Chapter IIIThe Pines
As the day advanced Darrell grew gradually but steadily worse. After the excitement of the night had passed a reaction set in; he felt utterly exhausted and miserable, the pain returned with redoubled violence, and the fever increased perceptibly from hour to hour.
He was keenly observant of those about him, and he could not but note how soon the tragedy of the preceding night seemed forgotten. Some bemoaned the loss of money or valuables; a few, more fortunate, related how they had outwitted the robbers and escaped with trivial loss, but only an occasional careless word of pity was heard for the young stranger who had met so sad a fate. So quickly and completely does one human atom sink out of sight! It is like the dropping of a pebble in the sea: a momentary ripple, that is all!
About noon Parkinson, who had sought to while away the tedium of the journey by an interview with Darrell, became somewhat alarmed at the latter's condition and went in search of a physician. He returned with the one who had been summoned to Whitcomb's aid. He was an eastern practitioner, and, unfortunately for Darrell, was not so familiar with the peculiar symptoms in his case as a western physician would have been.
"He has a high fever," he remarked to Parkinson a little later, as he seated himself beside Darrell towatch the effect of the remedies administered, "but I do not apprehend any danger. I have given him something to abate the fever and induce sleep. If necessary, I will write out a prescription which he can have filled on his arrival at Ophir, but I think in a few days he will be all right."
They were now approaching the continental divide, the scenery moment by moment growing in sublimity and grandeur. Darrell soon sank into a sleep, light and broken at first, but which grew deeper and heavier. For more than an hour he slept, unconscious that the rugged scenes through which he was then passing were to become part of his future life; that each cliff and crag and mountain-peak was to be to him an open book, whose secrets would leave their indelible impress upon his heart and brain, revealing to him the breadth and length, the depth and height of life, moulding his soul anew into nobler, more symmetrical proportions.
At last the rocks suddenly parted, like sentinels making way for the approaching train, disclosing a broad, sunlit plateau, from which rose, in gracefully rounded contours, a pine-covered mountain, about whose base nestled the little city of Ophir, while in the background stretched the majestic range of the great divide.
A crowd could be seen congregated about the depot, for tidings of the night's tragedy had preceded the train by several hours, and Whitcomb from his early boyhood had been a universal favorite in Ophir, while his uncle was one of its wealthiest, most influential citizens.
As the train slackened speed Parkinson, with a few words to the physician, hastily left to make arrangements for transportation for himself, Hunter, andDarrell to a hotel. Amid the noise and confusion which ensued for the next ten minutes Darrell slept heavily, till, roused by a gentle shake, he awoke to find the physician bending over him and heard voices approaching down the now nearly deserted sleeping-car.
"Yes," said a heavy voice, speaking rapidly, "the conductor wired details; he said this young man did everything for the boy that could be done, and stayed by him to the end."
"He did; he stood by him like a brother," Parkinson's voice replied.
"And he is sick, you say? Well, he won't want for anything within my power to do for him, that's all!"
Parkinson stopped at Darrell's side. "Mr. Darrell," he said, "this is Mr. Underwood, Whitcomb's uncle, you know; Mr. Underwood, Mr. Darrell."
Darrell rose a little unsteadily; the two men grasped hands and for an instant neither spoke. Darrell saw before him a tall, powerfully built man, approaching fifty, whose somewhat bronzed face, shrewd, stern, and unreadable, was lighted by a pair of blue eyes which once had resembled Whitcomb's. With a swift, penetrating glance the elder man looked searchingly into the face of the younger.
"True as steel, with a heart of gold!" was his mental comment; then he spoke abruptly, and his voice sounded brusque though his face was working with emotion.
"Mr. Darrell, my carriage is waiting for you outside. You will go home with me, unless," he added, inquiringly, "you are expecting to meet friends or acquaintances?"
"No, Mr. Underwood," Darrell replied, "I am a stranger here, but, much as I appreciate your kindness,I could not think of intruding upon your home at such a time as this."
"Porter," said Mr. Underwood, with the air of one accustomed to command, "take this gentleman's luggage outside, and tell them out there that it is to go to 'The Pines;' my men are there and they will look after it;" then, turning to Darrell, he continued, still more brusquely:
"This train pulls out in three minutes, so you had better prepare to follow your luggage. You don't stop in Ophir outside of my house, and I don't think you'll travel much farther for a while. You look as though you needed a bed and good nursing more than anything else just now."
"I have given him a prescription, sir," said the physician, "that I think will set him right if he gets needed rest and sleep."
"Humph!" responded Mr. Underwood, gruffly; "he'll get whatever he needs, you can depend on that. You gentlemen assist him out of the car; I'll go and despatch a messenger to the house to have everything in readiness for him there."
