With the call to Mr. Craig I fancy I had something to do myself. The call came from a young congregation in an eastern city, and was based partly upon his college record and more upon the advice of those among the authorities who knew his work in the mountains. But I flatter myself that my letters to friends who were of importance in that congregation were not without influence, for I was of the mind that the man who could handle Black Rock miners as he could was ready for something larger than a mountain mission. That he would refuse I had not imagined, though I ought to have known him better. He was but little troubled over it. He went with the call and the letters urging his acceptance to Mrs. Mavor. I was putting the last touches to some of my work in the room at the back of Mrs. Mavor’s house when he came in. She read the letters and the call quietly, and waited for him to speak.
‘Well?’ he said; ‘should I go?’
She started, and grew a little pale. His question suggested a possibility that had not occurred to her. That he could leave his work in Black Rock she had hitherto never imagined; but there was other work, and he was fit for good work anywhere. Why should he not go? I saw the fear in her face, but I saw more than fear in her eyes, as for a moment or two she let them rest upon Craig’s face. I read her story, and I was not sorry for either of them. But she was too much a woman to show her heart easily to the man she loved, and her voice was even and calm as she answered his question.
‘Is this a very large congregation?’
‘One of the finest in all the East,’ I put in for him. ‘It will be a great thing for Craig.’
Craig was studying her curiously. I think she noticed his eyes upon her, for she went on even more quietly—
‘It will be a great chance for work, and you are able for a larger sphere, you know, than poor Black Rock affords.’
‘Who will take Black Rock?’ he asked.
‘Let some other fellow have a try at it,’ I said. ‘Why should you waste your talents here?’
‘Waste?’ cried Mrs. Mavor indignantly.
‘Well, “bury,” if you like it better,’ I replied.
‘It would not take much of a grave for that funeral,’ said Craig, smiling.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Mavor, ‘you will be a great man I know, and perhaps you ought to go now.’
But he answered coolly: ‘There are fifty men wanting that Eastern charge, and there is only one wanting Black Rock, and I don’t think Black Rock is anxious for a change, so I have determined to stay where I am yet a while.’
Even my deep disgust and disappointment did not prevent me from seeing the sudden leap of joy in Mrs. Mavor’s eyes, but she, with a great effort, answered quietly—
‘Black Rock will be very glad, and some of us very, very glad.’
Nothing could change his mind. There was no one he knew who could take his place just now, and why should he quit his work? It annoyed me considerably to feel he was right. Why is it that the right things are so frequently unpleasant?
And if I had had any doubt about the matter next Sabbath evening would have removed it. For the men came about him after the service and let him feel in their own way how much they approved his decision, though the self-sacrifice involved did not appeal to them. They were too truly Western to imagine that any inducements the East could offer could compensate for his loss of the West. It was only fitting that the West should have the best, and so the miners took almost as a matter of course, and certainly as their right, that the best man they knew should stay with them. But there were those who knew how much of what most men consider worth while he had given up, and they loved him no less for it.
Mrs. Mavor’s call was not so easily disposed of. It came close upon the other, and stirred Black Rock as nothing else had ever stirred it before.
I found her one afternoon gazing vacantly at some legal documents spread out before her on the table, and evidently overcome by their contents. There was first a lawyer’s letter informing her that by the death of her husband’s father she had come into the whole of the Mavor estates, and all the wealth pertaining thereto. The letter asked for instructions, and urged an immediate return with a view to a personal superintendence of the estates. A letter, too, from a distant cousin of her husband urged her immediate return for many reasons, but chiefly on account of the old mother who had been left alone with none nearer of kin than himself to care for her and cheer her old age.
With these two came another letter from her mother-in-law herself. The crabbed, trembling characters were even more eloquent than the words with which the letter closed.
‘I have lost my boy, and now my husband is gone, and I am a lonely woman. I have many servants, and some friends, but none near to me, none so near and dear as my dead son’s wife. My days are not to be many. Come to me, my daughter; I want you and Lewis’s child.’
‘Must I go?’ she asked with white lips.
‘Do you know her well?’ I asked.
‘I only saw her once or twice,’ she answered; ‘but she has been very good to me.’
‘She can hardly need you. She has friends. And surely you are needed here.’
She looked at me eagerly.
‘Do you think so?’ she said.
‘Ask any man in the camp—Shaw, Nixon, young Winton, Geordie. Ask Craig,’ I replied.
‘Yes, he will tell me,’ she said.
Even as she spoke Craig came up the steps. I passed into my studio and went on with my work, for my days at Black Rock were getting few, and many sketches remained to be filled in.
Through my open door I saw Mrs. Mavor lay her letters before Mr. Craig, saying, ‘I have a call too.’ They thought not of me.
He went through the papers, carefully laid them down without a word while she waited anxiously, almost impatiently, for him to speak.
‘Well?’ she asked, using his own words to her; ‘should I go?’
‘I do not know,’ he replied; ‘that is for you to decide—you know all the circumstances.’
