CHAPTER XL.
As Houston, on the following morning, in the execution of his daily round of duties, happened to be passing the Yankee Boy mine, his attention was arrested by a quantity of powder deposited near the mouth of the shaft, which the workmen were preparing to take below.
“What is the meaning of this?” he inquired sternly. “Who has given any orders for this powder to be brought here?”
“Them was the boss’s orders, sir,” replied one of the men, respectfully.
“The boss? whom do you mean?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, I meant the boss as was up here yisterday; Mr. Haight, he told me this morning as these was the orders he give him.”
“Haight,” said Houston, as, a few moments later, he entered the office of that individual, “did Mr. Blaisdell leave orders yesterday for powder to be taken over to the Yankee Boy mines?”
“Yes,” replied Haight, with his usual smile, “and I intended to have spoken to you about it this morning, but I forgot it.”
“What is his object? any blasting to be done?”
“Yes, we had quite a long consultation together yesterday, he and Rivers and I, and we decided that it would pay to do some extensive drifting in those mines, and a good deal of that rock will have to be blasted.”
“How soon is this blasting to begin?”
“Well, I can’t say exactly, just how soon, probably within the next seven or eight days.”
“In what direction is the drifting to extend?”
Haight looked slightly surprised but replied: “We’re a little undecided about that, just what course to take; Rivers was for one thing, and Blaisdell and I for another. After they have blasted a ways, we can tell something from the character of the rock in what direction it will be best to run the drift.”
After a few more questions, some of which Haight did not answer so readily as might have been expected, Houston left him. He did not proceed at once to the building where Van Dorn was at work, but first returned to the mines, where he discovered that the powder was not only being stored in the Yankee Boy group, but also in the Lucky Chance, and one or two others of the surrounding mines. A little later he made an errand to that part of the mills where Van Dorn was to be found, and quietly calling him to one side, related to him what he had discovered, and his talk with Haight.
Van Dorn was more familiar with mines, their methods of operation, and the rules governing their underground workings, than Houston, and he immediately exclaimed:
“By George! that fellow is a fool, Everard, or else he was simply ‘stuffing’ you; to drift in the direction he mentioned would be a useless expenditure of time and money, there would be nothing in it, it is utterly absurd!”
“I mistrusted as much,” said Houston, “and I have my own opinion as to the meaning of all this, but I wished to get your idea of the matter. What do you think of it?”
“It looks to me,” said Van Dorn slowly, “as though they were making preparations to blow up these mines, at a moment’s warning.”
“That,” said Houston, “was just the conviction that forced itself upon my mind when I saw that powder, though I will admit I had never once thought of their resorting to such measures as that.”
“It’s about the only thing left for them to do, by George! after the shape in which they have got things; their idea probably would be, in the event of Mr. Cameron’s coming, to destroy in this way all the evidence, as they think, existing against them. It shows pretty conclusively that they have no suspicions of us, for if they knew the evidence in our possession they would blow us up rather than the mines. You will telegraph at once for Mr. Cameron, will you not?”
“At once; we must get him here as quickly and as quietly as we can; before they put their plans into action, if possible.”
“That is the thing to do; they probably will take no action unless they hear of his coming. We ought to get a dispatch off before night.”
“We will,” Houston replied, with quiet decision.
“How will you manage it? It will look rather suspicious for you or me to leave our work and go down to the Y with a message.”
“Give Morton our dispatch and cipher book, and he will attend to it better than you or I, for he is an expert operator.”
“By George! that’s so, I had forgotten it; he learned telegraphy there at college just to amuse himself, and had a battery in his room; well, that’s fortunate, he will be just the one for us.”
“It is nearly noon,” said Houston, consulting his watch, “we will see Morton at the house, and arrange the message between us, and he will send it immediately.”
After dinner, there was a brief consultation in Houston’s room with the result that the following dispatch was formulated, written in cipher, and addressed to Mr. Whitney, at Chicago, the attorney from New York, accompanying Mr. Cameron:
“Come at once, no delay; go to Arlington Hotel, Silver City; keep dark, do not register. Van Dorn will meet you at hotel.”
“Come at once, no delay; go to Arlington Hotel, Silver City; keep dark, do not register. Van Dorn will meet you at hotel.”
Houston realized that they were now rapidly approaching the final denouement,––the closing act of the drama which might yet prove a tragedy,––and as he placed the folded slip of paper in Morton Rutherford’s hand, he said with a sigh:
“This is the beginning of the end.”
CHAPTER XLI.
