AT twelve o'clock at night, two days later, Hoag returned to Grayson. It was warm and cloudy, and when he left the train he found himself alone on the unlighted platform. No one was in sight, and yet he felt insecure. He told himself, when the train had rumbled away, that it would be easy for an assassin to stand behind the little tool-house, the closed restaurant, or the railway blacksmith's shop and fire upon him. So, clutching his bag in his cold fingers, he walked swiftly up to the Square. Here, also, no one was in sight, and everything was so still that he could almost fancy hearing the occupants of the near-by hotel breathing. He turned down to Sid Trawley's stable to get his horse. The dim light of a murky lantern swinging from a beam at the far end shone in a foggy circle. The little office on the right was used by Trawley as a bedroom. The door was closed, but through the window a faint light was visible, and there was a sound within as of a man removing his shoes.
“Hello, Sid, you thar?” Hoag called out.
“Yes, yes; who's that?”
Hoag hesitated; then stepping close to the window, he said, in a lower tone: “Me—Jim Hoag; I want my hoss, Sid.”
“Oh, it'syou; all right—all right!”
The sound in the room was louder now, and then Trawley, without coat or hat, his coarse shirt gaping at the neck, opened the door and came out.
“You got here quick, I'll swear,” the liveryman ejaculated. “Surely you wasn't in Atlanta like they said you was, or you couldn't 'a' got here as soon as this.”
“Soon as this! What do you mean? I am just from Atlanta.”
“Then they didn't telegraph you?”
“No; what do you mean? I hain't heard a word from here since I left.” Hoag caught his breath, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood, openmouthed.
“You don't say! Then, of course, you couldn't know about Henry's trouble?”
“No, I tell you I'm just back. What's wrong?”
“It happened about nine o'clock to-night,” Trawley explained. “In fact, the town has just quieted down. For a while I expected the whole place to go up in flames. It was in the hands of the craziest mob you ever saw—Nape Welborne's gang.”
“What about Henry? Was he hurt, or—”
“Oh, he's all right now, or was when me'n Paul Rundel, an' one or two more friends put 'im to bed in the hotel. Doctor Wynn says he is bruised up purty bad, but no bones is broke or arteries cut.”
“Another fight, I reckon!” Hoag was prepared to dismiss the matter as too slight for notice in contrast to his far heavier woes.
“Yes, but this time you won't blame him, Jim. In fact, you are the one man on earth that will stand up for 'im if thar's a spark o' good left in you. He was fightin' for you, Jim Hoag. I used to think Henry didn't amount to much, but I've changed. I take off my hat to 'im, an' it will stay off from now on.”
“Fighting forme?” Hoag's fears gathered from many directions and ruthlessly leaped upon him.
“Yes, it seems that Nape Welborne had it in for you for some reason or other, an' you bein' away he determined to take it out on your boy. I knowed trouble was brewin', an' I got Henry to come down here away from the drinkin' crowd in front o' his store. Henry has been powerfully interested in some o' the things Paul Rundel an' me believe here lately about the right way to live, an' me'n him was talkin' about it. We was gettin' on nice an' quiet in our talk when who should come but Nape an' his bloodthirsty lay-out, fifteen or twenty strong. You know Nape, an' you no doubt understand his sneakin', underhanded way of pickin' a fuss. He took a chair thar in front, an' though he knowed Henry was listenin' he begun on you. What he didn't say, along with his oaths and sneers, never could 'a' been thought of. He begun gradual-like an' kept heapin' it on hot an' heavy, his eyes on Henry all the time, an' his stand-by's laughin' an' cheerin' 'im. I never saw such a look on a human face as I seed on your boy's. Seemed like he was tryin' to hold in, but couldn't. I pulled him aside a little, an' told him to remember his good resolutions an' to try to stay out of a row ag'in' sech awful odds; but lookin' me straight in the eye he said:
“'A man can't reform to do any good, Sid, an' be a coward. He's insulting my father, an' I can't stand it. I can't, and I won't!'”
Trawley paused an instant, and Hoag caught his breath.
