Chapter 17

He came back and sat awhile, his head leaning heavily upon his propped hands.

He opened a drawer of his desk and looked at a smooth, glinting black and steel thing that lay there. Then he shut the drawer with a bang that went out to the Bishop listening in the outer office. It was a sinister, suggestive noise, and for an instant it chilled that good man's heart. But his ears were sharp and true and he knew immediately that he had been mistaken.

Stanton pulled out another drawer, unlocked a smaller compartment within it, and from the latter took a small gold-framed picture. He set it up on the desk between his hands and looked long at it, questioning the face in the frame with a tender, diffident expression of a wonder that never ceased, of a longing never to be stilled.

The face that looked out of the picture was one of a quiet, translucent beauty. At first glance the face had none of the striking features that men associate with great beauty. But behind the eyes there seemed to glow, and to grow gradually, and softly stronger, a light, as though diffused within an alabaster vase, that slowly radiated from the whole countenance an impression of indescribable, gentle loveliness.

Clifford Stanton had often wondered what was that light from within. He wondered now, and questioned. Never before had that light seemed so wonderful and so real. Now there came to him an answer. An answer that shook him, for it was the last answer he would have expected. The light within was truth--truth. It seemed that in a world of sham and illusions and evasions this one woman had understood, had lived with truth.

The man laughed. A low, mirthless, dry laugh that was nearer to a sob.

"Was that it, Lucy?" he queried. "Truth? Then let us have a little truth, for once! I'll tell you some truth!

"I lied a while ago. He did _not_ die a soldier's death. I told the same lie to you long ago. Words. Words. And yet you went to Heaven happy because I lied to you and kept on lying to you. Words. And yet you died a happy woman, because of that lie.

"He lied to you. He took you from me with lies. Words. Lies. And yet they made you happy. Where is truth?

"You lived happy and died happy with a lie. Because I lied like what they call a man and a gentleman. _Truth!_"

He looked searchingly, wonderingly at the face before him. Did he expect to see the light fade out, to see the face wither under the bitter revelation?

"I've been everything," he went on, still trying to make his point, "I've done everything, that men say I've been and done. Why?

"Well--Why?" he asked sharply. "Did it make any difference?

"Hard, grasping, tricky, men call me that to my face--sometimes. Well--Why not? Does it make any difference? Did it make any difference with you? If I had thought it would-- But it didn't. Lies, trickery, words! They served with you. They made you happy. _Truth!_"

But as he looked into the face and the smiling light of truth persisted in it, there came over his soul the dawn of a wonder. And the dawn glowed within him, so that it came to his eyes and looked out wondering at a world remade.

"Is it true, Lucy?" he asked gently. "Can that be _truth_, at last? Is that what you mean? Did you, deep down, somewhere beneath words and beneath thoughts, did you, did you really understand--a little? And do you, somewhere, understand now?

"Then tell me. Was it worth the lies? Down underneath, when you understood, which was the truth? The thing I did--which men would call fine? Or was it the words?

"Is that it? Is that the truth, Lucy? Was it the fine thing that was really the truth, and did you, do you, know it, after all? Is there truth that lives deep down, and did you, who were made of truth, did you somehow understand all the time?"

He sat awhile, wondering, questioning; finally believing. Then he said:

"Lucy, a man out there wants his answer. I will not speak it to him. But I'll say it to you: Yes, I am that same man who once did what they call a fine, brave thing. I didn't do it because it was a great thing, a brave thing. I did it for you.

"And--I'll do this for you."

He looked again at the face in the picture, as if to make sure. Then he locked it away quickly in its place.

He thought for a moment, then drew a pad abruptly to him and began writing. He wrote two telegrams, one to the Governor of the State, the other to the Sheriff of Tupper County. Then he took another pad and wrote a note, this to his personal representative who was following the state troops into the hills.

He rose and walked briskly to the door. Throwing it open he called a clerk and gave him the two telegrams. He held the note in his hand and asked the Bishop back into the office.

