Seven Miles to Arden

by Ruth Sawyer

  XV

  ARDEN

  Summer must have made one day in June purposely as a settingfor a pastoral comedy; and chance stole it, like a kindly knave,and gave it to the Sylvan Players. Never did a gathering of peoplelook down from the rise of a natural amphitheater upon a fairer scene;a Forest of Arden, built by the greatest scenic artist since theworld began. Birds flew about the trees and sang--whenever theorchestra permitted; a rabbit or two scuttled out from underrhododendron-bushes and skipped in shy ingenue fashion across thestage; while overhead a blue, windless sky spread radiance aboutplayers and audience alike.

  Shorn of so much of the theatricalism of ordinary stage performances,there was reality and charm about this that warmed the spectatorsinto frequent bursts of spontaneous enthusiasm which were as draughtsof elixir to the players. Those who were playing creditably playedwell; those who were playing well excelled themselves, and Patsyoutplayed them all.

  She lived every minute of the three hours that spanned the throwingof Charles, the wrestler, and her promise "to make all this mattereven." There was no touch of coarseness in her rollicking laughter,no hoydenish swagger in her masquerading; it was all subtly,irresistibly feminine. And George Travis, watching from the obscurityof a back seat, pounded his knee with triumph and swore he would makeher the greatest Shakespearean actress of the day.

  As Hymen sang her parting song, Patsy scanned the sea of faces beyondthe bank of juniper which served instead of footlights. Already shehad picked out Travis, Janet Payne and her party, the people fromQuality House, who still gaped at her, unbelieving, and youngPeterson-Jones, looking more melancholy, myopic, and poetical thanbefore. But the one face she hoped to find was missing, even amongthe stragglers at the back; and it took all her self-control to keepdisappointment and an odd, hurt feeling out of her voice as she gavethe epilogue.

  On the way to her tent--a half-score of them were used asdressing-rooms behind the stage--George Travis overtook her. "It'sall right, girl. You've made a bigger hit than even I expected. I'mgoing to try you out in--"

  Patsy cut him short. "You sat at the back. Did you see a vagabond ladhanging around anywhere--with a limp to him?"

  The manager looked at her with amused toleration. "Does a mere manhappen to be of more consequence this minute than your success? Oh, Isay, that's not like you, Irish Patsy!"

  She crimsoned, and the manager teased no more. "We play Greyfriarsto-morrow and back to Brambleside the day after; and I've made up mymind to try you out there in Juliet. If you can handle tragedy as youcan comedy, I'll star you next winter on Broadway. Oh, your future'svery nearly made, you lucky girl!"

  But Patsy, slipping into her tent, hardly heard the last. If theyplayed Greyfriars the next day, that meant they would leave Arden onthe first train after they were packed; and that meant she waspassing once and for all beyond tramping reach of the tinker. Therewas a dull ache at her heart which she attempted neither to explainnor to analyze; it was there--that was enough. With impatient fingersshe tore off Rosalind's wedding finery and attacked her make-up. Thenshe lingered over her dressing, hoping to avoid the rest of thecompany and any congratulatory friends who might happen to bebrowsing around. She wanted to be alone with her memories--to haveand to hold them a little longer before they should grow too dim andfar away.

  A hand scratched at the flap of her tent and Janet Payne's voicebroke into her reverie: "Can't we see you, please, for just a moment?We'll solemnly promise not to stay long."

  Patsy hooked back the flap and forced the semblance of a welcome intoher greeting.

  "It was simply ripping!" chorused the Dempsy Carters, each gripping ahand.

  Janet Payne looked down upon her with adoring eyes. "It was the best,the very best I've ever seen you or any one else play it. For thefirst time Rosalind seemed a real girl."

  But it was the voice of Gregory Jessup that carried above the others:"Have you heard, Miss O'Connell? Burgeman died last night, and Billywas with him. He's come home."

  "Faith! then there's some virtue in signs, after all."

  A hush fell on the group. Patsy suddenly put out her hand. "I'm gladfor you--I'm glad for him; and I hope it ended right. Did you seehim?"