As Morton Rutherford’s fingers touched the key of the little instrument that was to send forth that fateful message, it was the unconscious touching of a secret spring which was to set in motion a succession of events of which he little dreamed.
He remained at the station until the answer came back over the wires:
“Leave Chicago to-night; will follow instructions to the letter.”
“Leave Chicago to-night; will follow instructions to the letter.”
This was on Saturday. On Tuesday the expected party would reach Silver City, where they were to be met by Van Dorn, who would furnish them all details and accompany them on the evening train to the Y, from which point Houston and Morton Rutherford would convey them by team to the mining camp.
From Saturday until Tuesday only! but those intervening days were full of a strange excitement for the little group of friends who were in the secret, and there was that constant sense of expectancy, combined with an alert watchfulness, which kept the nerves tense and rigid, and rendered the mind unusually clear and active.
On Monday, Van Dorn left for Silver City, his errand ostensibly being to replace the broken portions of the machinery, now nearly finished, which were necessary for its completion.
All felt that the climax to which they had looked forward was now very near, and Lyle, who perhaps realized the situation the most keenly of any, was restless and excited, something very unusual for her.
Her search, thus far unsuccessful, had not been abandoned, and as she sat in the little porch on that particular afternoon, idle because she could not fix her attention upon book or work, it seemed as if the years of her early life among the mountains stood out with more than usual distinctness. Among other trifling objects, there was suddenly recalled to her memory a box which used always to stand in Mrs. Maverick’s little bed-room, and which had looked wonderfully attractive to her childish eyes on account of a flowered red and green paper with which it was covered. Once, overcome with infantile curiosity, she had tried to open it, and had received a severe whipping therefor. She could remember it very distinctly now, a box about eighteen inches square, with no fastening, but always securely tied with a stout cord. Late years it had been removed to the little attic and she had forgotten it. Where was it now? She had not seen it for months, or was it years? What could it have contained?
Miss Gladden was occupied with a new magazine. Morton and Ned Rutherford had gone out for a stroll among the rocks. Quietly Lyle slipped up-stairs, and going to the dark, dusty attic, began searching for the object so suddenly recalled to mind.
She could find no trace of it, however, and had about concluded that it must have been destroyed, when her attention was arrested by a pile of old clothing and rubbish on the floor in a particularly dark corner, behind some large boxes. A slight examination revealed that there was some solid substance underneath. Hastily overturning the rubbish, her eyes descried in the dim light the identical red and green papered box familiar to her childhood.
With an exclamation of joy she dragged it forth from its hiding place, and going over to the one tiny window, covered with dust and cobwebs, she sat down with the newly found treasure, first arranging a pile of old bedding as a screen between herself and the door, to preclude all possibility of her whereabouts being discovered.
With fingers trembling with excitement, she undid the fastenings of the heavy cord and slowly lifted the cover, not knowing exactly what she expected or hoped to find, but certain that the key for which she had searched was close at hand.
Within the box lay a large parcel wrapped in a newspaper, worn and yellow with age, and pinned to the parcel was a letter, addressed in a cramped, almost illegible hand:
“To Lyle,to be read after my death.”
Lyle recognized the writing,––it was Mrs. Maverick’s, whose educational advantages, though exceedingly limited, were yet superior to those of her husband, in that she could read and write, though she had little idea of the rules of grammar or orthography.
Lyle unpinned the letter and turned it over curiously in her hands for a moment; then she laid it aside, saying to herself:
“I will first see what this package contains, and will probably open that later.”
She lifted the parcel and began removing the paper wrappings, which burst like tissue and dropped in pieces, leaving a mass of fine cambric and dainty laces and embroideries, from which was exhaled a perfume, faint and subtle, and yet which recalled to Lyle so vividly the memories of that long-ago forgotten time, that she seemed like one awakening from a long oblivion to the scenes of a once familiar life. For a moment, she grew faint and dizzy, and, closing her eyes, leaned against the wall for support, while she tried to grasp the vision that seemed just ready to open up before her. But it passed, and with a sigh she opened her eyes, her gaze falling on the contents of the package which had fallen open.
She saw the dress of a little child,––apparently about two years of age,––a marvelous creation of the finest of white linen and the daintiest of embroideries; lying within it was a broad sash of blue silk, neatly folded together, a pair of tiny, blue silk stockings, and little kid shoes of the same delicate shade; but the shoes and sash, as well as the dress, were soiled and blackened as if they had come in contact with charred wood.
The dress and the little undergarments each and all bore the initials “M. L. W.,” and Lyle pondered over them with wondering eyes, while handling with reverent touch these relics of her childhood,––a childhood which she could not recall.