At the foot of the car steps Darrell parted from the physician and, leaning on Parkinson's arm, slowly made his way through the crowd to the carriage, where Mr. Underwood awaited him. Parkinson having taken leave, Mr. Underwood assisted the young man into the carriage. A spasm of pain crossed Darrell's face as he saw, just ahead of them, waiting to precede them on the homeward journey, a light wagon containing a stretcher covered with a heavy black cloth, a line of stalwart young fellows drawn up on either side, and he recalled Whitcomb's parting words on the previous night,—"When we reach Ophir to-morrow, you'll go directly home with me."
This was observed by Mr. Underwood, who remarked a moment later as he seated himself beside Darrell and they started homeward,—
"This is a sad time to introduce you to our home and household, Mr. Darrell, but you will find your welcome none the less genuine on that account."
"Mr. Underwood," said the young man, in a troubled voice, "this seems to me the most unwarrantable intrusion on my part to accept your hospitality at such a time——"
Before he could say more, Mr. Underwood placed a firm, heavy hand on his knee.
"You stood by my poor boy, Harry, to the last, and that is enough to insure you a welcome from me and mine. I'm only doing what Harry himself would do if he were here."
"As to what I did for your nephew, God knows it was little enough I could do," Darrell answered, bitterly. "I was powerless to defend him against the fatal blow, and after that there was no help for him."
"Did you see him killed?"
"Yes."
"Tell me all, everything, just as it occurred."
Mr. Underwood little knew the effort it cost Darrell in his condition to go over the details of the terrible scene, but he forced himself to give a clear, succinct, calm statement of all that took place. The elder man sat looking straight before him, immovable, impassive, like one who heard not, yet in reality missing nothing that was said. Not until Darrell repeated Whitcomb's dying words was there any movement on his part; then he turned his head so that his face was hidden and remained motionless and silent as before. At last he inquired,—
"Did he leave no message for me?"
"He mentioned only your daughter, Mr. Underwood; he evidently had some message for her which he was unable to give."
A long silence followed. Darrell, utterly exhausted, sank back into a corner of the carriage. The slight movement roused Mr. Underwood; he looked towards Darrell, whose eyes were closed, and was shocked at his deathly pallor. He said nothing, however, for Darrell was again sinking into a heavy stupor, but watched him with growing concern, making no attempt to rouse him until the carriage left the street and began ascending a long gravelled driveway; then putting his hand on Darrell's shoulder, he said, quite loudly,—
"Wake up, my boy! We're getting home now."
To Darrell his voice sounded faint and far away, like an echo out of a vast distance, and it was some seconds before he could realize where he was or form any definite idea of his surroundings. Gradually he became conscious that the air was no longer hot and stifling, but cool and fragrant with the sweet, resinous breath of pines. Looking about him, he saw they were winding upward along an avenue cut through a forest of small, slender pines, which extended below them on one side and far above them on the other.
A moment later they came out into a clearing, whence he could see, rising directly before him, in a series of natural terraces, the slopes of the sombre-hued, pine-clad mountain which overlooked the little city. Upon one of the terraces of the mountain stood a massive house of unhewn granite, a house representing no particular style of architecture, but whose deep bay-windows, broad, winding verandas, and shadowy, secluded balconies all combined to present an aspect most inviting. To Darrell the place had an irresistiblecharm; he gazed at it as though fascinated, unable to take his eyes from the scene.
"You certainly have a beautiful home, Mr. Underwood," he said, "and a most unique location. I never saw anything quite like it."
"It will do," said the elder man, quietly, gratified by what he saw in his companion's face. "I built it for my little girl. It was her own idea to have it that way, and she has named it 'The Pines.' Thank God, I've got her left yet, but she is about all."
Something in his tone caused Darrell to glance quickly towards him with a look of sympathetic inquiry. They were now approaching the house, and Mr. Underwood turned, facing him, a smile for the first time lighting up his stern, rugged features, as he said,—
"You will find us what my little girl calls a 'patched-up' family. I am a widower; my widowed sister keeps house for me, and Harry, whom I had grown to consider almost a son, was an orphan. But the family, such as it is, will make you welcome; I can speak for that. Here we are!"
With a supreme effort Darrell summoned all his energies as Mr. Underwood assisted him from the carriage and into the house. But the ringing and pounding in his head increased, his brain seemed reeling, and he was so nearly blinded by pain that, notwithstanding his efforts, he was forced to admit to himself, as a little later he sank upon a couch in the room assigned to him, that his impressions of the ladies to whom he had just been presented were exceedingly vague.
Mr. Underwood's sister, Mrs. Dean, he remembered as a large woman, low-voiced, somewhat resembling her brother in manner, and like him, of few words,yet something in her greeting had assured him of a welcome as deep as it was undemonstrative. Of Kate Underwood, in whom he had felt more than a passing interest, remembering Whitcomb's love for his cousin, he recalled a tall, slender, girlish form; a wealth of golden-brown hair, and a pair of large, luminous brown eyes, whose wistful, almost appealing look haunted him strangely, though he was unable to recall another feature of her face.