  "For a few minutes. There wasn't time to say much; but he looked likea man who had won out. He said he and the old man had had a goodtalk together for the first time in their lives--said it had givenhim a father whose memory could never shame him or make him bitter. Iwanted to tell you, so you wouldn't have him on your mind anylonger."

  She smiled retrospectively. "Thank you; but I heaved him off nearlytwenty-four hours ago."

  Left to herself again, she finished her packing; then tying under herchin a silly little poke-bonnet of white chiffon and corn-flowers,still somewhat crushed from its long imprisonment in a trunk, shewent back for a last glimpse of the Forest and her Greenwood tree.

  The place was deserted except for the teamsters who had come for thetents and the property trunks. A flash of white against the green ofthe tree caught her eye; for an instant she thought it one ofOrlando's poetic effusions, overlooked in the play and sinceforgotten. Idly curious, she pulled it down and read it--once, twice,three times:

  Where twin oaks rustle in the wind, There waits a lad for Rosalind. If still she be so wond'rous kind, Perchance she'll ease the fretted mind That naught can cure--but Rosalind.

  With a glad little cry she crumpled the paper in her hand and fled,straight as a throstle to its mate, to the giant twin oaks whichwere landmarks in the forest. Her eyes were a-search for a vagabondfigure in rags; it was small wonder, therefore, that they refused toacknowledge the man in his well-cut suit of gray who was leaningpartly against the hole of a tree and partly on a pilgrim staff. Shestood and stared and gave no sign of greeting.

  "Well, so the Duke's daughter found her rhyme?"

  "I'm not knowing whether I'll own ye or not. Sure, ye've no longerthe look of an honest tinker; and maybe we'd best part companynow--before we meet at all."

  But the tinker had her firmly by both hands. "That's too late now. Iwould have come in rags if there'd been anything left of them, butthey are the only things I intend to part company with. And do youknow"--he gripped her hands tighter--"I met an acquaintance as I camethis way who told me, with eyes nearly popping out of his head, thatthe wonderful little person who had played herself straight intohundreds of hearts had actually been his cook for three days. Oh,lass! lass! how could you do it!"

  "Troth! God made me a better cook than actress. Ye wouldn't want meto be slighting His handiwork entirely, would ye?"

  The tinker shook his head at her. "Do you know what I wanted to sayto every one of those people who had been watching you? I wanted tosay: 'You think she is a wonderful actress; she is more than that.She is a rare, sweet, true woman, better and finer than any play shemay act in or any part she may play in it. I, the tinker, havediscovered this; and I know her better than does any one else in thewhole world.'"

  "Is that so?" A teasing touch of irony crept into Patsy's voice."'Tis a pity, now, the manager couldn't be hearing ye; he might giveye a chance to understudy Orlando."

  "And you think I'd be content to understudy any one! Why, I'm goingto pitch Orlando straight out of the Forest of Arden; I'm going topull Willie Shakespeare out of his grave and make him rewrite thewhole play--putting a tinker in the leading role."

  "And is it a tragedy ye would have him make it?"

  "Would it be a tragedy to take a tinker 'for better--for worse'?"

  "Faith! that would depend on the tinker."

  "Oh-ho, so it's up to the tinker, is it? Well, the tinker will proveit otherwise; he will guarantee to keep the play running pure comedyto the end. So that settles it, Miss Patricia O'Connell--aliasRosalind, alias the cook--alias Patsy--the best little comrade alonely man ever found. I am going to marry you the day afterto-morrow, right here in Arden."

  Patsy looked at him long and thoughtfully from under the beguilingshadow of the white chiffon,
corn-flower sunbonnet. "'Tis a shame,just, to discourage anything so brave as a self-made--tinker. ButI'll not be here the day after to-morrow. And what's more, a man is afool to marry any woman because he's lonely and she can cook."

  The tinker's eyes twinkled. "I don't know. A man might marry forworse reasons." Then he grew suddenly sober and his eyes looked deepinto hers. "But you know and I know that that is not my reason forwanting you, or yours for taking me."

  "I didn't say I would take ye." This time it was Patsy's eyes thattwinkled. "Do ye think it would be so easy to give up my career--thebig success I've hoped and worked and waited for--just--just for atinker? I'd be a fool to think of it." She was smiling inwardly ather own power of speech, which made what she held as naught sound ofsuch immeasurable consequence.

