"Then we must try to find out the truth--try to lay our hand on the evidence which will prove Alston's innocence or his guilt. Doing that cannot harm her--if she is happy in this engagement," with a strong effort, "and it may help her--if she is not."

The priest shook his head. "You forget that many able men have already tried hard to do what you suggest, and that every attempt has failed."

"That hasn't a straw's weight with me. I shall not fail, because I am going to try harder than any one else ever can have tried," with the confidence and courage that belong to love. "I think I can do something to aid the officers in gathering evidence. My work, carrying me over the whole region where these villains do theirs, gives me opportunities to know what is going on. I shall speak to the attorney-general early to-morrow morning. Every honest man owes it to the state to give such help as he can in this extremity."

"Take care," said Father Orin, gently. "I am doubting more and more the wisdom and right of having told you these stories about Philip Alston.

Remember, they are merely rumors, widespread and generally believed, it is true, yet still wholly unsupported by evidence. We must be careful.

There is a bare possibility that we may be wrong, that we may be doing a terrible injustice to an innocent man. I do not believe that anything can be long believed by a great many honest people unless there is some truth underneath for it to rest upon; and this about Philip Alston has been believed by the best men of this country for a good many years. But the fact that it hasn't been proven remains, nevertheless. There has never been a shadow of real evidence, and we, as fair-minded men, are bound to remember that." He hesitated for a moment, and looked at the young doctor as if uncertain whether to say something else that was in his kind, wise thoughts. "There is another thing that you would do well to bear in mind, my son. Any one bringing any charges, supported or unsupported, against Philip Alston, will break that little girl's heart.

She would never credit the strongest proof. A woman like that,--a tender, soft, clinging, unreasoning little thing,--who is all affection and trust, could not be reached by testimony that would convince any jury. That is one of the merciful dispensations; that is one of the reasons why men get so much more mercy here below than they deserve.

This gentle girl not only would never believe, but she would never, never forgive you for breathing a word against Philip Alston. That is the way with women of her kind. And you would not wish to hurt her, even though--"

"No! No--no!"

"And then you must not forget that the young man whom she is to marry is also more or less involved. And you must remember that he is essentially an upright, well-meaning, well-trained young fellow. There is no reason to think she doesn't love him. His conceit is the only thing against him, and she may not mind that. A gentle, yielding nature like hers is often attracted by a dominant, overbearing one like his. I have often noticed it. Maybe it is intended by nature and providence to keep the balance of things. What would become of the world if all the strong ones or all the good ones were to come together, and leave all the weak ones or all the bad ones by themselves? You can see at once that that would never do--everything would be at once unbalanced. It's hard on the good and the strong; but then, many of nature's provisions are hard on the individual, and yet they all work for the welfare of creation."

He said this with a smile and a chuckle, hoping to win his friend to the half-earnest, half-jesting talk with which they sometimes tried to lighten the heavy burdens that both were constantly bearing. But he saw that Paul could not respond, and he went back at once to the grave sympathy with which he had been speaking.

"At all events, this young couple have chosen one another for better or worse, and we, as honest men, and Christians, cannot allow ourselves to discuss, or even think of anything else. I wish I could help you, my son, but I can only beg you to hold to your own road in life, to press straight on upward as steadily and as bravely as you can. And you must put all thought of Philip Alston, too, out of your mind. You and I must work for the saving of men's bodies and souls--we have nothing to do with their punishment. Work, my son! Work, work for others, that is the secret of happiness! And if we work hard enough for the help and the healing of others, it may be that after a while we will be allowed to find help and healing for ourselves."

And the young man looking sadly in the face of the old man promised that he would try--that he would do his best.

XVI

LOVE'S TOUCHSTONE

Ruth, meantime, was still waiting and watching the forest path, and wondering why he did not come back. He nearly always pa.s.sed Cedar House more than once during the day, but he did not return now, although she waited and watched from early morning till the sun went down. She was tired of hearing the old ladies wrangling over the hearth, and going outside the door she had played with the swan, and had grown tired of that. Looking listlessly about for something else to do, she caught sight of David sitting alone under the willows on the river bank. He thought himself safely hidden for the reading of his book, but the foliage was thinner now on the slender golden wands; some of them were quite bare, and hung like long silken fringes of shining yellow. The first frost had touched them on the night before; the soft breeze was freighted with drifting leaves, and there was a fresh sparkle in the crystalline air.