Mr. Underwood, who had left the room to telephone for a physician, returned with a faithful servant, and insisted upon Darrell's retiring to bed without delay, a proposition which the latter was only too glad to follow. Darrell had already given Mr. Underwood the package of fifteen thousand dollars found on the train, and now, while disrobing, handed him the belt in which he carried his own money, saying,—
"I'll put this in your keeping for a few days, till I feel more like myself. I lost my watch and some change, but I took the precaution to have this hidden."
He stopped abruptly and seemed to be trying to recall something, then continued, slowly,—
"There was something else in connection with that affair which I wished to say to you, but my head is so confused I cannot think what it was."
"Don't try to think now; it will come to you by and by," Mr. Underwood replied. "You're in good hands, so don't worry yourself about anything, but get all the rest you can."
With a deep sigh of relief Darrell sank on the pillows, and was soon sleeping heavily.
A few moments later Mr. Underwood, coming from Darrell's room, having left the servant in charge, met his sister coming down the long hall. She beckoned, and, turning, slowly retraced her steps, her brotherfollowing, to another part of the house, where they entered a darkened chamber and together stood beside a low, narrow couch strewn with fragrant flowers. Together, without a word or a tear, they gazed on the peaceful face of this sleeper, wrapped in the breathless, dreamless slumber we call death. They recalled the years since he had come to them, the dying bequest of their youngest sister, a little, golden-haired prattler, to fill their home with the music of his childish voice and the sunshine of his smile. Already the great house seemed strangely silent without his ringing laughter, his bursts of merry song.
But of whatever bitter grief stirred their hearts, this silent brother and sister, so long accustomed to self-restraint and self-repression, gave no sign. Gently she replaced the covering over the face of the sleeper, and silently they left the room. Not until they again reached the door of Darrell's room was the silence broken; then the brother said, in low tones,—
"Marcia, we've done all for the dead that can be done; it's the living who needs our care now."
"Yes," she replied, quietly, "I was going to see what I could do for him when you had put him to bed."
"Bennett is in there now, and I'm going downstairs to wait for Dr. Bradley; he telephoned that he'd be up in twenty minutes."
"Very well; I'll sit by him till the doctor comes."
When Dr. Bradley arrived he found Darrell in a state of coma from which it was almost impossible to arouse him. From Mr. Underwood and his sister he learned whatever details they could furnish, but from the patient himself very little information could be obtained.
"He has this fever that is prevailing in the mountainousdistricts, and has it in its worst form," he said, when about to take leave. "Of course, having just come from the East, it would be worse for him in any event than if he were acclimated; but aside from that, the cerebral symptoms are greatly aggravated owing to the nervous shock which he received last night. To witness an occurrence of that sort would be more or less of a shock to nerves in a normal state, but in the condition in which he was at the time, it is likely to produce some rather serious complications. Follow these directions which I have written out, and I'll be in again in a couple of hours."
But in two hours Darrell was delirious.
"Has he recognized any one since I was here?" Dr. Bradley inquired, as he again stood beside the patient.
"I don't think so," Mrs. Dean replied. "I could hardly rouse him enough to give him the medicine, and even then he didn't seem to know me."
"I'll be in about midnight," said the physician, as he again took leave, "and I'll send a professional nurse, a man; this is likely to be a long siege."
"Send whatever is needed," said Mr. Underwood, brusquely, "the same as if 'twere for the boy himself!"
"And, Mrs. Dean," the physician continued, "if he should have a lucid interval, you had better ascertain the address of his friends."
It was nearly midnight. For hours Darrell had battled against the darkening shadows fast settling down upon him, enveloping him with a horror worse than death itself. Suddenly there was a rift in the clouds, and the calm, sweet light of reason stole softly through. He felt a cool hand on his forehead, and, opening his eyes, looked with a smile into the face of Mrs. Deanas she bent over him. Bending still lower, she said, in low, distinct tones:
"Can you tell me the name of your people, and where they live?"
In an instant he comprehended all that her question implied; he must give his own name and the address of the far-away eastern home. He strove to recall it, but the effort was too great; before he could speak, the clouds surged together and all was blotted out in darkness.
Chapter IVLife? or Death?
Hour by hour the clouds thickened, obscuring every ray of light, closing the avenues of sight and sound, until, isolated from the outer world by this intangible yet impenetrable barrier, Darrell was alone in a world peopled only with the phantoms of his imagination. Of the lapse of time, of the weary procession of days and nights which followed, he knew nothing. Day and night were to him only an endless repetition of the horrors which thronged his fevered brain.
