"Where?" she cried."I have been looking for him everywhere.""There, at the window, outside."
Even in the dim light of the lanterns and candles hung here and there upon the walls and stuck on the window sills, Smith's face, pale, stern, sad, shone like a specter out of the darkness behind.
"What's the matter with the man?" cried Mandy."I must find out."Suddenly the reel came to an end and Cameron, taking the pipes from young Macgregor, cried, "Now, Moira, we will give them our way of it," and, tuning the pipes anew, he played over once and again their own Glen March, known only to the piper of the Cuagh Oir.
Then with cunning skill making atmosphere, he dropped into a wild and weird lament, Moira standing the while like one seeing a vision.With a swift change the pipes shrilled into the true Highland version of the ancient reel, enriched with grace notes and variations all his own.For a few moments the girl stood as if unwilling to yield herself to the invitation of the pipes.
Suddenly, as if moved by another spirit than her own, she stepped into the circle and whirled away into the mazes of the ancient style of the Highland Fling, such as is mastered by comparatively few even of the Highland folk.With wonderful grace and supple strength she passed from figure to figure and from step to step, responding to the wild mad music as to a master spirit.
In the midst of the dance Mandy made her way out of the house and round to the window where Smith stood gazing in upon the dancer.
She quietly approached him from behind and for a few moments stood at his side.He was breathing heavily like a man in pain.
"What is it, Mr.Smith?" she said, touching him gently on the shoulder.
He sprang from her touch as from a stab and darted back from the crowd about the window.
"What is it, Mr.Smith?" she said again, following him."You are not well.You are in pain."He stood a moment or two gazing at her with staring eyes and parted lips, pain, grief and even rage distorting his pale face.
"It is wicked," at length he panted."It is just terrible wicked--a young girl like that."
"Wicked? Who? What?"
"That--that girl--dancing like that."
"Dancing? That kind of dancing?" cried Mandy, astonished."I was brought up a Methodist myself," she continued, "but that kind of dancing--why, I love it.""It is of the devil.I am a Methodist--a preacher--but I could not preach, so I quit.But that is of the world, the flesh, and the devil and--and I have not the courage to denounce it.She is--God help me--so--so wonderful--so wonderful.""But, Mr.Smith," said Mandy, laying her hand upon his arm, and seeking to sooth his passion, "surely this dancing is--"Loud cheers and clapping of hands from the house interrupted her.
The man put his hands over his eyes as if to shut out a horrid vision, shuddered violently, and with a weird sound broke from her touch and fled into the bluff behind the house just as the party came streaming from the house preparatory to departing.It seemed to Mandy as if she had caught a glimpse of the inner chambers of a soul and had seen things too sacred to be uttered.
Among the last to leave were young Dent and the Inspector.
"We have found out the culprit," cried Dent, as he was saying good-night.
"The culprit?" said Mandy."What do you mean?""The fellow who has engineered this whole business.""Who is it?" said Cameron.
"Why, listen," said Dent."Who got the logs from Bracken? Smith.
Who got the Inspector to send men through the settlement? Smith.
Who got the lumber out of the same Inspector? Smith.And the sash and doors out of Cochrane? Smith.And wiggled the shingles out of Newsome? And euchred old Scotty Hepburn into building the fireplace? And planned and bossed the whole job? Who? Smith.
This whole business is Smith's work."
"And where is Smith? Have you seen him, Mandy? We have not thanked him," said Cameron.
"He is gone, I think," said Mandy."He left some time ago.We shall thank him later.But I am sure we owe a great deal to you, Inspector Dickson, to you, Mr.Dent, and indeed to all our friends," she added, as she bade them good-night.
For some moments they lingered in the moonlight.
"To think that this is Smith's work!" said Cameron, waving his hand toward the house."That queer chap! One thing I have learned, never to judge a man by his legs again.""He is a fine fellow," said Mandy indignantly, "and with a fine soul in spite of--""His wobbly legs," said her husband smiling.
"It's a shame, Allan.What difference does it make what kind of legs a man has?""Very true," replied her husband smiling, "and if you knew your Bible better, Mandy, you would have found excellent authority for your position in the words of the psalmist, 'The Lord taketh no pleasure in the legs of a man.' But, say, it is a joke," he added, "to think of this being Smith's work."
