Chapter 19

The big boy, holding the trembling girl closer in his arms, understood nothing but that she wanted to stand with him, to put herself in whatever place was his, to take that black, terrible shadow that had fallen on him and wrap it around herself too.

"My poor little white-souled darling," he said through tears that choked him, "I can't take this from you! It's too much, I can't!"

After a little the girl relaxed, tiredly, against his shoulder and argued dreamily:

"I don't see what you can do. You'll have to take _me_. And I don't see how you can take me any way but just as I am."

Then she was suddenly conscious that the world was observing. She drew quickly away, and Jeffrey, still dazed and shaken, let her go.

Standing, looking at her with eyes that hungered and adored, he began to speak in wonder and self-abasement.

"After all I've made you suffer--!"

But Ruth would have none of this. It had been nothing, she declared. She had found work to do. She had been happy, in a way. God had been very kind.

At length Jeffrey said: "Well, I guess we'll never have to misunderstand again, anyway, Ruth. I had to find God because I was--I needed Him. Now I want to find Him--your way."

"You mean--you mean that you _believe_!"

"Yes," said Jeffrey slowly. "I didn't think I ever would. I certainly didn't want to. But I do. And it isn't just to win with you, Ruth, or to make you happier. I can't help it. It's the thing the Bishop once told me about--the thing that's bigger than I am."

Now Ruth, all zeal and thankfulness, was for leading him forthwith to Father Ponfret, that he might begin at once his course of instructions which she assured him was essential.

But Jeffrey demurred. He had been reading books all winter, he said. Though he admitted that until last night he had not understood much of it. Now it was all clear and easy, thank God! Could she not come home, then, to his mother, who was pining for her--and--and they would have all their lives to finish the instructions.

On this, however, Ruth was firm. Here she would stay, among these good people where she had made for herself a place and a home. He must come every week to Father Ponfret for his instructions, like any other convert. If on those occasions he also came to see her, well, she would, of course, be glad to see him and to know how he was progressing.

Afterwards? Well, afterwards, they would see.

And to this Jeffrey was forced to agree.

Old Robbideau Laclair, when he heard of this arrangement, grumbled that the way of the heretic was indeed made easy in these days. But his wife Philomena, scraping sharply with her stick, informed him that if the good Ruth saw fit to convert even a heathen Turk into a husband for herself she would no doubt make a good job of it.

So love came and went through the summer, practically unrebuked.

Again the Bishop came riding up to French Village with Arsene LaComb. But this time they rode in a jogging, rattling coach that swung up over the new line of railroad that came into the hills from Welden Junction. And Arsene was very glad of this, for as he looked at his beloved M'sieur l'Eveque he saw that he was not now the man to have faced the long road up over the hills. He was not two, he was many years older and less sturdy.

The Bishop practised his French a little, but mostly he was silent and thoughtful. He was remembering that day, nearly two years ago now, when he had set two ambitious young souls upon a way which they did not like. What a coil of good and bad had come out of that doing of his. And again he wondered, as he had wondered then, whether he had done right. Who was to tell?

And again to-morrow he was to set those two again upon their way of life, for he was coming up to French Village to the wedding of Ruth Lansing to Jeffrey Whiting.

Jeffrey Whiting knelt by Ruth Lansing's side in the little rough-finished sanctuary of the chapel which Father Ponfret had somehow managed to raise during that busy, poverty-burdened summer. But Jeffrey Whiting saw none of the poor makeshifts out of which the little priest had contrived a sanctuary to the high God. He was back again, in the night, on a dark, lone road, under the unconcerned stars, crying out to find God. Then God had come to him, with merciful, healing touch and lifted him out of the dust and agony of the road, and, finally, had brought him here, to this moment.

He had just received into his body the God of life. His soul stood trembling at its portal, receiving its Guest for the first time. He was amazed with a great wonder, for here was the very God of the dark night speaking to him in words that beat upon his heart. And his wonder was that from this he should ever arise and go on with any other business whatever.

Ruth Lansing knelt, adoring and listening to the music of that _choir unseen_ which had once given her the call of life. She had followed it, not always in the perfect way, but at least bravely, unquestioningly. And it had brought her now to a holy and awed happiness. Neither life nor death would ever rob her of this moment.

Presently they rose and stood before the Bishop. And as the Shepherd blessed their joined hands he prayed for these two who were dear to him, as well as for his other little ones, and, as always, for those "other sheep." And the breathing of his prayer was:

That they be not afraid, my God, with any fear; but trust long in Thee and in each other.

THE END

Printed in the United States of America.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Shepherd of the North, by Richard Aumerle Maher