  But the tinker smiled outwardly. "Where did you say you were going tobe the day after to-morrow?"

  "That's another thing I did not say. If ye are going to marry me 'tisyour business to find me." She freed her hands and started offwithout a backward glance at him.

  "Patsy, Patsy!" he called after her, "wouldn't you like to know thename of the man you're going to marry?"

  She turned and faced him. Framed in the soft, green fringe of thetrees, she seemed to him the very embodiment of young summer--thefree, untrammeled spirit of Arden. Ever since the first he had beengrowing more and more conscious of what she was: a nature vital,beautiful, tender, untouched by the searing things of life--trustingand worthy of trust; but it was not until this moment that herealized the future promise of her. And the realization swept all hissmoldering love aflame into his eyes and lips. His arms went out toher in a sudden, passionate appeal.

  "Patsy--Patsy! Would the name make any difference?"

  "Why should it?" she cried, with saucy coquetry. "I'm marrying theman and not his name. If I can stand the one, I can put up with theother, I'm thinking. Anyhow, 'twill be on the marriage license theday after to-morrow, and that's time enough."

  "Do you really mean you would marry a man, not knowing his name oranything about his family--or his income--or--"

  "That's the civilized way, isn't it?--to find out about those thingsfirst; and afterward it's time enough when you're married to getacquainted with your man. But that's not the way that leads off theroad to Arden--and it's not my way. I know my man now--God blesshim." And away she ran through the trees and out of sight.

  The tinker watched the trees and underbrush swing into place,covering her exit. So tense and motionless he stood, one might havesuspected him of trying to conjure her back again by the simple magicof heart and will. It turned out a disappointing piece of conjuring,however; the green parted again, but not to redisclose Patsy. A man,instead, walked into the open, toward the giant oaks, and one glimpseof him swept the tinker's memory back to a certain afternoon and across-roads. He could see himself sitting propped up by thesign-post, watching the door of a little white church, while down theroad clattered a sorrel mare and a runabout. And the man thatdrove--the man who was trailing Patsy--was the man that came towardhim now, looking for--some one.

  "You haven't seen--" he began, but the tinker interrupted him:

  "Guess not. I've been watching the company break up. Ratherinteresting to any one not used to that sort of thing--don't youthink?"

  The man eyed him narrowly; then cautiously he dropped into anattitude of exaggerated indifference. "It sure is--young feller. Nowyou hain't been watchin' that there leadin' lady more particularly,have you? I sort o' cal'ate she might have a takin' way with thefellers," and he prodded the tinker with a jocular thumb.

  The tinker responded promptly with a foolish grin. "Maybe Ihave; but the luck was dead against me. Guess she had a lot offriends with her. I saw them carry her off in triumph in a bigtouring-car--probably they'll dine her at the country club."

  The man did not wait for further exchange of pleasantries. He tookthe direction the tinker indicated, and the tinker watched him gowith a suppressed chuckle.

  "History positively stutters sometimes. Now if that property-man knewwhat he was talking about the company will be safe out of Ardenbefore a runabout could make the country club and back." But thetinker's mirth was of short duration. With a shout of derision, heslapped the pocket of his trousers viciously.

  "What a confounded fool I am! Why in the name of reason didn't Igive them to him and stop this sleuth business before it really getsher into trouble? Of all the idiotic--senseless--" and, leaning onthe pilgrim staff, he slowly hobbled in the same direction he hadgiven the man.

  * * * * *

  One last piece of news concerning Billy Burgeman came to Patsy beforeshe left Arden that afternoon. Gregory Jessup was at the station tosee her off, and he took her aside for the few minutes before thetrain arrived.

  "I tried to get Billy to join me--knew it would do him good to meetyou; but he wouldn't budge. I rather think he's still a trifle soreon girls. Nothing personal, you understand?"

