve a situation that was becoming hideously awkward. "You don't happen to be an optical illusion, do you?"

"I'm quite myself, Jim. Is it such an unusual thing for a wife to come and see her husband, especially when she has much--much business to discuss? And your work----" Katherine was struggling with the growing impression that she was bungling something, though absurdly enough she did not quite know what. "You've worked to some purpose, Jim."

Norval ignored her reference to his work.

"It's a bit queer to have my especial kind of wife here," he said. "You see, Katherine, I had every reason to believe that you desired to eliminate me; I'd taken every step possible to assist you. I simply cannot account for you, that's all."

Norval noted her pallor and thinness, then he remembered that she had been ill.

"Jim," she said suddenly, her sharp little chin raised, her cold, clear eyes searching his, "before we go any further I must ask you a question: This girl, this Donelle Morey, what is she to you? What are you to her?"

"What right have you to ask that?" Norval grew rigid. "How did you manage to get here? How did you know I was here, anyway, Katherine?"

"You sent a letter once with the postmark on it. Then I remembered! For awhile, I did not care. Then things became different. Jim, I must know, I have a right to know, has this girl any claim upon you? I could make nothing of her, I----"

"Good God! Have you seen her?" Norval sprang a step forward. "Have you talked to her?"

"Why do you glare at me so, Jim? Of course I have seen her, talked to her. I came last night. I am staying at a house down the road. I heard that a painter by the name of Alton lived with Mam'selle Jo Morey, made pictures in a cabin in the woods; I put things together. I went to Mam'selle Morey's, found the house empty. I came here and found the--the young girl quite at home, apparently waiting for you."

The cold voice was calm and deadly distinct, the eyes were indignant--but just.

"And then you talked!" There was a sneer in Norval's voice. "I suppose you felt it your duty to talk? What did you talk about, Katherine?"

Norval was in a dangerous mood, but his wife had never been afraid of him and she knew no fear now. Besides, she had the whip hand. He knew it; she knew it!

"I told her your name, for one thing. I do not question your conscience, Jim. I leave that to you."

"Thank you, and what next did you tell her?"

"I told her the truth. Are you afraid of the truth? Are you afraid of the truth, Jim? You were flying under false colours, were you not?"

"Yes."

"I told her Anderson Law sent you; he did, did he not, Jim?"

"He asked me to come, yes."

"And you think you have fulfilled your duty to Anderson Law? You think he would approve?"

Norval winced.

"I ask you again, Jim, has this girl any hold on you?"

"If you mean the vile thing I fear you mean, no! As God hears me, no!" Norval spoke in a still fury. "If you mean has she the highest claim a woman can have on a man, yes. Katherine, it may be best for us to get this over as soon as possible. If I seem brutal, you'll have to forgive me. I'm pretty far gone in my capacity of self-control. I dare say you've spoken nothing but the truth to the girl you found here. I make no excuse for her or myself. Think what you please, patch it up anyway you can. Whatever wrong has been committed is mine, not hers. She never knew of your existence until you informed her. She is as simple as a child, as wonderful as a woman can be before the world has spoiled her. I love her and she loves me. I meant to tell her everything when I was free; she could not understand before. My only desire is to--to marry her and know the first pure joy of my life. But I suppose your plain, damnable truth has killed her. If it has, I swear----"

"It has not killed her, Jim." And there was a glint in Katherine's steely eyes. "She said she was going to a Tom Gavot, whoever he may be. And, Jim, doesn't it sound a bit, well, peculiar, for you to speak as you have just spoken to--to your wife? For, after all, I still am your wife."

"But that tie will soon be broken. Why did you come here; why, in heaven's name?"

An impotent fear held Norval. Katherine was there, and Donelle had gone to Tom Gavot! That was about all he could take in. Suddenly Katherine Norval's face softened, her head dropped, she looked terribly ill and haggard.

"Please, Jim," she pleaded, "sit down, I must tell you something I came here to tell you, and I'm not very strong."

Norval sat down, still repeating in his clogged thoughts:

"Donelle has gone to Tom Gavot."

"I suppose," Katherine's words ran along, at times sinking into Norval's confused brain, "I suppose I had to pass through a certain phase of life, as many do. I had been so sheltered, so, well suppressed by my training and experience. Then, when I believed I could write, I felt I could not resist the thing that rose up in me. I almost hated you because you seemed to stand between me and my--my rights. Then for a time I was bewildered by my success, and when he, the man I told you about, came into my life, I was driven astray! He seemed to see only me, my life. He subjugated everything to my wishes. He was getting for me what I did not know how to get for myself; recognition and--and a great deal of money. Jim, I, who had never earned a penny! It was wonderful! Then, I was taken ill and he wanted me to get my divorce and marry him at once. I tried to, I really felt it was right, I wanted to, but as soon as I saw him in the light of a husband, Jim, a dreadful revulsion came. I kept seeing you, in him. I wonder if you can understand? When he came to my room I saw you and when I saw him I was afraid. It seemed so fearfully wrong.