‘The letters tell all.’ Her tone carried a feeling of disappointment. He did not appear to care.
‘The estates are large?’ he asked.
‘Yes, large enough—twelve thousand a year.’
‘And has your mother-in-law any one with her?’
‘She has friends, but, as she says, none near of kin. Her nephew looks after the works—iron works, you know—he has shares in them.’
‘She is evidently very lonely,’ he answered gravely.
‘What shall I do?’ she asked, and I knew she was waiting to hear him urge her to stay; but he did not see, or at least gave no heed.
‘I cannot say,’ he repeated quietly. ‘There are many things to consider; the estates—’
‘The estates seem to trouble you,’ she replied, almost fretfully. He looked up in surprise. I wondered at his slowness.
‘Yes, the estates,’ he went on, ‘and tenants, I suppose—your mother-in-law, your little Marjorie’s future, your own future.’
‘The estates are in capable hands, I should suppose,’ she urged, ‘and my future depends upon what I choose my work to be.’
‘But one cannot shift one’s responsibilities,’ he replied gravely. ‘These estates, these tenants, have come to you, and with them come duties.’
‘I do not want them,’ she cried.
‘That life has great possibilities of good,’ he said kindly.
‘I had thought that perhaps there was work for me here,’ she suggested timidly.
‘Great work,’ he hastened to say. ‘You have done great work. But you will do that wherever you go. The only question is where your work lies.’
‘You think I should go,’ she said suddenly and a little bitterly.
‘I cannot bid you stay,’ he answered steadily.
‘How can I go?’ she cried, appealing to him. ‘Must I go?’
How he could resist that appeal I could not understand. His face was cold and hard, and his voice was almost harsh as he replied—
‘If it is right, you will go—you must go.’
Then she burst forth—
‘I cannot go. I shall stay here. My work is here; my heart is here. How can I go? You thought it worth your while to stay here and work, why should not I?’
The momentary gleam in his eyes died out, and again he said coldly—
‘This work was clearly mine. I am needed here.’
‘Yes, yes!’ she cried, her voice full of pain; ‘you are needed, but there is no need of me.’
‘Stop, stop!’ he said sharply; ‘you must not say so.’
‘I will say it, I must say it,’ she cried, her voice vibrating with the intensity of her feeling. ‘I know you do not need me; you have your work, your miners, your plans; you need no one; you are strong. But,’ and her voice rose to a cry, ‘I am not strong by myself; you have made me strong. I came here a foolish girl, foolish and selfish and narrow. God sent me grief. Three years ago my heart died. Now I am living again. I am a woman now, no longer a girl. You have done this for me. Your life, your words, yourself—you have showed me a better, a higher life, than I had ever known before, and now you send me away.’
She paused abruptly.
‘Blind, stupid fool!’ I said to myself.
He held himself resolutely in hand, answering carefully, but his voice had lost its coldness and was sweet and kind.
‘Have I done this for you? Then surely God has been good to me. And you have helped me more than any words could tell you.’
‘Helped!’ she repeated scornfully.
‘Yes, helped,’ he answered, wondering at her scorn.
‘You can do without my help,’ she went on. ‘You make people help you. You will get many to help you; but I need help, too.’ She was standing before him with her hands tightly clasped; her face was pale, and her eyes deeper than ever. He sat looking up at her in a kind of maze as she poured out her words hot and fast.
‘I am not thinking of you.’ His coldness had hurt her deeply. ‘I am selfish; I am thinking of myself. How shall I do? I have grown to depend on you, to look to you. It is nothing to you that I go, but to me—’ She did not dare to finish.
By this time Craig was standing before her, his face deadly pale. When she came to the end of her words, he said, in a voice low, sweet, and thrilling with emotion—
‘Ah, if you only knew! Do not make me forget myself. You do not guess what you are doing.’
‘What am I doing? What is there to know, but that you tell me easily to go? She was struggling with the tears she was too proud to let him see.
He put his hands resolutely behind him, looking at her as if studying her face for the first time. Under his searching look she dropped her eyes, and the warm colour came slowly up into her neck and face; then, as if with a sudden resolve, she lifted her eyes to his, and looked back at him unflinchingly.
He started, surprised, drew slowly near, put his hands upon her shoulders, surprise giving place to wild joy. She never moved her eyes; they drew him towards her. He took her face between his hands, smiled into her eyes, kissed her lips. She did not move; he stood back from her, threw up his head, and laughed aloud. She came to him, put her head upon his breast, and lifting up her face said, ‘Kiss me.’ He put his arms about her, bent down and kissed her lips again, and then reverently her brow. Then putting her back from him, but still holding both her hands, he cried—
‘Not you shall not go. I shall never let you go.’
She gave a little sigh of content, and, smiling up at him, said—
‘I can go now’; but even as she spoke the flush died from her face, and she shuddered.
‘Never!’ he almost shouted; ‘nothing shall take you away. We shall work here together.’