  Patsy certainly did--far better than his friend knew. In her heartshe was trying her best to be interested and grateful to the RichMan's Son for his unconscious part in her happiness. Had it not beenfor him there would have been no quest, no road; and without the roadthere would have been no tinker; and without the tinker, nohappiness. It was none the less hard to be interested, however, nowthat her mind had given over the lonely occupation of contemplatingmemories for that most magical of all mental crafts--future-building.She jerked up her attention sharply as Gregory Jessup began speakingagain.

  "Billy told me just before I came down why he had gone away; and Iwanted to tell you. I don't know how much you know about the oldman's reputation, but he was credited with being the hardest masterwith his men that you could find either side of the water. In thebeginning he made his money by screwing down the wages and unscrewingthe labor--and no sentiment. That was his slogan. Whether he kept itup from habit or pure cussedness I can't tell, but that's the realreason Billy would never go into his father's business--he couldn'tstand his meanness. The old man's secretary forged a check for tenthousand; Billy caught him and cashed it himself--to save the man. Heshouldered the guilt so his father wouldn't suspect the man and houndhim."

  "I know," said Patsy, forgetting that she was supposed to knownothing. "But why in the name of all the saints did the secretarywant to forge a check?"

  "Why does any one forge? He needs money. When Billy caught him theold fellow went all to pieces and told a pretty tough story. You see,he'd been Burgeman's secretary for almost twenty years, given him thebest years of his life--slaved for him--lied for him--made money forhim. Billy said his father regarded him as an excellent piece ofoffice machinery, and treated him as if he were nothing more. Thepoor chap had always had hard luck; a delicate wife, three or fourchildren who were eternally having or needing something, and poorrelations demanding help he couldn't refuse. Between doctors' billsand clothing--and the relatives--he had no chance to save. At last hebroke down, and the doctor told him it was an outdoor life, withabsolute freedom from the strain of serving a man like Burgeman--orthe undertaker for him. So he went to Burgeman, asked him to loan himthe money to invest in a fruit-farm, and let him pay it off as fastas he could."

  "Well?" Patsy was interested at last.

  "Well, the old man turned him down--shouted his 'no sentiment' sloganat him, and shrugged his shoulders at what the doctor said. He toldhim, flat, that a man who hadn't saved a cent in twenty yearscouldn't in twenty years more; and he only put money into investmentsthat paid. The poor chap went away, frantic, worked himself intothinking he was entitled to that last chance; and when Billy heardthe story he thought so, too. In the end, Billy cashed the check,gave the secretary the money, and they both cleared out. He knew, ifhis father ever suspected the truth, he would have the poor chapfollowed and dragged back to pay the full penalty of the law--he andall his family with him."

  Patsy smiled whimsically. "It sounds so simple and believable whenyou have it explained; but it would ha
ve been rather nice, now, ifBilly Burgeman could have known that one person believed in him fromthe beginning without an explanation."

  "Who did?"

  "Faith! how should I know? I was supposing, just."

  But as Patsy climbed onto the train she muttered under her breath:"We come out even, I'm thinking. If he's missed knowing that, I'vemissed knowing a fine lad."

  XVI

  THE ROAD BEGINS ALL OVER AGAIN

  On the second day following Patsy played Juliet at Brambleside, andmore than satisfied George Travis. While his mind was racing ahead,planning her particular stardom on Broadway, and her mind waspestering her with its fears and uncertainties into a state of"private prostration," the manager of the Brambleside Inn wastelephoning the Green County sheriff to come at once--he had foundthe girl.

  So it came about at the final dropping of the curtain, as Patsy wasclimbing down from her bier, that four eagerly determined menconfronted her, each plainly wishful to be the first to gain herattention.

  "Well," said the tinker, pointedly, "are you ready?"

  "It's all settled." Travis was jubilant. "You'll play Broadway forsix months next winter--or I'm no manager."

  It was the manager of the Brambleside Inn and the Green Countysheriff, however, who gave the greatest dramatic effect. They placedthemselves adroitly on either side of Patsy and announced together:"You're under arrest!"

  "Holy Saint Patrick!" Patsy hardly knew whether to be amused orangry. With the actual coming of the tinker, and the laying of herfears, her mind seemed strangely limp and inadequate. Her lipsquivered even as they smiled. "Maybe I had best go back to my bier;you couldn't arrest a dead Capulet."

