And if Ruth Armstrong slept but little that night, as her daughter said had been the case the night before, she was not the only wakeful person in that part of Orham. She would have been surprised if she had known that her eccentric neighbor and landlord was also lying awake and that his thoughts were of her and her trouble. For Jed, although he had heard but the barest fragment of the story of "Uncle Charlie," a mere hint dropped from the lips of a child who did not understand the meaning of what she said, had heard enough to make plain to him that the secret which the young widow was hiding from the world was a secret involving sorrow and heartbreak for herself and shame and disgrace for others. The details he did not know, nor did he wish to know them; he was entirely devoid of that sort of curiosity. Possession of the little knowledge which had been given him, or, rather, had been thrust upon him, and which Gabe Bea.r.s.e would have considered a gossip treasure trove, a promise of greater treasures to be diligently mined, to Jed was a miserable, culpable thing, like the custody of stolen property. He felt wicked and mean, as if he had been caught peeping under a window shade.

CHAPTER X

That night came a sudden shift in the weather and when morning broke the sky was gray and overcast and the wind blew raw and penetrating from the northeast. Jed, at work in his stock room sorting a variegated shipment of mills and vanes which were to go to a winter resort on the west coast of Florida, was, as he might have expressed it, down at the mouth. He still felt the sense of guilt of the night before, but with it he felt a redoubled realization of his own incompetence. When he had surmised his neighbor and tenant to be in trouble he had felt a strong desire to help her; now that surmise had changed to certainty his desire to help was stronger than ever. He pitied her from the bottom of his heart; she seemed so alone in the world and so young. She needed a sympathetic counselor and advisor. But he could not advise or help because neither he nor any one else in Orham was supposed to know of her trouble and its nature. Even if she knew that he knew, would she accept the counsel of Shavings Winslow? Hardly! No sensible person would. How the townsfolk would laugh if they knew he had even so much as dreamed of offering it.

He was too downcast even to sing one of his lugubrious hymns or to whistle. Instead he looked at the letter pinned on a beam beside him and dragged from the various piles one half-dozen crow vanes, one half-dozen gull vanes, one dozen medium-sized mills, one dozen small mills, three sailors, etc., etc., as set forth upon that order. One of the crows fell to the floor and he accidently stepped upon it and snapped its head off. He was gazing solemnly down at the wreck when the door behind him opened and a strong blast of damp, cold wind blew in. He turned and found that Mrs.

Armstrong had opened the door. She entered and closed it behind her.

"Good morning," she said.

Jed was surprised to see her at such an early hour; also just at that time her sudden appearance was like a sort of miracle, as if the thoughts in his brain had taken shape, had materialized. For a moment he could not regain presence of mind sufficient to return her greeting. Then, noticing the broken vane on the floor, she exclaimed:

"Oh, you have had an accident. Isn't that too bad! When did it happen?"

He looked down at the decapitated crow and touched one of the pieces with the toe of his boot.

"Just this minute," he answered. "I stepped on it and away she went. Did a pretty neat, clean job, didn't I? . . . Um-hm. . . .

I wonder if anybody stepped on MY head 'twould break like that.

Probably not; the wood in it is too green, I cal'late."

She smiled, but she made no comment on this characteristic bit of speculation. Instead she asked: "Mr. Winslow, are you very busy this morning? Is your work too important to spare me just a few minutes?"

Jed looked surprised; he smiled his one-sided smile.

"No, ma'am," he drawled. "I've been pretty busy but 'twan't about anything important. I presume likely," he added, "there ain't anybody in Ostable County that can be so busy as I can be doin'

nothin' important."

"And you can spare a few minutes? I--I want to talk to you very much. I won't be long, really."

He regarded her intently. Then he walked toward the door leading to the little workroom. "Come right in here, ma'am," he said, gravely; adding, after they had entered the other apartment, "Take that chair. I'll sit over here on the box."

He pulled forward the box and turned to find her still standing.

"Do sit down," he urged. "That chair ain't very comfortable, I know. Perhaps I'd better get you another one from my sittin'-room in yonder."

He was on his way to carry out the suggestion, but she interrupted him. "Oh, no," she said. "This one will be perfectly comfortable, I'm sure, only--"

"Yes? Is there somethin' the matter with it?"

"Not the matter with it, exactly, but it seems to be--occupied."

Jed stepped forward and peered over the workbench at the chair.

Its seat was piled high with small pasteboard boxes containing hardware-screws, tacks and metal washers--which he used in his mill and vane-making.

"Sho!" he exclaimed. "Hum! Does seem to be taken, as you say. I recollect now; a lot of that stuff came in by express day before yesterday afternoon and I piled it up there while I was unpackin'

it. Here!" apparently addressing the hardware, "you get out of that. That seat's reserved."