‘Ah, if we could, if we only could,’ she said piteously.
‘Why not?’ he demanded fiercely.
‘You will send me away. You will say it is right for me to go,’ she replied sadly.
‘Do we not love each other?’ was his impatient answer.
‘Ah! yes, love,’ she said; ‘but love is not all.’
‘No!’ cried Craig; ‘but love is the best’
‘Yes!’ she said sadly; ‘love is the best, and it is for love’s sake we will do the best.’
‘There is no better work than here. Surely this is best,’ and he pictured his plans before her. She listened eagerly.
‘Oh! if it should be right,’ she cried, ‘I will do what you say. You are good, you are wise, you shall tell me.’
She could not have recalled him better. He stood silent some moments, then burst out passionately—
‘Why then has love come to us? We did not seek it. Surely love is of God. Does God mock us?’
He threw himself into his chair, pouring out his words of passionate protestation. She listened, smiling, then came to him and, touching his hair as a mother might her child’s, said—
‘Oh, I am very happy! I was afraid you would not care, and I could not bear to go that way.’
‘You shall not go,’ he cried aloud, as if in pain. ‘Nothing can make that right.’
But she only said, ‘You shall tell me to-morrow. You cannot see to-night, but you will see, and you will tell me.’
He stood up and, holding both her hands, looked long into her eyes, then turned abruptly away and went out.
She stood where he left her for some moments, her face radiant, and her hands pressed upon her heart. Then she came toward my room. She found me busy with my painting, but as I looked up and met her eyes she flushed slightly, and said—
‘I quite forgot you.’
‘So it appeared to me.’
‘You heard?’
‘And saw,’ I replied boldly. ‘It would have been rude to interrupt, you see.’
‘Oh, I am so glad and thankful.’
‘Yes; it was rather considerate of me.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that,’ the flush deepening; ‘I am glad you know.’
‘I have known some time.’
‘How could you? I only knew to-day myself.’
‘I have eyes.’ She flushed again.
‘Do you mean that people—’ she began anxiously.
‘No; I am not “people.” I have eyes, and my eyes have been opened.’
‘Opened?’
‘Yes, by love.’
Then I told her openly how, weeks ago, I struggled with my heart and mastered it, for I saw it was vain to love her, because she loved a better man who loved her in return. She looked at me shyly and said—
‘I am sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I didn’t break my heart, you know; I stopped it in time.’
‘Oh!’ she said, slightly disappointed; then her lips began to twitch, and she went off into a fit of hysterical laughter.
‘Forgive me,’ she said humbly; ‘but you speak as if it had been a fever.’
‘Fever is nothing to it,’ I said solemnly. ‘It was a near thing.’ At which she went off again. I was glad to see her laugh. It gave me time to recover my equilibrium, and it relieved her intense emotional strain. So I rattled on some nonsense about Craig and myself till I saw she was giving no heed, but thinking her own thoughts: and what these were it was not hard to guess.
Suddenly she broke in upon my talk—
‘He will tell me that I must go from him.’
‘I hope he is no such fool,’ I said emphatically and somewhat rudely, I fear; for I confess I was impatient with the very possibility of separation for these two, to whom love meant so much. Some people take this sort of thing easily and some not so easily; but love for a woman like this comes once only to a man, and then he carries it with him through the length of his life, and warms his heart with it in death. And when a man smiles or sneers at such love as this, I pity him, and say no word, for my speech would be in an unknown tongue. So my heart was sore as I sat looking up at this woman who stood before me, overflowing with the joy of her new love, and dully conscious of the coming pain. But I soon found it was vain to urge my opinion that she should remain and share the work and life of the man she loved. She only answered—
‘You will help him all you can, for it will hurt him to have me go.’
The quiver in her voice took out all the anger from my heart, and before I knew I had pledged myself to do all I could to help him.
But when I came upon him that night, sitting in the light of his fire, I saw he must be let alone. Some battles we fight side by side, with comrades cheering us and being cheered to victory; but there are fights we may not share, and these are deadly fights where lives are lost and won. So I could only lay my hand upon his shoulder without a word. He looked up quickly, read my face, and said, with a groan—
‘You know?’
‘I could not help it. But why groan?’
‘She will think it right to go,’ he said despairingly.
‘Then you must think for her; you must bring some common-sense to bear upon the question.’
‘I cannot see clearly yet,’ he said; ‘the light will come.’
‘May I show you how I see it?’ I asked.
‘Go on,’ he said.
For an hour I talked; eloquently, even vehemently urging the reason and right of my opinion. She would be doing no more than every woman does, no more than she did before; her mother-in-law had a comfortable home, all that wealth could procure, good servants, and friends; the estates could be managed without her personal supervision; after a few years’ work here they would go east for little Majorie’s education; why should two lives be broken?—and so I went on.
He listened carefully, even eagerly.