  But George Travis swept her aside; he saw nothing amusing in thesituation. "What do you mean by insulting Miss O'Connell and myselfby such a performance? Why should she be under arrest--for being oneof the best Shakespearean actresses we've had in this country formany a long, barren year?"

  "No! For stealing two thousand dollars' worth of diamonds from aguest in this hotel the night she palmed herself off as Miss St.Regis!" The manager of the Inn bit off his words as if he thoroughlyenjoyed their flavor.

  "But she never was here," shouted Travis.

  "Yes, I was," contradicted Patsy.

  "And she sneaked off in the morning with the jewels," growled themanager.

  "And I trailed over the country for four days, trying to find thegirl in a brown suit that he'd described--said she was on her way toArden. I'd give a doggoned big cigar to know where you was all thattime." And there was something akin to admiration in the sheriff'sexpression.

  But Patsy did not see. She was looking hard at the tinker, with anodd little smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

  The tinker smiled back, while he reached deep into his trouserspocket and brought out a small package which he presented to thesheriff. "Are those what you are looking for?"

  They were five unset diamonds.

  "Well, I'll be hanged! Did she give them to you?" The manager of theInn looked suspiciously from the tinker to Patsy.

  "No; she didn't know I had them--didn't even know they existed andthat she was being trailed as a suspected thief. Why, what's thematter?" For Patsy had suddenly grown white and her lips weretrembling past control.

  "Naught--naught they could understand. But I'm finding out there wasmore than one quest on the road to Arden, more than one soul whofared forth to help another in trouble. And my heart is breaking,just, with the memory of it." And Patsy sank back on the bier andcovered her face.

  "What is it, dear?" whispered a distressed tinker.

  "Don't ask--now--here. Sometime I'll be telling ye."

  "Well"--the sheriff thumbed the armholes of his vest in abusiness-like manner--"I cal'ate we've waited about long enough,young man; supposin' you explain how you come to have those stones inyour possession; and why you lied to me about her and sent me hikingoff to that country club--when you knew durned well where she was."

  The tinker laughed in spite of himself. "Certainly; it's very simple.I found these, in a suit of rags which I saw on a tramp the morningyou lost the diamonds--and Miss O'Connell. I liked the rags so wellthat I paid the tramp to change clothes with me; he took mine andgave me his, along with a knockout blow for good measure."

  The manager of the Inn interrupted with an exclamation of surprise:"So! You were the young fellow they picked up senseless by thestables that morning. When the grooms saw the other man running, theymade out it was you who had struck him first."

  "Wish I had. But I squared it off with him a few days later," thetinker chuckled. "At the time I couldn't make out why he struck meexcept to get the rest of the money I had; but of course he wantedto get the stones he'd sewed up in these rags and forgotten. I beganto suspect something when I found you trailing Miss O'Connell."

  "See here, young man, and wasn't you the feller that put me on thewrong road twice?" The sheriff laid a hand of the law suggestivelyagainst his chest.

  The tinker chuckled again. "I certainly was. It would have beenpretty discouraging for Miss O'Connell if you'd found her before wehad the defense ready; and it would have been awkward for you--tohave to take a lady in custody."

  "I cal'ate that's about right." And the sheriff relaxed into a grin.Suddenly he turned to the manager of the Inn and pounded his palmwith his fist. "By Jupiter! I betcher that there tramp is the fellerthat's been cleanin' up these parts for the past two years. Hangsround as a tramp at back doors and stables, and picks up whatinformation he needs to break into the house easy. Never hitched himup in my mind to the thefts afore--but I cal'ate it's the oneman--and he's it."

  "Guess you're right," the tinker agreed. "Last Saturday, when I cameupon him again--in an automobile--still in my clothes, we had a finalfight for the possession of the rags, which I still wore, and the--"But he never finished.