As she unrolled the blue sash, there dropped from within its folds a small, pasteboard box, which she hastily opened, exposing to view a tiny gold locket and chain of rare workmanship and exquisite design. Upon touching a little spring, it opened, and Lyle gave a low cry of delight, for there was revealed the same beautiful face which she had seen in Jack’s cabin,––the face of her mother. For some time she gazed at it through fast-gathering tears, then happening to note the engraving on the inside of the case, opposite to the picture, she held it closer to the light, to discern the delicate characters of the inscription, and read:
“To Marjorie Lyle Washburn,Upon her second birthday.”
Lyle Maverick no longer, but Marjorie Lyle Washburn! She repeated the name over and over to herself,––the magic talisman by which she was to find the home and friends she sought!
Kissing the locket reverently, she replaced it in the box, and folding together the little garments, she again took up the letter. She studied it for a moment, then resolutely breaking the seal, began to read its contents. It was slow work, for the writing in many places was so poor as to be nearly illegible, but, with burning cheeks and eyes flashing with indignation at what it revealed, she read it to the end.
In uncouth phrases and illiterate language, and yet with a certain pathos, Mrs. Maverick told the story of the death, years before, while their home was east, in Ohio, of her own little girl between two and three years of age, and her inconsolable sorrow. A few months afterward, Jim had suddenly returned from a neighboring town where he was working, bringing with him a beautiful little girl of the same age as her own, but unusually advanced for her years, whose father and mother he claimed had been killed in a railroad accident, and of whose friends nothing could be learned. His wife had accepted his story in good faith, and welcomed the motherless little one to her own lonely heart. Unknown to Jim, who had charged her to burn them, she had also preserved the garments worn by the little stranger on that day.
But the little one did not take kindly to her new surroundings but cried piteously for her mother, night and day, even refusing food of all kinds, until she was suddenly taken with a strange illness which lasted for many weeks. When she finally recovered, all memory of her former life seemed to have been completely blotted out of her mind, and she no longer called for her mother, except occasionally in her sleep. Very soon after they had come out to the mines, and nothing of any importance occurred until Lyle was about seven years old.
At that time, Jim had suddenly made his appearance at the house one day, appearing both angry and frightened, and had ordered his wife to keep Lyle locked up, on pretext of punishing her, until he gave permission for her release. He would give no explanation, and by his curses and threats compelled her to obey.
That day, a fine-looking, elderly gentleman, who had just arrived from the east to purchase some mining property, came to the house for dinner, and took his meals there for the two days following, during which time, Lyle was not allowed her liberty. Not until nearly a year later did Mrs. Maverick learn that the eastern stranger, whose coming had so terrified Maverick, was Lyle’s grandfather. Jim then confessed that he had taken the child from the wreck where its mother had lost her life, and brought her west with him, knowing whose child she was, and keeping her out of revenge for some wrong which he claimed this man had done him years before.
In vain his wife urged to have the child returned to her rightful home; he threatened her life if she ever breathed the secret to any living soul. A sense of guilt made her unhappy for a time, but as years passed she grew more indifferent to it, and as she saw, more and more, how utterly unlike any of her own family Lyle was growing, she no longer cared for her as she had done, though she tried to treat her kindly. Jim’s hatred of Lyle seemed to increase with every year, until his wife sometimes feared that he would resort to personal violence.
As she found her own health and strength failing she began to reflect upon the terrible position in which Lyle would find herself in case of her own death, left alone with Maverick and his two sons, and to save her from such a fate, she had resolved to write this letter, acquainting Lyle with her own history so far as she was able to give it.
At the close she begged Lyle not to think too harshly of her or consider that she was altogether to blame in this matter, and expressed the wish that she might some day find her own friends from whom she had been taken.
It would be impossible to describe Lyle’s emotions as she finished the perusal of this strange letter; joy that she had finally found the evidence she sought, and an intense longing to see those from whom she had been so cruelly separated all these years, mingled with a fearful apprehension lest this knowledge might have come too late, when those whose affection she would claim, might have already passed beyond the limits of finite, human love, into the love infinite and eternal. And deep in her heart burned indignation, fierce and strong, against the one who had wrought all this wretchedness,––carrying additional sorrow to a home already bereaved, robbing her of the love that was rightfully hers and of the dower of a happy childhood which could never be restored,––all to gratify his cowardly revenge!
