The Trail Of The Axe Part 26

"Say, that ain't how you said, Jim. We fixed it so I hadn't got to do a thing till you'd played your 'hand.' Play it, an' if you fail clear out, then it's right up to me, an' I'll stick to the deal."

Enlightenment was coming to Betty. This was some gambling plot. She knew Jim's record. Some poor wretch was to be robbed. The other man was of course a confederate. But Jim was talking again. Now his voice was commanding, even threatening.

"This is no d.a.m.ned child's play; we're going to have no quibbling. You want that money, Mansell, and you've got to earn it. It's the spirit of the bargain I want, not the letter. Maybe you're weakening. Maybe you're scared. d.a.m.n it, man! it's the simplest thing--do as I say and--the money's yours."

At the mention of the man's name Betty was filled with wonder. She had seen Mansell at work in the mill. The night s.h.i.+ft was not relieved until six o'clock in the morning. How then came he there? What was he doing in company with Jim?

But now the sawyer's voice was raised in downright anger, and the girl's alarm leapt again.

"I said I'd stick to the deal," he cried. Then he added doggedly, "And a deal's a deal."

Jim's reply followed in a much lower key, and she had to strain to hear.

"I'm not going to be fooled by you," he said. "You'll do this job when I say. When I say, mind----"

But at this point his voice dropped so low that the rest was lost. And though Betty strained to catch the words, only the drone of the voices reached her. Presently even that ceased. Then she heard the sound of footsteps receding in different directions, and she knew the men had parted. When the silence of the woods had swallowed up the last sound she set off at a run for home.

She thought a great deal about that mysterious encounter on her way. It was mysterious, she decided. She wondered what she should do about it.

These men were plotting to cheat and rob some of Dave's lumber-jacks.

Wasn't it her duty to try and stop them? She was horrified at the thought of the depths to which Jim had sunk. It was all so paltry, so--so mean.

Then the strangeness of the place they had selected for their meeting struck her. Why those woods, so remote from the village? A moment's thought solved the matter to her own satisfaction. No doubt Mansell had made some excuse to leave the mill for a few minutes, and in order not to prolong his absence too much, Jim had come out from the village to meet him. Yes, that was reasonable.

Finally she decided to tell Dave and her uncle. Dave would find a way of stopping them. Trust him for that. He could always deal with such things better--yes, even better than her uncle, she admitted to herself in her new-born pride in him.

A few minutes later the twinkling lights through the trees showed her her destination. Another few minutes and she was explaining to her aunt that she was off to the hill camps nursing. As had been expected, her news was badly received.

"It's bad enough that your uncle's got to go in the midst of his pressing duties," Mrs. Tom exclaimed with heat. "What about the affairs of the new church? What about the sick folk right here? What about old Mrs. Styles? She's likely to die any minute. Who's to bury her with him away? And what about Sarah Dingley? She's haunted--delusions--and there's no one can pacify her but him. And now they must needs take you. It isn't right. You up there amongst all those rough men. It's not decent. It's----"

"I know, auntie," Betty broke in. "It's all you say. But--but think of those poor helpless sick men up there, with no comfort. They've just got to lie about and either get well, or--or die. No one to care for them. No one to write a last letter to their friends for them. No one to see they get proper food, and----"

"Stuff and nonsense!" her aunt exclaimed. "Now you, Betty, listen to me. Go, if go you must. I'll have nothing to do with it. It's not with my consent you'll go. And some one is going to hear what I think about it, even if he does run the Malkern Mills. If--if Dave wasn't so big, and such a dear good fellow, I'd like--yes, I'd like to box his ears.

Be off with you and see to your packing, miss, and don't forget your thickest flannels. Those mountains are terribly cold at nights, even in summer." Then, as the girl ran off to her room, she exploded in a final burst of anger. "Well there, they're all fools, and I've no patience with any of 'em."

It did not take long for Betty to get her few things together and pitch them into a grip. The barest necessities were all she required, and her practical mind guided her instinctively. Her task was quite completed when, ten minutes later, she heard the rattle of buckboard wheels and her uncle's cheery voice down-stairs in the parlor.

Then she hurried across to her aunt's room. She knew her uncle so well.

He wouldn't bother to pack anything for himself. She dragged a large kit bag from under the bed, and, ransacking the bureau, selected what she considered the most necessary things for his comfort and flung them into it. It was all done with the greatest possible haste, and by the time she had everything ready, her uncle joined her and carried the grips downstairs. In the meantime Mary Chepstow, all her anger pa.s.sed, was busily loading the little table with an ample supper. She might disapprove her niece's going, she might resent the sudden call on her husband, but she would see them both amply fed before starting, and that the buckboard was well provisioned for the road.

