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FATHER ORIN AND TOBY MEET TOMMY DYE
Under the spur of his conscience the young doctor rode fast. He was notthe man to let duty wait even on love, without trying to make amends.But a sharper pang stung him when he reached the desolate cabin in whichthe Cold Plague had left the orphans.
It seemed to him that Toby, standing by the broken door, gave him a lookof reproach. Toby had not failed or been slow in doing his part; FatherOrin and he had already done all that they could, though this waspiteously little. The one had cut fire-wood from the near-by fallentrees, and the other had drawn it to the cabin door, so that there was agood fire blazing on the earthen hearth. But the rotting, falling logsof the cabin's walls were far apart, the mud which had once made themsnug having dropped out; and the chilly, rising wind blew bitterlythrough the miserable hut. The covers on the bed were few and thin,although Father Orin had spread Toby's blanket over them. The threelittle white faces lying in a pathetic row on the ragged pillows, lay sostill that the doctor was not sure they were alive, till the oldestchild, a boy of three, languidly opened his eyes, looked up unseeingly,and wearily closed them again.
There was a tightening in the doctor's throat when he turned away, andhe was glad to smile at Father Orin's housekeeping. The priest certainlyhad left nothing in his power undone, to keep life in the frail littlebodies. On the hearth was such food as he had been able to prepare,carefully covered to keep it warm. As the young man's gaze thus wanderedsadly about the cabin, his eyes encountered the old man's. The laughterwith which he was fighting emotion died on his lips, and their hands metin a close clasp.
"The poor little things!" the young man said. "Ah, Father, it is wildwork--this making of a state. The soil of Kentucky should bear a richharvest. It is being deeply sown in pain and sorrow, and well-wateredwith tears and blood."
They stood silent for a moment, looking helplessly at the bed and thelittle white faces.
"What shall we do?" then asked Father Orin. "These children can't stayhere through another night. That wind blows right over the bed, andthere is no way to keep it out. They could hardly live till morning. Andyet they may die on the way if we try to take them to the Sisters atonce."
"That is their only chance. We are bound to take the risk. We must doour best to get them to the Sisters as quickly as possible. Women knowbetter than doctors how to take care of babies. What is there to putround them--to wrap them in?"
There were no wrappings, nothing that could be used for the purpose,except the bed covers and Toby's blanket. The men took these and withawkward tenderness covered the helpless, limp little bodies as well asthey could. Father Orin then went out of the cabin, and with a nodsummoned Toby to do his part. When the priest was seated in the saddle,the doctor turned back to the bed, and lifting one of the three limplittle burdens, carried it out and carefully placed it in Father Orin'sarms.
"But you can't carry both of the others," said the priest, in suddenperplexity. "And we can't leave one here alone while we take the othersand return. Maybe it would be better to take one at a time. I can eitherstay or go."
"Oh, no, indeed! I can take these two easy enough--one on each arm. Theyweigh nothing--poor little atoms--and I don't need a hand for the reins.My horse often goes in a run with them thrown over the pommel. He wenton a bee-line with them so last night."
With both arms thus filled with the helpless morsels of humanity, he hadno trouble in seating himself in the saddle. He laughed a little,thinking what a spectacle they must make; and Father Orin laughed too,with the shamefacedness that the best men feel when they do suchgentle things. And then the strange, pathetic journey through thewilderness began.
Father Orin and Toby.]
"Steady, Toby. That's right, old man," said the priest, now and then.
The doctor kept a close, anxious watch over the child in Father Orin'sarms, and frequently glanced down at the two little faces lying in thehollow of his own arms. Any one of the three,--or all of them--mightcease to breathe at any moment. It seemed to both the anxious men thatthey were a long time in going to the Sisters' house, although thedistance was but a few miles. When the log refuge first came in sightthrough the trees, they breathed a deep sigh of relief in the samebreath. The Sisters, who had been warned, saw them coming, and ran tomeet them, and took the babies from their arms. When the little ones hadbeen borne in the house and put to bed, the doctor sat down beside themto see what more might be done. But the priest, without rest or delay,set out on another errand of mercy. Toby, needing no word or hint, atonce quickened his pace, knowing full well the difference between thisbusiness and that which was just finished, so far as they wereresponsible.
"You're right, old man. Keep us up to the mark, right up to the mark,"chuckled Father Orin. "I'm mighty tired, and I'm afraid I might shirk ifyou would let me."
As he bent down with a bantering chuckle to pat the horse's inflexibleneck, a man's voice suddenly hailed them from the darkening woods lyingat their back.
"Hello! Hello! Hold on!" the unseen man shouted.
They turned quickly and stood still, looking in the direction from whichthe shouting came. A horseman soon appeared under the trees and camegalloping after them, and when he had drawn nearer, the priest saw, withsome annoyance, that it was Tommy Dye. As he reined up beside them, Tobyturned his head slowly and gave the horse precisely the same look thatFather Orin gave the rider. Toby wanted to have nothing more to do witha tricky race-horse than Father Orin wished to have to do with a shadyadventurer.