“He said that, did he—Henry said that?”
“Yes, I tried to pacify him, knowin' that he wouldn't stand a ghost of a chance ag'in' sech odds, but nothin' I said had the slightest effect on 'im. He pulled away from me, slow an' polite like. He thanked me as nice as you please, then he went straight toward Welborne. He had stood so much already that I reckon Nape thought he was goin' to pass by, to get away, an' Nape was beginnin' to laugh an' start some fresh talk when Henry stopped in front of him suddenly an' drawed back his fist an' struck 'im a blow in the mouth that knocked Nape clean out o' his chair. Nape rolled over ag'in the wall, then sprung up spiffin' blood an' yellin', an' the two had it nip an' tuck for a minute, but the gang wouldn't see fair-play. They was all drunk an' full o' mob spirit an' they closed in on the boy like ants on a speck o' bread an' begun to yell, 'Lynch 'im, lynch 'im!'
“It was like flint-sparks to powder in the pan. It was the wildest mix-up I ever saw, and I have seed a good many in my day. Henry was in the middle duckin' down, striking out whenever he could, an' callin' 'em dirty dogs and cowardly cutthroats. They meant business. They drug the poor boy on to the thicket back of the Court House an' stopped under a tree. Some fellow had got one of my hitchin' ropes, an' they flung it 'round Henry's neck, and tied his hands and feet. I thought it was up with 'im, when an unexpected thing happened. Paul Rundel rid up on a hoss, an' jumped down and sprung in the middle of the mob. I was doin' all I could, but that wasn't nothin'. I saw Paul holdin' up his hands, an' beggin' 'em to listen for a minute. They kept drownin' 'im out by the'r crazy yells, but after a while Paul caught the'r attention, an' with his hands on Henry's shoulders he begun to talk. Jim Hoag, as God is my judge, I don't believe thar ever was made a more powerful orator than that very young feller. His words swept through that crowd like electricity from a dynamo. I can't begin to tell you what he said. It was the whole life an' law of Jesus packed into explodin' bomb-shells. You'd 'a' thought he was cryin', from his tender face, but his eyes was gleamin' like shootin'-stars, an' he was mad enough to fight a buzz-saw. Some fellow in the gang said, 'Git away from that man, Rundel, or I'll shoot you!' an' Paul laughed, an' said, 'Fire away, my friend, but see that you don't hit yourself while you are at it!'
“Then somebody knocked the pistol down an' Paul went on talkin'. One by one the crowd got ashamed and sluffed off, an' presently just me an' Paul an' Henry an' one or two more was left. We took Henry to the hotel an' got a room for 'im, an' made 'im go to bed.”
Trawley ceased speaking. Hoag stood with downcast eyes. He had nothing to say.
“Mark my word,” Trawley added, confidently, “the day o' mobs hereabouts is over. This was the straw that breaks the camel's back. The old klan is down an' out, an' Paul Rundel will settle the young gang. They respect 'im. They can't help it, an' he told me he was goin' to make it his chief aim to crush it out.”
Hoag remained silent and Trawley went to a stall in the rear and brought his horse forward.
“You ain't goin' in to see Henry 'fore you go out, are you?” he asked, as he released the bridle-reins.
“Not to-night,” was the reply. “He may be 'asleep. I'll—I'll see 'im, I reckon, to-morrow.”
Hoag thrust a clumsy foot into the wooden stirrup, and bent his knees as if to mount, but failed. There was a block near by, and he led his horse to it, and from the block finally got into the saddle.
“Good night,” he said, and he rode away. At the street-corner he took out his revolver and, holding it in one hand, he urged his horse into a gallop. From every fence-corner or dark clump of bushes on the roadside he expected to see armed men arise and confront him.
ONE morning, three days later, as Paul was writing in his room his employer came in holding a sheet of paper in his hand. His face was bloated, his eyes bloodshot; he had lost flesh and quivered in every limb and muscle.
“I want to ask a favor,” he said, in a tone which was almost that of pleading humility.