Again and again he lived over the tragic scene in the sleeping-car, each iteration and reiteration growing in dreadful realism, until it was he himself who grappled in deadly contest with the murderer, and the latter in turn became a monster whose hot breath stifled him, whose malign, demoniacal glance seemed to sear his eyeballs like living fire. Over and over, with failing strength, he waged the unequal contest, striving at last with a legion of hideous forms. Then, as the clouds grew still more dense about him, these shapes grew dim and he found himself, weak and trembling, adrift upon a sea of darkness whose black waves tossed him angrily, with each breath threatening to engulf him in their gloomy depths. Desperately he battled with them, each struggle leaving him weaker than the last, until at length, scarcely breathing, his strength utterly exhausted, he lay watching the towering forms as they swept relentlessly towards him, gathering strength and fury as they came. He sawthe yawning abysses on each side, he heard the roar of the on-coming waves, but was powerless to move hand or foot.
But while he waited in helpless terror the waves on which he tossed to and fro grew calm; then they seemed to divide, and he felt himself going down, down into infinite depths. The sullen roar died away; the darkness was flooded with golden light, and through its ethereal waves he was still floating downward more gently than ever a roseleaf floated to earth on the evening's breath. Through the waves of golden light there came to him a faint, distant murmur of voices, and the words,—
"He is sinking fast!"
He smiled with perfect content, wondering dreamily if it would never end; then consciousness was lost in utter oblivion.
Three weeks had elapsed since Darrell came to The Pines. August had given place to September, but the languorous days brought no cessation of the fearful heat, no cooling rain to the panting earth, no promise of renewed life to the drought-smitten vegetation. The timber on the ranges had been reduced to masses of charred and smouldering embers, among which the low flames still crept and crawled, winding their way up and down the mountains. The pall of smoke overhanging the city grew more and more dense, until there came a morning when, as the sun looked over the distant ranges, the landscape was suffused with a dull red glare which steadily deepened until all objects assumed a blood-red hue. Two or three hours passed, and then a lurid light illumined the strange scene, brightening moment by moment, till earth and sky glowed like a mass of molten copper. The heat seemedto concentrate upon that part of the earth's surface, the air grew oppressive, and an ominous silence reigned, in which even the birds were hushed and the dumb brutes cowered beside their masters.
As the brazen glow was fading to a weird, yellow light, an anxious group was gathered about Darrell's bedside. He still tossed and moaned in delirium, but his movements had grown pathetically feeble and the moans were those of a tired child sobbing himself to sleep.
"He cannot hold out much longer," said Dr. Bradley, his fingers on the weakening pulse, "his strength is failing rapidly."
"There will be a change soon, one way or the other," said the nurse, "and there's not much of a chance left him now."
"One chance in a hundred," said Dr. Bradley, slowly; "and that is his wonderful constitution; he may pull through where ninety-nine others would die."
Dr. Bradley watched the sick man in silence, then noting that the room was darkening, he stepped to an open window and cast a look of anxious inquiry at the murky sky. As if in answer to his thought, there came the low rumble of distant thunder, bringing a look of relief and hopefulness to the face of the physician. Returning to the bedside, he gave a few directions, then, as he was leaving, remarked,—
"There will be a change in the weather soon, a change that may help to turn the tide in his favor, provided it does not come too late!"
Hours passed; the distant mutterings grew louder, while the darkness and gloom increased, and the sense of oppression became almost intolerable. Suddenly the leaden mass which had overspread the sky appeared to drop to earth, and in the dead silence which followed could be heard the roar of the wind through the gorges and down the canyons. A moment more, and clouds of dust and débris, the outriders of the coming tempest, rushed madly through the streets in whirling columns towering far above the city. From their vantage ground the dwellers at The Pines watched the course of the storm, but only for a moment; then blinding sheets of water hid even the nearest objects from view, while lightnings flashed incessantly and the thunder crashed and rolled in one ceaseless, deafening roar. The trees waved their arms in wild, helpless terror as one and another of their number were prostrated by the storm, while the dry channels on the mountain-side became raging, foaming torrents. Suddenly the winds changed, a chilling blast swept across the plateau, and to the rush of the wind, the roar of the thunder, and the crash of falling timber was added the sharp staccato of swiftly descending hail.
For nearly an hour the storm raged in its fury, then departed as suddenly as it came; but it left behind a clear atmosphere, crisp as an October morning.
As the storm clouds, touched with beauty by the rays of the setting sun, were settling below the eastern ranges, Dr. Bradley again entered the sick-room. The room was flooded with golden light, and the physician was quick to note the changes which the few hours had wrought in the sick man. The fever had gone and, his strength spent, his splendid energies exhausted, life's forces were ebbing moment by moment.
