Irene and Buckton were still at the hotel in Charleston. On the second morning following the happenings of the foregoing chapter they were having breakfast served in Irene's little sitting-room. In the light from the window he was struck, as he had been struck before, by her listless mien and the thickening shadows of disillusionment in her eyes. He had to remind her that the coffee-urn was at her elbow, and that he would not take his coffee from any hand but hers before she filled his cup. Her eggs and bacon she had barely touched. He saw her hands quiver as she passed his cup. He tried to enliven her by his cheerful talk, telling her that she was getting weary of the town and that they must move on to Savannah to take the steamer.
"New York is the place for us," he said. "There we will have so much to do and see that you won't have time to get homesick. I really believe youarehomesick, darling. You see, you are a belle at home, a favorite with every one, and here you have to be satisfied with just me. I know I am a poor substitute, but I adore you, while they—"
"Don't speak of home!" she suddenly burst out, almost at the point of tears. "One never knows what home is till one leaves it forever. Just think of it—why, it is forever—forever! When we left I did not consider that at all. I want to tell you something very strange. I almost feel—I hardly know how to put it—but I almost feel that a—a new spiritual nature is hovering about me, trying to force itself into my body. Why, I feel so tenderly about my father that it seems to me that I'd rather see him at this moment and undo what I've done than to possess the world. Whenever I start to—to speak affectionately to you a cold hand seems to fall on my lips. That is why—why I locked the door last night. It was not the headache, as I claimed. I had been thinking of Dick—my husband. I believe he is trying to undo his past. I don't believe a man could love a child as he loves ours and be very bad at heart. Something tells me that I ought to have stayed by him at all costs. We were wrong in marrying, no doubt; but once it was done, once a helpless little child was in our care—"
"Ah, I see, Irene, it is the boy, after all. You don't mention him often, but little things you drop now and then show which way the wind blows. Your eyes are on every child we pass in the street. Without knowing it you are a motherly woman."
"Ah, if you only knew—if only I could tell yousomething—" She broke off, lowered her head to her hand, and he saw her breast rise on a billow of emotion.
"Something about your child?" Buckton queried, jealously.
She nodded faintly. He heard her sigh. She remained mute and still for a moment; then she said, falteringly:
"I have a strange conviction that there is truth in the belief of some psychologists I've read about who claim that in sleep our souls leave the body and see and experience things far away."
"I don't believe such rubbish," Buckton said, uneasily. "Do you know that people who harbor such ideas generally go insane?"
"I had a strange experience night before last." Irene quite ignored his protest. "It was something too vivid to be a mere dream. You know there is a difference between a dream and a real experience. I mean that one seems able to tell the two apart."
"Perhaps we had better say no more about it," Buckton suggested. "Don't you think a drive in the open air would do you good?"
But Irene failed to hear what he was saying, or was treating it as of little consequence.
"Listen," she persisted. "It was between midnight and dawn. I had been brooding morbidly, and sank deep, deep into sleep, so deep that the darkness seemed to close in and crush my spirit right out of my body. Then I was floating about, free to go where I liked. I felt awfully lonely and desolate. Presently I found myself on our lawn in front of the house, but unable to get in. I heard some one crying inside; it seemed to be Hilda. I couldn't tell what she was crying about, but I had the feeling that it was because something was happening to the boy. I went to the door and tried to ring, but had no hands—think of that, I had no hands! Suddenly I found myself in the hall, but unable to go up the stairs. Something seemed to clutch me and hold me back. I tried to cry out, but had no voice. I thought I heard my husband talking to the child, tenderly—oh, so tenderly! I was crying as I had never cried before. I wanted to see the boy. It was as if a new heart had been born in me or an old one resurrected. Then I heard the door of my husband's room open, and I shrank back afraid to meet him, for I thought of—of you and me being like this. Then I waked and found myself here in bed, my pillow drenched with tears. Oh, I wanted to die—I wanted to die then!"
"It was a nightmare," Buckton commented, uneasily. "It has all the earmarks of one. We are always, in such dreams, trying to get somewhere or away from something horrible."
"It haunted me all day yesterday," Irene sighed. "And last night I had to take one of my morphine tablets to get to sleep."
"I wish you'd give that up, darling," Buckton said, reproachfully. "I saw them on your bureau yesterday and started to throw them out of the window. Doctors say it easily becomes a habit, and a bad one."
"I don't take it often, I really don't," Irene answered. "But I sometimes wonder if it would make any difference. I can sympathize with a hopeless drunkard, who, in a besotted condition, is able to forget trouble and sorrow."
"Finish your breakfast," Buckton cried, forcing a laugh. "We are going to take that drive. The fresh air will knock all those ideas out of your pretty head."