‘You make a good case,’ he said, with a slight smile. ‘I will take time. Perhaps you are right. The light will come. Surely it will come. But,’ and here he sprang up and stretched his arms to full length above his head, ‘I am not sorry; whatever comes I am not sorry. It is great to have her love, but greater to love her as I do. Thank God! nothing can take that away. I am willing, glad to suffer for the joy of loving her.’
Next morning, before I was awake, he was gone, leaving a note for me:—
‘MY DEAR CONNOR,—I am due at the Landing. When I see you again I think my way will be clear. Now all is dark. At times I am a coward, and often, as you sometimes kindly inform me, an ass; but I hope I may never become a mule.
I am willing to be led, or want to be, at any rate. I must do the best—not second best—for her, for me. The best only is God’s will. What else would you have? Be good to her these days, dear old fellow.—Yours, CRAIG.’
How often those words have braced me he will never know, but I am a better man for them: ‘The best only is God’s will. What else would you have?’ I resolved I would rage and fret no more, and that I would worry Mrs. Mavor with no more argument or expostulation, but, as my friend had asked, ‘Be good to her.’
Those days when we were waiting Craig’s return we spent in the woods or on the mountain sides, or down in the canyon beside the stream that danced down to meet the Black Rock river, I talking and sketching and reading, and she listening and dreaming, with often a happy smile upon her face. But there were moments when a cloud of shuddering fear would sweep the smile away, and then I would talk of Craig till the smile came back again.
But the woods and the mountains and the river were her best, her wisest, friends during those days. How sweet the ministry of the woods to her! The trees were in their new summer leaves, fresh and full of life. They swayed and rustled above us, flinging their interlacing shadows upon us, and their swaying and their rustling soothed and comforted like the voice and touch of a mother. And the mountains, too, in all the glory of their varying robes of blues and purples, stood calmly, solemnly about us, uplifting our souls into regions of rest. The changing lights and shadows flitted swiftly over their rugged fronts, but left them ever as before in their steadfast majesty. ‘God’s in His heaven.’ What would you have? And ever the little river sang its cheerful courage, fearing not the great mountains that threatened to bar its passage to the sea. Mrs. Mavor heard the song and her courage rose.
‘We too shall find our way,’ she said, and I believed her.
But through these days I could not make her out, and I found myself studying her as I might a new acquaintance. Years had fallen from her; she was a girl again, full of young warm life. She was as sweet as before, but there was a soft shyness over her, a half-shamed, half-frank consciousness in her face, a glad light in her eyes that made her all new to me. Her perfect trust in Craig was touching to see.
‘He will tell me what to do,’ she would say, till I began to realise how impossible it would be for him to betray such trust, and be anything but true to the best.
So much did I dread Craig’s home-coming, that I sent for Graeme and old man Nelson, who was more and more Graeme’s trusted counsellor and friend. They were both highly excited by the story I had to tell, for I thought it best to tell them all; but I was not a little surprised and disgusted that they did not see the matter in my light. In vain I protested against the madness of allowing anything to send these two from each other. Graeme summed up the discussion in his own emphatic way, but with an earnestness in his words not usual with him.
‘Craig will know better than any of us what is right to do, and he will do that, and no man can turn him from it; and,’ he added, ‘I should be sorry to try.’
Then my wrath rose, and I cried—
‘It’s a tremendous shame! They love each other. You are talking sentimental humbug and nonsense!’
‘He must do the right,’ said Nelson in his deep, quiet voice.
‘Right! Nonsense! By what right does he send from him the woman he loves?’
‘“He pleased not Himself,”’ quoted Nelson reverently.
‘Nelson is right,’ said Graeme. ‘I should not like to see him weaken.’
‘Look here,’ I stormed; ‘I didn’t bring you men to back him up in his nonsense. I thought you could keep your heads level.’
‘Now, Connor,’ said Graeme, ‘don’t rage—leave that for the heathen; it’s bad form, and useless besides. Craig will walk his way where his light falls; and by all that’s holy, I should hate to see him fail; for if he weakens like the rest of us my North Star will have dropped from my sky.’
‘Nice selfish spirit,’ I muttered.
‘Entirely so. I’m not a saint, but I feel like steering by one when I see him.’
When after a week had gone, Craig rode up one early morning to his shack door, his face told me that he had fought his fight and had not been beaten. He had ridden all night and was ready to drop with weariness.
‘Connor, old boy,’ he said, putting out his hand; ‘I’m rather played. There was a bad row at the Landing. I have just closed poor Colley’s eyes. It was awful. I must get sleep. Look after Dandy, will you, like a good chap?’
‘Oh, Dandy be hanged,!’ I said, for I knew it was not the fight, nor the watching, nor the long ride that had shaken his iron nerve and given him that face. ‘Go in and lie down I’ll bring you something.’
‘Wake me in the afternoon,’ he said; ‘she is waiting. Perhaps you will go to her’—his lips quivered—‘my nerve is rather gone.’ Then with a very wan smile he added, ‘I am giving you a lot of trouble.’