"He is sinking fast," said Mrs. Dean.
Even as she spoke a smile stole over the pallid features; then, as they watched eagerly for some token of returning consciousness, the nervous system, solong strained to its utmost tension, suddenly relaxed and utter collapse followed.
For hours Darrell lay as one dead, an occasional fluttering about the heart being the only sign of life. But late in the forenoon of the following day the watchers by the bedside, noting each feeble pulsation, thinking it might be the last, felt an almost imperceptible quickening of the life current. Gradually the fluttering pulse grew calm and steady, the faint respirations grew deeper and more regular, until at length, with a long, tremulous sigh, Darrell sank into slumber sweet and restful as a child's, and the watchers knew that the crisis had passed.
Chapter VJohn Britton
It was on one of those glorious October days, when every breath quickens the blood and when simply to live is a joy unspeakable, that Darrell first walked abroad into the outdoor world. Several times during his convalescence he had sunned himself on the balcony opening from his room, or when able to go downstairs had paced feebly up and down the verandas, but of late his strength had returned rapidly, so that now, accompanied by his physician, he was walking back and forth over the gravelled driveway under the pine-trees, his step gaining firmness with every turn.
Seated on the veranda were Mr. Underwood and his sister, the one with his pipe and newspaper, the other with her knitting; but the newspaper had slipped unheeded to the floor, and though Mrs. Dean's skilful fingers did not slacken their work for an instant, yet her eyes, like her brother's, were fastened upon Darrell, and a shade of pity might have been detected in the look of each, which the occasion at first sight hardly seemed to warrant.
"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Underwood, at length; "it's hard for a young man to be handicapped like that!"
"Yes," assented his sister, "and he takes it hard, too, though he doesn't say much. I can't bear to look in his eyes sometimes, they look so sort of pleading and helpless."
"Takes it hard!" reiterated Mr. Underwood; "why shouldn't he. I'm satisfied that he is a young man of unusual ability, who had a bright future before him, and I tell you, Marcia, it's pretty hard for him to wake up and find it all rubbed off the slate!"
"Well," said Mrs. Dean, with a sigh, "everybody has to carry their own burdens, but there's a look on his face when he thinks nobody sees him that makes me wish I could help him carry his, though I don't suppose anybody can, for that matter; it isn't anything that anybody feels like saying much about."
"I'm glad Jack is coming," said Mr. Underwood, after a pause; "he may do him some good. He has a way of getting at those things that you and I haven't, Marcia."
"Yes, he's seen trouble himself, though nobody knows what it was."
Notwithstanding the tide of returning vitality was fast restoring tissue and muscle to Darrell's wasted limbs and firmness and elasticity to his step, it was yet evident to a close observer that some undercurrent of suffering was doing its work day by day; sprinkling the dark hair with gleams of silver, tracing faint lines in the face hitherto untouched by care, working its subtle, mysterious changes.
When a new lease of life was granted to John Darrell and he awoke to consciousness, it was to find that every detail of his past life had been blotted out, leaving only a blank. Of his home, his friends, of his own name even, not a vestige of memory was left. It was as though he had entered upon a new existence.
By degrees, as he was able to hear them, he was given the details of his arrival at Ophir, of his coming to The Pines, of the tragedy which he had witnessedin the sleeping-car, but they awoke no memories in his mind. For him there was no past. As a realization of his condition dawned upon him his mental distress was pitiable. Despite the efforts of physician and nurse to divert his mind, he would lie for hours trying to recall some fragment from the veiled and shrouded past, but all in vain. Yet, with returning physical strength, many of his former attainments seemed to return to him, naturally and without effort. Dr. Bradley one day used a Latin phrase in his hearing; he at once repeated it and, without a moment's hesitation, gave the correct rendering, but was unable to tell how he did it.
"It simply came to me," was all the explanation he could give.
From this the physician argued that the memory of his past life would sooner or later return, and it was this hope alone which at that time saved Darrell from total despair.
Aside from his professional interest in so peculiar a case, Dr. Bradley had become interested in Darrell himself; many of his leisure hours were spent at The Pines, and quite a friendship existed between the two.
In Mr. Underwood and his sister Darrell had found two steadfast friends, each seeming to vie with the other in thoughtful, unobtrusive kindness. His strange misfortune had only deepened and intensified the sympathy which had been first aroused by the peculiar circumstances under which he had come to them. But now, as then, they said little, and for this Darrell was grateful. Even the silent pity which he read in their eyes hurt him,—why, he could scarcely explain to himself; expressed in words, it would have been intolerable. Early in his convalescence Darrell had expressed an unwillingness to trespass upon their kindness by remaining after he could with safety be moved, but the few words they had spoken on that occasion had effectually silenced any further suggestion of the kind on his part. He understood that to leave them would be to forfeit their friendship, which he well knew was of a sort too rare to be slighted or thrown aside.