He stretched a long arm over the workbench, seized the chair by the back and tipped it forward. The pasteboard boxes went to the floor in a clattering rush. One containing washers broke open and the little metal rings rolled everywhere. Mr. Winslow did not seem to mind.

"There!" he exclaimed, with evident satisfaction; "sit right down, ma'am."

The lady sat as requested, her feet amid the hardware boxes and her hands upon the bench before her. She was evidently very nervous, for her fingers gripped each other tightly. And, when she next spoke, she did not look at her companion.

"Mr. Winslow," she began, "I--I believe--that is, Babbie tells me that--that last evening, when you and she were on your way back here in the boat, she said something--she told you something concerning our--my--family affairs which--which--"

She faltered, seeming to find it hard to continue. Jed did not wait. He was by this time at least as nervous as she was and considerably more distressed and embarra.s.sed. He rose from the box and extended a protesting hand.

"Now, now, ma'am," he begged. "Now, Mrs. Armstrong, please--please don't say any more. It ain't necessary, honest it ain't. She-- she--that child she didn't tell me much of anything anyhow, and she didn't mean to tell that. And if you knew how ashamed and--and mean I've felt ever since to think I let myself hear that much! I hope--I do hope you don't think I tried to get her to tell me anything. I do hope you don't think that."

His agitation was so acute and so obvious that she looked at him in wonder for a moment. Then she hastened to rea.s.sure him.

"Don't distress yourself, Mr. Winslow," she said, smiling sadly.

"I haven't known you very long but I have already learned enough about you to know that you are an honorable man. If I did not know that I shouldn't be here now. It is true that I did not mean for you or any one here in Orham to learn of my--of our trouble, and if Babbie had not told you so much I probably should never have spoken to you about it. The poor child's conscience troubled her so last evening that she came crying to me and confessed, and it is because I gathered from her that she had told enough to make you at least guess the truth that I am here now. I prefer that you should hear the story just as it is from me, rather than imagine something which might be worse. Don't you see?"

Jed saw, but he was still very much perturbed.

"Now, now, Mrs. Armstrong," he begged, "don't tell me anything, please don't. I laid awake about all night thinkin' what I'd ought to do, whether I'd ought to tell you what Babbie said, or just not trouble you at all and try to forget I ever heard it. That's what I decided finally, to forget it; and I will--I vow and declare I will! Don't you tell me anything, and let me forget this. Now please."

But she shook her head. "Things like that are not so easily forgotten," she said; "even when one tries as hard to forget as I am sure you would, Mr. Winslow. No, I want to tell you; I really do. Please don't say any more. Let me go on. . . . Oh," with a sudden burst of feeling "can't you see that I must talk with SOMEONE--I MUST?"

Her clasped fingers tightened and the tears sprang to her eyes.

Poor Jed's distress was greater than ever.

"Now--now, Mrs. Armstrong," he stammered, "all I meant to say was that you mustn't feel you've got to tell me. Course if you want to, that's different altogether. What I'm tryin' to say," he added, with a desperate attempt to make his meaning perfectly clear, "is not to pay any attention to ME at all but do just what YOU want to, that's all."

Even on the verge of tears as she was, she could not forbear smiling a little at this proclamation of complete self-effacement.

"I fear I must pay some attention to you," she said, "if I am to confide in you and--and perhaps ask your help, your advice, afterwards. I have reached a point when I must ask some one's advice; I have thought myself into a maze and I don't know what to do--I don't know WHAT to do. I have no near relatives, no friends here in Orham--"

Jed held up a protesting hand.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Armstrong," he stammered; "I don't know as you recollect, probably it might not have meant as much to you as it did to me; but a spell ago you said somethin' about countin' me as a friend."

"I know I did. And I meant it. You have been very kind, and Barbara is so fond of you. . . . Well, perhaps you can advise me, at least you can suggest--or--or--help me to think. Will you?"

Jed pa.s.sed his hand across his chin. It was obvious that her asking his counsel was simply a last resort, a desperate, forlorn hope. She had no real confidence in his ability to help. He would have been the last to blame her for this; her estimate of his capabilities was like his own, that was all.

"W-e-e-ll," he observed, slowly, "as to givin' my advice, when a man's asked to give away somethin' that's worth nothin' the least he can do is say yes and try to look generous, I cal'late. If I can advise you any, why, I'll feel proud, of course."

"Thank you. Mr. Winslow, for the past two years or more I have been in great trouble. I have a brother--but you knew that; Babbie told you."

"Um-hm. The one she calls 'Uncle Charlie'?"

"Yes. He is--he is serving his sentence in the Connecticut State Prison."

Jed leaned back upon the box. His head struck smartly against the edge of the bandsaw bench, but he did not seem to be aware of the fact.