Audrey

Haward smiled. "Child, you have conned your lesson well. Leave the words

of the book, and tell me in your own language what his reverence wants."

Audrey told him, but it seemed to her that he was not listening. When she

had come to an end of the minister's grievances, she sat, with downcast

eyes, waiting for him to speak, wishing that he would not look at her so

steadily. She meant never to show him her heart,--never, never; but

beneath his gaze it was hard to keep her cheek from burning, her lip from

quivering.

At last he spoke: "Would it please you, Audrey, if I should save this man

from his just deserts?"

Audrey raised her eyes. "He and Mistress Deborah are all my friends," she

said. "The glebe house is my home."

Deep sadness spoke in voice and eye. The shaft of light, moving, had left

her in the outer shadow: she sat there with a listless grace; with a

dignity, too, that was not without pathos. There had been a forlorn child;

there had been an unfriended girl; there was now a woman, for Life to

fondle or to wreak its rage upon. The change was subtle; one more a lover

or less a lover than Haward might not have noted it. "I will petition the

Commissary to-night," he said, "the Governor to-morrow. Is your having in

friends so slight as you say, little maid?"

Oh, he could reach to the quick! She was sure that he had not meant to

accuse her of ingratitude, and pitifully sure that she must have seemed

guilty of it. "No, no!" she cried. "I have had a friend"--Her voice broke,

and she started to her feet, her face to the door, all her being

quiveringly eager to be gone. She had asked that which she was bidden to

ask, had gained that which she was bidden to gain; for the rest, it was

far better that she should go. Better far for him to think her dull and

thankless as a stone than see--than see-When Haward caught her by the hand, she trembled and drew a sobbing

breath. "'I have had a friend,' Audrey?" he asked. "Why not 'I have a

friend'?"

"Why not?" thought Audrey. "Of course he would think, why not? Well,

then"-"I have a friend," she said aloud. "Have you not been to me the kindest

friend, the most generous"--She faltered, but presently went on, a strange

courage coming to her. She had turned slightly toward him, though she

looked not at him, but upward to where the light streamed through the high

window. It fell now upon her face. "It is a great thing to save life," she

said. "To save a soul alive, how much greater! To have kept one soul in

the knowledge that there is goodness, mercy, tenderness, God; to have

given it bread to eat where it sat among the stones, water to drink where

all the streams were dry,--oh, a king might be proud of that! And that is

what you have done for me.... When you sailed away, so many years ago, and

left me with the minister and his wife, they were not always kind. But I

knew that you thought them so, and I always said to myself, 'If he knew,

he would be sorry for me.' At last I said, 'He is sorry for me; there is

the sea, and he cannot come, but he knows, and is sorry.' It was

make-believe,--for you thought that I was happy, did you not?--but it

helped me very much. I was only a child, you know, and I was so very

lonely. I could not think of mother and Molly, for when I did I saw them

as--as I had seen them last. The dark scared me, until I found that I

could pretend that you were holding my hand, as you used to do when night

came in the valley. After a while I had only to put out my hand, and yours

was there waiting for it. I hope that you can understand--I want you to

know how large is my debt.... As I grew, so did the debt. When I was a

girl it was larger than when I was a child. Do you know with whom I have

lived all these years? There is the minister, who comes reeling home from

the crossroads ordinary, who swears over the dice, who teaches cunning

that he calls wisdom, laughs at man and scarce believes in God. His hand

is heavy; this is his mark." She held up her bruised wrist to the light,

then let the hand drop. When she spoke of the minister, she made a gesture

toward the shadows growing ever thicker and darker in the body of the

house. It was as though she saw him there, and was pointing him out.

"There is the minister's wife," she said, and the motion of her hand again

accused the shadows. "Oh, their roof has sheltered me; I have eaten of

their bread. But truth is truth. There is the schoolmaster with the

branded hands. He taught me, you know. There is"--she was looking with

wide eyes into the deepest of the shadows--"there is Hugon!" Her voice

died away. Haward did not move or speak, and for a minute there was

silence in the dusky playhouse. Audrey broke it with a laugh, soft, light,

and clear, that came oddly upon the mood of the hour. Presently she was

speaking again: "Do you think it strange that I should laugh? I laughed to

think I have escaped them all. Do you know that they call me a dreamer?

Once, deep in the woods, I met the witch who lives at the head of the

creek. She told me that I was a dream child, and that all my life was a

dream, and I must pray never to awake; but I do not think she knew, for

all that she is a witch. They none of them know,--none, none! If I had not

dreamed, as they call it,--if I had watched, and listened, and laid to

heart, and become like them,--oh, then I should have died of your look

when at last you came! But I 'dreamed;' and in that long dream you, though

you were overseas, you showed me, little by little, that the spirit is not

bond, but free,--that it can walk the waves, and climb to the sunset and

the stars. And I found that the woods were fair, that the earth was fair

and kind as when I was a little child. And I grew to love and long for

goodness. And, day by day, I have had a life and a world where flowers

bloomed, and the streams ran fresh, and there was bread indeed to eat. And

it was you that showed me the road, that opened for me the gates!"