To-night the shadow was there, and the dream was not of the water, marsh, or woodland, nor of the wild things, nor of Davie. But the girl was there—she was always there, growing up out of the dead used-to-be in spite of bitter thoughts and gnawing pain. And Boy saw her face to-night, gloriously glad and strong and beautiful.
His love was a bound prisoner, and only the spirit of worship, sublime and beautiful, enshrined his world, and the girl’s, with its sanctity. He did not realize what he was holding bound; he realized only that he was but a thing of the Wild, whose heart had caught aflame at a low word; whose soul had surged at the touch of a warm breath. He did not know that Gloss loved him. He did not realize his power. He was one of God’s strong men.
Then the dream became of the marsh and water, and there was not a single cloud in the world of the Wild, and in the deep quiet of his peace Boy slept before the whitening coals.
When he awoke the gray dawn was peering into the room and he was alone beside the dying embers. But he saw her face in the coals, and it was his nature to be content with little. After all, there would always be something left of which no earthly power could deprive him.
CHAPTER XXVII
While the Rain Fell
Watson, his feet on the table and his pipe alight, glanced across at Smythe, who was standing before the window. It was evening, and the falling rain made soothing, swishing music against the pane and upon the low roof of the Bridgetown store. Watson watched the storekeeper speculatively. At last he spoke.
“I told you we were playing a losing game,” he growled, “and here we are waiting like a pair of trapped fox for the end. A mighty shrewd pair we’ve been, to be sure. This double game don’t go, Smythe. I’ve played it all my life—and what have I got by it? Nothing—absolutely nothing.”
Mr. Smythe smiled a faint smile and smoothed his hair with a thin hand.
“I will admit it looks as though we have been a little indiscreet,” he returned. “That last move of ours was foolish—very foolish; but, Thomas, we had to protect ourselves, and—ahem! we had to do what Simpson wished. Otherwise——”
“Do you think I would have let that cur lay a finger on that little girl?” cried Watson. “Look here, Smythe, I may be a cheat and a villain, but I tell you I’m not all bad. Simpson’s threat that he would tell Hallibut everything didn’t frighten me. But, drunken fool I was—and you were too—to think that those Bushwhackers could be forced into yielding up their rights through fear for the safety of the girl. Bah! it makes me sick to think of what a fool I’ve been.”