They spent the day driving about the country. They had supped at a quaint and picturesque cafe, and returned to the hotel. He was in her bedroom at ten o'clock, still active in his efforts to set her mind at ease, when a sharp rapping was heard on the door of his sitting-room adjoining.
"It is something for me," Buckton said. "Wait, and I'll see what it is."
Before he had finished speaking there was another and a louder rapping. Buckton hastened out, closing the connecting door cautiously. Irene stood up. She had a premonition that something disagreeable was about to happen. She heard Buckton unlock his door. Then she recognized the voice of the proprietor of the hotel.
"I want to see you privately, Mr. Buckton," the voice said.
"All right; won't you come in?" Buckton replied; and immediately the latch of the door clicked as it was closed.
There was a pause, during which Irene, holding her handkerchief to her lips, crept to the connecting door and stood with her ear close to the keyhole. She held her breath. The pounding of her heart seemed to fill the still room with obtrusive sound.
"You must pardon me, but it is my duty"—the proprietor's voice rose with sudden sharpness—"to speak of your relations with the woman you brought here with you."
"My—my relations?" Buckton's voice had fallen low, and the tone was cautious. "Please don't talk so loud. She is not well and might overhear. What do you mean, sir—do you mean to insinuate—"
"You may call it anything you like," the proprietor retorted, in evident anger. "I've been in the hotel business for twenty-five years, and have never been charged with keeping an indecent house. When you arrived here I thought your companion was all right, but I now know who and what she is. I can rely on my information, so we won't argue about that."
Irene heard a scuffing of feet which drew the two men closer to the door at which she stood. The truth was that Buckton had drawn back to strike the man, who caught his hand and held it.
"Don't try that on me!" the proprietor said, calmly. "Your bluff is weak. Now, let me give you a piece of advice, young man. I've watched this thing with my own eyes and ears, and I know exactly what is going on. This is a strict, law-abiding, old-fashioned town. Decency has been reigning here for over two hundred years. The average citizen of Charleston has no sympathy for the sort of thing you are evidently trying to foist on us. You've got sense enough to know that all I have to do is to telephone the police to take charge of this matter and air it in open court. You might get it whitewashed inyourtown by some pull or other, but not here. I think, since you want to be insulting, that I'd better send for an officer."
Irene heard the proprietor moving to the outer door; his hand touched the latch, and it rattled.
"Wait!" It was her lover's voice, and it was contrite and imploring. "For God's Sake, don't give us trouble! We are leaving for Savannah in the morning. Surely you will not put us out to-night?"
"No, the train leaves at ten. See that you take it. I am not any more anxious to have this dirty thing get out than you are. Good night."
"Good night." The door closed. Receding steps sounded in the corridor outside. Irene reeled back to her chair and sat down. A moment later Buckton appeared. He was ghastly pale, trying to recover calmness and invent a plausible explanation as to why he had been called to the door. She gazed at him steadily.
"You needn't make up a story," she said. "I overheard."
He stood looking down on her helplessly. He swayed to and fro, resting his hand on the back of her chair.
"You say—you—heard?"
She nodded. "He told the truth about me. That's actually what I am," she said, grimly. "That is exactly the way the world will look at me when it knows all. It was lucky that I heard. As he was talking I kept saying, 'That's so—that's so,' and I wasn't a bit angry—not a bit. A bad woman—a bold, bad woman would have flared up, but I'm not that—God knows I am not. I have been tricked, blinded, led along by my imagination and ideals ever since I was a child. Now my head is on the block, and the Puritan world is swinging the ax. Oh, how I cringed just now! I, who have heard nothing but the compliments of men all my life, heard the truth at last. I've been vain, silly, mad. I could crawl in the dust and kiss the feet of an unsullied shop-girl. Well, well, what's to be done?"
"We leave for Savannah in the morning, and from there sail for New York," he answered. "I'm going to kill your despondency, dear. You must sleep now. Don't pack to-night. I'll wake you early in the morning, and will help you do it then."
"Well, well, leave me," she sighed. "I'll go to bed. I'll take a tablet. I want to forget. That voice—oh, God! that man's voice! He was a judge on the bench—all arguments in my defense had been set aside by a jury of truthful men. He pronounced my sentence. I'm to be swept out in the morning along with the dirt from men's boots. I—I—Irene Mostyn—no, no, notMostyn—IreneNobody, will not dare to look into the faces of black servants as I slink away in the morning with you—you, my choice, a man whom—before God I swear it—I no more actually love you than—"
"Don't—don't for God's sake; I can't bear it!" He was on the verge of tears. "I've been afraid of that. I thought you'd be happy with me, but so far you have been just the reverse. But I won't give up—I won't! You are my very life."
