ONCE again from the lady’s journal:
“It is impossible for me to describe the hope, peace, and comradeship that have transformed this place into a little nest, where it had been so terrible a prison before. The sunshine outside continues, and I know that it is but a matter of days when my father will come. It seems unaccountable to me that anything in the world could have stayed him so long; but Dr. Mal-bone assures me that the roads and mountains are still utterly impassable; that the roads, besides being strewn with fallen trees, are in places washed away, and that our one means of escape will be afoot, on our own account. We are now talking it over all the time, and are ready to start at the first favorable moment. My leg is nearly well; only a slight pain after severe exertion, and a most embarrassing weakness there, are the trouble now. But he is putting me through excellent treatment and training to overcome all that; and he has given me the joyous promise that we shall make the start in a week from to-day.
“And now I must write of some other wonderful things that have happened. The change that has come in our mutual bearing and understanding is so incredible that I hardly dare put it down here, lest it prove a dream. I made a vow some time ago in this journal that I would make this man need me and want me. That victory is won. And I know that in winning it over him I have won it over myself. O God, how blind, how stupidly, sordidly blind, I have been all these years! In the depths of my wretched selfishness, in the dark caverns of my meanness, I had never dreamed of the real human heart throbbing and aching and hoping all about me; it has taken this strange man to drag me forth into the light. And not at all willingly or consciously has he done so. There is a sting in that. At times I hate him still when I think of it all. It was the silent, intangible, undirected force radiating from him that has wrought the change. I feel no humiliation in saying this. I say it and know it in spite of the great distance that separates us,—the social barriers that mean so little and do so much. It will remain with me forever, whatever happen, to have known a man; to have known him in his strength and weakness, in his splendid unselfishness and childish reliance; in his simplicity and complexity; in his singleness of purpose and variety of attributes; in his gentleness and ferocity, and, above all, in his wonderful sense of duty. But I wish he were moved by something besides duty.
“There is another thing I must write, and I write it with a consciousness of burning cheeks. At times I find him—rather, I feel him—looking at me with a certain gentleness when I am not observing. What does that mean? Have I learned men so badly that I can mistake its meaning? The most convenient woman will do for the man who may prefer another but inaccessible one. Until we came closer together since the avalanche passed and the sunshine came, I was not a woman to him. No; I was a Duty. But there has now come into his voice and his glance a new quality,—stay! Remember that the weakness of women is their vanity. Could there happen so wonderful a thing as this man’s regard for me of the kind that a woman wants from the man whom she worships? If so, is he too proud, too reserved, too conscious of his present obligation of duty and protection, to make it known? Does he still fear me? Does he still hold in his heart the frightful denunciation that he hurled at me? Does he still loathe me as a murderess? Is my wealth a barrier? Does he lack the courage to dare what every man must dare in order to secure the woman he loves?
“Loves? Why did I write that word? By what authority or right? And yet, of all the words that the sunshine of the soul has placed upon the tongue, that is the sweetest....
“Distressing things have happened since I wrote the foregoing. For a time the stimulation of sunshine and hope, the sure prospect ofmyrelease from this prison, worked miracles with his strength, both of body and mind; but three days ago he grew silent and moody, then restless and anxious; by night he was down with a fever, the cause of which I cannot understand. When I see his fleshless chest and arms, I wonder if he has some malady that is killing him, and that he has concealed from me. His drawn face, with the skin tight to breaking on his cheek-bones, and his extreme emaciation, look like consumption; but he has no other symptoms, and he declares that he is perfectly sound. Is my presence so distressing that it alone is killing him? If so, it is murder for me to stay longer. If I only knew!
“Why does he conceal anything from me? What could he have to conceal that it is not right for me to know? And yet I know that the act of concealment could not thus be killing him,—it is the thing he is concealing that has the terror. It would be infinitely better for us both if he let me share it, and, as I am so much stronger than he, I could bear it so much better; the sharing of it would lighten his burden, and my sympathy would give him strength. Why cannot he see all this, when it is so clear to me? I must be patient, patient, patient! That is my watchword now.
“As in the former case, when he was taken ill, so now he prepared for his illness by bringing in a small, but this time utterly inadequate, supply of provisions. Not in a single instance, down to this last attack, has he consented to eat with me; he has always retreated through the rear door and eaten alone. It is now getting hard for me to bear this singular tyranny about the food. He eats with me now, because, being helpless in bed, he cannot avoid it; but he eats so little! It is impossible for him to gain strength in this way, and I am distressed beyond expression. He simply declares that he cannot eat. Singularly enough, he is always urging me of late to eat little, else I shall bring on a long list of disorders that will prevent our escape. For that matter, there is so little left of the store that he brought from the rear that I am uneasy lest the supply be exhausted and he remain stubbornly to his purpose not to trust me to get more from the place behind the rear door. What will be the end of this dreadful situation?
