Chapter V Enter Donelle
Many times during the next few weeks Jo Morey repeated that “I could do nothing else.” It was like a defense of her action to all the opposing forces.
Poor Jo! She, who had stood before Longville a free woman but a short time ago; she who had flouted Gavot and sworn to have something of her own out of life in spite of man, was now held in the clutch of Fate.
The girl she had brought into her home was raving with fever and tossing restlessly on Jo’s own bed in the little north chamber. No one ever sent for a doctor in Point of Pines until the need of one was practically past. Every woman was trained to care for the sick, and Mam’selle Jo was a master of the art, so she watched and cared for the sufferer, mechanically dazed by conditions and reiterating that she could have done nothing else.
The sweet autumn weather had changed suddenly, and winter came howling over the hills sheathed in icy rain that lashed the trees and houses and flooded the roads. No one came to disturb Jo Morey, and her secret was safe for the time being. But the long, dark, storm-racked nights; the dull days filled with anxiety and hard work, wore upon Jo. Constant journeys to the wood pile were necessary in order to keep the fires to their full duty; food had to be provided and the animals cared for.
Nick grew sedate and nervous; he followed his mistress closely and often sat by the bed upon which lay the stranger who had caused all the disturbance.
And so the storm raged, and in the loneliness poor Jo, like Nick, developed nerves.
She moved about, looking over her shoulder affrightedly if she heard an unusual sound. She forced herself to eat and when she could, she slept, lying beside the sick girl, her hand upon the hot body. At such times the flesh looses its hold upon the spirit and strange things happen. At such times, since the world began, miracles have occurred, and Jo became convinced, presently, that she had been led to do what she had done, by a Power over which she had no control and which she had no longer any desire to defy. She submitted; ceased to rebel; did not even reiterate that she could have done nothing else.
At first she listened to the sick girl’s ravings, hoping she might learn something of the past, but as no names or places entered into the confused words she lost interest. Nevertheless, the words sank into her subconsciousness and made an impression. The fevered brain was groping back past the St. Michael days, groping in strange, distant places, but never finding anything definite. There seemed to be long, tiresome journeys, there were pathetic appeals to stop and rest. More than once the hoarse, weak voice cried: “They’ll believe me if I tell. I saw how it was. Let me tell, they’ll believe me.”
But when Jo questioned as to this the burning eyes only stared and the lips closed. At other times the girl grew strangely still and her face softened.
“The white high-top is all pink,” she once whispered looking toward the north window against which the sheet of icy rain was dashing; “it is morning!”
Jo grew superstitious; she felt haunted and afraid for the first time in her life and finally she decided to call in Marcel Longville and let her share the secret vigil.
The night of the day she decided upon this, something remarkable happened. Toward evening the rain ceased and the wind took to sobbing remorsefully in long, wearied gasps. The girl in the north chamber lay resting with lowered temperature and steadier pulse. “The crisis is past,” murmured Jo, and when all was made comfortable, she went to the living room, put her feet in the oven, and looked at her weary, haggard face in the glass. The reflection did not move her, she was too utterly worn out, but she did think of the morrow and the coming of Marcel.
“Now that there is no need,” she muttered, “I must have someone. I’m all but done for. I cannot think straight, and there has got to be some straight thinking from now on.”
She was still looking at her plain face in the glass when she heard the clock in the kitchen strike ten and heard the even breathing of the girl in her north chamber. She was still looking in the glass, still hearing—what? Why, footsteps coming up the little white-shell path! Familiar steps they were, but coming from, oh! such a distance, and out of the many years! They caused no surprise nor alarm, however, and Jo smiled. She saw, quite distinctly, the face in the glass smiling, and now it was no longer old and haggard, and it seemed right that those steps should be near. Jo’s smile broadened.
The steps came close; they were at the door. There was a quick, sharp knock as if the comer were hurrying gladly. Mam’selle sprang up and—found herself standing in the middle of the room, the fire all but burned out, the lamp sputtering!
“I’ve been dreaming!” murmured Jo, pushing her hair back from her face.
“Nick!”
Mam’selle was fully roused by now and her eyes were riveted upon her dog. He stood near the door all a-bristle, as if awaiting the entrance of one he knew and loved. Then he whined and capered about for all the world as if he were fawning at the feet of someone.
“Nick, come here!”
But Nick paid no heed.
“None of that, sir!”
The cold sweat stood on Jo Morey’s face. “None of that!” Then, with a gasp, “You, too, heard the steps, the steps that have no right here. Nick!”
And now the dog turned and came abjectly toward his mistress. He looked foolish and apologetic.
“We’re both going mad!” muttered Jo, but bent to soothe poor Nick before she turned to the north chamber.
Under the spell of her dream she trembled, and was filled with apprehension. How quiet the sick room was! The candle sputtering in its holder made flashes of light and cast queer shadows. The girl was not sleeping, her eyes were wide open, her hands groping feebly.
“Father,” she moaned as Jo bent over her, “father, where are you? I’ll remember, father. The name—Mam’selle Jo Morey, and she will understand!”
Then—all was still, deadly, terribly still. During the past weeks of strain and watching a door had been gradually opening into a darkened room, but now a sudden light was flashed and Jo saw and understood!