"I was sent away into the hills where it was cold. I had had pneumonia and the doctors thought I should have the mountain treatment. I would not let him come, Jim. I went alone, and I was so lonely; so miserable----" Katherine was weeping desolately and sopping the tears up with her delicate handkerchief.

"Often I longed to die and be put under the snow, where it would be warmer and I could forget. And then I began to think of you, Jim, as I never had before. I saw you always patient with my moods, always kind. I saw you so humble about your great talent, trying so hard to hide it and live down to me! Yes, Jim, down to me. And then I hated myself and the silly ideas I had had. I was afraid to die until I told you. I was afraid to go to our--our baby, until you understood. And so I came back, Jim, and I found that girl--here. Oh! Jim, I may have only a little while to stay, please go with me for the rest of the way!"

Katherine stretched out her thin hands.

But Norval did not move. He stood looking at the woman before him with compassionate eyes, but his soul saw Donelle. Alone in the midst of all this trouble stood Donelle who had done no wrong, who had come into her great love with trust and purity. Must she be the sacrifice? She, for whom he hungered and thirsted with the best that was in him?

And yet, if he defended Donelle's claim, could he hope to make Katherine, make any one, believe that he was not seeking his own ends first, Donelle's afterward? The easiest thing to do may often be the bravest, and after a moment Norval made his choice.

"Katherine," he said, "this is heart-breaking, incomprehensible. Things have gone too far for us to retrace our steps as simply as you think. You must try to believe that I do not want to hurt you, but I fear I must. You and I were never fitted for each other, though I did not realize it until you took your stand. Your decision knocked life all out of gear for me and I wandered about like a lost soul. I came here to see this young girl for Andy Law's sake and with no other intention than doing him a good turn and learning all I could. I grew to love Donelle Morey and learned to know what love was for the first time in my life. Oh! I know what you, what our world would say; she's not your kind, their kind. But before God, she's my kind! I cannot set her aside. I did not oppose your wishes, Katherine, even before I saw this girl. I felt I had no right to stand in your way. Have you a right to stand in mine, now? Is there no justice in my case? Katherine, you think only of yourself. You are a selfish woman!"

Dumbly Katherine looked at Norval. She was capable of drawing only one conclusion--he was a man! He felt no duty, no sacred relationship. She was ill, desperate; he wanted to be free and seek love where youth, health, and fascination were. She felt she understood and she must save him from himself.

"Jim, think of our child!" She thought she was putting herself aside, she resented the thing Norval had called her.

"I do think of him, Katherine. I have never forgotten him. I was glad he was dead when, when you went away."

"But, Jim, has the past no hold upon you? No claims?"

"Yes, and because it has, I dare not make any further mistakes. Listen, Katherine, I am going to tell this--this young girl, Donelle, the whole ugly, confused thing. I'm going to lay my soul, yours, too, if I can, open before her and she shall decide. She, young as she is, has a spirit that can face this tremendous situation, and she has a mighty love that can save us all. May I take you to your boarding-place, Katherine, or will you wait here? I must go to Donelle."

"Jim, Jim, what are you thinking of? Dare you burden this child with this hideous decision?"

"Yes." Norval strode toward the door.

Katherine wept afresh. "I will wait here. I'm tired and I cannot endure the long walk in this storm."

And then Norval was gone out into the night, closing the door behind him with a sound so final that the woman by the hearth moaned.

Crashing through the thicket Norval went to Gavot's cabin only to find it empty. But the fire burned freshly upon the hearth.

"She's been here and made his place ready for him," thought Norval, "and then she went back home."

So up the Right of Way Norval plodded to Mam'selle's house. He went into the living room and lighted the lamp. There on the table lay one of Jo's queer notes of instruction.

"I can't get back to-night. There's chicken and stuff in the pantry. Donelle's staying with Marcel Longville."

Norval smiled at the note and clutched it close. How trustingly it had been left. And Donelle was safe with the Longville's. There was a gleam of comfort in the blackness.

Norval walked to the kitchen and took two glasses of milk. He then went upstairs, changed his wet clothes, came down, extinguished the light and, with cap drawn over his face, hands plunged in his heavy coat pockets, set forth in the drizzle on the three-mile walk to Longville's. Before he reached the house he paused. What had his wife told them? Did he dare present himself? He stood still on the road to consider. Just then Marcel came to the door, candle in hand, and spoke to the Captain, who was behind her in the room.