Tommy Dye looked at them both with a grin. "I saw you just now--you andthe new doctor--a-toting them there youngsters."
Father Orin straightened up, feeling and showing the embarrassment andindignation that every man, lay and clerical alike, feels and shows atbeing seen by another man acting as a nurse to a child.
"Well, what of it?" he retorted, as naturally as if he had never worn acassock.
Tommy Dye grinned again, more broadly than before. He took off his hatand rubbed his shock of red hair the wrong way. The humor of therecollection became too much for him, and he roared with laughter. Tobyof his own indignant accord now moved to go on, and Father Orin gatheredup the reins saying rather shortly that he had urgent business, and mustbe riding along.
"I say--wait a minute. What makes you in such an all-fired hurry?" TommyDye called after them.
Toby stopped reluctantly, and he and Father Orin waited with visibleunwillingness, until Tommy Dye came up again and stammeringly began whathe had to say. He did not know how to address a priest. He had neverbefore had occasion to speak to a churchman of any denomination. So thathe now plunged in without any address at all:
"I say--who pays for them there youngsters, yonder?" he blurted.
Father Orin merely looked at him in silence for a moment, and thengathered up the reins once more.
Tommy Dye saw that there was something amiss, that he had made somemistake, and not knowing what it was, he resorted to the means which heusually employed to set all matters right. He hastily plunged his handin the outer pocket of his coat, and then dropped the bottle back in itsplace still more hastily, after another glance at the priest.
"Well, I thought you might like it," he said with a touch of defiance,feeling it necessary to assert himself. "When a man's face is as red asyours, I don't see why a fellow mightn't ask him to take a drink."
Father Orin laughed with ready good humor.
"My face is red, my friend. I can't deny that fact; but the rednesscomes from a thin skin and rough weather. What is it you want? I haven'ttime to wait."
"Say, I kinder thought, seeing you and the doctor with them babies justnow,"--grinning again at the comical recollection--"that maybe you wouldlet me come into the game. I'd like to take a hand in the deal, ifthere's room for another player. I'll put up the stakes right now." Hishand went into his breeches pocket this time. "Here's the roll I won onthe fall races. Put it all up on the game. What's the odds? Come easy,go easy."
; He held out the money. "I saw you at the court-house, too," he addedsheepishly, as if trying to excuse what he did.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Father Orin, gravely. "I didn'tunderstand. I've done you great injustice."
"Hey? What did you say?"
"The Sisters would be only too glad to use this money for thosechildren, and for other little ones just as helpless and needy,"murmuring something about the use purifying the source. "But I want youto take it to them yourself, and give it to them with your own hands."
"Me! Old Tommy Dye!"
The coarse face actually turned pale under its big freckles. Its dismaywas so comical that Father Orin laughed till the woods rang with hishearty, merry voice. Toby turned his head in sober disapproval of suchunseemly levity, and Tommy Dye was a good deal miffed.
"'Pears to me you are mighty lively--and most of the time, too," hesaid, in a tone of offence, tinged with wonder.
"Why not?" said the priest, still chuckling. "Why shouldn't I belively?"
Tommy Dye hesitated, more puzzled now than angry. "Well, you see, yourjob has always seemed to me just about the lonesomest there is."
Father Orin began to laugh again, but he was hushed by the soft, sweetpealing of the Angelus through the shadowed forest. The gambler alsolistened, with a softening change in the recklessness of his face.
"The sound of that bell always makes me feel queer," he stammered. "Itsets me to thinking about home, too,--and home folks. I'm blamed if Ican see how it is. I never had any home, and if I've got any kin-folks,I don't know where they live. But anyhow, that's the way the ringing ofthat bell always makes me feel. Say! there's lots of things about yourchurch that come over a fellow like that. Now there the very name ofthat little house back yonder amongst them trees--Our Lady's Chapel.That's just it--just to the notch what I mean--there's something kindof homelike in the name itself. And that's the very difference betweenyour church and the other churches. The Protestant church seems reallonesome, like a sort of bachelor's hall. The Catholic church makes youfeel at home, because there's always a mother in the house."
"Take care!" exclaimed the priest. "But I am sure you don't mean to beirreverent, my friend. And about your generosity to the orphans. Here,let me give the money back. I am in earnest in asking you to give it tothe Sisters with your own hands. When they see you and you see them, youwill both understand each other better than if I were to try ever solong and hard to explain."
He looked at Tommy Dye for a moment with a returning smile, but the pityof it all put the humor aside.
"The doctor will be coming along in a moment--ah, there he comes now! Iwill ask him to go with you to see the Sisters. I am sorry that I cannotturn back with you myself. I should be glad to."