‘You go to thunder!’ I burst out, for my throat was hot and sore with grief for him.
‘I think I’d rather go to sleep,’ he replied, still smiling. I could not speak, and was glad of the chance of being alone with Dandy.
When I came in I found him sitting with his head in his arms upon the table fast asleep. I made him tea, forced him to take a warm bath, and sent him to bed, while I went to Mrs. Mavor. I went with a fearful heart, but that was because I had forgotten the kind of woman she was.
She was standing in the light of the window waiting for me. Her face was pale but steady, there was a proud light in her fathomless eyes, a slight smile parted her lips, and she carried her head like a queen.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘You need not fear to tell me. I saw him ride home. He has not failed, thank God! I am proud of him; I knew he would be true. He loves me’—she drew in her breath sharply, and a faint colour tinged her cheek—‘but he knows love is not all—ah, love is not all! Oh! I am glad and proud!’
‘Glad!’ I gasped, amazed.
‘You would not have him prove faithless!’ she said with proud defiance.
‘Oh, it is high sentimental nonsense,’ I could not help saying.
‘You should not say so,’ she replied, and her voice rang clear. ‘Honour, faith, and duty are sentiments, but they are not nonsense.’
In spite of my rage I was lost in amazed admiration of the high spirit of the woman who stood up so straight before me. But, as I told how worn and broken he was, she listened with changing colour and swelling bosom, her proud courage all gone, and only love, anxious and pitying, in her eyes.
‘Shall I go to him?’ she asked with timid eagerness and deepening colour.
‘He is sleeping. He said he would come to you,’ I replied.
‘I shall wait for him,’ she said softly, and the tenderness in her tone went straight to my heart, and it seemed to me a man might suffer much to be loved with love such as this.
In the early afternoon Graeme came to her. She met him with both hands outstretched, saying in a low voice—
‘I am very happy.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, but her voice was like a sob; ‘quite, quite sure.’
They talked long together till I saw that Craig must soon be coming, and I called Graeme away. He held her hands, looking steadily into her eyes and said—
‘You are better even than I thought; I’m going to be a better man.’
Her eyes filled with tears, but her smile did not fade as she answered—
‘Yes! you will be a good man, and God will give you work to do.’
He bent his head over her hands and stepped back from her as from a queen, but he spoke no word till we came to Craig’s door. Then he said with humility that seemed strange in him, ‘Connor, that is great, to conquer oneself. It is worth while. I am going to try.’
I would not have missed his meeting with Craig. Nelson was busy with tea. Craig was writing near the window. He looked up as Graeme came in, and nodded an easy good-evening; but Graeme strode to him and, putting one hand on his shoulder, held out his other for Craig to take.
After a moment’s surprise, Craig rose to his feet, and, facing him squarely, took the offered hand in both of his and held it fast without a word. Graeme was the first to speak, and his voice was deep with emotion—
‘You are a great man, a good man. I’d give something to have your grit.’
Poor Craig stood looking at him, not daring to speak for some moments, then he said quietly—
‘Not good nor great, but, thank God, not quite a traitor.’
‘Good man!’ went on Graeme, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Good man! But it’s tough.’
Craig sat down quickly, saying, ‘Don’t do that, old chap!’
I went up with Craig to Mrs. Mavor’s door. She did not hear us coming, but stood near the window gazing up at the mountains. She was dressed in some rich soft stuff, and wore at her breast a bunch of wild-flowers. I had never seen her so beautiful. I did not wonder that Craig paused with his foot upon the threshold to look at her. She turned and saw us. With a glad cry, ‘Oh! my darling; you have come to me,’ she came with outstretched arms. I turned and fled, but the cry and the vision were long with me.
It was decided that night that Mrs. Mavor should go the next week. A miner and his wife were going east, and I too would join the party.
The camp went into mourning at the news; but it was understood that any display of grief before Mrs. Mavor was bad form. She was not to be annoyed.
But when I suggested that she should leave quietly, and avoid the pain of saying good-bye, she flatly refused—
‘I must say good-bye to every man. They love me and I love them.’
It was decided, too, at first, that there should be nothing in the way of a testimonial, but when Craig found out that the men were coming to her with all sorts of extraordinary gifts, he agreed that it would be better that they should unite in one gift. So it was agreed that I should buy a ring for her. And were it not that the contributions were strictly limited to one dollar, the purse that Slavin handed her when Shaw read the address at the farewell supper would have been many times filled with the gold that was pressed upon the committee. There were no speeches at the supper, except one by myself in reply on Mrs. Mavor’s behalf. She had given me the words to say, and I was thoroughly prepared, else I should not have got through. I began in the usual way: ‘Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Mavor is—’ but I got no further, for at the mention of her name the men stood on the chairs and yelled until they could yell no more. There were over two hundred and fifty of them, and the effect was overpowering. But I got through my speech. I remember it well. It began—
‘Mrs. Mavor is greatly touched by this mark of your love, and she will wear your ring always with pride.’ And it ended with—
‘She has one request to make, that you will be true to the League, and that you stand close about the man who did most to make it. She wishes me to say that however far away she may have to go, she is leaving her heart in Black Rock, and she can think of no greater joy than to come back to you again.’