Closing the door quickly, he said without preface:

"This note will put my man up there at your service. You will prefer to go up into the hills yourself, I think. The officers in command of the troops will know that you are empowered to act for all parties. The Governor will have seen to that before you get there, I think. There will be no attempt at prosecutions, now or afterwards. You can settle the whole matter in no time.

"We will not buy the land, but we'll give a fair rental, based on what ores we find to take out. You can give _your_ word--mine wouldn't go for much up there, I guess," he put in grimly--"that it will be fair. You can make that the basis of settlement.

"They can go back and rebuild. I will help, where it will do the most good. Our operations won't interfere much with their farm land, I find.

"You will want to start at once. That is all, I guess, Bishop," he concluded abruptly.

The Bishop reached for the smaller man's hand and wrung it with a sudden, unwonted emotion.

"I will not cheapen this, sir," he said evenly, "by attempting to thank you."

"A mere whim of mine, that's all," Stanton cut in almost curtly, the steel-trap expression snapping into place over his face. "A mere whim."

"Well," said the Bishop slowly, looking him squarely in the eyes, "I only came to ask a question, anyhow." Then he turned and walked briskly from the office. He had no right and no wish to know what the other man chose to conceal beneath that curt and incisive manner.

So these two men parted. In words, they had not understood each other. Neither had come near the depths of the other. But then, what man does ever let another man see what is in his heart?

* * * * *

All day long the line of armed men had gone spreading itself wider and wider, to draw itself around the edges of the shorter line of men hidden in the protecting fringe of the hills. All day long clearly and more clearly Jeffrey Whiting had been seeing the inevitable end. His line was already stretched almost to the breaking point. If the enemy had known, there were dangerous gaps in it now through which a few daring men might have pushed and have begun to divide up the strength of the men with him.

All the afternoon as he watched he saw other and yet other groups and troops of men come up the railroad, detrain and push out ever farther upon the enveloping wings to east and west.

Twice during the afternoon the ends of his line had been driven in and almost surrounded. They had decided in the beginning to leave their horses in the rear, and so use them only at the last. But the spreading line in front had become too long to be covered on foot by the few men he had. They were forced to use the speed of the animals to make a show of greater force than they really had. The horses furnished marks that even the soldiers could occasionally hit. All the afternoon long, and far into the night, the screams of terrified, wounded horses rang horribly through the woods above the pattering crackle of the irregular rifle fire. Old men who years before had learned to sleep among such sounds lay down and fell asleep grumbling. Young men and boys who had never heard such sounds turned sick with horror or wandered frightened through the dark, nervously ready to fire on any moving twig or scraping branch.

In the night Jeffrey Whiting went along the line, talking aside to every man; telling them to slip quietly away through the dark. They could make their way out through the loose lines of soldiers and sheriffs' men and get down to the villages where they would be unknown and where nobody would bother with them.

The inevitable few took his word-- There is always the inevitable few. They slipped away one by one, each man telling himself a perfectly good reason for going, several good reasons, in fact; any reason, indeed, but that they were afraid. Most of them were gathered in by the soldier pickets and sent down to jail.

Morning came, a grey, lowering morning with a grim, ugly suggestion in it of the coming winter. Jeffrey Whiting and his men drew wearily out to their posts, munching dryly at the last of the stores which they had taken from the construction depots along the line which they had destroyed. This was the end. It was not far from the mind of each man that this would probably be his last meal.

The firing began again as the outer line came creeping in upon them. They had still the great advantage of the shelter of the woods and the formation of the soldiers, while their marksmanship kept those directly in front of them almost out of range. But there was nothing in sight before them but that they would certainly all be surrounded and shot down or taken.

Suddenly the fire from below ceased. Those who had been watching the most distant of the two wings creeping around them saw these men halt and slowly begin to gather back together. What was it? Were they going to rush at last? Here would be a fight in earnest!

But the soldiers, still keeping their spread formation, merely walked back in their tracks until they were entirely out of range. It must be a ruse of some sort. The hill men stuck to their shelter, puzzled, but determined not to be drawn out.

