The Girl of the Woods E-Book

Grace Livingston Hill

• Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Young Revel Radcliff encounters a lovely young woman in the woods who changes his life..

Leseprobe

The Girl of the Woods 

by Grace Livingston Hill

First published in 1942

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

TheGirl of the Woods 

by 

Chapter 1

Revel Radcliffe stood glowering by his father’s desk in the library, where he had been ordered to await his father’s coming.

His father was even then in the small reception room across the hall talking with a man on business, something to do with printing or engraving. Revel didn’t care much. His father’s affairs seldom concerned him, and rarely interested him. It had been that way since his babyhood. His few contacts with his father had been to receive commands for the ordinary changes that had followed one another regularly through his life: school attendance and the standing he was expected to maintain—he was required to be letter perfect in everything or there was a storm—attendance at certain family gatherings; and courtesy in the presence of any member of his father’s family. His mother’s family were seldom around, and never now since her death two years before.

His mother’s maiden name had been Emily Revel, and she had lovingly given it to her son against the contemptuous protests of her husband who had insisted on the boy being named Hiram after himself. Hiram R. Radcliffe, he had given reluctant consent to at last, because the doctor had told him that his wife was in a serious state, with fever and lassitude, and needed to be humored. So the baby had been named Hiram Revel Radcliffe. But his mother had called him Revel, and he had always signed his name Revel Radcliffe, without the H. The fellows at school, and even the teachers, always called him Revel. His father was never about the school and didn’t know.

He was trying, as he stood there glowering and waiting, to figure out what was coming. He was seldom ordered to await his father unless some huge change of the present state was in the offing. Perhaps there was a dinner ahead, or some definite prohibition was about to be given. His mind always sprang ahead and tried to anticipate. He liked to prepare himself, so that he could meet whatever was to be with the proper stony indifference. He would not offer interest or joy to meet any crisis, even if it were something he might like. And it seldom was that. He could not hope now that there was anything in the immediate future that would bring him any comfort or peace. Sometimes it seemed to him that his father fairly hated him, and he could recall so many times in the last few months of his beloved mother’s life when her wishes were utterly set aside for something his father wanted done, that he bore a bitter resentment down in his heart.

And yet, his father was all he had.

So he waited.

Then he could hear his father escorting the man to the door, his grave, cold tones cutting through the dim gloom in the wide hall. That hall that always reminded Revel of his mother’s funeral cortege, as she went in state, borne by six of his father’s friends. Not a Revel among them all! Not even her own brother present. Somewhere in China, he was, or maybe some other far land, now that there was talk of war everywhere. His father had seen to it that every Revel was well out of his way. Plain and poor they were, though they used to be wealthy. He planned that the grandfather was soon to be banished to an old men’s home, though Revel hadn’t been told that, and the brother-in-law, if he returned, to a training camp where rules and regulations of government and militarism would relieve Mr. Radcliffe of the unpleasant necessity of having to think about him and plan for his absence. At least that was the Radcliffe idea.

Suddenly the front door closed with a final click like the sound of the elder Radcliffe’s voice in all conversations. Then a firm self-assured step told the boy his father had entered the room. Revel lifted his eyes with the fleeting glance of sullen recognition that his father always demanded. The boy often wondered if his father recognized the utter rebellion of his young heart as he gave that glance of acknowledgment that this man was his father and as such had a right to deference and obedience.

“Sit down, Hiram!” ordered the father.

Revel averted his gaze and sidled toward a chair, though as long as he dared, he delayed to actually yield his body to its support.

“Yes, sir?” Revel said with a mixture of obedience, fury, and questioning in his voice.

“I called you in here, Hiram, to let you know that I am about to be married!”

The man paused for an instant and let his cold eyes bore cruelly through the tall young fellow with the dark eyes and heavy dark waves of hair that were all so utterly unlike his own vigorous tawny hair and light blue eyes. Revel had heard him almost blame his frail little mother once because her son did not resemble himself, but had the general look of the Revels. It seemed to be an unforgivable thing that his wife had not given him a son who would be a replica of himself. As if she had deliberately willed it to be so.