“It seems an odd inconsistency in his nature that this subject of eating should consume so much of his wandering thoughts. In his delirium he paints gorgeous pictures of feasts. He marvels at the splendor of Nero’s banquets, and declares that the people with so much to eat must have been fat and content! I hate to put this down, for it seems treasonable to betray this touch of grossness in a nature so singularly fine. If he thinks so much of eating, why should he be urging me to eat sparingly of the rude things that his larder might afford, and that cost me so much effort to eat with a good grace? It is strange how many unexpected things we learn of others in intimate association!...
“In glancing over these last pages I see how wretchedly I have failed to give the least insight into our life and relations. How could I ever have had the heart to see, much more put in writing, the slightest flaw in so noble a character? It would seem that the sympathy born of this new relation between us ought to touch only the best in my nature. Shame, shame, shame on me! Do I not see his haunting glance follow me everywhere, and resting upon me always with inexpressible gratitude?
“He is almost completely dependent upon me now. I nurse him as I would a child. It would be utterly inadequate to say that this fills me with happiness as being a return of some of the kindness that he has shown me. No, there is something besides that. The gratitude in my heart is great,—greater than I had thought so small and mean a heart could have. I am glad that I have it. But the joy of it all is the doing for this man, without regard to gratitude. To do for him; to nurse him; to cheer him; to feel that he needs me and wants me,—that is my heaven. And although a dreadful fear haunts me that he is dying,—that in some way that I cannot understand I am killing him,—that if he should die my life would be empty and dark,—still, it would be infinitely sweet to have him die in my arms, still needing me, still wanting me. Now that I have written that,—how could I have written it?—I will write more in all shamelessness. I want him tosaythat he needs me and wants me,—that he needs me and wants me to the end of his life.
“As I have written that much, I will write the rest, else my heart will burst. I love this man. I love him with all my heart, all my soul. I love him for everything that he is, not for anything that he has done. He is the one man whom the great God in His cruel wisdom and merciless providence has sent into my life for me to love. And with my tears wetting these pages, and my soul breathing prayers for his recovery, and his delivery to me, I pledge and consecrate myself to him to the end of my days, whatever may come. With every good impulse within me I will strive to be worthy of so great a heart, so noble a love. I will try to win his love by deserving it....
“An unexpected change for the better has come. Our supply of food had fallen so low that I had about determined to take matters into my own hands, enter the forbidden chamber, and get more provisions, when another idea occurred to me. It was absolutely necessary that we have more food. More important than that was the evident fact that he would die for the need of it if it were not forthcoming. I feared the disturbing effect of my going into the forbidden chamber, and so decided to make a thorough search of the cabin first. Knowing his inexplicable peculiarity on the subject of our food, I suspected that at some time in his mental wandering he may have concealed some in the cabin. So this morning before daylight, while he slept,—his sleeping is incredibly light,—I cautiously made a search of the cabin, and happily found a few nourishing things in the bottom of a box, where he had either concealed them or left them forgotten. These I prepared for him in a most tempting manner. I arranged my own dishes in a way to make him think I had eaten abundantly myself, and told him so when he awoke and refused to eat, urging me to eat what I had prepared for him.
“When I had convinced him that I had eaten all I could, he took a little, gingerly, from my hand. I had laid my plans well. As I fed him I talked incessantly, telling him a story that I knew would interest him. Before he realized what he was doing—his mind was not as alert as it normally is—he had eaten somewhat generously. The effect was magical. Color came to his cheeks and the quiet old sparkle to his eyes. Before long, to my great surprise and delight, he was up, and then went out to note the prospect for our leaving. He came back with a radiant face and buoyant manner, and said,—
“‘My friend, we will start at sunrise to-morrow.’
“My heart gave a great bound. It was a simple matter to make our preparations, as it was necessary that we travel as light as possible. It is time that we were leaving, for the last of the food that he brought from the rear is exhausted....
“The morning has come. And now we are about to turn our backs upon this strange place of suffering and mystery, its suffering endured, its mystery unsolved. And without shame do I say that I would rather walk out thus, and face the perils that lie ahead, with this man as my guide, my protector, my friend, than go forth in all the stateliness and triumph that wealth could afford.
“Farewell, dear, dear little home, my refuge, my cradle, my hope. I will come back, and——
“He is calling me at the door. I must kiss this table, these chairs, that bed, the walls. But it is with Him that I go.†Thus closed the lady’s journal.
THE two started bravely in the fine morning sunshine. There were long and laborious miles ahead, and only a short day in which to overcome them and their difficulties. In his heart the young man believed that it would be impossible for them to complete the task that day, and he dreaded the shelterless night that would overtake them. But should he break down, the day’s work would have hardened his companion for the rest of the journey alone. There was a chance that they would find help on the way, for surely efforts would be making to clear the roads. The snow had disappeared from all exposed places.
They descended the shaly, slippery trail to the road, and here he was gratified to see that the avalanche had cleared away the fallen tree and the wreck of the wagon. He led the way up the canon, for in that direction were the nearest houses.