“What is it? I'm at your service,” the young man said, politely indicating the vacant chair beside the table.
Hoag caught the back of the chair as if to steady himself, but declined to sit down. He made a dismal failure of a smile of unconcern. “You needn't think I'm gittin' ready to die by this move o' mine,” he began, “but I think any sensible man ought to be prepared for any possible accident to him. I've made my will, an' I want you to witness it. It won't be contested, and your name will be sufficient.”
“Oh, I see.” Paul was mystified, but he took the document from the nerveless hand and spread it open on the table.
“You needn't bother to read it through.” Hoag's voice trailed away toward indistinctness, and he coughed and cleared his throat. “I've made an even divide of all my effects betwixt Jack an' Henry an' Eth', an'—an' I've specified that the business—in case o' my death—is to run on under your care till Jack is of age—that is, if you are willin': you to draw whatever pay you feel is reasonable or is fixed by the law.”
“Of course that is agreeable,” Paul answered, “though I shall count on your aid and advice for a good many years, I am sure.”
Hoag blinked. He swung on the chair a moment, then he added:
“There is one more thing, an' I hope you won't object to that, neither. It's about Jack. The child is at the age when he kin either grow up under good or—or what you might call bad influence, an' somehow I want—I've studied over it a lot lately—an' I want to take the thing in time. You don't believe exactly like other folks, but you are on the safe side—the safest, I might say. Jack thinks the sun rises an' sets in you”—Hoag's voice shook slightly—“I reckon it's because you treat the little fellow so friendly an' nice, an' it struck me that in case of any—you know—any possible accident to me that I'd like for you to be his guardian.”
“Hisguardian?I! Why, Mr. Hoag—”
“Never mind; I know what you are goin' to say. You think you are too young, I reckon, but I've thought about it a lot, an' I really would feel better in—in my mind if you'd agree. I ain't—I can't say I am”—Hoag attempted a laugh of indifference—“actually countin' on the grave rightnow, but a feller like me has enemies. In fact, I may as well say IknowI have some, an' they wouldn't hesitate to settle me if they had a fair chance. I've writ it all down thar, an' I'm goin' to sign it an' I want you to witness my signature.”
“Very well, Mr. Hoag. I feel highly honored, and I'll do my best to prove worthy of the trust you place in me.”
“I ain't a-worryin' about that. You are a plumb mystery to me. Sometimes I think you are more'n human. I know one thing—I know you are all right.” Hoag's massive hand shook as he dipped a pen, leaned down, and wrote his name. He stood erect and watched Paul sign his name opposite it.
“You take care of it.” Hoag waved his hand. “Put it in the safe at the warehouse. I can't think of anything else right now. If—if I do, I'll mention it.”
“I have an order for several grades of leather from Nashville,” Paul began, picking up a letter on the table, “and I want to consult you about—”
“I'd rather you wouldn't.” A sickly look of despair had settled on the heavy features. “I'm willin' to trust your judgment entirely. What you do will be all right. You see—you see, somehow it is a comfort at my time o' life—an' harassed like I am—to feel that I ain't obliged to bother about so many odds an' ends.”
“Very well, as you think best,” Paul answered. “I'll do all I can.”
Hoag was seated on the watering-trough in the barn-yard a little later, his dull gaze on the sunlit mountain-side, when two soft, small hands were placed over his eyes from behind and he felt the clasp of a tender pair of arms around his neck.
“Who's got you?” a young voice asked, in a bird-like ripple of merriment.
“Jack!” Hoag answered, and he drew the boy into his lap, stroked his flowing tresses, and held him tightly against his breast.
The child laughed gleefully. He sat for a moment on the big, trembling knee; then, seeing a butterfly fluttering over a dungheap, he sprang down and ran after it. It evaded the outstretched straw hat, and Hoag saw him climb over the fence and dart across the meadow. Away the lithe creature bounded—as free as the balmy breeze upon which he seemed to ride as easily as the thing he was pursuing. Hoag groaned. His despair held him like a vise. On every side hung the black curtains of his doom. All nature seemed to mock him. Birds were singing in the near-by woods. On the sloping roof of the bam blue and white pigeons were strutting and cooing. On the lawn a stately peacock with plumage spread strode majestically across the grass.