But Revel was not thinking of this now. The words his father had just spoken had gone deep into his heart, like well-aimed shots, each piercing the vital life of him. Nay, it seemed on second thought that they were great rocks, each word a rock, thudding on his sensitive soul with blows from which he could never hope to recover. And yet he managed to sit steadily without a visible quiver, just enduring those awful words. His father was actually going to wipe out from the home the memory of his mother by putting another woman in her place.

Oh, of course, it was a perfectly respectable thing to do, for his father to remarry, after two years. People would say he was sensible. That it was the only thing for him to do. They would say how nice it was for Revel to have a mother again, and life could go on for them in a normal way. But the boy knew that his life was shattered. So far as his father was concerned, or any memory of his father and mother together, which made the kind of dream any boy would like to conjure in his thoughts, it was gone! Dead! Lifeless!

It might have been different perhaps, if he could remember happy days they had had together. But all the happy memories were of his mother, and the rest were of the gloom and sadness that had pervaded the household whenever his father came about. If there had been sunny days and happiness, perhaps even Revel could have felt his father was justified in trying to have a little more happiness for himself. But a man who had made no joy for that precious mother, how had he a right to try for any pleasure in life for himself?

These bitter thoughts chased one another over his mind in rapid succession, and yet he sat there and held his face without a quiver, not a flicker of any eyelash. He had had long practice in hiding his innermost thoughts from his father.

“I want you to understand,” continued that grim voice, “that I shall demand the utmost deference and courtesy and obedience, the same that you gave to your own mother. The woman I am marrying is a member of an old and noble family, a woman of character, and she will not brook slipshod manners, nor carelessness of speech or attire. I am telling you this now, and I do not wish to have to speak of it again. Do you understand?”

After an instant of utter stillness the boy summoned courage to lift a fleeting glance fatherward and grudgingly bow a brief assent to the question.

The father waited a moment, perhaps expecting some other word from his son, but Revel had done all that his tempestuous spirit could do, and not break forth into shocked protest. After a little he managed to get himself to his feet, his glance still down on the floor, controlling by some deep boy-power the awful trembling that was traveling upward from his heart to his lips.

“Well,” said his father, “have you anything to say, Hiram? Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”

Oh, yes, it meant much to him, but Revel could not say it here. Long years of hiding his feelings from his father would not let him speak now. What difference what he would say? It could only bring forth abuse. He knew that by long experience.

And then, because the silence demanded some reply from him, his cold lips and husky voice stumbled forth with:“Well, I guess you—had a right—to do that, Father!”

“Had a right? Why, of course I did. It is not for you to set yourself up as my judge. Of course I had a right. It seems to me a more pleasant wishful courtesy might have been on your lips.”

The boy stuttered, stumbled, turned red and then deadly white again as he lifted almost haughty eyes and managed to say in a clear, contemptuous tone, “I guess you’ll be happy all right!”

“Very well,” said the man, having forced congratulations from this unwilling young serf of his. “You may go and get yourself ready for dinner. We are having it early tonight. I have to go out, and I hear the dishes being brought in. You had better hurry. Later, perhaps tonight, or in a day or two, I shall tell you the plans I have made for your college entrance next fall.”

Without another word Revel went swiftly out of the room, across the hall with silent steps, and up the stairs. He crossed to his own room and then slid out again down the back stairs, and out a side entrance. Swiftly behind the garage he went, across the fields at the back of the house, straight out of his father’s estate, and up a hill toward a woods that had been many times in his young past a refuge when his soul was in agony.

He passed like a shadow through the brightness of the setting sun, on into the shadows on the edge of the woods, and then entered the cool silence of the place he knew. He flung himself down full length upon the soft yielding carpet of moss and delicate spring blossoms. Violets and anemones, spring beauties, hepaticas. He knew and loved them all. They were his friends. How many times he had come here and gathered great handfuls of them for his mother. And unknown to his father or anyone who had been at her funeral, a handful of them lay even now close to her heart, where he had put them when no one was looking. They seemed now to be his only friends, his only touch with the beloved mother who was gone.