Undoubting, stunned, but keenly alive, she believed she was looking upon Henry Langley’s child and felt that she had always known! It was most natural, Langley had been coming home to her: because he could trust her; knew that she would understand. Understand—what? But did that matter? Something had happened, Jo meant to find all that out later. Now she must act, and act quickly. The crisis had not passed; it was here. Jo set to work and for hours she fought death off by primitive but effective means. She knew the danger; counted the chances and strained every nerve to her task. When morning came she saw she had saved the girl and she dropped by the bedside, faint and listless, but lifting up her soul, where another woman would have prayed, to the Power that she acknowledged and trusted.
Mam’selle did not send for Marcel Longville, she was given strength to go on alone for a little longer. The sick girl rallied with wonderful response to Jo’s care which now had a new meaning. She was docile, sweet, and pathetically grateful, but she did not want Jo long out of her sight.
“It is queer, Mam’selle,” she sometimes said, “but when you go out of the door it seems as if something, a feeling, got me. And when you come in again, it goes.”
“What kind of a feeling, child?”
“I do not know, but I am afraid of it and It is afraid of you. You’re like a light, making the darkness go. When I was sickest, sometimes I felt I was lost in the blackness. Then I touched your hand, and I found my way back.”
After awhile the “Mam’selle” was shortened to “Mam’sle,” then, and quite unconsciously, to Mamsey. To that the girl clung always. And Jo, for no reason but a quaint whim, disdained the Marie by which the girl had been known and called her Donelle after poor Mrs. Morey who had died at Cecile’s birth.
The winter after the ice storm settled down seriously. It had no more tantrums, but grew still and white and lonely. The snow was deep and glistening, the sky blue and cloudless and the pines cracked in the cold like the rifles of hunters in the woods. Donelle crept, a little, pale ghost, from the north chamber to the sunny living room. By putting her hand on Nick’s head she walked more steadily and laughed at the progress she made. Jo tucked her up on the hard couch under the glowing begonias and geraniums.
“Good Mamsey! It’s like coming back from a far, far place,” whispered the girl. As strength returned Donelle grew often strangely thoughtful.
“I thought,” she confided one night to Jo, “that when I was left alone I could remember, but I cannot.”
Then Jo took things in her own hands. She was always one to muster all the help in sight, and not be too particular. She was developing a deep passion for the girl she had rescued; she meant to see the thing through and well through. As soon as she could she meant to go to St. Michael’s and learn all that the Sisters knew of the girl’s past. She felt she had a power over them that might wring the truth from their frozen silence. Then she meant to use her last dollar in procuring the proper medical skill for the girl. There was a big doctor every summer at St. Michael’s Hotel; until summer Jo must do her best.
As her nerves grew calm and steady the experiences of the night of Donelle’s crisis lost their hold.
“She heard my name at the Home,” Jo argued, “and I myself spoke it when she was the most frightened and on the verge of fever. In the muddle and confusion of delirium it came to the surface with the rest of the floating bits. That’s all.”
Still there was a lurking familiarity about the girl that haunted Jo’s most prosaic hours. It lay about the girl’s mouth, the way she had of looking at Jo as if puzzled, and then a slow smile breaking. Langley had that same trick, back in the spring and summer of the past. He would take a long look, then smile contentedly as if an answer to a longing had come. But something else caught and held Jo Morey’s attention as she watched the girl. That charm of manner, that poise and ease; how like they were to—but Jo dared not mention the name, for the hurt had broken out afresh after all the years!
“But such things do not happen in real life,” she argued in her sane, honest mind. “She wouldn’t have been hiding in those bushes just when I stopped to eat! I’m getting wild to fancy such things, wild!”
So Jo turned from the impossible and attacked the possible, but as often happens in life, she confused the two.
“See here, child,” she said one day when Donelle was brooding and sad, “You’ve been very sick and you’re weak yet, but while you were at the worst you remembered, and it will all come back again soon.”
The girl brightened at once.
“What did I remember, Mamsey?” she asked.
Jo, weaving a new design, puckered her brow. “Oh, you told of travels with your father,” then with inspiration, “they must have been in far-off places, for you spoke about high-tops white with snow and the sun making them pink. They must have been handsome.”
Donelle’s eyes widened and grew strained.
“Yes,” she said dreamily; “they must have been handsome. But my father, Mamsey, what about my father?”
“Well, child, he died.” Jo made the plunge and looked for the results.
“Yes, I think I knew he was dead. Did you know my father, Mamsey?”
Again Jo plunged.
“Yes, child, long ago. He must have been bringing you to me when something happened. Then you were ill and the Sisters took you——”
“But why did they not bring me to you?” Donelle was clinging to every word.
“I think they did not know. You forgot what had happened. Your father was dead——”
“Yes, I see. But always I was trying to get away. Many times I did get out of the gates, but always they found me until the time when I found you. Things happen very queer sometimes.”
Then, quickly changing the subject;
“Mamsey, did you know my mother, too?”
“Yes, child.” And now poor, honest, simple Jo Morey bent her head over the loom.