To avoid meeting Jack again, Hoag passed out at the gate, and went into the wood, which, cool, dank, and somber, stretched away toward the mountain. Deeper and deeper he got in the shade of the great trees and leaning cliffs and boulders till he was quite out of sight or hearing of the house. The solitude and stillness of the spot strangely appealed to him. For the first time in many days he had a touch of calmness. The thought came to him that, if such a thing as prayer were reasonable at all, a spot like this would make it effective.
Suddenly, as he stood looking at a cliff in front of him, he fancied that the leaves and branches of an overhanging bush were stirring. To make sure, he stared fixedly at it, and then he saw a black face emerge, a face that was grimly set in satisfaction. Was he asleep, and was this one of the numerous fancies which had haunted him in delirium? Yes, for the face was gone, the leaves of the bush were still. And yet, was it gone? Surely there was renewed activity about the bush which was not visible in its fellows. What was it that was slowly emerging from the branches like a bar of polished steel? The sunlight struck it and it flashed and blazed steadily. The bush swayed downward and then held firm. There was a puff of blue smoke. Hoag felt a stinging sensation over the region of his heart. Everything grew black. He felt himself falling. He heard an exultant laugh, which seemed to recede in the distance.
IT was a few weeks after Hoag's burial. Ethel had been for a walk and was nearing home. At the side of the road stood a sordid log cabin, one of the worst of its class. In the low doorway leaned a woman with a baby in her arms. She was under twenty-five years of age, and yet from her tattered dress, worn-out shoes, scant hair, and wan, wearied face she might have passed as the grandmother of her four or five little children playing about the door-step.
Catching her eye, Ethel bowed and turned in toward the hut. As she did so, the woman stepped down and came forward. The children, forsaking their play, followed and clung to her soiled skirt, eying Ethel's black dress and hat with the curiosity peculiar to their ages and station. The woman's husband, David Harris, had been confined to his bed since the preceding winter, when he had been laid up by an accident due to the falling of a tree while at work for Hoag on the mountain, and Ethel and her mother had shown him and his wife some thoughtful attention.
“I stopped to ask how Mr. Harris is,” Ethel said. “My mother will want to know.”
“He's a good deal better, Miss Ethel,” the woman replied, pulling her skirt from the chubby clutch of a little barefooted girl.
“Oh, I'm so glad!” Ethel cried. “I suppose his new medicine is doing him good?”
“No, he hasn't begun on it yet,” Mrs. Harris answered. “The old lot ain't quite used up yet. I just think it is due to cheerfulness, Miss Ethel. I never knowed before that puttin' hope in a sick body would work such wonders, but it has in Dave.”
“He has been inclined to despondency, hasn't he?” Ethel rejoined, sympathetically. “My mother said she noticed that the last time we were here, and tried to cheer him up.”
“Thar was just one thing that could cheer 'im, an' that happened.”
“I'm glad,” Ethel said, tentatively “He seemed to worry about the baby's sickness, but the baby is well now, isn't she?” Ethel touched the child under the chin and smiled into its placid blue eyes.
“No, it wasn't the baby,” the wife went on. “Dave got some'n off his mind that had been worry-in' him ever since Paul Rundel got home an' took charge o' Mr. Hoag's business. That upset 'im entirely, Miss Ethel—he actually seemed to collapse under it, an' when Mr. Hoag died he got worse.”
“But why?” Ethel groped, wonderingly.
“It was like this,” the woman answered. “Long time ago, when Paul an' Dave was boys together, they had a row o' some sort. Dave admits that him and his brother, Sam, who was sent off for stealin' a hoss, two year ago, acted powerful bad. They teased Paul an' nagged 'im constantly, till Paul got a gun one day an' threatened to kill 'em if they didn't let 'im alone. Then right on top o' that Paul had his big trouble an' run off, an' him an' Dave never met till—”
“I see, but surely Paul—” Ethel began, perplexed, and stopped suddenly.