He found the road even worse than he had expected. Being a narrow way, cut into the steep slope of the canon, to leave it in rounding fallen trees and breaches left by the storm was a slow and laborious task, and time was precious for a number of reasons. Each had a load to bear,—he some covering against the night, and she some articles of her own. These soon became very burdensome to both.
On they plodded. While a heaviness appeared in his manner, her bearing was cheerful and spirited. A sadness that he made no effort to conceal and that she bravely hid oppressed them both. To find him sad was sufficient to tinge her sadness with happiness. They rested at short intervals, for the exertion soon began to tell upon them, but upon him the more. They slaked their thirst from the river. To the woman it seemed a spring-time stroll through flowering fields, softened by the sweet sadness of May. To him it was a task that brought them step by step nearer to the end, where he must deal her the crudest blow of her life. For at the end she expected news of her father. She would hear it, and from the one who would have been the most glad to spare her. But she must not know yet. All her strength was needed for the task before her. It is time to break hearts when their breaking can be no longer deferred.
He had been trudging ahead. He must have suspected that she observed the labor with which he walked, the uncontrollable tendency of his knees to give way, the reeling that now would send him against the bank, and then upon the outer edge of the grade; for presently he asked her to walk ahead. She complied.
Their slow and laborious work presently made it impossible for them to talk. They went on in silence. After they had proceeded thus for some hours, a thing occurred that struck dismay to her soul. Her companion suddenly became voluble. At first he was coherent, although he talked about matters to which she was a total stranger. This showed an alarming unconsciousness of her presence. As he talked, he became more and more incoherent, and at times laughed inanely. Presently, with awe in his voice, he said,—
“She was the woman I loved. She’s dead, boys, she’s dead; and by God! they killed her.â€
Her spirit sank. After all that she had hoped and yearned for, there now had come back the most terrible of the ghosts of the bitter past. After all the seeming bridging of the chasm that had separated them, it opened now all the wider and deeper and darker.
“Do you know what a murderer is?†he exclaimed in a loud voice, as he swung his arm threateningly aloft. “A she-wolf, the slyest and most dangerous of beasts. She comes whining and fawning; she licks your hand; she wins your trust. And then, when you have warmed her, and patched her torn skin, and mended her broken bones, she turns upon you and tears out your heart with her fangs.â€
Stifling, faint, barely able to stand, the young woman stood aside, and he passed her without seeing her.
“Yes,†he resumed in great excitement, “I must be a man,—always a man. What! kill a woman? No, no, no! Not that. That would be terrible, brutal, cowardly. Yes, I must be a man. She needs me; I will help her. Is that door locked? She must never know—never know so long as she lives. Ah, that is beautiful, wonderful, savory,—a feast for gods and angels! Yes, I will do my duty. She needs me. She despises me. Very good; I will do my duty. She scorns my poor food—secretly, but I know! She is getting well. Thank God for that! She shall eat all she can. Me? No, no. I don’t want anything. No; I don’t want a thing. I have no appetite!â€
He burst into laughter, and the echo of it came back from the opposite wall of the canon.
“Oh, my love, my love!†he cried, suddenly becoming sad, “how could you cast me off, when all had been so true and trusting between us? But I know it was better so. It was not right for me to stand in the way.†He paused, and his voice sank into an awed whisper as he said, “She’s dead, boys, she’s dead; and by God! they killed her.â€
He pushed rapidly on, muttering things that she could not hear, that she did not want to hear. Not a word of kindness for her had come from him in his delirium, and her heart was breaking.
“When it is all over,†he said aloud, “I will go to my old friend, and he will nurse me back to health and strength, and I will begin the fight again. I will be a man—always a man. I will do my duty. And the she-wolf—no, no, no! She will not tear out my heart with her claws and fangs. No! There is no she-wolf! I say, there is no she-wolf. No! She is kind to me. I know it, I know it! She is gentle and thoughtful and unselfish. She is very, very beautiful. She won’t leave me, will she? She won’t leave me alone! But she is unmanning me! I must not let her do that! I must be a man and do my duty. No, you must not take off my shoes. I can do that. I have no pain—none whatever. Yes, I will be calm. Your voice is sweet; it is music; it fills me with peace and comfort; and your hand on my face—how soft and pleasant it is! I wish I could tell you; but no, I must do my duty; I must be a man! I will not listen to your voice. I will not let you touch me. That would keep me from my duty.â€
These words raised her from despair to bliss. And so he had fought his inclinations,—he needed her, he wanted her!
Still he kept on. She strained every hearing faculty for his slightest word. For what he had already said, she could bear his forgetting her presence. Still they pushed on, he muttering and laughing; but for all his madness, he was wise and cautious amid the dangers and hardships of the road. No longer did he advise her, guide her, assist her, and show her the innumerable unobtrusive attentions to which she had become accustomed.
At last he suddenly stopped in a stretch of good road and looked about, bewildered.