"It's queer that that Mrs. Norval don't come back, Captain. I wonder if she's lost. I wonder if we oughtn't to set out and look her up?"

"Like as not she's found Mam'selle and Donelle more to her taste. You told her how to reach them, didn't you? She's safe enough. Her kind hates water as a cat does, she's under shelter. Mam'selle will look after her, try to keep her like as not, now that she's out for business."

"It's early for the boarding season, anyway," murmured Marcel, going within, "too early by far."

"I must go back to Gavot's!" thought Norval, and turned wearily to retrace his way over the wet, slimy road.

It was nearly nine when he reached Tom's place and he was just in time to see Gavot come out of the house with bowed head and stumbling step. He went close and spoke before Tom realized that any one was near.

"Gavot, in heaven's name, have you seen Donelle Morey?"

Tom reeled back against a tree.

"You dare come here?" he growled under his breath. "Damn you!"

"Hold on, Gavot, you're too big a fellow to judge a man unheard. I know things are black against me; I'm going to try to explain. It's your due and I can trust your common sense. Can we go inside and have it out?"

"No, I want none like you to enter my house."

"Then you shall hear what I have to say here." Norval drew nearer.

"Not so fast, you!" Tom warned him off. "Answer me a few questions first, no talk, just plain answers. Then we'll argue about the rest, I'm thinking. Is your name what you've held it to be, Richard Alton?"

"No, Gavot----"

"Are you a married man?"

"Gavot, in God's name, let me----"

"Answer me, or I swear I'll try to kill you."

"Don't be an ass, Gavot."

"Have you a wife?"

"Yes, but----"

"And you made a girl love you, with all this in your soul? Well, she came to me, curse you, before--before much harm was done. When she heard what she heard this morning, her eyes were opened and she came where she rightfully belonged. Donelle came to me! She told me, and we were married an hour ago. I've always wanted her, she knew that, and when she knew about you, she came to her senses."

"You lie!" Norval made a movement toward Gavot, but Tom stayed him.

"If you touch me," he said threateningly, "I'll do my best to end you. Go to Father Mantelle, if you doubt my word. But first, look here; look through the window you spied through once before."

Like thieves the two men went to the side of the house. Just then, in the fireplace a large log fell, the sparks lighting up the room inside. In the glow Norval saw Donelle curled up on the bed, her hand on the head of faithful Nick. A deep moan escaped him, he turned to Gavot like a stricken man.

"By all you hold holy," he whispered, "deal with her as you hope for God's mercy. She was driven to you when she was beside herself. I cannot help her, but it lies in your power, Gavot, to keep her out of hell."

"I know what to do with my own, you! See to it that you do the same." Tom glared at Norval.

Then Norval turned and went back to the wood-cabin. His face had grown old and stern, his eyes hard. Katherine was awake; she was still crying.

"Jim--what--what--is it to be?"

"I'm going the rest of the way with you, Katherine. And as you value the future, let us bury everything here. To-morrow, we must take the boat back to New York."

Early the next morning Norval, he and Katherine having passed as comfortable a night as possible in the cabin, went to Mam'selle Jo's and hastily packed most of his clothing. He sent a boy to Longville's for Katherine's luggage, giving them no explanations, left a brief note for Jo, and--drifted from Point of Pines.

Mam'selle returned from her business trip late in the afternoon. Marcel stopped her as she passed.

"I think you'll find company at your house," she said, quite excitedly for her. "A boarder came here day before yesterday; she walked down to Point of Pines the next morning. She knows your boarder. The storm must have kept her. I daresay Donelle made her comfortable."

"Donelle?" Jo stared. "Wasn't Donelle with you last night, Marcel?"

"No."

Jo waited to hear no more. She laid the whip on Molly's surprised back and bent over the reins.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*THE CONFESSION*

Jo was not one to take any step hurriedly. Though her heart broke, she was cautious. Upon entering her quiet house she found a note from Alton. It merely said that Donelle would explain. Going to the room above, Jo saw that a hurried but orderly departure had evidently been made.

"He hasn't messed much," she muttered vaguely, while a great fear rose in her heart, she knew not why.

"Well, there's nothing to do but wait for Donelle," she concluded, and began the waiting.

She went to the stable and sheds. The animals had evidently been fed the night before, so Jo milked the cow, did the chores, and whistled aimlessly for Nick. She was comforted by his absence, he was with Donelle. But where was Donelle? The sun was setting, what should be done?

Jo decided to wait until the sun had gone wholly down before she took any steps. She was not one to set tongues wagging.