So he flung himself down with his face among the flowers, and let his boy tears flow, as he could never have let them go if there had been anyone watching. He had a feeling that not even God, if there was a God, must see him weep. It seemed to him his heart was broken, and there was no use going on.

And yet he had to go on!

The horror of it rolled over him. He had no mother, never had really had a father, and now his home, what had been left of it, was shattered.

True, he didn’t know the woman who was to be his father’s wife, but she would never be anything else to him. He would not even have the privilege of looking sorrowful anymore in that house into which he had been born. The newcomer might be a pleasant woman; he ought to feel sorry for her, perhaps, but he couldn’t. Perhaps she would have to suffer as much as his mother had suffered, but at least that had nothing to do with him now. He could not help it. He had to bear this awful shock himself, and find out what to do.

He lay there for a long time, shaken with wild, silent sobs, still conscious of a world, even if it were only made up of birds and squirrels, that must not hear him weep. Must not ever know that a man-child could weep and could suffer like this.

And then, in an interval of a breath, he heard a light step. Looking up suddenly, his anguished face drenched in tears, he saw a girl, standing quite close to him, looking down. Her hands were full of the wild blossoms she had been picking, and her lovely face was full of startled tenderness and wonder and sudden deep embarrassment.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry! I beg your pardon! I didn’t see you before or I wouldn’t have come!”

He gave her a bewildered, ashamed, blinking stare. He wasn’t a boy who was given to tears. He had come away to the woods to hide his misery. And here in the wilderness he was caught, by a girl!

She wasn’t any girl he knew, and she probably didn’t know him. But what difference did that make? Oh, why did this have to happen?

He gave an angry brush at his eyes.

“It’s awright!” he growled, and began to arise. Then his misery caught him once more and he bowed his unhappy face into the flowers again with a suppressed groan. “Oh!”

The girl had started to go away, but his action drew her sorrowful glance again, and she turned a little and dropped softly down beside him among the flowers, laying one small hand gently on his bowed head, as lightly as a butterfly might have lit there.

“I’m sorry!” she said gently. “I’m only a stranger, you know, and I don’t count of course, but I’m sure God cares.”

The boy’s tense shoulders quivered, and he lifted his head and looked at her in scorn.

“God cares!” he sneered. “A lot you know about it! He’s had it in for me ever since I was born! Don’t kid yourself. He never even thought of me.”

“Oh, yes, He cares,” said the girl firmly. “He loves you very much, and He’s thinking about your trouble right now and wishing you would come to Him to get help!”

The tense young shoulders quivered again.

He drew himself up and tossed his hair back from his hot, flushed face.

“I guess I don’t need help. I guess I can take it. A man oughtta be able ta take it—anything that comes—oughtn’t he?”

“Why—I don’t know that he ought, not all alone. I think God meant us to be dependent on Him, and sometimes only trouble will bring us to recognize that.” The girl spoke as if she was working out the thought as she talked. She didn’t look like a girl who had been through much trouble herself.

He rested his elbow on the ground and stared at her, trying to look as if there had been no tears, to ignore his own humiliation.

“Well, I don’t know about God. My mother used to pray. She taught me little prayers, but that’s a long time ago, and she’s gone. That’s the trouble! I’m a fool of course, because she’s been dead two whole years, and Dad has a right to do what he likes, only it kind of seems as if Dad is dishonoring her, and I can’t take that! You see, Dad just told me he’s getting married again, and I saw red. I came off here to be by myself.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! And I broke in on your privacy! But truly, I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t see you till you looked up, and even then I tried to get away.”

The boy took a deep breath and put out an impulsive hand to hers.

“Don’t feel bad!” he said resignedly. “I didn’t blame you. Only I just saw red, and I couldn’t take it to have that done to my mother. She was a wonderful mother—and it wasn’t as if she’d had a good time while she lived, either!”

His strong young lip quivered, and the tears began to blur into his eyes again, though he blinked them away quickly. He was gripping her little hand in his now, and looking down at it curiously, almost tenderly. “My mother had a hand like yours,” he said suddenly. “Little and kind of soft, like silk when you touched it!” He smoothed her fingers thoughtfully, as if he didn’t remember she was hearing him. And then suddenly he laid her hand back in her lap.