Of Kate Underwood Darrell knew nothing, except as her father or aunt spoke of her, for he had no recollection of her and she had left home early in his illness to return to an eastern college, from which she would graduate the following year.
With more animation than he had yet shown since his illness, Darrell returned to the veranda. He was flushed and trembling slightly from the unusual exertion, and Dr. Bradley, dropping down beside him, from force of habit laid his fingers on Darrell's wrist, but the latter shook them off playfully.
"No more of that!" he exclaimed, adding, "Doctor, I challenge you for a race two weeks from to-day. What do you say, do you take me up?"
"Two weeks from to-day!" repeated the doctor, with an incredulous smile, at the same time scrutinizing Darrell's form. "Well, yes. When you are in ordinary health I don't think I would care to do much business with you along that line, but two weeks from to-day is a safe proposition, I guess. What do you want to make it, a hundred yards?" he inquired, with a laughing glance at Mr. Underwood.
"One hundred yards," replied Darrell, following the direction of the doctor's glance. "Do you want to name the winner, Mr. Underwood?"
"I'll back you, my boy," said the elder man, quietly, his shrewd face growing a trifle shrewder.
"What!" exclaimed Dr. Bradley, rising hastily;
"I guess it's about time I was going, if that's your estimate of my athletic prowess," and, shaking hands with Darrell, he started down the driveway.
"I'll put you up at about ten to one," Mr. Underwood called after the retreating figure, but a deprecatory wave of his hand over his shoulder was the doctor's only reply.
"Oh," exclaimed Darrell, looking about him, "this is glorious! This is one of the days that make a fellow feel that life is worth living!"
Even as he spoke there came to his mind the thought of what life meant to him, and the smile died from his lips and the light from his eyes.
For a moment nothing was said, then, with the approaching sound of rhythmic hoof-beats, Mr. Underwood rose, deliberately emptying the ashes from his pipe as a fine pair of black horses attached to a light carriage appeared around the house from the direction of the stables.
"You will be back for lunch, David?" Mrs. Dean inquired.
"Yes, and I'll bring Jack with me," was his reply, as he seated himself beside the driver, and the horses started at a brisk trot down the driveway.
With a smile Mrs. Dean addressed Darrell, who was watching the horses with a keen appreciation of their good points.
"This 'Jack' that you've heard my brother speak of is his partner."
"Yes?" said Darrell, courteously, feeling slight interest in the expected guest, but glad of anything to divert his thoughts.
"Yes," Mrs. Dean continued; "they've been partners and friends for more than ten years. His name is John Britton, but it's never anything but 'Dave'and 'Jack' between the two; they're almost like two boys together."
Darrell wondered what manner of man this might be who could transform his silent, stern-faced host into anything boy-like, but he said nothing.
"To see them together you'd wonder at their friendship, too," continued Mrs. Dean, "for they're noways alike. My brother is all business, and Mr. Britton is not what you'd really call a practical business man. He is very rich, for he is one of those men that everything they touch seems to turn to gold, but he doesn't seem to care much about money. He spends a great deal of his time in reading and studying, and though he makes very few friends, he could have any number of them if he wanted, for he's one of those people that you always feel drawn to without knowing why."
Mrs. Dean paused to count the stitches in her work, and Darrell, whose thoughts were of the speaker more than of the subject of conversation, watching her placid face, wondered whether it were possible for any emotion ever to disturb that calm exterior. Presently she resumed her subject, speaking in low, even tones, which a slight, gentle inflection now and then just saved from monotony.
"He's always a friend to anybody in distress, and I guess there isn't a poor person or a friendless person in Ophir that doesn't know him and love him. He has had some great trouble; nobody knows what it is, but he told David once that it had changed his whole life."
Darrell now became interested, and the dark eyes fixed on Mrs. Dean's face grew suddenly luminous with the quick sympathy her words had aroused.
"He always seems to be on the lookout for anybody that has trouble, to help them; that's how he got to know my brother."
Mrs. Dean hesitated a moment. "I never spoke of this to any one before, but I thought maybe you'd be interested to know about it," she said, looking at Darrell with a slightly apologetic air.
"I am, and I think I understand and appreciate your motive," was his quiet reply.
She dropped her work, folding her hands above it, and her face wore a reminiscent look as she continued:
"When David's wife died, twelve years ago, it was an awful blow to him. He didn't say much,—that isn't our way,—but we were afraid he would never be the same again. His brother was out here at that time, but none of us could do anything for him. He kept on trying to attend to business just as usual, but he seemed, as you might say, to have lost his grip on things. It went on that way for nearly two years; his business got behind and everything seemed to be slipping through his fingers, when he happened to get acquainted with Mr. Britton, and he seemed to know just what to say and do. He got David interested in business again. He loaned him money to start with, and they went into business together and have been together ever since. They have both been successful, but David has worked and planned for what he has, while Mr. Britton's money seems to come to him. He owns property all over the State, and all through the West for that matter, and sometimes he's in one place and sometimes in another, but he never stays very long anywhere. David would like to have him make his home with us, but he told him once that he couldn't think of it; that he only stayed in a place till the pain got to be more than he could bear, and then he went somewhere else."