For the most part supper was eaten in silence. These people were so much in the habit of doing for others, so many calls were made upon them, that such an occasion as this presented little in the way of emergency. It was their life to help others, their delight, and their creed. And Mary's protest meant no more than words, she only hesitated at the thought of Betty's going amongst these rough lumber-jacks. But even this, on reflection, was not so terrible as she at first thought.

Betty was an unusual girl, and she expected the unusual from her. So she put her simple trust in the Almighty, and did all she knew to help them.

It was not until the meal was nearly over that Chepstow imparted a piece of news he had gleaned on his way from the mill. He suddenly looked up from his plate, and his eyes sought his niece's face. She was lost in a happy contemplation of the events of that night at the mill.

All her thoughts, all her soul was, at that moment, centred upon Dave.

Now her uncle's voice startled her into a self-conscious blush.

"Who d'you think I met on my way up here?" he inquired, searching her face.

Betty answered him awkwardly. "I--I don't know," she said.

Her uncle reached for the salad, and helped himself deliberately before he enlightened her further.

"Jim Truscott," he said at last, without looking up.

"Jim Truscott?" exclaimed Aunt Mary, her round eyes wondering. Then she voiced a thought which had long since pa.s.sed from her niece's mind.

"What was he doing out here at this hour of the night?"

The parson shrugged.

"It seems he was waiting for me. He didn't call here, I s'pose?"

Mary shook her head. Betty was waiting to hear more.

"I feel sorry for him," he went on. "I'm inclined to think we've judged him harshly. I'm sure we have. It only goes to show how poor and weak our efforts are to understand and help our fellows. He is very, very repentant. Poor fellow, I have never seen any one so down on his luck.

He doesn't excuse himself. In fact, he blames himself even more than we have done."

"Poor fellow," murmured Aunt Mary.

Betty remained silent, and her uncle went on.

"He's off down east to make a fresh start. He was waiting to tell me so. He also wanted to tell me how sorry he was for his behavior to us, to you, Betty, and he trusted you would find it possible to forgive him, and think better of him when he was gone. I never saw a fellow so cut up. It was quite pitiful."

"When's he going?" Betty suddenly asked, and there was a hardness in her voice which startled her uncle.

"That doesn't sound like forgiveness," he said. "Don't you think, my dear, if he's trying to do better you might----"

Betty smiled into the earnest face.

"Yes, uncle, I forgive him everything, freely, gladly--if he is going to start afresh."

"Doubt?"

But Betty still had that conversation in the woods in her mind.

"I mustn't judge him. His own future actions are all that matter. The past is gone, and can be wiped out. I would give a lot to see him--right himself."

"That is the spirit, dear," Aunt Mary put in. "Your uncle is quite right: we must forgive him."

Betty nodded; but remained silent. She was half inclined to tell them all she had heard, but it occurred to her that perhaps she had interpreted it all wrong--and yet--anyway, if he were sincere, if he really meant all he had said to her uncle she must not, had no right to do, or say, anything that could prejudice him. So she kept silent, and her uncle went on.

"He's off to-morrow on the east-bound mail. That's why he was waiting to see me to-night. He told me he had heard I was going up into the hills, and waited to catch me before I went. Said he couldn't go away without seeing me first. I told him I was going physicking, that the camps were down with fever, and the spread of it might seriously interfere with Dave's work. He was very interested, poor chap, and hoped all would come right. He spoke of Dave in the most cordial terms, and wished he could do something to help. Of course, that's impossible.

But I pointed out that the whole future of Malkern, us all, depended on the work going through. Dave would be simply ruined if it didn't.

There's a tremendous lot of good in that boy. I always knew it. Once he gets away from this gambling, and cuts out the whiskey, he'll get right again. I suggested his turning teetotaler, and he a.s.sured me he'd made up his mind to it. Well, Betty my dear, time's up."

Chepstow rose from the table and filled his pipe. Betty followed him, and put on her wraps. Aunt Mary stood by to help to the last.

It was less than an hour from the time of Betty's return home that the final farewells were spoken and the buckboard started back for the mill. Aunt Mary watched them go. She saw them vanish into the night, and slowly turned back across the veranda into the house. They were her all, her loved ones. They had gone for perhaps only a few weeks, but their going made her feel very lonely. She gave a deep sigh as she began to clear the remains of the supper away. Then, slowly, two unbidden tears welled up into her round, soft eyes and rolled heavily down her plump cheeks. Instantly she pulled herself together, and dashed her hand across her eyes. And once more the steady courage which was the key-note of her life a.s.serted itself. She could not afford to give way to any such weakness.