“Was she a good—mother?”
For the life of her Jo could not answer. The wide sunny eyes of the girl were upon her, the awful keenness of an awakening mind was searching her face and what lay behind her troubled eyes.
The moment of silence made the next harder; conclusions had been reached by the girl. She came toward Jo, stood before her, and laid her hands upon her shoulders,
“Mamsey,” she faltered; “we will not talk about my mother if it hurts you.” The quick gratitude and sympathy almost frightened Jo.
And they did not for many a year after that speak of Donelle’s mother.
“But, child,” Jo pleaded, “just do not push yourself, it will all come back to you some day. You must trust me as your father did. And another thing, Donelle, you are to live with me now, and—and it was your father’s wish, it is best that you take my name. And you must not let on about—about—the Home at St. Michael’s.”
Donelle shivered.
“I will not!” she said. “Do they know where I am?”
“No. But when you are able to be left, I am going to tell them!” This came firmly. “They will be glad enough to forget you and leave the rest to me. They have great powers of forgetting and remembering, when it pays. But they are through with you, child, forever.”
“Oh! Mamsey, thank God!”
Donelle folded her thin arms across her breast and swayed to and fro. This gesture of hers was characteristic. When she was glad she moved back and forth; when she was troubled she moved from side to side, holding her slim body close.
“I will mind nothing Mamsey, now. I will begin with you!”
“And I,” murmured Jo gruffly, “I will begin with you, Donelle. You and I, you and I.”
But of course the outside world soon had to be considered. People came to Jo Morey’s door on one errand or another, but they got no further.
“I cannot make Mam’selle out,” Marcel Longville confided to the Captain, “she has always been quick to answer a call when sickness was the reason. Now here is poor Tom laid up with a throat so bad that I know not what to do and when I went she opened her door but halfway and said, ‘send for a doctor!’” Longville grunted. He had his suspicions about Mam’selle and Gavot, but he could get nothing definite from Pierre and surely there was nothing hopeful about Jo Morey’s attitude.
“I’ll call myself,” he decided. But to his twice-repeated knocks he got no response; then he kicked on the door. At this Jo opened a window, risking the life and health of her begonias and geraniums by so doing.
“Well?” was all she said, but her plain, haggard face startled the Captain. He had formulated no special errand; he had trusted to developments, and this unlooked-for welcome to his advances threw him back upon a flimsy report of Tom Gavot’s sore throat.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Jo said, “but I’m not able to do anything to help. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get a doctor. If it’s a case of money, I’ll pay the bill for the sake of the poor boy and his dead mother.”
“Mam’selle, you’re not yourself,” Longville retorted.
“I’m just myself,” Jo flung back. “I’ve just found myself. But I’m going off for a few days, Captain, so good-bye.”
Longville retreated from the house in a sadly befuddled state. Surely something serious was the matter with Jo Morey. She looked ill and acted queer, almost suspiciously queer. And she was going away! No one went away from Point of Pines unless dire necessity drove them. Why should people ever go away from anywhere unless forced?
Then Longville’s thoughts drifted back to the time when Mam’selle had gone away before and came back so bedraggled and spent.
It was all very odd and unsettling.
“Surely Mam’selle needs watching,” mumbled Longville and he decided to watch.
Night favoured his schemes. He forsook the tavern and made stealthy trips to the little white house, only to be greeted by blank darkness, except for a dim gleam at the edges of the curtain at the window of the small north chamber.
“Mam’selle has not yet gone,” concluded Longville, but that was little comfort. Then one night he got bolder and crept close to the rear and listened under the chamber window.
Jo was talking to—— At that instant the kitchen door was flung open and out dashed Nick.
“At him!” commanded Mam’selle, standing in the panel of light, laughing diabolically, “It’s a skunk, no doubt; drive him off, Nick; don’t touch him!”
Longville escaped, how, he could not tell, for Nick sniffed at his retreating heels well down the highway.
Three or four nights after, Longville, discreetly keeping to the road, where he had a perfect right to be, paused before the white house again. It was a dark night, with occasional flashes of moonlight as the wind scattered the clouds.
Presently the house door opened and Mam’selle came out with Nick close beside her. They stood quite still on the little lawn, their faces turned upward. And just then Longville could have sworn he heard a sob, a deep, smothered sob, and Nick certainly whined piteously. Then the two went back into the house and Longville, with a nervous start, turned and faced—Gavot!
“What do you make of it?” whispered Pierre.
“Make of what?” demanded Longville.
“Oh, I’ve done some watching myself,” Gavot replied, “I’ve watched you and her! A man doesn’t keep to the night when the tavern has a warm place for him. I’ve kept you company, Longville, when you didn’t know it.”
“Well, then, what’s the meaning that you make out, Pierre?”
“The Mam’selle Morey is up to—to tricks,” Gavot nodded knowingly, “and she’s not going to escape me.”
“’Tis not the first caper she has cut,” Longville snorted, “and she will well need an eye kept on her.”
Then the two went amicably arm in arm to Dan’s Place.
“Four eyes, brother Longville,” said Gavot who always grew nauseously familiar when he dared. “Four eyes on Mam’selle and four such eyes!”