In the midst of these reflections, Lyle suddenly recalled the promise she had given Jack that he should be the first to learn of her success. It was now time for him to be at the cabin and she would have an opportunity to see him before the return of the others to the house. Accordingly, she restored the empty box to its hiding place, and having concealed the most of its contents in her own room, started forth on her joyful errand, taking with her the tiny locket and the letter.
As she approached the cabin she saw Jack sitting with Rex in the door-way and knew that he was alone. Jack, to whom her face was an open book, read the tidings which she had brought before they had exchanged a word. He rose to meet her, and looking into her radiant face, he said in gentle tones and with a grave smile:
“You have good news! Have you found what you hoped to find?”
“I have,” she replied, “and you who have shared all my troubles must be the first sharer of my joy.”
Together they entered the cabin, and seated in the little, familiar room, Lyle told the story of her discovery, and opening the locket, placed it in Jack’s hands.
For a moment he gazed silently at the little trinket, then he said in low tones, as if half to himself, “It is she, and you are her child, as I have always believed,” then added, “I rejoice with you, Lyle, I am glad for your sake.”
But even as he spoke, Lyle, notwithstanding the exuberance of her own joy, could not fail to observe in his face indications of poignant pain, as he looked at the lovely pictured face, and as she repeated the name inscribed opposite.
“Jack!” she suddenly exclaimed, “have I made you suffer by my thoughtlessness? Forgive me!”
“No, my dear,” he answered tenderly, “you have caused me no pain; if I suffer, it is on account of bitter memories of which you as yet know nothing, and I pray you may never know. What letter have you there?”
Lyle read the letter, Jack silently pacing up and down the room, listening, with a look of intense indignation deepening on his face, until she had finished.
“It is as I have suspected all these years,” he said, “the dastardly villain! the scoundrel! Thank God, it is not yet too late, there are those who can and will right the wrong, so far as it is possible to right it.”
At Lyle’s request, they compared the picture with the photograph in Jack’s possession; they were one and the same, except that the latter had been taken a few years earlier.
“Jack,” said Lyle earnestly, “can you tell me anything about my relatives? Are my grandparents living? and had my parents brothers or sisters?”
“I have learned quite recently that your grandparents are still living,” Jack answered slowly, after a pause, “as to the others I cannot say; even of your own mother I can trust myself to say but very little, it is too painful!”
“What would you advise me to do now?” Lyle asked wistfully, but with slight hesitation. “What would be the best course for me to take?”
With an expression unlike anything she had ever seen on his face, and a depth of pathos in his voice she had never heard, he replied very tenderly:
“I can no longer advise you, my dear Lyle; take these proofs which you have found to Everard Houston; he can advise you now far better than I; show them to him, my dear, and you will have no further need of counsel or help from me, much as I wish it were in my power to give both.”
“To Mr. Houston?” Lyle had risen in her surprise, and stood regarding Jack with tearful, perplexed astonishment; there was a hidden significance in his words which as yet she could not fathom. “I do not understand you, Jack; why do you speak as though you could no more be to me the friend and counselor that you have been?”
He smiled one of his rare, sweet smiles. “Do as I have suggested, dear,––then you will understand; and I shall want to see you for a few moments again to-night, after you have seen him.”
Somewhat reassured by his smile, and yet perplexed by his manner, Lyle left the cabin and slowly returned to the house, everything about her seeming unreal, as though she were walking in a dream.
Miss Gladden was chatting with Morton and Ned Rutherford, and in reply to Lyle’s question whether Mr. Houston had returned, stated that he was in his room, having just come up from the mines.
“Thank you, I will see him just a moment,” Lyle responded, passing into the house.
“You have not heard any bad news, have you?” asked Miss Gladden apprehensively, noting the peculiar expression on Lyle’s face.
“No,” the latter answered with a smile, “it is about nothing regarding himself that I wish to see him, only something concerning myself.”
The door stood open into Houston’s room, and Lyle could see him standing by the table, arranging some papers which he proceeded to sort and tie up in separate parcels.
In response to her light knock he glanced quickly around, and observing her unusual expression, advanced to meet her, thinking, as did Miss Gladden, that possibly she had heard something appertaining to the present situation of affairs at the camp.
“Good evening, Lyle, come in; you look as though you were the bearer of important news of some kind.”
“I have news,” she replied, “though of importance only to myself; I need a little counsel, and was told to come to you.”
“You know, Lyle, I will only be too glad to give you any advice, or render any assistance within my power.”
“Thank you,” she answered, at the same time producing the little box and the letter. “Leslie has probably told you of the manner in which I learned that the proofs as to my true parentage and my own identity existed within this house, and of my search for them since that time.”
Houston bowed in assent.