It did not take long to state the case to the doctor, who readily agreedto do what the priest asked. Tommy Dye was by this time so thoroughlycowed by the situation in which he thus found himself that he no longerresisted. There was one uncertain instant when, seeing the Sistersappear in the door, he was undecided whether to run away or go on. Buthe was afraid to flee, with the Sisters' eyes upon him, and the doctorled him into the house. The ladies had been frightened by the doctor'sunexpected and speedy return; but he soon quieted their fears, and madethem happy by telling them the reason of his turning back. SisterTeresa, the Lady Superior, keenly touched, quickly turned to Tommy Dyeand he handed her the money in awkward haste.
"How good of you! How generous--how noble! Ah, you don't know how muchgood this will do," she said, with her eyes full of tears. "We thank youwith all our hearts for ourselves and for the children."
"Thank _you_,--ma'am," stammered Tommy Dye, scarlet, and almost dumb.
None of the many sins of which he had been suspected had ever made himfeel nearly so uncomfortable as he felt now. None of the many sins ofwhich he had been convicted had ever made him look half so guilty as helooked now.
"You mustn't call me 'ma'am,'" said Sister Teresa. "You must call meSister, and Sister Elizabeth and Sister Angela are your sisters, too.You must always think of us as your real sisters, and the little onesbelong to you after this, as much as they do to us. You must alwaysremember that. Will you come into the other room and see them? Or I willfetch--"
But Tommy Dye could not endure any more. He turned with hardly a word,and fled in desperate haste. The Sisters gazed after him in surprise,and with a good deal of alarm, until Paul Colbert told them about him,who and what he was, of his meeting with Father Orin, and the wholestory of the money.
"The poor fellow," said Sister Teresa, softly. "We will pray that thegift may bring him some of the good that it will do the children. Yes,we will hereafter remember him, also, in the prayers for ourbenefactors," turning her gentle, smiling gaze on the young doctor.
And then he reddened almost as suddenly as Tommy Dye had done, and helikewise was hastening to make his escape when Sister Teresa called himback, to ask if he would not be passing Cedar House on the way home. Hesaid that he would, reddening again. Whereupon the Sister begged as afavor, that he would stop at the door and tell Ruth to come on the nextday, if possible, to look at the sewing which Sister Angela was doingfor her.
"Sister Angela is a wonderful needle-woman," Sister Teresa could nothelp adding with modest pride. "She learned to sew and to do the finestembroidery while she was studying in a convent in France. She could earna great deal of money for the little ones if we were where there weremore patrons who wished to have such fine sewing done. But nobody inthis wild country ever wants it except Mr. Alston for Ruth."
"Mr. Alston for Ruth," Paul Colbert repeated, wonderingly.
"Oh, yes. He thinks nothing is fine enough for Ruth," said SisterTeresa, simply. "And he pays anything that Sister Angela asks. He neversays a word about the price. Sometimes I fear we ask too much. But then,the children need so many things, and we have so few ways of earningmoney. You won't mind stopping to tell Ruth, doctor? Ask her to comeearly to-morrow morning, please. And another thing, if it isn't too muchtrouble. Tell her to bring more of the finest thread lace."
This was the first time that Paul Colbert had heard Philip Alston's nameassociated with Ruth. It was a shock to hear the names called in thesame breath, for he already knew as much of Philip Alston as any one waspermitted to know. He was aware of the suspicion which blackened hisreputation. He had learned this on first coming to the country. FatherOrin, when asked, had told him something of the reasons for the generaldistrust and fear of the man. But the doctor himself had never seen him,and, naturally enough, thought of him as the usual coarse leader oflawlessness, only more daring and cunning, perhaps, than the rest of hiskind. Thus it was that trying to understand only bewildered the youngman more and more, so that he was still filled with shocked wonder whenhe came within sight of Ruth's home.
The day was nearing its close. In the forest bordering the bridle-path,dark shades were noiselessly marshalling beneath the great trees. Butthe sunset still reddened the river, and the reflected light shone onthe windows of Cedar House. He glanced at her chamber window beforeseeing that she stood on the grass by the front door, giving the swanbits of bread from her fingers while the jealous birds, forgetting to goto roost, watched and scolded from the low branches overhead. But shehad seen him a long way off and looked up as he approached.
"Isn't he a bold buccaneer?" she said, with a smile, meaning the swan."We thought at first that he couldn't be tamed--Mr. Audubon, too,thought he couldn't--and we clipped his wings to keep him from flyingaway. And now he wouldn't go. See! He is the most daring creature. Why,he will go in the great room before everybody and walk right up to auntPenelope when she's making the coffee, without turning a feather!"
It was not till he was leaving that Paul remembered the Sister's messagewhich had served him as a pretext for stopping. And he was sorry when hehad given it, for a shadow instantly came over the brightness of Ruth'sbeautiful face. Riding on to his cabin he wondered what could have castthe shadow.
Round Anvil Rock: A Romance Page 10