“I guess I’m a kind of a sis,” he said shamedly, “and my mother wouldn’t have liked that. But I was boiling mad when my father told me he was getting married again, and I couldn’t see it. If I could find a job somewhere, I’d go away and he wouldn’t ever see me again!”

The girl looked down on him with compassion. She was wearing a little white dress with tiny rosebuds printed on it. There were two small bows of rose-colored ribbon in her brown hair, and she seemed so sweet and sisterly there in the woods looking down on him.

“Well,” she said, “maybe that would be a good thing for you to do. I don’t know, I’m sure. But I think you would need to ask God about it before you did anything like that. God knows what is best for you, and if you would ask Him, He would show you, for sure.”

“I doubt it!” said the boy, discouragement written all over his dejected young face. “But I’m all kinds of sorry you caught me bawling, and I’m grateful to you for trying to comfort me, anyhow.”

“Well, I wish you’d try asking God,” said the girl softly, with a troubled look in her eyes. “I’m going to be praying that you’ll do it. And now, don’t you worry about my seeing a few tears in your eyes. I’m just a stranger, and you’ll probably never see me again. I’m going away now, so forget it! I’ll forget it, too, and you can put it out of your mind forever.”

“But no, I don’t wish to forget you,” said the boy. “You have been all right. You don’t need to go away. I’ll pull myself together. You came here for some reason. Don’t let me drive you away.” He sat up and dashed the tears away angrily. “After all, I’m more than a child. I’m almost eighteen. I oughtta be able to take it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I barged in on you! I only came to pick a few of these flowers, because my mother once came here and picked some and loved them. She told me about them, and when I found we were going to stop near here I decided to take a chance to walk out here and find the flowers my mother used to talk about.”

She held out a handful of dropping blossoms.

“They don’t look like much, do they,” she went on, “held in my hot hand so long, but perhaps when I get to the house I can put them in water and they will revive. I want to press a few of them to put in my memory book of Mother.”

They boy eyed the flowers curiously.

“No, they don’t look like much,” he said. “You ought to have some fresh ones. But it’s getting late and they’ve mostly closed up for the night, I guess. If I had my flashlight I might be able to find some. Over there used to be a lot.”

He got up and took a few steps, stooping down and feeling around. He brought back a handful of more little drooping buds.

“They aren’t much better,” he said disappointedly. “The best time to get them is in the early morning. Who are you, anyway? Where do you live? I could come up here and get some for you. Maybe you’d like to come along.”

The girl gave him a quick grateful look but shook her head disappointedly.

“I couldn’t,” she said. “I’d love to, but I’m traveling with my uncle, and I have to be ready to leave when he wants to go. I guess it would be too far, and they would be uneasy if I went away off up here in the morning. They would expect me to get lost or something. No, it doesn’t matter. Perhaps some other spring I can come here again and get them. It’s probably very silly of me to care about it.”

“No,” said the boy, “it’s not silly! I had a mother, too, you know. Has yours gone and left you like mine?”

“Yes,” said the girl, “five years ago. But I’ve never forgotten her. She was dear and sweet. But look, how dark it’s getting! Is there a storm coming up? I’d better hurry. I might not be able to find my way back.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll go with you, of course. Where is it you have to go? Are you stopping in Arleth, or Chenango, or did you come over the hill? Down Afton way?”

“Oh,” said the girl, “I think the name is Sumter Hills, just outside of the town, a big white pleasant farmhouse. I came with my uncle, and we’re staying with the widow of an old school friend of his. He had to stop off to see her on some business. He went up to the city this morning to look after it for her. I stayed here to look up places Mother had told me about. But you don’t need to go back with me. I’m sure I can find my way back. I’d better go at once.”

“Sure!” said Revel. “But I’ll go with you. I know a shortcut across the fields. What’s the name of the person you’re stopping with?”

“She’s Mrs. Martin. Cousin Sarah, my uncle called her, but she’s not a real cousin. I never saw her before.”

