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Place Beyond The Winds

<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> Little corners, lying on the borderland of Canada and the States, stretched like a hand, the thumb and small finger of which belonged to the Dominion, the three digits, in between, to the sister country. Of course it was comparatively easy to bring merchandise, and what not, by way of the thumb and little finger and send the same forth by the three exits, known to Timothy Goodale as "furrin parts." Timothy was excessively British, as so many Canadians are, but he was a broad-minded man in his sympathies, and a friend to all—when it paid. He was a man of keen perceptions, of conveniently short memory, and had the capacity for giving a lie all the virtuous appearance of truth and frankness. Goodale had no family, and, as far as possible, served his guests himself. A half-breed cooked for him; a half-witted French-Canadian girl did unimportant tasks about the bedchambers, but the host himself took his patrons into his own safekeeping and their secrets along with them. Little Corners was not a town of savoury reputation. Law-abiding folks gave it a wide berth; tourists found nothing interesting there, and newcomers, of a permanent type, were discouraged. For these reasons it was the place of all places for Mr. John Boswell to enter, by way of the long, middle finger, and meet Priscilla Glenn, who advanced via the thumb. No one would know them; no one would remember them an hour after they departed. Timothy was bustling about on a certain Sunday morning, ruminating on the thanklessness of the task of getting ready for people who might never appear, when, to his delight, he saw a team of weary horses advancing. He had time only to put his features in order for business when a man entered the room. No one but Goodale could have taken the shock of the traveller's personality in just the way he did. The smile froze on his face, his eyes beamed, and his stiff, red hair seemed bristling with welcome. "Advance agent of a circus," he thought; "sort of advertising guy." The man who had entered was about three feet tall, horribly twisted as to legs, and humped as to back and chest. The long, thin arms reached below the bent knees, and large, white hands dangled from them as if attached by wires. The big head, set low on the shoulders, seemed to have no connecting link of neck. It was a great, shaggy head with deep-set, wonderful eyes, sensitive mouth and chin, and a handsome nose. "Ah, sir, delighted," said Goodale. "Shall I tell your driver to go to the stables?" "I'm my own driver, but I'd like your man to see to the horses. I'm John Boswell from New York, though you'll probably forget that an hour after I leave." Goodale nodded. This was quite in his line, and he suddenly became aware of the exquisite texture and quality of the stranger's clothing; the fineness of the piping voice. All sorts came to the inn, but this last comer was a gentleman, for all his defects. "I'm expecting a young woman, a distant relative, from farther back in Canada. I shall await her here. My stay is uncertain. Make me as comfortable as you can; I like to be comfortable." "You—you are alone, sir?" "Until the young lady comes, yes. She is to return to the States with me. It depends upon her how soon we travel back." This did away with the show business, but it added romance to the adventure. Goodale made Boswell extremely comfortable, surprisingly so. Two bedrooms were got in order as if by magic; a little sitting-room emerged from behind closed doors; an apartment quite detached and cozy, with a generous fireplace and accommodations for private meals. After a good dinner Boswell went for a stroll, telling his host to make the young lady welcome upon her arrival. At half-past four Priscilla Glenn walked into the office of the inn. She was tired and worn, rather unkempt as to appearance, but she stepped erect and with some dignity. "Is—is Mr. Boswell here?" she asked. "He is, and then again he ain't," smiled Timothy, who was always playful with women when he wasn't brutal. None knew better than he the use and abuse of chivalry. "You are to make yourself at home, Miss; then I'll serve tea in the sitting parlour; all quite your own and no fear of intrusion. I'm host and servant to my guests. I never trust them to—to menials." "Where's my room?" Priscilla broke in abruptly. She was near the breaking-point and she longed for privacy and shelter before she collapsed. Her tone and manner antagonized Goodale. He understood and recognized only two classes of women, and this girl's attitude did not fit either class. In silence he showed her to her bedchamber, and once the door separated him from her his smile departed and he relieved his feelings by muttering a name not complimentary to Mr. Boswell's relative. The sense of safety, warmth, and creature comforts speedily brought about courage and hope to Priscilla; a childish curiosity consumed her; she was disappointed that Boswell did not present himself, but his absence gave her time for rallying her forces. She found her way to the little sitting-room by six o'clock, and, to her delight, saw that tea things were on a table by the hearth and a kettle was boiling over the fire. "And so—this is Miss Priscilla Glenn?" So noiselessly had the man entered the room through the