Jeffrey Whiting, watching near the middle of the line, saw an old man walking, barehead, up over the lines of half-burnt ties and twisted rails. That white head with the high, wide brow, the slightly stooping, spare shoulders, the long, swinging walk-- That was the Bishop of Alden!

Jeffrey Whiting dropped his gun and, yelling to the men on either side to stay where they were, jumped down into the roadbed and ran to meet the Bishop.

"Are any men killed?" the Bishop asked before Jeffrey had time to speak as they met.

"Old Erskine Beasley was shot through the chest--we don't know how bad it is," said Jeffrey, stopping short. "Ten other men are wounded. I don't think any of them are bad."

"Call in your men," said the Bishop briefly. "The soldiers are going back."

At Jeffrey's call the men came running from all sides as he and the Bishop reached the line. Haggard, ragged, powder-grimed they gathered round, staring in dull unbelief at this new appearance of the White Horse Chaplain, for so one and all they knew and remembered him. Men who had seen him years ago at Fort Fisher slipped back into the scene of that day and looked about blankly for the white horse. And young men who had heard that tale many times and had seen and heard of his coming through the fire to French Village stared round-eyed at him. What did this coming mean?

He told them shortly the terms that Clifford W. Stanton, their enemy, was willing to make with them. And in the end he added:

"You have only my word that these things will be done as I say. _I_ believe. If you believe, you will take your horses and get back to your families at once."

Then, in the weakness and reaction of relief, the men for the first time knew what they had been through. Their knees gave under them. They tried to cheer, but could raise only a croaking quaver. Many who had thought never to see loved ones again burst out sobbing and crying over the names of those they were saved to.

The Bishop, taking Jeffrey Whiting with him, walked slowly back down the roadbed. Suddenly Jeffrey remembered something that had gone completely out of his mind in these last hours.

"Bishop," he stammered, "that day--that day in court. I--I said you lied. Now I know you didn't. You told the truth, of course."

"My boy," said the Bishop queerly, "yesterday I asked a man, on his soul, for the truth--the truth. I got no answer.

"But I remembered that Pontius Pilate, in the name of the Emperor of all the World, once asked what was truth. And _he_ got no answer. Once, at least, in our lives we have to learn that there are things bigger than we are. We get no answer."

Jeffrey inquired no more for truth that day.

X

THAT THEY BE NOT AFRAID

It was morning in the hills; morning and Spring and the bud of Promise.

The snow had been gone from the sunny places for three weeks now. He still lingered three feet deep on the crown of Bald Mountain, from which only the hot June sun and the warm rains would drive him. He still held fastnesses on the northerly side of high hills, where the sun could not come at him and only the trickling rain-wash running down the hill could eat him out from underneath. But the sun had chased him away from the open places and had beckoned lovingly to the grass and the germinant life beneath to come boldly forth, for the enemy was gone.

But the grass was timid. And the hardy little wild flowers, the forget-me-nots and the little wild pansies held back fearfully. Even the bold dandelions, the hobble-de-hoys and tom-boys of meadow and hill, peeped out with a wary circumspection that belied their nature. For all of them had been burned to the very roots of the roots. But the sun came warmer, more insistent, and kissed the scarred, brown body of earth and warmed it. Life stirred within. The grass and the little flowers took courage out of their very craving for life and pushed resolutely forth. And, lo! The miracle was accomplished! The world was born again!

Cynthe Cardinal was coming up Beaver Run on her way back to French Village. She had been to put the first flowers of the Spring on the grave of Rafe Gadbeau, where Father Ponfret had blessed the ground for him and they had laid him, there under the sunny side of the Gaunt Rocks that had given him his last breathing space that he might die in peace. They had put him here, for there was no way in that time to carry him to the little cemetery in French Village. And Cynthe was well satisfied that it was so. Here, under the Gaunt Rocks, she would not have to share him with any one. And she would not have to hear people pointing out the grave to each other and to see them staring.