“Oh, sure I know that party. Prim old bird, isn’t she? She got me in trouble once when I was crossing the stream back of her house. Reported me to the school superintendent and got me in wrong with my dad. I didn’t fish in her old stream. I was only crossing it when she saw me, but she tried to identify a fish I was carrying and we had all kinds of trouble. You’d better not tell her you’ve been in my company or she’ll haul you to court and have me tried for trying to kidnap you.”

The girl laughed.

“I guess you know who she is all right,” she said merrily. “I’m sure she would be like that. Though she’s been very kind to me. But she is terribly prim, and pretty set in her ways. I expect she’s awfully upset by this time that I haven’t gotten back yet. I told her I was just going to take a walk. That I wanted to see the old schoolhouse and the church and some of the places my mother used to tell me about. I didn’t tell her about the flowers on the hilltop. I thought she might think that was silly. Anyway, I didn’t want to bring it out in the open. It seemed too sacred to me.”

“You’re telling me!” rumbled the boy in a low tone. “Don’t tell her where you’ve been. Just say you got turned around and it took you longer to get home than you realized, see?”

“Yes,” said the girl. “But I do hope I’ll get there before dinner is ready. She went to a missionary meeting of some kind. She wanted me to go with her. She said there was going to be a woman there from China and it would be very interesting, but I told her that I wanted to walk around and think about my mother being here when she was a girl like me, and she finally let me off. But dear me, I don’t want to have to have it all over again! My uncle won’t be back till midnight. But she’s sure to send the farm man after me if I’m very late.”

“Well, he won’t find you. We’ll go another way. You came by the street, didn’t you? Till you got to the lane up the hill, and then took to the woods?”

“Yes. But how did you know?”

“Well, I sort of figured you did. You see, this is one of my hideouts when I feel sore or something.”

“I see,” said the girl, and her hand lingered comfortingly on the arm that was leading her.

“Now, we turn here,” said Revel. “You came up that lane to the left there, didn’t you? It turns into the highway a little this side of that big light you see in the tower in the valley. That’s the town hall in Afton.”

“Oh, yes, I remember passing that! And when I get there I turn right, don’t I? Oh, I’m sure I can find my way now. I don’t need to trouble you anymore.”

“Trouble, nothing! Do you suppose I’m gonna leave you wandering all over the country in the dark? You, a stranger! Not on yer life! But we’re going a quicker way than you came. Down here at the edge of the woods we can climb the fence, go across lots, and cut off a mile or so. See that light away off there to the right? Well, that’s on top of the Sumter Hills Bank, and your Mrs. Martin lives out that road, beyond. I’ll show you. It won’t take long. Come on!” said the boy, catching hold of her hand and guiding her down the hill, carefully avoiding the roots and hillocks in their path.

They didn’t talk as they hurried down; they were almost breathless, they were going so fast. But when they came to the fence at the end of the woods the boy paused.

“Get your breath!” he ordered, leaning against the fence.

“I’m all right,” said the girl. “I’m used to running a lot.”

“Yes, you’re some girl! But you’d better get your breath. You don’t want to barge in on old Sarah all puffed. And say, what’s your name? Where do you live when you’re home? You and I are friends, if you don’t mind, and I don’t want to lose sight of you entirely. You’re the only person I’ve seen since my mother died that seemed to understand.”

“Oh, thank you,” said the girl simply. “I couldn’t help knowing how I would feel if ever a thing like that happened to me. Why, my name is Margaret Weldon, and I’m going out to my aunt’s in California to spend the winter and go to school. The address is Linton Lane, Crystal Beach.”

The boy took out a pencil and scribbled the address in a small notebook.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll maybe keep in touch with you, if you don’t mind, but don’t tell old Sarah Martin or she’ll tell you what a young reprobate I am.”

“Oh,” said the girl, “I wouldn’t believe her anyway, if she did. But aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

“Oh, sure!” he said, laughing. “I’m Revel Radcliffe. Just Arleth’ll reach me.” Then he hesitated. “Ur—that is—if I stay here. I don’t much think I’m going to. But I’ll let you know if I move on somewhere.”

“Oh, yes! Do, please. I’d like to know how you come out!”

“Okay! I’ll letcha know.”