“Where is this?†he whispered; then aloud, “Oh, it is the trail of the wolves! After them will come the she-wolf, and her fangs——†He dropped his parcel and clutched his breast. “Her fangs!†he gasped. He looked about and picked up a stick, which he swung as a club about him. “The she-wolf is here!†he cried.
His glance fell upon his companion, standing in awe and pity and love before him. Instantly a fearful malignity hardened his face, and his eyes blazed with the murder that had filled them once before. He clutched the stick more fiercely, and glared at her with a mixture of terror and ferocity. But she stood firm, and gently said,—
“My friend!â€
His face instantly softened. She stood smiling, her glance caressing, her whole bearing bespeaking sympathy and affection.
“My dear friend,†she said, in a voice whose sweetness sank deep within him, “you know me!â€
A look of joyous recognition swept over his face.
“I am so glad!†he breathlessly said. “I thought you had left me alone!â€
Saying this, he sank to the ground, smiling upon her as he fell.
She knelt beside him, placed a soothing hand upon his cheek, and spoke comforting words. His face showed the profound gratification that filled him, and her soul spread its wings in the sunshine that filled the day with its glories.
He lay limp and helpless, but she knew that he must be going forward if he could. She caressed him, she coaxed him, she raised him to a sitting posture, she put her arms under his and lifted him to his feet; but his breathing was short and distressed, his head rolled listlessly, and his legs refused their offices. Then she realized that the last remnant of his strength, both of body and spirit, was gone; and her heart sank to the uttermost depths.
“Lay me down,†he said, very gently, but clearly, and with perfect resignation. “Lay me down, my friend, and go on alone. I am very tired, and must sleep. Keep to the road. I don’t think it is far to the nearest house. You are sure to find some one. Be brave and keep on.â€
She laid him down and turned away. A cruel choking had throttled her power of speech. With tears so streaming from her eyes that she went about her purpose half blind, she found a drier place in the road, gathered pine-needles less soaked than the rest, made a bed for him there, and spread upon it the blankets that he had been carrying. When she looked again into his face he was sleeping lightly, and his breathing betrayed great physical distress. As gently as a mother lifting her sleeping babe, she took him up in her arms, bore him to the bed, and with infinite care and tenderness laid him upon it. Then with some twigs and handkerchiefs she fashioned a canopy that shielded his head from the sun. She covered him with a free part of the blanket; but fearing that it would prove insufficient, she removed her outer skirt and covered him with that; these covers she tucked about him, that he might not easily throw them off.
He had not been roused by these attentions. She knelt beside him and gently kissed his hands, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, and wiped away her streaming tears as they fell upon his face. He moved slightly, opened his eyes, looked into her face, and smiled. Very feebly he took her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed it, smiled again, closed his eyes, and with a sigh of weariness fell asleep. She knelt thus and watched him for a little while, seeing him sink deeper and deeper into slumber. Then she rose. And now may the great God give heart and strength for the mighty task ahead!
Not trusting herself to look back upon him, she gathered up her courage and started. On she went, her head high, her eyes aflame, her cheeks aglow. A suffocating, heart-aching loneliness haunted her, dogged her, gnawed at her spirit. More than once she wavered, weak and trembling, under the backward strain upon her heart-strings. More than once she cried aloud, “I can’t leave him! I can’t leave him! I must go back!†And then she would summon all her strength again, and cry, “It is for his sake that I go! It is to save him that I leave him!â€
Thus, rended by contending agonies, she went on and on. With incredible self-torturings she pictured the dangers to which she had left him exposed. What had he meant by the wolves? Was there really danger from that source? Often in his sleep in the hut, and again when his mind would wander, he had spoken of the wolves, and always in terror; but most dreadful of all things to him was the she-wolf. Yet during all the time that she had been imprisoned with him in the hut there had not been the least sign of a wolf, not the most distant howl of one. Why had this hallucination been so persistent with him, so terrifying to him?
The miles seemed interminable. She kept her eyes and ears strained for signs and sounds of human life. At intervals she would call aloud with all her might, and after hearing the echo of her voice die away in the canon, wait breathlessly for a response that never came. With eager haste she pushed on. Clambering over fallen trees, heading gullies that she could not leap, wading swift rivulets with which the rapidly melting snow was still ploughing the road, she came at length within view of some men who were clearing the road with axes and mending it with shovels,—the rough, strong, silent, capable men of the mountains. She frantically waved her handkerchief and called as she went. They stopped their work and stood gazing at her in wondering silence. They saw that she was not of their kind; but their trained sensibilities informed them that the great mountains had been working their terrible will upon human helplessness, and they stood ready to put the strength of their arms and hearts into the human struggle.