“To-day,” she continued, “my search proved successful, in so far as that I have discovered my own name, and also the proofs that I was stolen by that villain, Maverick, in a spirit of retaliation and revenge; but I have as yet no knowledge as to who or where my friends may be. Naturally, I took these proofs to Jack, and asked his advice as to the best course to pursue, and he has sent me to you.”
“I am more than glad to hear this, my dear Lyle,” responded Houston cordially; “I have always felt a great interest in you, and it will give me much pleasure if I can assist you in finding your friends, and I shall appreciate it highly if Jack has intrusted me with this responsibility.”
Taking the locket from the box, Lyle handed it, unopen, to Houston, saying as she did so, “This is the only clue I have by which to find my friends; it contains my mother’s picture, and my own name,––Marjorie Lyle Washburn.”
“Washburn!” exclaimed Houston in surprise, pausing as he was about to open the locket. “Washburn! Marjorie Washburn! That sounds familiar, both those names occur in my uncle’s family, his wife and his daughter,––ah, I recall it now, that was the name of my cousin’s little daughter. Strange!––what! what is this?” He had opened the locket and was gazing in astonishment at the beautiful face. “This,––this is her picture, the picture of my cousin, Edna Cameron Washburn! What is the meaning of this?” And, unable to say anything further, he looked to Lyle for an explanation.
She, too, was nearly speechless with astonishment. “What did you say was her name?” she stammered.
Houston repeated the name, while a strange light began to dawn in his face.
“She was my mother,” Lyle said simply. She could say nothing more, the walls of the little room seemed to be whirling rapidly about her, and she could see nothing distinctly.
Faintly, as though sounding far in the distance, she heard Houston’s voice as he exclaimed:
“Can it be possible? and yet, you resemble her! Why have I never thought of it before? She had a little daughter Marjorie, whom we always supposed was killed in the wreck in which her own life was lost.”
“And this,” said Lyle, holding out the letter, but speaking with great effort, for the room was growing very dark, and a strange numbness seemed stealing over heart and brain, “this tells that I was stolen from the side of my dead mother who was killed in a wreck––” She could get no farther, and she knew nothing of his reply. A thick darkness seemed to envelop her, fast shutting out all sense even of life itself. There was a sound for an instant like the deafening roar of waters surging about her, and then she seemed sinking down, down into infinite depths, until she lost all consciousness. For the first time in her life she had fainted.
Houston caught her as she was falling, and a moment later the little group outside were startled by his sudden appearance.
“Leslie,” he said, in quick, low tones, “you and Morton come to my room. Lyle has fainted.”
“What is the trouble, Everard?” asked Ned, springing to his feet. “Anything serious?”
“I think not,” was Houston’s reply. “Her fainting was the result of over-excitement. Come into my room, Ned, when she has revived, I think I have made a discovery in which we will all be interested.”
When he returned Lyle was beginning to revive, though unable to speak, and leaving her in the care of Leslie and Morton for a few moments, Houston hastily scanned the letter which Lyle had given him, soon reading enough of its contents here and there to get a correct idea of the whole.
Both Miss Gladden and Morton Rutherford realized that something had transpired out of the usual order of events. Each believed it connected with some discovery relating to Lyle’s early history, but of what nature the discovery might be they had no clue.
As soon as she was able to speak Houston was at her side, and she read in his face the confirmation of the truth which had dawned upon her mind as he had repeated her mother’s name, but which had seemed to her past belief.
“It is really true, and I have not been dreaming?” she asked.
“It is most certainly true, my dear Lyle,” Houston replied, “and I am very glad to find that you, who have seemed to me like a sister from our first acquaintance, will soon be my sister in reality.”
Stooping, he kissed her on the forehead, and then in reply to the glances of astonishment on the part of the others, he said:
“Leslie, I will have to prepare you for a double surprise, and since we four are now members of one family, I can speak here without reserve. When I first won your love, my dear, it was as the salaried clerk of a disreputable mining company. I was old-fashioned enough to wish to win your love with love, to feel assured that you cared for me for my own sake. Lately, you have known that I was the representative of Mr. Cameron, of New York, but you did not know that I was Mr. Cameron’s nephew and adopted son,––his son in all respects, excepting that I have not taken his name.” He paused a moment, and laid his hand affectionately on Lyle’s shoulder. “I now have a pleasant surprise for you both. I wish to introduce you to Marjorie Lyle Washburn, my cousin and my adopted sister.”