She had put on a long coat of dove-colored cloth--one of the fine garments that Philip Alston was always finding for her--on account of the cool weather, and she was wearing her gypsy bonnet tied down with its three-cornered handkerchief of white lace, so that she was all ready for going further from the house. In another moment she was skimming down the river bank toward the boy. He saw her coming; but she moved so like a darting swallow that he barely had time to hide his book under the mossy log on which he was sitting before she fluttered into a seat beside him, nestling against his arm.

"There now!" she sighed, smoothing down her skirts. "Now we can have a nice long talk about love."

The boy moved with the uneasiness that every boy feels at any abstract approach to the great topic. The girl went straight on, with all the serenity of the least experienced of her s.e.x. Her big blue eyes were gravely fixed on his reddened face. Her own was quite calm, and very serious indeed. Her soft lips were set as firmly as one rose leaf may be folded against another. The tips of her little fingers met in wisdom's gesture.

"Listen, David, dear. Listen well, and think hard. I have been thinking a great deal about love lately. It is right, you know, that all young people should. I will tell you everything that I have thought, and then you must tell me what you think. For there are some things that I can't find out by myself, though I have tried and tried. And boys ought to know more than girls about love. But I don't believe they do!"

The blue eyes gazed at him rather severely from under the gypsy hat. It was the woman arraigning the man with the eternal challenge. The boy looked down at the ground, and tried not to feel guilty, as the challenged always do. Ruth saw how it was, and relented, as the woman always does. She ran her arm through David's, and gave it an affectionate teasing little squeeze.

"You can't help not knowing anything, can you, poor dear?" she said, with sweet laughter. "Well, then, never mind. We will try to find out together. There are only three things that I really must know--that I can't possibly do without knowing."

The smile faded. She sat silently gazing across the wide, quiet river.

"Only three really very, very important things," she presently went on.

"The first is this: How may a girl tell what people call 'true love'

from every other kind of love? You see, dear, there are so many kinds of love, and they are all true, too. When a girl like me has loved every one ever since she could remember--because every one has always been so good and loving to her that she couldn't help it--she knows, of course, when another kind of love comes; but she doesn't know whether it is truer than all the rest. How can she tell? That is one of the things I want to find out--the first of the three really important things that I most wish to know," checking it off on her small forefinger.

Resting her elbow on her knee, and her chin in the palm of her hand, she fell suddenly silent again, and sat gazing across the river. Her blue eyes seemed to be wistfully seeking the secret of love among the rosy mists which the sunset had left beneath the shadowy trees. She did not observe that the boy made no reply. Her lovely head was intently bent to the other side, as if listening to hear some whisper from her own heart.

When she spoke, it was in a low, absent tone, as though she were whispering to herself, or thinking only half aloud.

"And what are the signs of true love? That is the next thing. What are the sure signs that true love may be known by, so that there can be no danger of making a mistake, no risk of taking one kind of love for another? That is the question. How do the signs of true love look? How do they feel, I wonder? Can it be one of the sure signs of true love to feel at the first sight of a face that it is the one you have most wanted to see all your life? Can it be one of the sure signs of true love to have your heart leap at the first sound of a voice, so that you are glad to be alive--glad--glad as you never were before, although you have always been happy? I wonder--I wonder! And can it be another of the sure signs of true love to feel utter content in one presence, to feel that, walled in with it forever away from all the rest of the world, there would be nothing left outside on the whole, wide earth to wish for? Do you think so, David? I wonder if it can be. And then can it be yet another of true love's sure signs to have a warm, sweet glow come around the heart, as it never did before, and to have something tell you that it will grow warmer and sweeter and brighter as long as you live? I wonder--wonder--wonder. And could it be the surest sign of all, that you don't know why any of all these things are so; that you only know that everything some one is and says and thinks and does--satisfies and delights your eyes and mind and heart and soul."

Two heavy tears, like sudden drops from a summer shower, fell on her clasped hands, although her lips were smiling and she was still softly thinking aloud.

"And yet there is another kind of love--quite, quite different from this--and that, too, must be true. A feeling that you have had ever since you could remember must be true, surely. And you are always thinking about this one--always arguing with yourself about how right and reasonable it is. There isn't any trouble in finding one the reasons for this love. The only trouble about this kind of love is in your own unworthiness. It's somehow disheartening and tiring to be always looking up, higher than you can see, as though you stood all the time on your tiptoes. And then when you are always feeling how unwise and childish you are, it is hard to love wisdom and dignity as they deserve to be loved."