open door, so kind and gentle his voice, that, though the girl started, she felt no fear until her eyes fell upon the speaker. Boswell waited. He knew what must follow. Readjustment always took time. In this case the time might be longer because of the crudity of the girl. "Ah!" The shuddering word escaped the trembling lips and the tightly clasped hands that had instinctively gone to the face. "Ah!" The man by the door sent forth a pitiful appeal for mercy and acceptance in so sweet and rare a smile that for very shame Priscilla stood up and smiled back wanly and apologetically. Boswell liked the attempt and ready willingness; they showed character. "Now that that is over," he said in his strange, fine voice, "we may sit down and be friends. May we not?" "I will make fresh tea for you—please let me!" for Boswell was waving aside the suggestion. "Very well! Weak—just flavoured water. Now, then!" The sidling form edged to the deep chair beside the hearth and scrambled up, using both hands as a child does. Priscilla kept her eyes upon her task and struggled for composure. "I—I suppose Max—I mean Farwell—did not describe me?" "No, sir." "It was mistaken kindness. My friends have a habit of doing that. They think to spare me; it only makes it harder. Try to forget, as soon as you can, my ugly shell; I am commonplace beneath." The pathos of this almost brought tears to Priscilla Glenn's eyes. Her warm, sympathetic nature responded generously. "I—I am very sorry I gave you pain, sir. Forgive me!" "We will not mention it again. If you can think of me as—a man, a friend who wishes to help you for another friend's sake, you will honour me and make easier your own position. You see, you are no stranger to me; I have the advantage of you. Farwell has kept me in touch with you from your childhood up. You have amused him, helped him to bear many things that would have been harder for him without you. I thank you for this. I am Farwell's friend. Why, do you know"—and now the deep eyes glowed kindly—"he has even told me of that original religion you evolved from your needs; he pictured the strange god you worshipped. I've laughed over that many times." "Your tea is getting cold, sir." Priscilla was gaining control of her emotions, and John Boswell's evident determination to place her in a comfortable position won her gratitude and admiration. "I like cold tea; the colder and weaker the better. Thank you. Let the cup stand on the table; I will help myself presently. I sincerely hope we, you and I, are going to be friends. It would hurt Farwell so if we were not." "How good you are!" "Yes. Goodness is—my profession." The drollery in the voice was more touching than amusing. "I call myself the Property Man. I help people artistically, when I can. It is my one pleasure, and I find it most exciting. You will learn, now that you have taken your place on the stage of life, that the Property Man is very important." In this light talk, half serious, half playful, he reassured Priscilla and claimed for himself what his deformity often retarded. "Already you seem my friend. Mr. Farwell said you would be." Priscilla's eyes did not shrink now. The soul of the man had, in some subtle fashion, transformed him. She began to succumb to that power of Boswell's that had held many men and women even against their wills. "Farwell was always a dramatic fellow," the weak voice continued. "When he sent me word, I wanted to go direct to Kenmore; I wanted to see him after all these years. But he had made his own plans in his own way. There were—reasons." Priscilla looked bravely in the thin, kindly face. She remembered that Farwell had said that she need tell nothing more than she cared to, but an overpowering desire was growing upon her to confide everything to this friend of an hour. His deep, true eyes, fixed upon her, were challenging every doubt, every reserve. "Farwell says you dance like a sprite." At this Priscilla started as if from sleep. "Ah! a childish bit of play," she said. "I—I have almost forgotten how to dance." "I hope you will never forget. To dance and sing and laugh should be the heritage of all young things. You must forget to be serious, past the safety point! That's where danger lies. It does not pay to take our parts ponderously. I learned that long ago." "I shall be—happy after a while." And now, quite simply and frankly, Priscilla cast away her anchors of caution and timidity and spoke openly: "I—I have been so troubled. Things have happened to me that should not have happened if—if my mother and father could have trusted in me. They believed—wrong of me when really they should have pitied me. You trust me?" "Absolutely." "Master Farwell trusted me. As things were, the only comfort I could give my poor parents was to let them think I left Kenmore with—with a young man. Something had occurred that—looked wrong. It was only a terrible experience. No one helped me but Master Farwell. My—my people turned from me." "It was Farwell's way: to help where he had faith," murmured Boswell. The deep eyes were so perilously kind that Priscilla had to struggle to keep back her tears. A sense of security and peace flooded her heart, but the past strain had left its mark. "My father would have been glad to have me marry the—the man. I would rather have died after what happened! They—my father and mother—must believe I have gone with