Imperfectly clad as she was, her form and bearing suggesting a princess, her beauty, enhanced by her joy at finding help, radiant and dazzling, their wonder and shyness held them stolid and outwardly unresponsive, and they silently waited for her to speak. She went straight to them, and, looking at them one after another as she spoke, she said,—
“Will you help me, men? I left a man exhausted in the road some miles down the canon. I fear he is dying. Will you go with me and help me bring him up? Is there a doctor anywhere near? Is there a house to which we may take him?â€
There was a moment of silence,—these men are slow, but all the surer for that.
One of them, a bearded, commanding man of middle age, said,—
“Yes, we will go and bring him up. A doctor lives up the canon. Maybe he’s at home. The man can’t walk?â€
“No; he is lying helpless in the road.†The strong man, whom she afterward heard the others call Samson,—one of those singular coincidences of name and character,—turned and picked out two men.
“You two,†he said, as quietly as though he were directing the road-work, “cut two poles and make a litter with them and a blanket. Go and bring the man up. You,†he said to a third, “help them make the litter, and give a hand on the trip.†Two others he directed to prepare the wagon, which stood a short distance up the road. Another he sent up the road to summon the doctor. Then he turned his attention to the young woman. Without consulting her, he made a comfortable nest of greatcoats and blankets, and when he had so deftly and quickly finished it, he said to her,—
“Come and rest here.â€
“No!†she vehemently protested; “I am going back with the men.â€
“You are not going back with the men. If you did, there would be two for them to bring up instead of one. One is enough. Make yourself comfortable here; you are safe.â€
The slight rebuke in this, and the quiet determination with which the man spoke, informed her that she must lay a reasoning hand upon her agonizing fear and impatience. She obeyed him with as good a grace as she could find.
Again without consulting her, he brought some hot coffee, poured it into a tin-cup, and held it out to her.
“Drink that,†he said.
She drank it. He then produced some bread, which he sliced and buttered.
“Eat that,†he said.
She obeyed. While doing so she watched the men make the litter, and marvelled at the skill with which they worked, and the quickness with which the task was done, seemingly without the slightest effort or hurry. Then in silence the three men swung down the road.
The man named Samson, although he had not appeared to be giving any attention to his fair guest, was in front of her the moment she had finished the bread and butter. He carried some things in his arms, and threw them down at her feet.
“Take off your shoes and stockings,†he said, “and put on these socks; they are thick and warm. Take off all your other things that are wet, and wrap yourself up in these blankets. By the time the litter comes your things will be dry in the sun.â€
THE three remaining men turned to their work of clearing the road, headed by Samson. He had not asked her any questions; he did not even look again her way; but presently he brought her clothes, which he had spread and dried in the sunshine, and told her that by the time she was dressed the litter would be there. This she found to be so.
Coming down the road, on a powerful horse, she saw a bearded, ruddy-faced, stocky, middle-aged man, whose business she easily guessed from the country-doctor’s saddle-bags slung across his horse. The doctor rode up and greeted,—
“Hello, Samson! Man hurt?â€
“Don’t know,†answered the foreman.
Then, with a jerk of his thumb toward his guest, he added, “She can tell you.â€
The doctor had not seen her. He looked around, gazed at her a moment in astonishment, and then, with a fine courtesy singularly different from the hearty roughness with which he had greeted the man, he raised his hat.
This diversion had kept the attention of the two from the quiet arrival of the men with the litter. When the young woman saw it, she forgot the presence of all save him lying so quiet where the men had placed him on a bed made by Samson from coats. She ran and knelt beside him; she kissed his cheeks; she chafed his hands; she begged him to speak, to live for her sake.
The strong hand of the doctor lifted her from the unconscious man and gently put her aside. A moment’s astonished gaze into the pallid, upturned face brought this burst from the doctor,—
“Adrian Wilder—dying!†He turned anxiously upon the young woman, and demanded, “Where did you find him? What is the matter here?â€
“You mistake,†she firmly said. “He is Dr. Malbone.â€
“Dr. Malbone!†he exclaimed. “Why, I am Dr. Malbone. This man is my friend, Adrian Wilder!â€
His look was half fierce and full of suspicion.
Too surprised to comprehend at once the full meaning of his declaration, she stood staring at the physician in silence. That gentleman, turning from her, dropped on his knees and made a hurried examination of the unconscious man. “I don’t understand this,†he said to himself. He quickly opened Wilder’s shirt. Upon seeing the emaciation there, and exclaiming in amazement and horror, he turned again upon the young woman as he knelt, and demanded,—
“Explain this to me. Be quick, for every moment is precious. I don’t want to make a mistake, and I must know. He has pneumonia; but there is something behind it. Where and when did you find him?â€
In a few words she told the salient facts of the story as she believed it,—the running away of the horses, the breaking of her leg, her father’s departure to fetch relief, her care at the stone hut.
“When did this accident happen to you?†the doctor asked.
“Four months ago.â€
“And you two have lived alone at his cabin?â€
“Yes.â€
He glanced her over, and looked more puzzled than ever.