Then they had ‘The Sweet By and By,’ but the men would not join in the refrain, unwilling to lose a note of the glorious voice they loved to hear. Before the last verse she beckoned to me. I went to her standing by Craig’s side as he played for her. ‘Ask them to sing,’ she entreated; ‘I cannot bear it.’
‘Mrs. Mavor wishes you to sing in the refrain,’ I said, and at once the men sat up and cleared their throats. The singing was not good, but at the first sound of the hoarse notes of the men Craig’s head went down over the organ, for he was thinking I suppose of the days before them when they would long in vain for that thrilling voice that soared high over their own hoarse tones. And after the voices died away he kept on playing till, half turning toward him, she sang alone once more the refrain in a voice low and sweet and tender, as if for him alone. And so he took it, for he smiled up at her his old smile full of courage and full of love.
Then for one whole hour she stood saying good-bye to those rough, gentle-hearted men whose inspiration to goodness she had been for five years. It was very wonderful and very quiet. It was understood that there was to be no nonsense, and Abe had been heard to declare that he would ‘throw out any cotton-backed fool who couldn’t hold himself down,’ and further, he had enjoined them to remember that ‘her arm wasn’t a pump-handle.’
At last they were all gone, all but her guard of honour—Shaw, Vernon Winton, Geordie, Nixon, Abe, Nelson, Craig, and myself.
This was the real farewell; for, though in the early light of the next morning two hundred men stood silent about the stage, and then as it moved out waved their hats and yelled madly, this was the last touch they had of her hand. Her place was up on the driver’s seat between Abe and Mr. Craig, who held little Marjorie on his knee. The rest of the guard of honour were to follow with Graeme’s team. It was Winton’s fine sense that kept Graeme from following them close. ‘Let her go out alone,’ he said, and so we held back and watched her go.
She stood with her back towards Abe’s plunging four-horse team, and steadying herself with one hand on Abe’s shoulder, gazed down upon us. Her head was bare, her lips parted in a smile, her eyes glowing with their own deep light; and so, facing us, erect and smiling, she drove away, waving us farewell till Abe swung his team into the canyon road and we saw her no more. A sigh shuddered through the crowd, and, with a sob in his voice, Winton said: ‘God help us all.’
I close my eyes and see it all again. The waving crowd of dark-faced men, the plunging horses, and, high up beside the driver, the swaying, smiling, waving figure, and about all the mountains, framing the picture with their dark sides and white peaks tipped with the gold of the rising sun. It is a picture I love to look upon, albeit it calls up another that I can never see but through tears.
I look across a strip of ever-widening water, at a group of men upon the wharf, standing with heads uncovered, every man a hero, though not a man of them suspects it, least of all the man who stands in front, strong, resolute, self-conquered. And, gazing long, I think I see him turn again to his place among the men of the mountains, not forgetting, but every day remembering the great love that came to him, and remembering, too, that love is not all. It is then the tears come.
But for that picture two of us at least are better men to-day.
Through the long summer the mountains and the pines were with me. And through the winter, too, busy as I was filling in my Black Rock sketches for the railway people who would still persist in ordering them by the dozen, the memory of that stirring life would come over me, and once more I would be among the silent pines and the mighty snow-peaked mountains. And before me would appear the red-shirted shantymen or dark-faced miners, great, free, bold fellows, driving me almost mad with the desire to seize and fix those swiftly changing groups of picturesque figures. At such times I would drop my sketch, and with eager brush seize a group, a face, a figure, and that is how my studio comes to be filled with the men of Black Rock. There they are all about me. Graeme and the men from the woods, Sandy, Baptiste, the Campbells, and in many attitudes and groups old man Nelson; Craig, too, and his miners, Shaw, Geordie, Nixon, and poor old Billy and the keeper of the League saloon.
It seemed as if I lived among them, and the illusion was greatly helped by the vivid letters Graeme sent me from time to time. Brief notes came now and then from Craig too, to whom I had sent a faithful account of how I had brought Mrs. Mavor to her ship, and of how I had watched her sail away with none too brave a face, as she held up her hand that bore the miners’ ring, and smiled with that deep light in her eyes. Ah! those eyes have driven me to despair and made me fear that I am no great painter after all, in spite of what my friends tell me who come in to smoke my good cigars and praise my brush. I can get the brow and hair, and mouth and pose, but the eyes! the eyes elude me—and the faces of Mrs. Mavor on my wall, that the men praise and rave over, are not such as I could show to any of the men from the mountains.
Graeme’s letters tell me chiefly about Craig and his doings, and about old man Nelson; while from Craig I hear about Graeme, and how he and Nelson are standing at his back, and doing what they can to fill the gap that never can be filled. The three are much together, I can see, and I am glad for them all, but chiefly for Craig, whose face, grief-stricken but resolute, and often gentle as a woman’s, will not leave me nor let me rest in peace.