  Patsy had sprung to her feet and was looking at him, bewilderment,accusation, almost fright, showing through her tears. "Yourclothes--your clothes! You wore a--Then you are--"

  "Hush!" said the tinker. He turned to the others. "I think that isall, gentlemen. I searched the rags after I had finished my scorewith the thief and found the stones. I brought them over thisafternoon to return to their rightful owner. I might have returnedthem that day after the play--but I forgot until the sheriff hadgone. You are entirely welcome. Good afternoon!" He dismissed thempromptly, but courteously, as if the stage had been his owndrawing-room and the two had suddenly expressed a desire to taketheir leave.

  At the wings he left them and came back direct to George Travis."There is more thieving to be done this afternoon, and I am going todo it. I am going to steal your future star, right from under yournose; and I shall never return her."

  "What do you mean?" Travis stared at him blankly.

  "Just what I say; Miss O'Connell and I are to be married thisafternoon in Arden."

  "That's simply out of the--"

  Patsy, who had found her tongue at last, laid a coaxing hand onTravis's arm. "No, it isn't. I wired Miriam yesterday--to see if shewas really as sick as you thought. She was sick; but she's ever somuch better and her nerves are not going to be nearly as troublesomeas she feared. She's quite willing to come back and take her oldplace, and she'll be well enough next week." Patsy's voice had becomevibrant with feeling. "Now don't ye be hard-hearted and think I'mungrateful. We've all been playing in a bigger comedy than WillieShakespeare ever wrote; and, sure, we've got to be playing it out tothe end as it was meant to be."

  "And you mean to give up your career, your big chance of success?"Travis still looked incredulous. "Don't you realize you'll befamous--famous and rich!" he emphasized the last word unduly.

  It set Patsy's eyes to blazing. "Aye, I'd no longer be like GrannyDonoghue's lean pig, hungry for scrapings. Well, I'd rather be hungryfor scrapings than starving for love. I knew one woman who threw awaylove to be famous and rich, and I watched her die. Thank God she'skept my feet from that road! Sure, I wouldn't be rich--" She cho
kedsuddenly and looked helplessly at the tinker.

  "Neither would I." And he spoke with a solemn conviction.

  In the end Travis gave in. He took his disappointment and his losslike the true gentleman he was, and sent them away with his blessing,mixed with an honest twinge of self-pity. It was not, however, untilPatsy turned to wave him a last farewell and smile a last gratefulsmile from under the white chiffon, corn-flower sunbonnet that heremembered that convention had been slighted.

  "Wait a minute," he said, running after them. "If I am not mistaken Ihave not had the pleasure of meeting your--future husband; perhapsyou'll introduce us--"

  For once in her life Patsy looked fairly aghast, and Travis repeated,patiently, "His name, Irish Patsy--I want to know his name."

  The tinker might have helped her out, but he chose otherwise. He keptsilent, his eyes on Patsy's as if he would read her answer therebefore she spoke it to Travis.

  "Well," she said at last, slowly, "maybe I'm not sure of itmyself--except--I'm knowing it must be a good tinker name." And thenlaughter danced all over her face. "I'll tell ye; ye can be readingit to-morrow--in the papers." Whereupon she slipped her arm throughthe tinker's, and he led her away.

  And so it came to pass that once more Patsy and the tinker foundthemselves tramping the road to Arden; only this time it was down thestraight road marked, "Seven Miles," and it was early evening insteadof morning.

  "Do ye think we'll reach it now?" inquired Patsy.

  "We have reached it already; we're just going back."

  "And what happened to the brown dress?"

  "I burned it that night in the cottage--to fool the sheriff."

  "And I thought that night it was me ye had tricked--just for the whimof it. Did ye know who I was--by chance?"

  "Of course I knew. I had seen you with the Irish Players many, manytimes, and I knew you the very moment your voice came over the roadto me--wishing me 'a brave day.'" The tinker's eyes deepened withtenderness. "Do you think for a moment if I hadn't known somethingabout you--and wasn't hungering to know more--that I would haveschemed and cheated to keep your comradeship?"

  "Ye might tell me, then, how ye came to know about the cottage--andhow your picture ever climbed to the mantel-shelf?"

  "You know--I meant to burn that along with the dress--and I forgot.What did you think when you discovered it?"

  "Faith! I thought it was the picture of the truest gentleman God hadever made--and I fetched it along with me--for company."