A long silence followed; then, as Mrs. Dean folded her work, she said, softly,—
"It's no wonder he knows just how to help folks who are in trouble, for I guess he has suffered himself more than anybody knows."
A little later she had gone indoors to superintend the preparations for lunch, but Darrell still sat in the mellow, autumn sunlight, his eyes closed, picturing to himself this stranger silently bearing his hidden burden, changing from place to place, but always keeping the pain.
It still lacked two hours of sunset when John Darrell, leaning on the arm of John Britton, walked slowly up the mountain-path to a rustic seat under the pines. They had met at lunch. Mr. Britton had already heard the strange story of Darrell's illness, and, looking into his eyes with their troubled questioning, their piteous appeal, knew at once by swift intuition how hopelessly bewildering and dark life must look to the young man before him just at the age when it usually is brightest and most alluring; and Darrell, meeting the steadfast gaze of the clear, gray eyes, saw there no pity, but something infinitely broader, deeper, and sweeter, and knew intuitively that they were united by the fellowship of suffering, that mysterious tie which has not only bound human hearts together in all ages, but has linked suffering humanity with suffering Divinity.
For more than two hours Darrell, taking little part himself in the general conversation, had watched, as one entranced, the play of the fine features and listened to the deep, musical voice of this stranger who was a stranger no longer.
He was an excellent conversationalist; humorous without being cynical, scholarly without being pedantic, and showing especial familiarity with history and the natural sciences.
At last, while walking up and down the broad veranda, Mr. Britton had paused beside Darrell, and throwing an arm over his shoulder had said,—
"Come, my son, let us have a little stroll."
Darrell's heart had leaped strangely at the words, he knew not why, and in a silence pregnant with deep emotion on both sides, they had climbed to the rustic bench. Here they sat down. The ground at their feet was carpeted with pine-needles; the air was sweet with the fragrance of the pines and of the warm earth; no sound reached their ears aside from the chirping of the crickets, the occasional dropping of a pine-cone, or the gentle sighing of the light breeze through the branches above their heads.
A glorious scene lay outspread before them; the distant ranges half veiled in purple haze, the valleys flooded with golden light, brightened by the autumnal tints of the deciduous timber which marked the courses of numerous small streams, and over the whole a restful silence, as though, the year's work ended, earth was keeping some grand, solemn holiday.
Mr. Britton first broke the silence, as in low tones he murmured, reverently,—
"'Thou crownest the year with Thy goodness!'"
Then turning to Darrell with a smile of peculiar sweetness, he said, "This is one of what I call the year's 'coronation days,' when even Nature herself rests from her labors and dons her royal robes in honor of the occasion."
Then, as an answering light dawned in Darrell's eyes and the tense lines in his face began to relax, Mr. Britton continued, musingly:
"I have often wondered why we do not imitate Nature in her great annual holiday, and why we, a nation who garners one of the richest harvests of theworld, do not have a national harvest festival. How effectively and fittingly, for instance, something similar to the old Jewish feast of tabernacles might be celebrated in this part of the country! In the earliest days of their history the Jews were commanded, when the year's harvest had been gathered, to take the boughs of goodly trees, of palm-trees and willows, and to construct booths in which they were to dwell, feasting and rejoicing, for seven days. In the only account given of one of these feasts, we read that the people brought olive-branches and pine-branches, myrtle-branches and palm-branches, and made themselves booths upon the roofs of their houses, in their courts, and in their streets, and dwelt in them, 'and there was very great gladness.' Imagine such a scene on these mountain-slopes and foot-hills, under these cloudless skies; the sombre, evergreen boughs interwoven with the brightly colored foliage from the lowlands; this mellow, golden sunlight by day alternating with the white, mystical radiance of the harvest moon by night."
Mr. Britton's words had, as he intended they should, drawn Darrell's thoughts from himself. Under his graphic description, accompanied by the powerful magnetism of his voice and presence, Darrell seemed to see the Oriental festival which he had depicted and to feel a soothing influence from the very simplicity and beauty of the imaginary scene.
"Think of the rest, the relaxation, in a week of such a life!" continued Mr. Britton. "Re-creation, in the true sense of the word. The simplest joys are the sweetest, but our lives have grown too complex for us to appreciate them. Our amusements and recreations, as we call them, are often more wearing and exhausting than our labors."