The water tumbling down the Run out of the hills sang a glad, uproarious song, as is the way of all brooks at their beginnings, concerning the necessity of getting down as swiftly as possible to the big, wide life of the sea. The sea would not care at all if that brook never came down to it. But the brook did not know that. Would not have believed it if it had been told.

And Cynthe hummed herself, a sad little song of old Beaupre--which she had never seen, for Cynthe was born here in the hills. Cynthe was sad, beyond doubt; for here was the mating time, and-- But Cynthe was not unhappy. The Good God was still in his Heaven, and still good. Life beckoned. The breath of air was sweet. There was work in the world to do. And--when all was said and done--Rafe Gadbeau was in Heaven.

As she left the Run and was crossing up to the divide she met Jeffrey Whiting coming down. He had been over in the Wilbur's Fork country and was returning home. He stopped and showed that he was anxious to talk with her. Cynthe was not averse. She was ever a chatty, sociable little person, and, besides, for some time she had had it in mind that she would some day take occasion to say a few pertinent things to this scowling young gentleman with the big face.

"You're with Ruth Lansing a lot, aren't you?" he said, after some verbal beating about the bush; "how is she?"

"Why don't you come see, if you want to know?" retorted Cynthe sharply.

Jeffrey had no ready answer. So Cynthe went on:

"If you wanted to know why didn't you come up all Winter and see? Why didn't you come up when she was nursing the dirty French babies through the black diphtheria, when their own mothers were afraid of them? Why didn't you come see when she was helping the mothers up there to get into their houses and make the houses warm before the coming of the Winter, though she had no house of her own? Why didn't you come see when she nearly got her death from the 'mmonia caring for old Robbideau Laclair in his house that had no roof on it, till she shamed the lazy men to go and fix that roof? Did you ask somebody then? Why didn't you come see?"

"Well," Jeffrey defended, "I didn't know about any of those things. And we had plenty to do here--our place and my mother and all. I didn't see her at all till Easter Sunday. I sneaked up to your church, just to get a look at her. She saw me. But she didn't seem to want to."

"But she should have been delighted to see you," Cynthe snapped back. "Don't you think so? Certainly, she should have been overjoyed. She should have flown to your arms! Not so? You remember what you said to her the last time you saw her before that. No? I will tell you. You called her 'liar' before the whole court, even the Judge! Of one certainty, she should have flown to you. No?"

Now if Jeffrey had been wise he would have gone away, with all haste. But he was not wise. He was sore. He felt ill-used. He was sure that some of this was unjust. He foolishly stayed to argue.

"But she--she cared for me," he blurted out. "I know she did. I couldn't understand why she couldn't tell--the truth; when you--you did so much for me."

"For you? For _you_!" the girl flamed up in his face. "Oh, villainous monster of vanity! For _you_! Ha! I could laugh! For _you_! I put _mon Rafe_--dead in his grave--to shame before all the world, called him murderer, blackened his name, for _you_!

"No! No! _No!_ _Never!_

"I would not have said a word against him to save you from the death. _Never!_

"I did what I did, because there was a debt. A debt which _mon Rafe_ had forgotten to pay. He was waiting outside of Heaven for me to pay that debt. I paid. I paid. His way was made straight. He could go in. I did it for _you_! Ha!"

The theology of this was beyond Jeffrey. And the girl had talked so rapidly and so fiercely that he could not gather even the context of the matter. He gave up trying to follow it and went back to his main argument.

"But why couldn't she have told the truth?"

"The truth, eh! You must have the truth! The girl must tell the truth for you! No matter if she was to blacken her soul before God, you must have the truth told for you. The truth! It was not enough for you to know that the girl loved you, with her heart, with her life, that she would have died for you if she might! No. The poor girl must tear out the secret lining of her heart for you, to save you!