“I was comin' to that, Miss Ethel. You see, Dave had a good regular job cuttin' an' haulin' for Mr. Hoag, an' until Paul was put in charge he expected, as soon as he was strong enough, to go back to work again. But the report went out, an' it was true, that Mr. Hoag had turned all the hirin' of men over to Paul an' refused to take a single man on his own hook.”
“Oh, I see, and your husband was afraid—”
“He was afraid Paul had a grudge ag'in' 'im, Miss Ethel. He talked of nothin' else, an' it looked like he dreamed of nothin' else. I used to catch 'im cryin' as he nussed the baby for me while I was fixin' 'im some'n to eat. He kept say in' that the Lord was punishin' 'im for the way he done Paul. He said no man with any spirit would hire a fellow under them circumstances, an' he couldn't expect it. He said Paul was plumb on top now since Mr. Hoag's gone, an' had a right to crow. I begged 'im to let me tell Paul how he felt about it, but he wouldn't hear to it; he was too proud. Besides, he said, no brave man would respect another for apologizin' at such a late day when he was after a favor. So he just bothered an' bothered over it till he quit eatin' an' begun to talk about bein' buried.” Here the woman's voice quivered. “He kept sayin' he didn't want me to spend money on layin' 'im away. He got so troubled about that one thing that he begged Zeke Henry, who is a carpenter, you know, to agree to make 'im some sort of a cheap box to be put in so that I wouldn't go to town an' git a costly one on a credit when the time come.”
“How sad—how very sad!” Ethel exclaimed. “And then Paul must have—of course, you told Paul—.”
“No, I wouldn't do that,” the woman broke in. “Dave would 'a' been mad; but one day, about a week ago, I was out in the thicket across the road pickin' up sticks to burn when Paul come along. I used to live over the mountain before he went off, an' so I thought he didn't know me. I thought he was goin' by without speakin' to me, for it looked like he was tryin' to overtake a wagon load o' lumber right ahead; but when he seed me he stopped an' raised his hat an' stood with it in his hand while he asked me how Dave was. He said he'd just heard he was so bad off, an' was awful sorry about it.
“I told 'im how Dave's health was, but I didn't let on about how he was worryin'.' Then Paul studied a minute, an' it looked to me like he was actually blushin'. 'I wonder,' he said, 'if Dave would let me go in an' see 'im. I've met nearly all of the boys I used to know, an' have been hopin' he'd be out so I could run across 'im.'”
“That was just like Paul,” Ethel said, warmly. “And of course he saw your husband?”
The woman shifted the baby from her arms to her gaunt right hip. Her eyes glistened and her thin lips quivered. “You'll think I'm silly, Miss Ethel.” She steadied her voice with an effort. “I break down an' cry ever' time I tell this. I believe people can cry for joy the same as for grief if it hits 'em just right. I took Paul to the door, an' went in to fix Dave up a little—to give 'im a clean shirt an' the like. An' all that time Dave was crazy to ask what Paul wanted, but was afraid Paul would hear 'im, an' so I saw him starin' at me mighty pitiful. I wanted to tell him that Paul was friendly, but I didn't know how to manage it. I winked at 'im, an' tried to let 'im see by my cheerfulness that it was all right with Paul, but Dave couldn't understand me. Somehow he thought Paul might still remember the old fuss, an' he was in an awful stew till Paul come in. But he wasn't in doubt long, Miss Ethel. Paul come in totin' little Phil in his arms—he'd been playin' with the child outside—an' shuck hands with Dave, an' set down by the bed in the sweetest, plainest way you ever saw. He kept rubbin' Phil's dirty legs—jest wouldn't let me take him, an' begun to laugh an' joke with Dave over old boyhood days. Well, I simply stood there an' wondered. I've seen humanity in as many shapes as the average mountain woman o' my age an' sort, I reckon, but I never, never expected to meet a man like Paul Rundel in this life. He seemed to lift me clean to the clouds, as he talked to Dave about the foolishness of bein' blue an' givin' up to a sickness like his'n. Then like a clap o' thunder from a clear sky he told Dave in an off-hand way, as if it wasn't nothin' worth mentionin', that he wanted 'im to hurry an' git well because he had a job for 'im bossin' the hands at the shingle-mill. Miss Ethel, if the Lord had split the world open an' I saw tongues o' fire shootin' up to the skies I wouldn't 'a' been more astonished.