him. It will at least make them feel I have not disgraced them. Now—you can understand!" "Perfectly." "I want to go into training. I want to be a nurse. I am sure I can succeed." So very humble and modest was the ambition that it quite took Boswell by surprise. Priscilla did not notice the uplifting of the shaggy brows. She went on eagerly, thoughtfully: "You see, I have only such education as Master Farwell has given me, but I have a ready mind, he says. I am sure I could watch and tend the sick. A lady staying in Kenmore at one time told me I had the—the touch of a skilled hand. I want—to help the world, somehow, and this seems the only way open to a girl like me. I am strong; I never tire. Yes; I want to be a nurse, the best one I can be." Boswell understood the deeper truth. This girl, original, artistic, was foregoing much in accepting this safe, humble course. She expected no charity, nothing but a helpful interest. It was unusual and delightful. "I have a hundred dollars that Master Farwell gave me. It will help, and I can repay it by and by. I know it will be years before I can do so, but he understands. While I am studying there will be little expense, the lady told me. And oh!"—here Priscilla interrupted herself suddenly—"I have an errand to do for Master Farwell as soon as I get to New York. He told me you—would help me." "An errand?" "Yes. There is a—woman he once—loved; loves still. She thinks he—is dead. It was best so in the past. There was a reason for letting her believe so; but now he wants her—to know!" Boswell sprang up in his chair as if he were on a strong spring. "Wants you to go and tell her—that he still lives?" "Yes. It will be hard, but I will do it for him." Boswell settled back in his seat. "I thought he only meant her to know—when he could go himself," he said quietly. "He made me promise." Boswell leaned forward and drew the cup from the table, and in one long draught drank the cold, weak tea. When he spoke again the conversation was set in a different channel. "I hardly know what I expected to find you, Miss Glenn," he said with his rare, sweet smile. "You evidently seemed more a child to Farwell than you do to me. That was natural. Now that we have become acquainted I hope you will accept my help and hospitality until your own plans are formed. I can make you very comfortable in my town home. I am sure I can place you in the best training school in the city; I have some influence there. But before you settle to your hard work you will let me play host, as Farwell would in my place? This would be a great pleasure to me." What there was in the words and tone Priscilla could never tell, but at once the future seemed secure, and the present placed on a sound foundation. Every disturbing element was eliminated and the whole situation put upon a perfectly commonplace basis. By a quick transition the unreality was swept aside. "Indeed, I will be glad to accept." They smiled quite frankly and happily at each other. "An odd story occurs to me." Boswell pressed back in his chair and his face was in shadow. "You must get used to my stories and plays. The Property Man must have his sport. There was once a garden, very beautiful, very desirable, but full of traps to the unwary. Quite unexpectedly, one day, a particularly fine butterfly found herself poised on the branch of a tree with a soaring ambition in her heart, but a blind sense of danger, also. It was a wise butterfly, by way of change. While it hesitated, a beetle crawled along and offered its services as guide. The pretty, bright thing was sane enough to accept. Do you follow?" Priscilla started. She had been caught in the mesh of the story, and now with a sudden realization of its underlying thought she flushed and laughed. "I still have my childish delight in stories, you see," she said. Then, "I—I do see what you mean. Again I repeat, I am so glad to accept your—your kindness." "Middle life has its disadvantages." The voice from out the shadows sounded weary. "It has none of the blindness of youth and none of the assurance of old age. If I were twenty, you and I could play together in the Garden; if I were ninety I could tuck you safely away in my nest and feed you on dainties, and no one could say a word. As it is—well, we'll do the best we can, and, after you are in your training, you'll be glad enough to have my nest to fly to for a change of air and an opportunity to chat with me. The Property Man will come in handy. Hark! the wind is rising. How it blows!" The ashes were flying about on the hearth and the trees outside beat their branches against the windows. "It never roars like that in the In-Place," whispered Priscilla, awed by the sound and fury that were rapidly gaining power. "The In-Place?" Boswell sighed. "What a blessed name! To think of any one fluttering about in the dangerous Garden when he or she might remain in the In-Place!" There was a tap on the door, and in reply to Boswell's "Come!" Goodale entered. "Shall I serve supper now, sir?" "Yes." "In here?" "No; in the dining-room." Then, "How far is it to the railway station?" "Twenty-six miles, sir." "It seemed like a hundred. Can the team make it to-morrow if the storm ceases?" "They look capable, sir." "Then we will start to-morrow for the States." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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