“You are looking hearty,†he said; “how is it that my friend is in this condition?â€
“It must have been his care of me and his worry on my account.â€
This appeared half to satisfy Dr. Mal-bone.
“Yes,†he said, “not being a doctor, and being extremely susceptible to the pressure of his duty toward you, he may have worn himself out.â€
With that he hastily gave the young man a stimulant, and said,—
“Fall to here, men, and help me revive him, else he will be dead before we know it. Chafe his wrists and ankles. Hurry, men, but be gentle. That is good. Slow, there, John; those horny hands of yours are strong and rough. Samson, bring some strong coffee as quickly as God will let you. Rub him under the blankets, men; don’t let him chill. Maybe we can get him out of this pinch. The great thing now is to take him to my house.... Ah, that is good work, lads! His heart is waking up a little. That is good. That is very good.â€
Dr. Malbone straightened up, and turned to the young woman, again fastening upon her the strange, severe, suspicious, half-threatening look that she had already learned to dread.
“I fear there is something unexplained here, madam, something concealed. I am not accusing you. My friend is a strange, fine man, and for good reasons he may have withheld something from you. But he would never hide anything from me. Did he give you a letter for any one?â€
“He did not.â€
“Have you seen him writing?â€
“No.â€
“Martin, hand me his coat.â€
Dr. Malbone searched the pockets, and found a sealed letter addressed to him. He tore it open and read. As he read his astonishment grew. When he had finished, he turned a strange, pitying look upon the young woman.
“He charges me to give you this when I shall have read it.â€
He handed her the letter, which she read. It ran thus:
“My dear Friend,—This is written to give Miss Andros some unhappy information that she ought to have at the earliest safe and proper moment, and as a precaution against my breaking down before that moment arrives. To have told her at first might have prevented her recovery. The proper moment to tell her will have arrived when she is in safe hands. I trust that they may be yours, and I know that you will show her every kindness that your generous soul can yield.
“It is this: Her father lost his life in the accident on the grade, by the falling of a tree upon him. His body rests under the earth in the farther end of the cave into which the rear door of my cabin opens. The grave is marked with a board giving his name. Nailed up in a box near the door are his personal effects.
“Give this letter to my afflicted friend. It will convey no hint of the profound sympathy that I feel, nor of what I suffer in thus raising my hand to deal her so cruel a blow.
“I can only crave her forgiveness for deceiving her both as to her father’s death and my being a physician.â€
The eager hope, the anxiety, the absorption of her entire self in the stricken man at her feet, fled before the crushing whirlwind of grief that now overwhelmed her. The loss of her father was the loss of the anchor of her life, the loss of the one sure thing upon which her soul rested, in which she knew peace, security, sympathy, and strength. She spoke no word, but gazed far down the canon, a picture of complete desolation. Dr. Malbone stood beside her, looking down thoughtfully into the face of his friend. The men, relieved from their work of bringing back a faint glow of the flickering life on the ground, moved away silently, with the instinctive delicacy of their kind, knowing that they were facing a tragedy that they did not understand.
The letter fell from the young woman’s hand as she still gazed in mute agony down the canon. A slight swaying of her form warned Dr. Malbone that his time for action had arrived.
“A noble life still is left to us,†he quietly said, without looking up, and with a certain unsteadiness in his voice; “and it appeals to us for all that we have to give of help and strength and sympathy.â€
It was a timely word. Instantly she dragged herself out of the crushing tumult into which she had been plunged.
“Yes,†she said, radiant with love and towering above the wreck that encompassed her, “the noblest of all lives is still left to us, and it shall have all that lies in us to give.â€
“Then,†said Dr. Malbone, “time is very precious. Let us take him to my home at once.â€
The sun had set behind the western mountains, but it still tipped the snowy summit of Mount Shasta with a crimson glow.
“Put the horses through,†said Dr. Malbone to the man who drove.
They made good speed up the grade, Dr. Malbone pondering in silence some problem that still sorely troubled him, the young woman sitting on the floor of the wagon and holding the hand of the unconscious man. Presently they arrived at Dr. Malbone’s house, where his plain, homelike wife, a competent mountain woman, quickly had the patient comfortable in bed, while her husband went thoroughly into the treatment. His was a mercurial spirit, the opposite of the gentle soul now seemingly passing away under his hands.
“I can find absolutely nothing,†he finally exclaimed, in despair, “except simple inanition as the probable cause and a complication of this attack, and I know that it is absurd. You must help me, madam. Tell me how you lived.â€
Numerous sharp questions were required before he finally came upon the trail of the truth. She had delayed saying that Wilder had not eaten with her, and that toward the last he was niggardly with the food, because she feared that it would sound like a reproach. The moment she mentioned it, Dr. Mal-bone was transfigured. He sprang back from the bedside and confronted her, menacing and formidable, as Wilder had confronted her on that terrible day when she told him the story of her breaking up the attachment between a musician and her friend, and the death of the girl from a broken heart. What had she done or said that should bring this second storm of a man’s fury upon her?
