Part 15 (1/2)
She tried to say something of this to Roderick, fearing her sombre words had set him to recalling her secret.
”I suppose it is perfect happiness,” he said. ”If so, I never met any one who had found it, except--yes, I believe I know one.”
”Who?” she asked eagerly.
”My father,” answered Roderick gently.
”I have heard of him,” she said, smiling at the glow of pride in the son's eyes. ”And where did he discover it?”
Roderick laughed. ”I suppose it's in the heart, after all; but my father is never so happy as when he is in the midst of misery. His pot of gold seems to lie down on Willow Lane.”
”On Willow Lane? Why that's where all those dreadfully poor, dirty people live, isn't it?”
”Yes. They are an unsavoury bunch down there. That's where Mr. and Mrs. Ca.s.sidy throw the household furniture at each other, and Billy Perkins starves his family for drink, and where the celebrated Peter McDuff plays the fiddle every night at the tavern. He might have serenaded you, if you had gone back home by the road.”
She smiled gratefully and her smile was very beautiful. But her thoughts were in Willow Lane. There were worse things there that Roderick did not mention, but she had heard of them. It was a strange and wonderful thing that the saintly-faced old man with the white hair, whom she had seen with Roderick at church, should find his happiness among such people.
Roderick had paddled as slowly as it was possible to move, but he could not prolong the little voyage any further. They were at the landing.
”I have made you come away back here,” she said, ”and now you will be so late getting home. I must let you go back at once. Good night, and thank you.”
Roderick had been hoping that he might walk up to Rosemount with her, but felt he was dismissed. He wanted, too, to ask her if she would not come out on the lake again, but his shyness kept him silent.
As he helped her out, the yellow light of the wharf lamp fell upon her light dress and shone on the gold of her hair, and at the same moment a canoe slid silently out of the dimness beyond and glided across the track of the moon. In the stern knelt one of Algonquin's young men wielding a lazy paddle, and in the low seat opposite, with a filmy scarf about her dark hair, reclined Miss Leslie Graham. She sat up straight very suddenly, and stared at the girl who was stepping from the canoe. But she did not speak, and Roderick was too absorbed to notice who had pa.s.sed. And the young man with the lazy paddle wondered all the way home what had happened to make the lively young lady so silent and absent-minded.
Helen Murray thought many times of what Roderick had told her about his father's interest in Willow Lane. She could not help wondering if others could find there the peace that shone in the old man's eyes.
She was wondering if she should go down and visit the place, when, one day, Willow Lane came to her. It was a warm languorous October day, a day when all nature seemed at a standstill. Her work was done, she was resting under her soft coverlet of blue gossamer, preparing for her long sleep. Helen had had a hard day, for she had not yet learned her new strange task. The room was noisy, fifty little heads were bent over fifty different schemes for mischief, and fifty sibilant whispers delivered forbidden messages. The teacher was writing on the board, and turned suddenly at the sound of a heavy footstep in the hall. The door was open, letting in the breeze from the lake, and in it stood a big hairy man with a bushy black head and wild blue eyes. Helen stood and stared at him half-frightened.
The fifty small heads suddenly whirled about and a hundred eyes stared at the visitor, but there was no fear in them. A giggling whisper ran like fire over the room. ”It's Peter Fiddle!” The man shook his fist at them, and the teacher went with some apprehension towards the door.
”Can I do anything for you, sir?” she enquired, outwardly calm, but inwardly quaking. He took off his big straw hat and made her a profound bow.
”I'll be Peter McDuff,” he said with a stately air, ”an' I'll loss a pig.”
”I--I don't think it's here,” faltered Helen, dismayed at a visit from the notorious McDuff. ”You might ask some other place,” she suggested hopefully.
”I'll be wantin' the bairns to be lookin' for it,” he said, making another bow. He turned to the children, now sitting, for the first time since their teacher had set eyes on them, absolutely still and attentive.
”If you see a pig wis a curly tail,” he announced, ”that's me!”
The whole school burst into a shout of laughter, and the man's face flamed with anger. He shook his fist at them again, moving a step into the room. ”Ye impident young upstarts!” he shouted. ”I'll be Peter McDuff!” he cried proudly. ”And I'll be having you know they will not be laughing at the McDuff whatefer!”
”I--I'm sure they didn't mean to be rude, Mr. McDuff,” ventured the frightened teacher.
”My name'll be Peter McDuff,” he insisted, coming further into the room while she stepped back in terror. ”I'll be sixty years of old, and I'll neffer be casting a tory vote! An' if you'll be gifing me a man my own beeg and my own heavy--” he brandished his fists fiercely.
”Peter!”
The McDuff turned. Behind him stood Angus McRae, his gentle face distressed. He laid his hand on Peter's shoulder with an air of quiet power. ”Come away home with me, Peter man,” he said soothingly.
”We'll be finding the pig on the road.”
Peter stumbled out grumbling, and Angus McRae, pausing a moment to deliver an apology to Helen, followed. Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby came along the hall rocking with laughter.