“Revel is an unusual name,” said the girl. “I like it.”

“Yeh! Mother’s name was Emily Revel.”

“How nice that you have her name! And aren’t any of her people living?”

“Yeh! Got an uncle in China or somewhere. Or maybe he’s over in the English army now. I don’t know. He doesn’t write to us. An’ I’ve got a grandfather!”

“Oh! A grandfather! How nice! Why don’t you go and talk it over with him? Wouldn’t he give you good advice on your problems?”

The boy was silent for a moment, staring at the girl in the gathering twilight.

“That’s an idea!” he said slowly. “I might. I’ll havta think it over. You see, my dad never has anything to do with the Revels. I’ve lately got in the habit of not thinking of Grandfather as a part of the family. Dad doesn’t like him. It’s some old grudge, I guess. Thanks for the suggestion, though. Maybe there’s something in it. It might be a place to go, if he’s still there. Now! Have you got your breath? All set? Well, let’s go! Take hold of my hand. I know the smooth places.”

His firm young hand caught the girl’s hand warmly, and they started across the close-clipped turf where the cows had been carefully mowing the new little grass blades all day long.

Swiftly and silently they sped over the meadow, hearing the distant sounds of the night, the whirr of a siren off in the distance where the sky shadowed forth a flush of brilliant flame, the sound of cars along the highway not far off, the clock on the town hall in Afton striking.

“Mercy! Is it as late as that?” the girl exclaimed. “I certainly am in bad now.”

“Sorry!” said Revel. “It was all my fault. I knew it was dinnertime when I left my house. Dad sent me up to get cleaned up for dinner, and I just streaked it out the back door and cut up to my woods. I couldn’t see sitting at the table across from Dad and having him watch every bite I took, and how glum I looked. He would have talked about it, bawled me out, tried to make me smile and like what he told me, and I couldn’t see that. I never could eat when I was upset.”

“Why, I’m that way, too,” said Margaret. “Well, I’m just as sorry as I can be for you, but I’m positive God will work out some way for you, and you won’t need to be sorrowful all your life. I wish this was my own home I’m going to, and I’d ask you in to eat with me, but you might not care to go to Mrs. Martin’s table.”

“Not on your life!” said Revel fervently. “I’ll take you in if you’re scared to go, and help you explain, but I couldn’t eat a bite in that old rhinoceros’s house. Say, I believe that’s her jalopy coming now. Where did she go? Chenango? Because that old car is coming down the Chenango dirt road. See the old-style high back? Nothing streamlined about that lady. Say, if we hurry across the next meadow, I believe we can beat her to it. Here, creep under this rail. I’ll lift this end. Now, let’s go!”

They went like two lithe young shadows across the dusky meadow and arrived at the highway before the old jalopy had barely turned the corner into the main road.

“Now,” he said, “streak it across and slide into those bushes. Then you can get into the house before she turns in the drive. And say, don’t let her know you’ve just got in, if you can help it. Anyhow, just laugh it off. I’m all kinds of sorry I got you into this. It’s all my fault. And say, I’m mighty grateful! Maybe I won’t see you anymore, but—this is to remember me by—”And suddenly he came quite close in the shadow of the tall osage orange bushes that hedged the next meadow, laid his lips shyly, awkwardly on hers, and kissed her tenderly, as if it were something very sacred he was doing.

“Now, go! Quick! She’s coming!”

He wrung her hand fervently and pushed her forward.

But the girl drew back and turned toward him.

“Listen, Revel,” she said in a low, vibrant tone, her lips close to his ear, “you will talk to God about your trouble before you do anything, won’t you? And—I won’t forget to pray.”

Then she was off like a streak in the darkness, disappearing among the bushes across the road, with just the sight of a small white hand waving farewell.

He watched till he saw her run lightly up the front steps, into the open front door, and give just one glance back across her shoulder into the darkness.

Then the rambling old Martin car came rattling down the road and turned in the drive, hurriedly, as if the woman driving was almost out of breath with worry. She drew up in front of the steps.

“Is that you, Margaret?” she called in the unreserved voice of the habitual country dweller, who isn’t afraid that the neighbors can hear her.