“And you no doubt think,†cried Dr. Malbone, “that you have learned from his letter the true reason for his keeping you out of the cave. In all this broad world is there any human being so besotted with selfishness as not to be able to burrow through its swinishness for the truth? Come and look at this.†He dragged her to the bedside and showed her the body of his patient. “Is there under heaven,†he continued, “a mental or a spiritual eye so blinded with brutal egotism, so drunk with self-interest, as not to read the story that this poor withered frame writes large? Do you not understand that in those acts—over which you no doubt whined and complained in your empty heart—he gave evidence of a sublime sacrifice for you? Look at your own abundant flesh. You never went hungry in the hut. You never asked yourself if he might have food sufficient for two during the long winter. And now you see that he has denied himself for your comfort. He is dying of starvation, because in his splendid unselfishness he wanted you to be comfortable.â€
Dr. Malbone paused, but his eyes were still blazing upon her, and his body trembled with the passion that stirred him.
“One affliction has fallen upon you; may you have strength and grace to bear it; but I say this: If ten thousand such afflictions had overtaken you, the suffering from them would not be adequate——â€
He suddenly checked himself, and gave his wife hurried instructions for the preparation of some nutriment. While this was preparing, he resorted to such vigorous measures as the urgency of the case demanded. All this quickly brought him under self-control, and he worked with the sure hand of a skilful man battling with all his might in a desperate emergency. The young woman had sunk into a chair, where she sat dazed, weak, ill, and ignored, not daring to offer help, and praying dumbly for the opening of a vast gulf to entomb her.
The patient rallied under the physician’s treatment. Slowly, but with palpable effect, Dr. Malbone dragged him a little way from the brink of death. The doctor’s coat was off, but sweat streamed down his face. His wife—silent, intelligent, and alert—gave him all the help that he required, and neither of them looked toward the suffering woman sitting crushed and miserable in the chair. Thus the time passed until the intense anxiety in the physician’s face began to relax; and at last, with a sigh, he sank wearily into a chair, remarking to his wife,—
“There is nothing more to do for the present. He is rallying. Give him time. The chances are a hundred to one against him.â€
He rested his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes, while his wife went to discharge her duties in another part of the house. Soon he raised his head, and in his old kindly manner said to the young woman,—
“I am sorry for the way in which I talked just now, and I ask you to forgive me. You will understand my outburst and be more inclined to forgive me when I tell you something of my poor friend’s life; for I am certain that he has told you nothing. Has he?â€
“No,†she answered, weakly and humbly.
“He has suffered so cruel a wrong in the past that when I see the least approach to imposition upon his noble unselfishness it maddens me. I ought not to have blamed you. You were not conscious of imposing upon him. I believe that he is dying. If so, there will be no harm in my telling you his story. If he lives, I can trust you with it.
“I had known him in San Francisco, but I came to these mountains long before him. It was less than two years ago that he came to me, and you can never realize the shock that his condition gave me. After a while he told me of his trouble as he understood it. It was this: Through giving violin lessons to a young lady of wealth and of great loveliness of character, he became deeply attached to her, and in return she gave him her whole affection. She was willing and anxious to marry him, even though she knew that her parents and friends would disown her if she did. He hesitated, from pure unselfishness, to bring upon her any distress that their marriage might cause. The poor fool could not understand that she would have gladly given up everything in life for him. He was called away to fill a lucrative engagement, and in his absence her heart changed toward him. Soon afterward she died. When he came to me he was broken in spirit and body, and it was my privilege to start him aright in a chastened and nobler life. He and I built the cabin, and there he was to pass the winter in unremitting study and self-mastery.
“That was the story as he told it to me and as he believed it to be. But I saw that something was behind it that in his sweetness and generosity he had never suspected. I myself learned the truth. By means of a few inquiries made by letter to a friend in San Francisco, I found that an old school-friend of the girl had made the trouble. It was a case of malicious revenge. The girl whom my friend loved had innocently and unconsciously received the love of a man for whom she cared nothing, as her whole affection was with my friend. This man was very rich, and for that and other reasons was regarded as a prize. It appears that before losing his heart to this loveliest of girls he had been devoted to her old school-friend, a beautiful and dashing belle, who expected to marry him. When she found that she had lost him, she planned revenge. She was utterly without heart or principle. So she traded on her old school-mate’s confidence in her, and used that friendship to separate the lovers with lies and cunning. She succeeded. The girl died of a broken heart, and my friend’s life was ruined.â€
A look of unutterable horror settled upon the young woman’s face, and she sat upright and rigid, staring helplessly at him.
“I never told him what I had learned,†resumed the physician. “It might have broken his heart, and he had suffered enough. I did not want him to know that malice, revenge, and murder had played their part in his story.â€
The young woman’s face bore so singular an expression that the physician marvelled. She was white, and deep and unaccustomed lines marred her beauty.