  The tinker threw back his head and laughed as of old. "What will poorold Greg say when he finds it gone? Oh, I know how you almost stolehis faithful old heart by being so pitying of his friend--and how youmade the sign for him to follow--"

  "Aye," agreed Patsy, "but what of the cottage?"

  "That belongs to Greg's father; he and the girls are West thissummer, so the cottage was closed."

  "And the breakfast with the throstles and the lady's-slippers?"

  The tinker laid his finger over her lips. "Please, sweetheart--don'ttry to steal away all the magic and the poetry from our road. Youwill leave it very barren if you do--'I'm thinking.'"

  Silence held their tongues until curiosity again loosened Patsy's."And what started ye on the road in rags? Ye have never reallyanswered that."

  "I have never honestly wanted to; it is not a pleasant answer." Hedrew Patsy closer, and his hands closed over hers. "Promise you willnever think of it again, that you and I will forget that part of theroad--after to-day?"

  Patsy nodded.

  "I borrowed the rags so that it would take a pretty smart coroner toidentify the person in it after the train had passed under thesuspension-bridge from which he fell--by accident. Don't shudder,dear. Was it so terrible--that wish to get away from a world thatheld nothing, not even some one to grieve? Remember, when I startedthere wasn't a soul who believed in me, who would care much one wayor another--unless, perhaps, poor old Greg."

  "Would ye mind letting me look at the marriage license? I'd like tobe seeing it written down."

  The tinker produced it, and she read "William Burgeman." Then sheadded, with a stubborn shake of the head, "Mind, though, I'll not berich."

  "You will not have to be. Father has left me absolutely nothing forten years; after that I can inherit his money or not, as we choose.It's a glorious arrangement. The money is all disposed of to goodcivic purpose, if we refuse. I am very glad it's settled that way;for I'm afraid I would never have had the heart to come to you, dear,dragging all those millions after me."

  "Then it is a free, open road for the both of us; and, please Heaven!we'll never misuse it." She laughed joyously; some day she would tellhim of her meeting with his father; life was too full now for that.

  The tinker fell into his old swinging stride that Patsy had found sohard to keep pace with; and silence again held their tongues.

  "Do you think we shall find the castle with a window for every day inthe year?" the tinker asked at last.

  "Aye. Why not? And we'll be as happy as I can tell ye, and twice ashappy as ye can tell me. Doesn't every lad and lass find it anew forthemselves when they take to the long road with naught but love andtrust in their hearts--and their hands together? They may find itwhen they're young--they may not find it till they're old--but itwill be there, ever beckoning them on--with the purple hills risingtoward it. And there's a miracle in the castle that I've never toldye: no matter how old and how worn and how stooped the lad and hislass may have grown, there he sees her only fresh and fair and shesees him only brave and straight and strong."

  She stopped and faced him, her hands slipping out of his and creepingup to his shoulders and about his neck. "Dear lad--promise me onething!--promise me we shall never forget the road! No matter howsnugly we may be housed, or how close comfort and happiness sit atour hearthside--we'll be faring forth just once in so often--to touchearth again. And we'll help to keep faith in human nature--aye, andsimple-hearted kindness alive in the world; and we'll make ourfriends by reason of that and not because of the gold we may or maynot be having."

  "And do you still think kindness is the greatest thing in the world?"

  "No. There is one thing better; but kindness tramps mortal close atits heels." Patsy's hands slipped from his shoulders; she claspedthem together in sudden intensity. "Haven't ye any curiosity at allto know what fetched me after ye?"

  "Yes. But there is to-morrow--and all the days after--to tell me."

  "No, there is just to-day. The telling of it is the only wedding-giftI have for ye, dear lad. I was with Marjorie Schuyler in the den thatday you came to her and told her."

  "You heard everything?"

  "Aye."

  "And you came, believing in me, after all?"

  "I came to show you there was one person in the world who trustedyou, who would trust you across the world and back again. That's allthe wedding-gift I have for ye, dear, barring love."

  And then and there--in the open road, still a good three miles fromthe Arden church--the tinker gathered her close in the embrace he hadkept for her so long.

  * * * * *

  Transcriber's note:

  Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words andintent.