"Think you that if _mon Rafe_ was alive and stood there where you stood, in peril of his life; think you that he would ask me to give up the secret of the Holy Confession to save him. _Non!_ _Mon Rafe_ was a _man_! He would die, telling me to keep that which God had trusted me with!

"Name of a Woodchuck! Who were you to be saved; that the Good God must come down from His Heaven to break the Seal of the Unopened Book for _you_!

"You ask for truth! _Tiens!_ I will tell you truth!

"You sat in the place of the prisoner and cried that you were an innocent man. _Mon Rafe_ was the guilty man. The whole world must come forth, the secrets of the grave must come forth to declare you innocent and him guilty! You were innocent! You were persecuted! The earth and the Heaven must come to show that you were innocent and he was guilty! _Bah!_ _You were as guilty as he!_

"I was there. I saw. Your finger was on the trigger. You only waited for the man to stop moving. Murder was in your heart. Murder was in your soul. Murder was in your finger. But you were innocent and _mon Rafe_ was guilty. By how much?

"By one second. That was the difference between _mon Rafe_ and you. Just that second that he shot before you were ready. _That_ was the difference between you the innocent man and _mon Rafe_!

"You were guilty. In your heart you were guilty. In your soul you were guilty. M'sieur Cain himself was not more guilty than you!

"You were more guilty than _mon Rafe_, for he had suffered more from that man. He was hunted. He was desperate, crazy! You were cool. You were ready. Only _mon Rafe_ was a little quicker, because he was desperate. Before the Good God you were more guilty.

"And _mon Rafe_ must be blackened more than the fire had blackened his poor body. And the poor Ruth must break the Holy Secret. And the good M'sieur the Bishop must break his holiest oath. All to make you innocent!

"Bah! _Innocent!_"

She flung away from him and ran up the hill. Cynthe had not said quite all that she intended to say to this young gentleman. But then, also, she had said a good deal more than she had intended to say. So it was about even. She had said enough. And it would do him no harm. She had felt that she owed _mon Rafe_ a little plain speaking. She was much relieved.

Jeffrey Whiting stood where she had left him digging up the tender roots of the new grass with his toe. He did not look after the girl. He had forgotten her.

He felt no resentment at the things that she had said. He did not argue with himself as to whether these things were just or unjust. Of all the things that she had said only one thing mattered. And that not because she had said it. It mattered because it was true. The quick, jabbing sentences from the girl had driven home to him just one thing.

Guilty? He _was_ guilty. He was as guilty as--Rafe Gadbeau.

Provocation? Yes, he had had provocation, bitter, blinding provocation. But so had Rafe Gadbeau: and he had never thought of Rafe Gadbeau as anything but guilty of murder.

He turned on his heel and walked down the Run with swift, swinging strides, fighting this conviction that was settling upon him. He fought it viciously, with contempt, arguing that he was a man, that the thing was done and past, that men have no time for remorse and sickish, mawkish repentance. Those things were for brooding women, and Frenchmen. He fought it reasonably, sagaciously; contending that he had not, in fact, pulled the trigger. How did he know that he would ever have done so? Maybe he had not really intended to kill at all. Maybe he would not have killed. The man might have spoken to him. Perhaps he was going to speak when he turned that time. Who could tell? Ten thousand things might have happened, any one of which would have stood between him and killing the man. He fought it defiantly. Suppose he had killed the man? What about it? The man deserved it. He had a right to kill him.

But he knew that he was losing at every angle of the fight. For the conviction answered not a word to any of these things. It merely fastened itself upon his spirit and stuck to the original indictment: "As guilty as Rafe Gadbeau."

And when he came over the top of the hill, from where he could look down upon the grave of Rafe Gadbeau there under the Gaunt Rocks, the conviction pointed out to him just one enduring fact. It said: "There is the grave of Rafe Gadbeau; as long as memory lives to say anything about that grave it will say: a murderer was buried here."

Then he fought no more with the conviction. It gripped his spirit and cowed him. It sat upon his shoulders and rode home with him. His mother saw it in his face, and, not understanding, began to look for some fresh trouble.