The note of thanks he sent me was entirely characteristic. There were no heroics, much less pining or self-pity. It was simple and manly, not ignoring the pain but making much of the joy. And then they had their work to do. That note, so clear, so manly, so nobly sensible, stiffens my back yet at times.
In the spring came the startling news that Black Rock would soon be no more. The mines were to close down on April 1. The company, having allured the confiding public with enticing descriptions of marvellous drifts, veins, assays, and prospects, and having expended vast sums of the public’s money in developing the mines till the assurance of their reliability was absolutely final, calmly shut down and vanished. With their vanishing vanishes Black Rock, not without loss and much deep cursing on the part of the men brought some hundreds of miles to aid the company in its extraordinary and wholly inexplicable game.
Personally it grieved me to think that my plan of returning to Black Rock could never be carried out. It was a great compensation, however, that the three men most representative to me of that life were soon to visit me actually in my own home and den. Graeme’s letter said that in one month they might be expected to appear. At least he and Nelson were soon to come, and Craig would soon follow.
On receiving the great news, I at once looked up young Nelson and his sister, and we proceeded to celebrate the joyful prospect with a specially good dinner. I found the greatest delight in picturing the joy and pride of the old man in his children, whom he had not seen for fifteen or sixteen years. The mother had died some five years before, then the farm was sold, and the brother and sister came into the city; and any father might be proud of them. The son was a well-made young fellow, handsome enough, thoughtful, and solid-looking. The girl reminded me of her father. The same resolution was seen in mouth and jaw, and the same passion slumbered in the dark grey eyes. She was not beautiful, but she carried herself well, and one would always look at her twice. It would be worth something to see the meeting between father and daughter.
But fate, the greatest artist of us all, takes little count of the careful drawing and the bright colouring of our fancy’s pictures, but with rude hand deranges all, and with one swift sweep paints out the bright and paints in the dark. And this trick he served me when, one June night, after long and anxious waiting for some word from the west, my door suddenly opened and Graeme walked in upon me like a spectre, grey and voiceless. My shout of welcome was choked back by the look in his face, and I could only gaze at him and wait for his word. He gripped my hand, tried to speak, but failed to make words come.
‘Sit down, old man,’ I said, pushing, him into my chair, ‘and take your time.’
He obeyed, looking up at me with burning, sleepless eyes. My heart was sore for his misery, and I said: ‘Don’t mind, old chap; it can’t be so awfully bad. You’re here safe and sound at any rate,’ and so I went on to give him time. But he shuddered and looked round and groaned.
‘Now look here, Graeme, let’s have it. When did you land here? Where is Nelson? Why didn’t you bring him up?’
‘He is at the station in his coffin,’ he answered slowly.
‘In his coffin?’ I echoed, my beautiful pictures all vanishing. ‘How was it?’
‘Through my cursed folly,’ he groaned bitterly.
‘What happened?’ I asked. But ignoring my question, he said: ‘I must see his children. I have not slept for four nights. I hardly know what I am doing; but I can’t rest till I see his children. I promised him. Get them for me.’
‘To-morrow will do. Go to sleep now, and we shall arrange everything to-morrow,’ I urged.
‘No!’ he said fiercely; ‘to-night—now!’
In half an hour they were listening, pale and grief-stricken, to the story of their father’s death.
Poor Graeme was relentless in his self-condemnation as he told how, through his ‘cursed folly,’ old Nelson was killed. The three, Craig, Graeme, and Nelson, had come as far as Victoria together. There they left Craig, and came on to San Francisco. In an evil hour Graeme met a companion of other and evil days, and it was not long till the old fever came upon him.
In vain Nelson warned and pleaded. The reaction from the monotony and poverty of camp life to the excitement and luxury of the San Francisco gaming palaces swung Graeme quite off his feet, and all that Nelson could do was to follow from place to place and keep watch.
‘And there he would sit,’ said Graeme in a hard, bitter voice, ‘waiting and watching often till the grey morning light, while my madness held me fast to the table. One night,’ here he paused a moment, put his face in his hands and shuddered; but quickly he was master of himself again, and went on in the same hard voice—‘One night my partner and I were playing two men who had done us up before. I knew they were cheating, but could not detect them. Game after game they won, till I was furious at my stupidity in not being able to catch them. Happening to glance at Nelson in the corner, I caught a meaning look, and looking again, he threw me a signal. I knew at once what the fraud was, and next game charged the fellow with it. He gave me the lie; I struck his mouth, but before I could draw my gun, his partner had me by the arms. What followed I hardly know. While I was struggling to get free, I saw him reach for his weapon; but, as he drew it, Nelson sprang across the table, and bore him down. When the row was ever, three men lay on the floor. One was Nelson; he took the shot meant for me.’
Again the story paused.
‘And the man that shot him?’