It was nearing sundown when Marcel Longville, standing by her kitchen window, saw Donelle coming toward the house. The Captain was at Dan's Place. Donelle walked slowly, and when she saw Marcel, smiled wanly and opened the door.

"Marcel," she began, and her voice was tired and thin, "I want you to do something for me. I want you to--to tell a lie for me."

"Why, child, what's the matter?"

"Marcel, Mamsey thought I was here last night. Will you please tell her I was?"

Marcel's hands were in biscuit dough; she leaned forward heavily, and the soft, light mass rose half-way up her arms.

"Lord! child, where were you last night? I thought you were keeping my boarder as well as your own. Mam'selle just stopped here; she looked queer enough when she found you were not here. There's no use of the lie, child. She knows."

For a moment Donelle looked as though nothing mattered, as if the earth had slipped from beneath her feet.

From Gavot's window she had seen the _River Queen_ depart with its two passengers from Point of Pines. Tom had not been visible since daybreak, the world had drifted away. Alone, in space, Donelle waited, looking dumbly at Marcel.

"Where were you, child?"

"I was at Tom's cabin. I'm married to him. Father Mantelle married us."

Marcel raised herself, the dough clinging to her hands. She shook it off, tore it off, went to a bucket of water and soaked it off, then sank into a chair.

"I'm fainting," she announced in a businesslike tone, and seemed, for an instant, to have lost consciousness.

This brought Donelle to her senses, she sprang to Marcel and put her arm around the limp form.

"It's quite true," she faltered, "but of course you could not know. All my life has happened to me since yesterday morning. I've got used to it, but I forgot you did not know. Nothing is any use now, nothing need be hidden. I am going back to Mamsey and tell her everything--everything."

Marcel was reviving. She still lay on the young, protecting arm, her eyes fastened on the white, sad face above her.

"You better go slow, Donelle, when you tell Mam'selle. You don't want to stop her heart," she cautioned.

"No, I do not want to stop her heart. But I'm going to tell her everything, beginning from the time I came back from the Walled House, after Pierre Gavot told me--who I was! I can tell her now because it does not matter; nothing matters since I'm married to Tom Gavot."

"It will kill her, Donelle! Mam'selle brought you from the place where she hid you. She's had high hopes for you. It will kill her to know you're married to Tom. Whatever made this happen?"

"Why, whatever makes such things happen to any one?" Donelle sighed. Then: "If you are better, I'm going now to Mamsey."

"And I'm going with you!"

Marcel sprang to her feet.

"Come, I'm ready," she said, wrapping her rough shawl about her head and shoulders.

And together they went to Jo, followed by poor Nick.

They found Jo sitting in the living room, knitting, knitting. Every nerve was strained, but outwardly she was calm as ever.

"Well, child," she said as they entered, "you look worn to the death. You need not talk now unless you want to." She rose and went to Donelle.

"I want to, Mamsey. I want to."

"And you want Marcel to stay?" Jo spoke only to the girl. No one entered the sacred precincts of her deepest love when Donelle needed her.

"Yes, I want her, too, Mamsey, because she is your friend and mine."

Marcel blinked her tears back and sat down. Jo went back to her chair and Donelle dropped beside her and quietly told her pitiful story; both women sat like dead figures while they listened.

"You see, Mamsey, there was no other way, I had to do something quick. But," and here she smiled dimly, "there must have been some reason for what happened. Maybe the love was so big it caught him and would not let him go. I do not know, but just as you have kept still about my father after he left you, so I am going to keep still about my man. Tom knows, you, and now Marcel Longville, know. No one else matters, shall ever matter!"

But Jo was rousing herself. Her deep eyes flamed, she forgot Marcel, she leaned over the girl at her feet.

"How did you know your father left me?" she whispered.

"Pierre Gavot told me!"

"When?"

Donelle described the scene on the road by the Walled House, but she withheld the ugly word.

"And you came back because of that? You believed I was----"

"I knew you were my mother, and I could not hurt you as my father had. You had never hurt him. I had to do his part. But now, Mamsey, I am glad, oh! so glad, for now I understand everything that life meant for me. I'm safe here with you and Tom and I mean to--pay--pay. You know I always said I would pay, if I were part of life, and I will!"

Jo got up unsteadily. She seemed tall and menacing, her breath came hard and quick.

"Whose step is that outside?" she asked suddenly. The two had not noticed, but to Jo's "Come" Father Mantelle entered. He meant to make sure that all was well; he had seen Mam'selle return and had come as soon as he could.

"Father," Jo said solemnly, "take a seat. I am going to confess! Once you would not give me an opportunity, now I am going to take it."

Her trembling hand lay upon Donelle's head. The girl did not move.