“Yes, Mrs. Martin.” Revel heard the girl’s voice, clear and sweet. The same gentle voice that had only a few minutes ago been talking so comfortingly to him.

“Well, I’m just ashamed as I can be. I got held up, and I couldn’t help it. There were two women came over from Chenango way, and they had expected their cousin to meet them at the meeting and take them home, but she wasn’t there, and when they telephoned to see where she was, the one who drives had a sick baby and couldn’t come, so I had to offer to take them home. Wasn’t that awful? And when I got to Chenango I found the other woman lived five miles beyond Chenango, and I had to take her home. There just wasn’t anything else to do, you know. I’ve been doing some wild driving all the way back. I was afraid you’d be half starved, you poor child! Come on in, and let’s have supper right away. I declare, I don’t know when I’ve been so upset!”

Revel stood there in the shelter of the bushes, listening for a minute or two. He heard the hired man coming briskly across the gravel drive to get the car and drive it back to the garage. He heard Margaret Weldon’s light footsteps running upstairs. He saw a light spring up in the front room, and the girl standing before the bureau, brushing her hair, patting the two little rose-colored bows that held it. Then the light went out, and he heard her running down the stairs again as a little silver bell tinkled a call. He glanced down a dimly lighted hall and could just see a table set for dinner. He saw the girl take her place at one side. Then Susie the maid came and closed the door, and he couldn’t see Margaret anymore. So he turned and made his way slowly down the road, wondering what he had better do now.

Chapter 2

After Mrs. Martin had muttered through a perfunctory grace at the table, she looked up brightly at her young guest as she began to serve the chicken from the large willowware platter that Susie had set before her.

“Well, my dear, what kind of time did you have? Weren’t you bored to death? I do wish you had gone with me. The woman from China was most inspiring. I’m sure you would have enjoyed her. But I spent a good deal of my time worrying about you, all alone, trailing around strange country roads. Did you find the schoolhouse your mother used to attend? I was thinking afterward that I was afraid I didn’t make my directions clear, I was really so upset to have to go off and leave you alone that way.”

“Oh, but I had a beautiful time, Mrs. Martin. Yes, I found the school all right and walked in one of the halls and peeked in a classroom. There was no one, of course, who would have known where Mother used to sit. But it was all right. I saw the building. And then I saw the church and looked in the door there, trying to think of Mother sitting in one of those pews.”

“You dear child! That was sweet of you to care so much for your mother’s childhood! And what did you do after that?”

“Oh, I took a walk. Mother had described some of the places where she used to go for picnics, and I thought I recognized a lane that led to a hill. I stopped awhile by the way and watched two birds building a nest. And there was a little red chipmunk up on a branch chattering at me, just as if he were scolding me. It was very funny. You know, Mrs. Martin, I’ve been cooped up in the city for two whole years now, and it’s wonderful to get out in the open and watch the birds and the trees and the clouds. It made me glad all through.”

“Oh, really, my dear? Well, that’s very nice. But I imagine if you were cooped up in the country for two whole years, you’d be very glad to get a chance to hear a wonderful lady from China tell of what is going on there.”

“Yes, Mrs. Martin. Perhaps I would. And I’m sorry if I disappointed you, but you know it was the one thing I wanted to come this way for, that I might see the places where my mother used to be. But I’m truly sorry if it upset your plans.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, my dear, if you like that sort of thing. One must expect young people to have their own opinions about what they want to see and do. But didn’t you get very tired on such a long walk? You went so far. I don’t see why you didn’t lose your way.”

“Oh, I did get a little turned around, and I was afraid I might keep your dinner waiting. But I asked a nice boy I happened to meet, and he showed me the way back.”

“H’m!” said Mrs. Martin placidly. “That must have been little Joey Wetherby. He’s always so kind and gentle. About ten years old, was he, with freckles and a pug nose? Rides a bicycle? I’ve heard of more kind acts that child has done for people, especially strangers. He’s a Boy Scout, you know, and proud of it. Was that near home here?”

“No,” said the girl evasively, “it was farther away, up near the woods.”