I started at the intense fierceness in the voice, and, looking upon the girl, saw her eyes blazing with a terrible light.
‘He is dead,’ answered Graeme indifferently.
‘You killed him?’ she asked eagerly.
Graeme looked at her curiously, and answered slowly—
‘I did not mean to. He came at me. I struck him harder than I knew. He never moved.’
She drew a sigh of satisfaction, and waited.
‘I got him to a private ward, had the best doctor in the city, and sent for Craig to Victoria. For three days we thought he would live—he was keen to get home; but by the time Craig came we had given up hope. Oh, but I was thankful to see Craig come in, and the joy in the old man’s eyes was beautiful to see. There was no pain at last, and no fear. He would not allow me to reproach myself, saying over and over, “You would have done the same for me”—as I would, fast enough—“and it is better me than you. I am old and done; you will do much good yet for the boys.” And he kept looking at me till I could only promise to do my best.
‘But I am glad I told him how much good he had done me during the last year, for he seemed to think that too good to be true. And when Craig told him how he had helped the boys in the camp, and how Sandy and Baptiste and the Campbells would always be better men for his life among them, the old man’s face actually shone, as if light were coming through. And with surprise and joy he kept on saying, “Do you think so? Do you think so? Perhaps so, perhaps so.” At the last he talked of Christmas night at the camp. You were there, you remember. Craig had been holding a service, and something happened, I don’t know what, but they both knew.’
‘I know,’ I said, and I saw again the picture of the old man under the pine, upon his knees in the snow, with his face turned up to the stars.
‘Whatever it was, it was in his mind at the very last, and I can never forget his face as he turned it to Craig. One hears of such things: I had often, but had never put much faith in them; but joy, rapture, triumph, these are what were in his face, as he said, his breath coming short, “You said—He wouldn’t—fail me—you were right—not once—not once—He stuck to me—I’m glad he told me—thank God—for you—you showed—me—I’ll see Him—and—tell Him—” And Craig, kneeling beside him so steady—I was behaving like a fool—smiled down through his streaming tears into the dim eyes so brightly, till they could see no more. Thank him for that! He helped the old man through, and he helped me too, that night, thank God!’ And Graeme’s voice, hard till now, broke in a sob.
He had forgotten us, and was back beside his passing friend, and all his self-control could not keep back the flowing tears.
‘It was his life for mine,’ he said huskily.
The brother and sister were quietly weeping, but spoke no word, though I knew Graeme was waiting for them.
I took up the word, and told of what I had known of Nelson, and his influence upon the men of Black Rock. They listened eagerly enough, but still without speaking. There seemed nothing to say, till I suggested to Graeme that he must get some rest. Then the girl turned to him, and, impulsively putting out her hand, said—
‘Oh, it is all so sad; but how can we ever thank you?’
‘Thank me!’ gasped Graeme. ‘Can you forgive me? I brought him to his death.’
‘No, no! You must not say so,’ she answered hurriedly. ‘You would have done the same for him.’
‘God knows I would,’ said Graeme earnestly; ‘and God bless you for your words!’ And I was thankful to see the tears start in his dry, burning eyes.
We carried him to the old home in the country, that he might lie by the side of the wife he had loved and wronged. A few friends met us at the wayside station, and followed in sad procession along the country road, that wound past farms and through woods, and at last up to the ascent where the quaint, old wooden church, black with the rains and snows of many years, stood among its silent graves. The little graveyard sloped gently towards the setting sun, and from it one could see, far on every side, the fields of grain and meadowland that wandered off over softly undulating hills to meet the maple woods at the horizon, dark, green, and cool. Here and there white farmhouses, with great barns standing near, looked out from clustering orchards.
Up the grass-grown walk, and through the crowding mounds, over which waves, uncut, the long, tangling grass, we bear our friend, and let him gently down into the kindly bosom of mother earth, dark, moist, and warm. The sound of a distant cowbell mingles with the voice of the last prayer; the clods drop heavily with heart-startling echo; the mound is heaped and shaped by kindly friends, sharing with one another the task; the long rough sods are laid over and patted into place; the old minister takes farewell in a few words of gentle sympathy; the brother and sister, with lingering looks at the two graves side by side, the old and the new, step into the farmer’s carriage, and drive away; the sexton locks the gate and goes home, and we are left outside alone.
Then we went back and stood by Nelson’s grave.
After a long silence Graeme spoke.
‘Connor, he did not grudge his life to me—and I think’—and here the words came slowly—‘I understand now what that means, “Who loved me and gave Himself for me.”’
Then taking off his hat, he said reverently, ‘By God’s help Nelson’s life shall not end, but shall go on. Yes, old man!’ looking down upon the grave, ‘I’m with you’; and lifting up his face to the calm sky, ‘God help me to be true.’
Then he turned and walked briskly away, as one might who had pressing business, or as soldiers march from a comrade’s grave to a merry tune, not that they have forgotten, but they have still to fight.
And this was the way old man Nelson came home.