“'Do you really mean that, Paul?' I heard Dave ask; an' then I heard Paul say, I certainly do, Dave, an' you won't have to wait till you are plumb well, either, for you kin do that sort o' work just settin' around keepin' tab on things in general.' An' so, Miss Ethel, that's why Dave's gittin' well so fast. It ain't the medicine; it's the hope an' joy that Paul Rundel put in 'im. They say Paul has got some new religion or other, an' I thank God he has found it. Love for sufferin' folks fairly leaks out of his face an' eyes. Before he left he had every child we have up in his lap, a-tellin' 'em tales about giant-killers an' hobgoblins an' animals that could talk, an' when he went off he left Dave cryin' like his heart was breakin'.”
Ethel walked slowly homeward. From a small, gray cloud in the vast blue overhead random drops of rain were falling upon the hot dust of the road. As she neared the house she saw her mother waiting for her at the front gate with a letter in her hand.
“I wondered where you were,” Mrs. Mayfield said, as she held the gate ajar for her daughter to pass through. “You know I can't keep from being uneasy since your poor uncle's death.”
“I'm not afraid,” Ethel smiled. She noticed that her mother had folded the letter tightly in her hand and seemed disinclined to refer to it.
“Who is your letter from?” the girl questioned, as they walked across the lawn toward the house.
“Guess,” Mrs. Mayfield smiled, still holding the letter tightly.
“I can't imagine,” Ethel answered, abstractedly, for she was unable to detach herself from the recital she had just heard.
Mrs. Mayfield paused, looked up at the threatening cloud, and then answered, “It is from Mr. Peterson.”
“Oh!” Ethel avoided her mother's fixed stare. “I owe him a letter.”
“From this, I judge that you owe him several,” Mrs. Mayfield answered in a significant tone. “Ethel, I am afraid you are not treating him quite fairly.”
“Fairly! Why do you say that, mother?” Ethel showed some little vexation. Touches of red appeared in her cheeks and her eyes flashed.
“Because you haven't answered his recent letters, for one thing,” was the reply. “You know, daughter, that I have never tried, in the slightest, to influence you in this matter, and—”
“Thismatter!” A rippling and yet a somewhat forced laugh fell from the girl's curling lips. “You speak as if you were referring to some business transaction.”
'“You know what I mean,” Mrs. Mayfield smiled good-naturedly. “Before we came here this summer, while Mr. Peterson was so attentive to you in Atlanta, I told you that he had plainly given me to understand that he was in love with you, and wished to pay his addresses in the most serious and respectful way.”
“Well?” Ethel shrugged her shoulders. “I have let him come to see me oftener, really, than any of my other friends, and—”
“But that isn't all he wants, and you are well aware of it,” the mother urged. “He says you don't write to him as freely and openly as you once did—he has acted very considerately, I think. Owing to your uncle's death he did not like to intrude, but now he can't really understand you, and is naturally disturbed.”
“So he has written toyou?” Ethel said, crisply, almost resentfully.
“Yes, he has written to me. I am not going to show you his letter. The poor fellow is deeply worried. The truth is, as he says, that most of your set down home look on you—”
“As his property, I know,” Ethel flashed forth. “Some men are apt to allow a report like that to get circulated. The last time he was here he dropped half a dozen remarks which showed that he had no other thought than that I was quite carried away with him.”