Saying this, Ruth turned suddenly upon David. Her soft eyes were flashing through her tears.

"Why do you sit there like a stone and never say a word!" she demanded.

"I knew you didn't know the first earthly thing about love, but I didn't know you were dumb. Why don't you speak? Can't you say what a fine fellow William is? You know it, just as well as I do! Everybody knows it. Everybody respects William and looks up to him. Everybody is bound to do it. He always does what is right and sensible. He isn't forever doing and saying things that he has to be sorry for, as I am. He always goes steadily straight ahead. He isn't moved by every heart-beat and swayed by every fancy like you and me. Why even uncle Robert defers to William, because he is so dignified and right-minded. He always knows just what to do and say. Uncle Philip often speaks of it. _He_ appreciates William. _He_ never criticises him for being serious when other people are joking. And I've seen you do it many a time, when you didn't know I was looking. Yes, and uncle Robert, too. I've seen his eyebrow go up when he didn't know that it did. And I won't have it! Do you hear? I won't have people laughing at William, just because he never laughs. I like him all the better for it. I think all the more highly of him because he never understands my silly, light little ways.

I do--I tell you I do!"

She sprang up and stamped her foot, and then, sitting down again, burst into helpless sobbing, and laid her head on the boy's shoulder. He could only draw her closer, and hold her in silent tenderness, having no words that he dared utter. After a time her sobs ceased, and lifting her head, she looked round, dimpling and smiling through the tears which were still heavy on her dark lashes.

"Well, then, since you don't know anything about love, sir, look and see what your silly old book says. Oh, you needn't pretend that you haven't got it," she said gayly. "If it isn't in your hand, it is in your pocket, or you have hidden it. Get it instantly," pretending to shake him.

The boy bashfully drew the book from beneath the log, while Ruth bantered him with sweet, bubbling laughter that made him think of awakening birds and blossoming orchards. He turned the leaves in embarra.s.sed haste.

"I don't find anything about love," he stammered. "But here is something about marriage."

"As if they weren't one and the same!" cried Ruth. "Read it. Let's hear what it says. Read every word carefully and distinctly."

David then read aloud what the Knight of the Oracle said to the Most Fair Constantia:--

"They are truly married that have with united hearts plighted promise of perpetual friendship, electing one another by true love and not by outward ceremony; for where true love is not there can be no perfect marriage, though the outward ceremony be never so well performed."

"As if everybody didn't know that already!" scouted Ruth. "Any gosling of a girl knows that without having to be told. There isn't a single word there to tell what true love is, and what its signs are. If I didn't love you so dearly, David, I couldn't love you at all when you are so dull. What do you mean by reading anything so tiresome out of that foolish book? I think worse of it than ever."

Her smiles vanished like watery sunbeams. David trembled for fear she might begin crying again. But she looked fondly up in his face, and beamed brightly when she saw how frightened he was.

"But you know I do love you, David, dear. You know that you are all I have, of my very own," she said. "I am unreasonable--I know that well enough; but I couldn't help being hurt at your injustice to William.

Could I, dear?"

"Oh, no! No indeed!" responded the boy, with vague eagerness.

"Well, then, I will forgive you if you promise never to do it again.

And do you know any more about birds than you do about love, you poor dear? Look at that one flying over the river. Why do they always cross the stream in a slanting direction? Why do they never fly straight across? And why do birds sing so seldom in the depths of the forest? And is it true that none of the singing birds were here till the settlers came? It is said that they came with the settlers. I've heard many persons state that as a fact. But how does anybody know? Did any bird say so? Those paroquets could tell if they would; but they never will.

They only chatter to scold one another. Just listen! I am sure they could tell lots of things if they liked. They are not so green as they look--not half so green as you, my dear. I shall have to ask Mr. Audubon if there were any birds here before the settlers came. He will know; he doesn't go round all the time with his head in the clouds, as you do.

You don't even know how old a snow-goose has to be before it turns from gray to white. And you really ought to know that, because you are a goose yourself. I saw a pure white snow-goose the other day on the pond back of Cedar House, and when the snow-goose comes, then winter is here, and it isn't long till Christmas."

She suddenly stood up shivering, and said she was cold; but it was the thought of Christmas Eve, not the frost in the air, that sent the chill to her heart.

XVII