With a burst of tears, Miss Gladden knelt beside Lyle, throwing her arms about her neck, while Lyle whispered:
“Dear Leslie, you have been like a sister to me in my poverty and loneliness. I am glad we will not be separated in the life of love and happiness that awaits me. We will be sisters still, more closely united than ever.”
Turning to Morton Rutherford, whose emotion seemed nearly as deep as Miss Gladden’s, Houston said:
“Morton, you remember hearing of my beautiful cousin Edna, and of the sad death of herself and her little daughter, as we always supposed. This is her daughter, and I know that when my uncle and aunt meet her, they will adopt her as their own daughter in her mother’s place.”
It would be impossible to depict the scene that followed, the surprise and delight of Miss Gladden, or the deep joy of Morton Rutherford, but by and by, when they had become more calm, a knock was heard. Houston opened the door, and Ned Rutherford, looking in, was entirely unable to comprehend the scene. Houston held in his hand a small gold locket and a photograph which he seemed to be comparing with each other. Lyle looked very pale, but radiantly happy. Morton was standing near, while Miss Gladden still knelt at her side, her eyes overflowing with tears of joy.
“Come in, Ned,” said Houston cordially. “We want you here to complete the family group.”
Ned looked rather bewildered, as he replied: “I just wanted to inquire for Miss Maverick, to know if she was better.”
“She is much better,” said Houston with a smile, but before he could say anything further, Morton turned toward his brother, saying in gentle, quiet tones, but with a look in his eye which spoke volumes to Ned’s inner consciousness:
“Ned, this is Miss Maverick no longer, but Miss Washburn, the grand-daughter of the Mr. Cameron whom we expect here to-morrow.”
Poor Ned Rutherford! If he had ever laid any claim to dignity and self-possession, they both deserted him now. Utterly bereft of speech, he stood for a moment as if petrified. Then approaching Lyle, he stammered:
“I beg your pardon, Miss,––Miss Washburn, but that is always Mort’s way, to spring anything on me in such a fashion as to knock me out completely. I beg your pardon for appearing so stupid, and I congratulate you on the good news, and extend you my best wishes, Miss–––”
“Oh, call me Lyle,” she interrupted, with a rippling laugh. “I have a right to that name yet.”
“Is that so?” said Ned, with the air of a drowning man clutching at a straw. “Thank you; I’m glad that’s left for a sort of land mark, you know. I’ll call you ‘Lyle’ then, ’till I can get accustomed to the new name,” and he sank in a heap in the nearest chair.
The letter was read, and bitter were the denunciations against Maverick.
“The scoundrel! He ought to be lynched this very night,” said Ned. “That’s the way they do those things out here.”
“Not late years, Ned,” corrected his brother, “and even if they did, that would not be best.”
“It is a question with me,” said Houston, “situated just as we are at present, and with Mr. Cameron expected in a few hours, whether it would be wise to do anything about this until after his arrival.”
“I think not,” said Morton, “under the circumstances, you do not want to arouse the antipathy of any of the miners before Mr. Cameron’s coming, and as Maverick knows nothing of this discovery, he will of course remain here, and Mr. Cameron can advise in this matter as he thinks best.”
And this was the final decision.
CHAPTER XLII.
A few hours later Lyle stood in the gloaming, taking leave of Jack, in the quaint, cozy room in the cabin, little dreaming that they stood there together for the last time.
They had talked long and earnestly of the new life opening up before her, and her tears flowed fast as she recalled the happy hours they had spent together, or as she anticipated the days to come. Her tears were not the only ones, but the friendly twilight, rapidly deepening, concealed the others.
“And to think that you have known so much of this all the time, and did not tell me!” she exclaimed.
“It was best, my little one, best for each of us. I was constantly planning how I might bring this about when the right time came. That time has come, and as my little girl, whom I have loved as deeply as any one in the future can ever love her, and whom I have cherished and helped to the extent of my limited power, goes forth into this new life, I can and will rejoice in the joy, the love and the happiness that will be hers. And I know that amid new scenes, new friends and new loves, she will never quite forget the old friend and the old love.”
“Never, Jack; I could never forget you, and Everard and Morton will never forget you. They are coming to see you to-night. Dear Jack, why could you not give up this lonely life, and go with us to the east? We would all love you and make you one of us, and our home would be yours.”
“My dear child,” he replied with a slight shudder, “you know not what you ask. I know the love that prompted it, but never ask it again.”
“Very well,” said Lyle, with a sorrowful submission, “but I know what I can do.” And she put her arms about his neck. “I will come out to the mountains and visit you here.”
Then, as he remained silent, she queried:
“You would be here, wouldn’t you, Jack, where I could find you?”