“He knows the whole truth,†she said, quietly, and with a strange hardness. “He knows that I am the woman who brought about their separation. He learned it from me long ago in his cabin.†What Dr. Malbone might have done under the spur of the horror and amazement that filled him was checked by a violent fit of coughing with which his patient had been seized. His physician’s training instantly sent him to the bedside.
“Help me here!†he cried, as he raised the sufferer.
The young woman staggered to the bed. Dr. Malbone shot a malevolent glance at her, but she did not heed it. He raised his hand to thrust her back, but she grasped it, and quietly and firmly said,—
“I am going to help you.â€
He yielded, and told her what to do, and she did it.
The cough was checked, and the sufferer was laid back upon the pillow. His eyes were open, and he looked from one of the watchers to the other as they stood on opposite sides of the bed. At first he was puzzled, and then a bright look of recognition lighted up his face. He smiled as he extended a feeble hand to each.
“You are safe,†he faintly said to the young woman. “I am glad. Dr. Mal-bone will be kind to you.†To the physician he said, his voice tremulous with affection, “My dear old friend, always true, always kind.â€
He wanted to say more, but Dr. Mal-bone checked him and gave him something to strengthen him. He took it, shaking his head and smiling sadly. Presently, as his eyes grew brighter, Dr. Malbone said,—
“You may speak now, Adrian, if you wish.â€
The young woman had knelt, and, taking the sufferer’s hand in both of hers, bowed her head over it as she pressed it to her lips.
“Look at me,†he said to her.
She raised her head, and they looked long and silently at each other. He seemed troubled and anxious.
“My poor friend,†he said, “you have not yet learned. Dr. Malbone—a letter—my pocket.â€
“I have read the letter, my friend,†she hastened to say. “I know all about my father, and I know how thoughtful and kind you were not to tell me.â€
“Then you forgive me?†he begged.
“Forgive you, my friend? Yes, a thousand times; but how can you forgive——â€
She buried her face in his pillow; her arm stole round him, and she drew him against her breast.
“I did that long ago,†he replied.
“My noble, generous friend!†she said. “But can you understand what you have been to me, what you have done for me, what you are to me? Can you believe that you have made a true woman of me? Am I still the she-wolf, my friend?â€
A supreme agony moved her in this appeal. He feebly tried to check her with his hand, but she nestled her cheek close against his and pleaded,—
“Do you understand that you have made me worthy of every kind regard that so noble a man could have for a woman? Can you believe, friend of my life, that you have made me such a woman as would be perfect in your eyes?â€
He made no reply, and, still holding him in her arms, she raised her head to look into his face. He was regarding her with a strange and distant wistfulness, and there shone in his eyes a pale, far light that stretched through infinite space. A faint smile played upon his lips, the feeble pressure of his hand closed upon hers.
“You will not leave me, will you?†she pleaded. “You will come back to health, my friend. You will teach me, you will guide me. The world will be bright and beautiful, for all our suffering has been borne. We belong each to the other, my friend, in friendship, trust, and sympathy.â€
Still he smiled as he looked into her face; and as he smiled, and she saw the strange, far light that shone from so inconceivable a distance in the awful depths of his eyes, her eager heart found a bridge of glass spanning the gulf between them. Then he sighed deeply, and his eyes rolled upward. She sprang from the bed to her feet.
“Dr. Malbone!†she cried, in a suppressed voice, “quick! he has fainted!â€
The physician, who had stepped a little way apart, came forward and looked down into the still face of his friend. Then he glanced up at the young woman, who was trembling with eager impatience.
“There is nothing to do,†sadly replied Dr. Malbone; then he passed round the bed, took the young woman gently by the arm, and, in a kind voice, said, “Come with me.â€
She went with him, wondering, and looking over her shoulder toward the bed. He led her into an adjoining room, closed the door, and placed a chair for her.
“No, Dr. Malbone!†she protested. “How can I, when he needs us both so much? Hurry back to him; I will stay here if you wish.â€
“No,†replied the physician; “my place is here.â€
A look of desperate eagerness settled in her face, and she was listening intently for a sound from the other room. The physician regarded her pityingly, as she stood trembling in an agony of impatience and apprehension. Unable to control herself longer, she seized him by the arm, and cried,—
“Dr. Malbone, you know best, but I can’t bear to leave him! Do you know that I fear he will die? He is all the world to me, and I can’t bear to let him go. Do you understand that? I want him to live. I want to show him what a good woman’s trust and love can be. I want to give my whole life to his happiness. I want to atone for all the evil and suffering that I have brought upon him. I want him to know that he has found peace and a refuge at last. Dr. Malbone, go and save him!â€
Dr. Malbone took her hands in his, and said,—
“Will you try to understand what I am going to say?â€
“Yes, yes!†she answered.
“Then command all the strength of your soul.â€
“Dr. Malbone!†she gasped, peering into his eyes, her face blanching.
With pity and tenderness the physician said,—
“Our friend is dead; he died in your arms.â€