“Woods!” said Mrs. Martin. “And getting dark! Oh, no, that couldn’t have been Joey. He wouldn’t have been allowed to go up to the woods near dark. He’s only a child, you know, and there aren’t any woods near his home.”

“This boy was not a child,” said Margaret thoughtfully. “He was almost a young man. He looked like a high school student and was quite good-looking.”

“My dear!” said the shocked voice of the lady. “But you shouldn’t have asked a strange young man of that age. Surely if you had kept on, you would have come to a nice farmhouse where it would be perfectly respectable for you to ask the way.”

“Oh, this boy was very polite, Mrs. Martin. He was a perfect gentleman. And I thought it was important to get back quickly before the darkness really came. By the way, Mrs. Martin, when is my uncle returning? Tonight, or in the morning?”

“Oh, he’ll be on the midnight train, he said. I’m sending the man down to the station in Arleth to meet him. But—this young man you met, you don’t know what his name was, I suppose.”

“Why, yes,” said Margaret in a clear, matter-of-fact tone. “He said his name was Radcliffe.”

“Not Radcliffe!” exclaimed the lady horrified. “My dear! I shouldn’t have gone off and left you! How wonderful that you got safely home! My dear, if that was Hiram Radcliffe, you don’t know what you’ve escaped. My child, that boy is a menace! He came on my premises once and fished, when there is a perfectly plain sign up warning people that it’s private property—”

Suddenly Margaret remembered how Revel had told her of the fish this lady was trying to “identify,” and a wave of her quick sense of humor came over her and almost choked her. She took a swallow of water and smothered her laughter in her napkin, hoping the subject would change. But Mrs. Martin was not easily turned aside from any object she was pursuing.

“To return to this reprehensible boy, did he say his first name was Hiram? He’s named after his father! And he’s a shame and disgrace to an honorable name. Didn’t he tell you his name was Hiram?”

“Oh, no,” said Margaret. “He said his name was Revel. He is named after his mother’s family.”

“Exactly! There you have it! Disloyal to his father, that’s what I call it. His father is one of the foremost businessmen in town, and everybody defers to him, and yet that boy has the nerve to go around calling himself Revel. I never knew the Revels myself. They live in another state, but I should imagine they were kind of a shiftless lot. I know Mr. Radcliffe never had much to do with them. And as for his wife, she was a colorless little thing, never took any part in civic affairs, and kept to herself most of the time. She had an unhappy, discontented look around her mouth. I never could stand that. A woman who lived in the finest house in town and had all the servants she could possibly use, even in that big house! And yet with all that, and new silk dresses every time the season changed, she used to go around with the most forlorn look in her eyes, a look as if she’d been crying all night. Spoiled child, I’ll say she was!”

Then Margaret remembered how Revel had told her that his father had made his mother unhappy, and looking at the smug, complacent set of Mrs. Martin’s lips, her heart jumped at once to the defense of the woman whose boy had loved her so. Impulsively, she opened her lips in defense of Revel’s dead mother and then remembered that nothing she, a stranger, could say would have weight with a woman like Mrs. Martin. So she closed her lips firmly and set a watch before them. Anyway this was something she had not a right to discuss.

Mrs. Martin rambled on with her analysis of young Radcliffe’s character, but Margaret said no more, and as soon as opportunity offered she asked a question about some night bird whose call she had heard as she slipped through the hedge. She got Mrs. Martin off to discussing birds, especially the edible ones of which she had a great many in her chicken yard, dove cote, and down at her duck pond. And somehow the conversation drifted away from dangerous topics.

Margaret had hoped that Mrs. Martin would be able to tell her a little bit about the days when her mother lived there, but Mrs. Martin didn’t at all remember the little girl who had gone away when she was only in grammar school and had later married an unknown person named Weldon, so there was not much information to be extracted from her on that subject.

After the evening meal Mrs. Martin got out an old photograph album, and Margaret had to hear long, monotonous stories of the people enshrined in it. Her thoughts wandered away from the dreary stories of men and women who had lived and died in that vicinity. Only once did her interest rouse, and that was when she caught the familiar face of her mother’s old teacher.