Mrs. Mayfield faced the speaker with a gentle smile of perplexity. “You know, dear, that I firmly believe in love-matches, and if I didn't think you could really love Mr. Peterson I'd never let you think of marrying him; but he really is such a safe, honorable man, and has such brilliant prospects, that I'd not be a natural mother if I were not hopeful that you—”
“You mustn't bother with him and me, mother,” Ethel said, weariedly. “I know all his good points, and I know some of his less admirable ones; but I have some rights in the matter. I have really never encouraged him to think I would marry him, and it is because—well, because his recent letters have been just a little too confident that I have not answered. I can't bear that sort of thing from a man, and I want him to know it.”
“Well, I'm going to wash my hands of it,” Mrs. Mayfield said, smiling. “I want you to be happy. You have suffered so keenly of late that it has broken my heart to see it, and I want your happiness above all. Then there is something else.”
“Oh, something else?” Ethel echoed.
“Yes, and this time I am really tempted to scold,” the mother said, quite seriously. “My dear, I am afraid you are going to make more than one man unhappy, and this one certainly deserves a better fate.”
Ethel avoided her mother's eyes. Her color deepened. Her proud chin quivered.
“What do you mean?” she faltered.
“I mean that I am afraid Paul Rundel is in love with you, too.”
“Paul—oh, how absurd!” the girl answered, her face burning.
“You may say that if you wish, but I shall not change my opinion,” Mrs. Mayfield rejoined, gravely. “I am sure he wouldn't want me to suspect it—in fact, I think he tries to hide it from every one. It is only little signs he shows now and then—the way he looks when your name comes up. The truth is that he can hardly steady his voice when he mentions you. But he will never trouble you with his attentions. He has an idea that there is some understanding between you and Mr. Peterson, and I confess I didn't disabuse his mind. In fact, he said last night, when he and I were out here together, that he would never marry. He has an idea that he ought to remain single so that he may be free to carry out some plans he has for the public good—plans, I think, which mean a sacrifice on his part, in some way or other. He's simply wonderful, my child. He seems to suffer. You know a woman can tell intuitively when a man is that way. He seems both happy and unhappy. I thought I'd speak to you of this so that you may be careful when with him. You can be nice to him, you know, without leading him to think—well, to think as Mr. Peterson does.”
“There is no danger,” Ethel said, wistfully. “I understand him, and I am sure he understands me, but”—she hesitated and caught her mother's arm in a tense clasp, as they started on toward the house—“I am sure, very sure, mother, that he—that Paul is notreallyin love with me. You don't think so, either, mother—you know you do not! You have so many silly fancies. You imagine that every man who looks at me is in love with me. Paul will never loveanywoman, much less me. You see, Iknow. I've talked to him a good deal here of late, and—and I understand him. Really, I do, mother.” Alone in her room, a moment later, Ethel stood before her mirror looking at her reflection.
“He loves me—oh, he loves me!” she whispered. “He's loved me all these years. He is the grandest and best man that ever lived. He has lifted me above the earth, and made me understand the meaning of life. Oh, Paul, Paul!” She sank down by the window and looked out. The rain was beginning to fall heavily. It pattered against the window-sill and wet her sleeve and hair, but she did not move. She breathed in the cooling air as if it were a delightful intoxicant borne down from heaven. The dripping leaves of a honeysuckle tapped her hot cheeks. She thrust her fair head farther out, felt the water trickle down her cheeks and chin, and laughed. Her mood was ecstatic, transcendent, and full of gratitude unspeakable.
ETHEL had been to her uncle's grave one afternoon, and was returning through the wood which lay between the farmhouse and the village when she met Paul.
“I've just been up with some flowers,” she said. “Oh, it is so sad! I had a good cry.”
“I have no doubt it made you feel better,” he said, looking at her tenderly. “Nature has made us that way.”
“I am afraid I became rather despondent,” she answered. “Oh, Paul, I wish I had all your beautiful faith! You have actually reconciled me to poor dear Jennie's death. I can already see that it was best. It has made me kinder and broader in many ways. Do you know, Paul, there are times when I am fully conscious of her presence—I don't mean in the ordinary, spiritualistic sense, but something—I don't know how to put it—but something like the highest mental essence of my dear cousin seems to fold me in an embrace that is actually transporting. I find myself full of tears and joy at the same time, and almost dazed with the indescribable reality of it.”