Oh, the agony which his strong, loving heart endured! How could he tell her that even then he never expected to look upon her face again! He could not. He only said:
“I cannot tell, dear, my life is an erratic and wandering one. No one, not even I, can say where I may be.”
“But you have not lived a wandering life lately; you have lived here for many years.”
“Because the lodestone, the magnet of my heart was here,” he answered half-playfully, half-tenderly. “When that is gone, I shall be likely to fly off in a tangent again.”
“Oh, Jack, you must not talk so. I want to see you in the years to come. I must and I will. I feel it,” she added brightly.
For answer, Jack, for the first time, placed his arms about her, and for a moment folded her closely to his breast. Then, bending his head, he kissed her reverently, first on the forehead, then on the lips, saying, “God bless you always, my dear child!”
She returned the kiss, and as he released her, she whispered:
“Good-night, dear Jack!”
“Good-night, my dear,” he answered, adding under his breath, “and good-bye!”
After she had gone, he sat in the gathering darkness alone, lost in thought. The collie, returning from attending Lyle on her homeward walk, divined, with keen, unerring instinct, the sorrow in his master’s heart, and coming close, laid his head upon his knee, in mute sympathy and affection. His master stroked the noble head, but his thoughts were far away, and he was only aroused at length by the sound of voices, as Everard Houston and Morton Rutherford entered the cabin. The moon had now risen, and the little room in which he sat was filled with a soft, silver radiance.
Jack rose to meet his guests, and his quick ear detected the vibration of a new emotion in Houston’s voice, and as they exchanged greetings, there was something in the clasp of their hands that night that thrilled the heart of each one as never before.
At heart, Jack was glad of the presence of Morton Rutherford. He feared that alone with Houston, after the events of that day, and in the light of the anticipated events of the morrow, his own emotions might prove too strong, weakening the perfect self-control which he felt he must now exercise. The presence of Rutherford acted as a tonic, and restored the desired equilibrium.
“Mr. Houston already knows my aversion to a lamp, and if you do not object, Mr. Rutherford, we will sit for a while in the moonlight.”
“By all means,” said Rutherford. “I myself dislike the glare of a bright light for genuine, friendly intercourse. A soft, subdued light is much more conducive to mutual confidence and interchange of thought and feeling.”
“Jack, my dear friend,” said Houston, after a few moments of general conversation upon indifferent subjects, an effort on Jack’s part to ward off the inevitable which he felt was surely coming, “You have added very materially to our happiness to-day, in that you have helped us to a happy solution of some of the mysteries that have perplexed us, and in doing this, have brought us all into much closer relations with one another.”
“You refer, of course, to Lyle,” Jack replied, “but while I am very glad to have contributed to your happiness, I really deserve no credit therefor. I have suspected the relationship for some time, and was only waiting for the necessary proofs, which I felt would be found in good time.”
“But that is not the only mystery you have solved for us, or for me,” said Houston. “I think we now have a reason for the interest you have manifested in Lyle, and the kindness you have shown her; and, speaking for myself, I believe I have found a clue to the strange bond of mutual sympathy which has united us almost from our first meeting, even before we had exchanged one word; notwithstanding the coldness and reserve of your manner, I felt that back of it all you were my friend, and so it has proved. There has sprung up between us an affection which I believe to be mutual, and of a depth and power remarkable for such a brief acquaintance. But to-night there seems, to my mind, to be a reason for this, which I have been so blind as never to suspect.”
“And what may that reason be?” inquired Jack, calmly.
“You will understand of course, my dear friend, as I have often said to you, I have no wish to question you regarding your life in the past, or to lead you to make any statements regarding yourself which you would not make freely and voluntarily; but to me it is evident that, although we met as strangers, you must sometime have been at least a trusted friend of the members of my uncle’s family, if not more intimately connected with them.”
After a pause Jack replied, slowly:
“As you are aware, I once knew Lyle’s mother, and her memory is still unspeakably dear to me. I also knew the other members of Mr. Cameron’s family, but that was all long ago in that past which is gone beyond recall, and to which any reference only brings the most bitter pain. When I learned your name and your true business here, I knew, of course, to what family you belonged, and I may have felt some degree of interest in you on that account, but the deep affection between us, which is, as you say, mutual, is, on my part, wholly for your own sake, because I knew you worthy of it. Regarding Lyle, I observed the wonderful resemblance between her and her mother, and it has been to me a source both of joy and of pain, especially of late, since it has grown so marked, and I have sometimes wondered that you did not observe it for yourself.”