For nearly an hour Mr. Britton led the conversation on general subjects, carefully avoiding every personal allusion; Darrell following, interested, animated, wondering more and more at the man beside him, until the latter tactfully led him to speak—calmly and dispassionately, as he could not have spoken an hour before—of himself. Almost before he was aware, Darrell had told all: of his vain gropings in the darkness for some clue to the past; of the helpless feeling akin to despair which sometimes took possession of him when he attempted to face the situation continuously confronting him.
During his recital Mr. Britton had thrown his arm about Darrell's shoulder, and when he paused quite a silence followed.
"Did it ever occur to you," Mr. Britton said at length, speaking very slowly, "that there are hundreds—yes, thousands—who would be only too glad to exchange places with you to-day?"
"No," Darrell replied, too greatly astonished to say more.
"But there are legions of poor souls, haunted by crime, or crushed beneath the weight of sorrow, whose one prayer would be, if such a thing were possible, that their past might be blotted out; that they might be free to begin life anew, with no memories dogging their steps like spectres, threatening at every turn to work their undoing."
For a moment Darrell regarded his friend with a fixed, inquiring gaze, which gradually changed to a look of comprehension.
"I see," he said at length, "I have got to begin life anew; but you consider that there are others who have to make the start under conditions worse than mine."
"Far worse," said Mr. Britton. "Don't think for a moment that I fail to realize in how many ways you are handicapped or to appreciate the obstacles against which you will have to contend, but this I do say: the future is in your own hands—as much as it is in the hands of any mortal—to make the most of and the best of that you can, and with the negative advantage, at least, that you are untrammelled by a past that can hold you back or drag you down."
The younger man laid his hand on the knee of the elder with a gesture almost appealing. "The future, until now, has looked very dark to me; it begins to look brighter. Advise me; tell me how best to begin!"
"In one word," said Mr. Britton, with a smile. "Work! Just as soon as you are able, find some work to do. Did we but know it, work is the surest antidote for the poisonous discontent and ennui of this world, the swiftest panacea for its pains and miseries; different forms to suit different cases, but every form brings healing and blessing, even down to the humblest manual labor."
"That is just what I have wanted," said Darrell, eagerly; "to go to work as soon as possible; but what can I do? What am I fitted for? I have not the slightest idea. I don't care to work at breaking stone, though I suppose that would be better than nothing."
"That would be better than nothing," said Mr. Britton, smiling again, "but that would not be suited to your case. What you need is mental work, something to keep your mind constantly occupied, and rest assured you will find it when you are ready for it. Our Father provides what we need just when we need it. 'Day by day' we have the 'daily bread' for mental and spiritual life, as for temporal. But what you most want to do is to keep your mind pleasantly occupied,and above all things don't try to recall the past. In God's own good time it will return of itself."
"And when it does, what revelations will it bring?" Darrell queried musingly.
"Nothing that you will be afraid or ashamed to meet; of that I am sure," said Mr. Britton, confidently, adding a moment later, in a lighter tone, "It is nearing sunset, my boy, and time that I was taking you back to the house."
"You have given me new courage, new hope," said Darrell, rising. "I feel now as though there were something to live for—as though I might make something out of life, after all."
"I realize," said Mr. Britton, tenderly, as together they began the descent of the mountain path, "as deeply as you do that your life is sadly disjointed; but strive so to live that when the broken fragments are at last united they will form one harmonious and symmetrical whole. It is a difficult task, I know, but the result will be well worth the effort. In your case, my son, even more than in ordinary lives, the words of the poet are peculiarly applicable:
"'A sacred burden is this life ye bear:Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly;Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,But onward, upward, till the goal ye win.'"
An hour later John Britton stood alone on one of the mountain terraces, his tall, lithe form silhouetted against the evening sky, his arms folded, his face lifted upward. It was a face of marvellous strength and sweetness combined. Sorrow had set its unmistakable seal upon his features; here and there pain had tracedits ineffaceable lines; but the firmly set mouth was yet inexpressibly tender, the calm brow was unfurrowed, and the clear eyes had the far-seeing look of one who, like the Alpine traveller, had reached the heights above the clouds, to whose vision were revealed glories undreamed of by the dwellers in the vales below.
And to Darrell, watching from his room the distant figure outlined against the sky, the simple grandeur, the calm triumph of its pose must have brought some revelation concerning this man of whom he knew so little, yet whose personality even more than his words had taken so firm a hold upon himself, for, as the light faded and deepening twilight hid the solitary figure from view, he turned from the window, and, pacing slowly up and down the room, soliloquized:
"With him for a friend, I can meet the future with courage and await with patience the resurrection of the buried past. As he has conquered, so will I conquer; I will scale the heights after him, until I stand where he stands to-night!"