“Many sensitive persons have that experience in sorrow,” Paul said, “and I am obliged to think there is some psychic fact beneath it. There is something undoubtedly uplifting in a great grief. It is a certain cure for spiritual blindness. It tears the scales of matter from our eyes as nothing else can do.”
“I can't, however, keep from being despondent over my poor uncle,” Ethel sighed, as she agreed with him. “Oh, Paul, he really wasn't prepared. He plunged into the dark void without the faintest faith or hope.”
Paul gravely shook his head and smiled. “To believe that is to doubt that the great principle of life is love. We cannot conceive of even an earthly father's punishing one of his children for being blind, much less the Creator of us all. Your uncle through his whole life was blind to the truth. Had he seen it, his awakening would have been here instead of there, that is all.”
“Oh, how comforting, how sweetly comforting!” Ethel sobbed. There was a fallen tree near the path, and she turned aside and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap, while the tears stood in her eyes. “Paul,” she said, suddenly, “you are very happy, aren't you? You must be—you have so much to make you so.”
He looked away toward the mountain where the slanting rays of the sun lay in a mellow flood, and a grave, almost despondent, expression crept into his eyes. He made no answer. She repeated her question in a rising tone, full of tender eagerness. Then without looking at her he answered, slowly and distinctly:
“All humanity must suffer, Ethel. It is part of the divine order. Suffering is to the growing soul what decayed matter is to the roots of a flower. Light is the opposite of darkness; joy is the opposite of suffering. The whole of life is made up of such contrasts; earth is temporary captivity, Paradise is eternal freedom.”
“But you have alreadyhadyour suffering,” Ethel pursued, her drying eyes fixed hungrily on his face. “Surely you—you are not unhappy now. I don't see how you could be so when everybody loves you so much, and is so appreciative of your goodness. Henry worships you. He says you have made a man of him. Old Mr. Tye declares you have actually put an end to lawlessness in these mountains. I can't see how you, of all men, could be unhappy for a minute.”
“There are things”—he was still avoiding her eyes, and he spoke with a sort of tortured candor as he sat down near her and raised his knee between his tense hands—“there are things, Ethel, which the very soul of a man cries out for, but which he can never have—which he dare not even hope for, lest he slip into utter despondency and never recover his courage.”
She rose and stood before him. He had never seen her look more beautiful, more resolute. “You intimated—Paul, you hinted, when you first came home from the West, that as a boy, away back before your great trouble, you—you cared for me—you said you thought of me often during those years. Oh, Paul, have you changed in that respect? Do you no longer—” Her voice trailed away from her fluttering throat, and, covering her face with her blue-veined hands, she stood motionless, her breast visibly palpitating, her sharp intakes of breath audible.
Rising, he drew her hands down and gazed passionately into her eyes. “I have come to love you so much, Ethel, that I dare not even think of it. It takes my breath away. Every drop of blood in my body cries out for you—cries, cries constantly. I have never dared to hope, not for a moment. I know what Mr. Peterson has to offer you. He can give you everything that the world values. I cannot see where my future duty may call me, but I am sure that I can't strive for the accumulation of a great fortune. So even if Icouldwin your love I could not feel that I had a right to it. Many persons think I am a fanatic, and if I am—well, I ought not to influence you to link your life to mine. As you say, I have suffered, and I have borne it so far, but whether I can possibly bear to see you the—the wife of another man remains to be proved. I am afraid that would drag me down. I think I would really lose faith in God—in everything, for I can't help loving you. You are more to me than life—more than Heaven.”
“You mustn't desert me, Paul.” Ethel raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. The action drew her warm face close to his. “I want to go on with you in body and in spirit through eternity. I love you with all my soul. You have sweetened my life and lifted me to the very stars. I don't want wealth or position. I want only you—just as you are.” He seemed unable to speak. Tenderly and reverently he drew her back to the log. In silence they sat, hand in hand, watching the shadows of the dying day creep across the wood and climb the mountainside.