“Now that I can see the resemblance so plainly, it seems strange that I did not think of it before,” Houston replied. “She has always reminded me vaguely of some one, I could not recall whom. I can only account for it from the fact that I really saw my cousin Edna but seldom after I went to my uncle’s home, as she was married very soon, and then we saw her only occasionally until her death, which occurred when I was only about twelve years of age. Consequently, my recollection of her was not particularly distinct. I am anticipating the meeting between her and my uncle and aunt,––they will recognize her immediately, and I am confident they will adopt her as their own daughter, in her mother’s place.”
Jack started almost imperceptibly. “You do not expect Mrs. Cameron here with her husband?”
“She will not come out with him, but she insisted on coming as far as Chicago, so that she would be able to reach us more readily in case of trouble, and I have thought to-day, since this recent discovery, that if the case against the company seems likely to take some time, I might go on to Chicago and bring her out to meet Lyle, and I would, of course, like her to meet Leslie, also.”
Jack remained silent, and withdrew a little farther into the shadow. It was Morton Rutherford who spoke now.
“Did you not once tell me, Everard, in the old college days, that Mr. Cameron had lost a son also?”
“Yes,” said Houston, with a sigh. “That was a far heavier blow for them than the death of their daughter. He was their joy and pride, their hearts were bound up in him.”
“Ah,” said Jack, in a voice almost cold in its even calmness. “I remember that Miss Cameron,––as I knew her,––had a brother. Is he also dead?”
“We are compelled to believe that he must be dead,” Houston answered, after a pause, in a tone of deep sadness. “He left home soon after his sister’s death, and we have never heard from him since, though his parents searched for him, not in this country alone, but in others as well.”
“I beg your pardon for having alluded to it, Everard,” said Rutherford, “you never told me the particulars, and I did not realize they were so painful.”
“No apologies are necessary among us three friends,” Houston replied. “Guy’s parents and I are the only living human beings who know, or ever will know, the reason for his leaving as he did. My uncle spent vast sums of money and employed detectives all over the world in his efforts to find him, and to let him know that the old home was open to him, and would always be just what it had been in the past. But it was of no avail, we could not even get any tidings of him, and uncle, long ago, gave him up for dead, though Aunt Marjorie believes that he is still living, and that he will yet return.”
“The faith of a good woman is sometimes simply sublime,” replied Rutherford, “and a mother’s love is something wonderful. To me it seems the nearest divine of anything we meet on earth.”
There was no response from the figure sitting motionless in the shadow. At that moment it required all the force of his tremendous will power to stem the current of almost uncontrollable emotion, surging across his soul.
But the moments passed, other topics were introduced and discussed, and Jack joined in the conversation as calmly as the others.
“I suppose,” he remarked, as, a little later, he accompanied his guests to the door, “I suppose that before this time to-morrow, Mr. Cameron will have already arrived at the camp?”
“Yes,” Houston replied, “we expect him over on the evening train, with Van Dorn.”
As Houston and Rutherford took leave of Jack, there was something in his manner, something in the long, lingering hand-clasp which seemed more like a farewell than like a simple good-night, at which they silently wondered.
Could they have looked in upon him an hour later, they would have understood the cause. Silently he moved about the room, gathering together the few little keepsakes among his possessions which he most prized. These he placed in a small gripsack which he carefully locked, saying to himself, as he looked around the room with a sigh, “Mike can have the rest.”
Then going to the window, he stood looking out upon the calm, moonlit scene, which for many years had been the only home he had known.
“This is my last night here,” he soliloquized, “my work here is done. After to-morrow, Everard Houston will need me no longer, everything in which I can render him assistance is now done, and his friends will afford him all needed protection. Lyle has found her own, her future is provided for. The wrongs which I have witnessed for years in silence, will be righted without any assistance of mine. There is nothing more for me to do, and to-morrow I will start forth on the old, wandering life again.”
His head dropped lower; he was thinking deeply.
“He said the old home was open, and would always be what it had been in the past. Home! What would that not mean now, after all these years! But that was long ago. I am dead to them now,––dead and forgotten. They will be happy with their new-found daughter, and Everard will be to them as a son, their happiness will be complete, and I will not mar it by any reminders of the wretched past.”
He glanced upward at the surrounding peaks.
“To-morrow I go forth again into the mountains,––those towers of refuge and strength,––and in their soothing solitudes I shall once more find peace!”
Then he retired. But to Jack, resting for the last time in his cabin home, to those then peacefully sleeping in the little mining camp, or to the others speeding westward through the night, on the wings of steam, there came no vision, no thought of what the morrow was, in reality, to bring.