"Well, go, go!" she cried. "I must sleep. I rolled and tossed all night last night. I'll go mad if this keeps up. Get me a tablet from the bottle, and a glass of water—no, I'll take it later. Oh, oh, oh! I am sure now that my child is dead, and that his father is crazed with grief. That was what my strange dream meant. People say such things are prophetic, and I know it is so—I feel it through and through. The child of my breast died while I was here like this withyou—withyou here in my bedroom."
"You really must try to be calm," Buckton urged. "Those are only morbid fancies. The world is before us, darling, just as it was when we left home. There is really no change except in your imagination."
A shrewd look settled on her face. She waved her hand toward the door. "Well, leave me alone then. Please do."
"All right, I'll go." He bent to kiss her, but with a sharp little scream that was half hysterical she raised her hands and pushed him back. "Don't do that!" she cried, almost in alarm. "Don't do it again!"
She glanced furtively about the room—at the closet door, under the bed, and, leaning to one side, peered behind the bureau, as if her mind was wandering. "Don't touch me. Little Dick will see you. He is here—I know it—I feel it. I can almost see him, like a misty cloud. He seems to come between you and me, as if wondering why you are here. He seems to be trying to comfort me. Lord, have mercy on my soul! Go, go! For God's sake,go!"
"All right, dear." Buckton moved away. His feet caught in a rug and he stumbled awkwardly. Passing out at the door, he softly closed it.
Finding herself alone, Irene rose and began to walk the floor. Back and forth she strode, wringing her hands, the flare of insanity in her eyes. She unfastened her hair, shook it down her back. Suddenly she fell on her knees by her bed, clasped her hands and tried to pray, but words failed to come. Rising, she went to the table and filled a glass with ice-water; then, going to the bureau, she took up the small bottle half full of morphine tablets and held them between her and the light.
"Ah!" she cried. "I see the way—the only way, but I must be quick, or I'll lose courage! Quick, quick, quick!"
She took a tablet into her mouth and drank some water. She took another, and another, then two, then three, and so on, till the bottle was empty. She walked to a window and threw the bottle away. She heard it crash on the pavement. She went to her bed, lowered the light, and lay down. Presently she felt drowsy; a delicious sense of restfulness stole over her.
Shortly afterward Buckton, who was up packing his trunk, heard her gleefully laughing. Wondering over the cause, and vaguely afraid, he opened the door and went to her. She was lying with her eyes open, smiling sweetly, and staring as if at some dream-object or person across the room.
"What is it, dear?" he asked, touching her forehead gently. He fancied that she was slightly delirious, and that it would soon pass away.
A sweet, girlish, rippling laugh escaped her lips. He had never seen her look so beautiful. A spiritual radiance had transformed her face, which was that of a young girl. Her eyes had lost their somber shadows. Ineffable lights danced in their depths.
"Little Dick and I were having so much fun. We were playing hide and seek in the clouds with thousands and thousands of angels like himself. He said that he felt no pain when he died and came straight to me because I needed him—think of that, I, a grown woman, needed a little boy like him, but that is because he is wise now, wise and old in the wisdom of Eternity."
She closed her eyes for a moment, only to open them again.
"Leave me quick! I want to sleep. Don't disturb me again to-night. Shut the door and don't open it. He is coming back, and—and he must not see you here. Oh, I love him—I love him! He is the only one I ever loved. We understand each other perfectly. He is the sweetest, dearest thing in the world. I had him in my arms just now, and he seemed to melt into me and become myself and yet remain himself. He is coming to take me away. Go, I am sleepy—so sleepy and—happy—oh, so happy! It is all peace and bliss out there, and endless light and—Love. Go, hurry! He is coming! I see my mother, too. She is holding him by the hand. They are beckoning to me."
She closed her eyes. Tints of dawn were in her cheeks. He bent to kiss her, but, fearing that he might wake her, he refrained, and softly tiptoed from the room.
Saunders was reading a letter one morning as he walked along the shaded road from the store to his house. It was from James Wright, the cashier of the bank, who was giving him some of the particulars in regard to the double tragedy in Mostyn's life.
"The whole city is shocked," the letter ran. "Nothing else is spoken of. Mostyn has the sympathy of all. He is bearing it like a man, but he is terribly changed. He seems more dead than alive. You'd hardly know him now. Of course, when Mitchell was unable to locate his daughter, to inform her of the death of her child, everybody began to suspect the truth, especially as Buckton's mother was almost prostrate, and made no secret of her fears.
"Mitchell happened to be at the bank when the telegram came from Buckton announcing the death of Mrs. Mostyn. Buckton called it heart-failure, but everybody knew from the wording that it was suicide. Mitchell did, I am sure. He read the telegram with scarcely a change of face. I happened to be close to him at the moment, and heard him mutter:
"'It is better so!'
"He sat alone in Delbridge's office—seeming to shun Mostyn—without saying a word for half an hour; then he asked me to telephone the facts to Mrs. Buckton. I did so, and she drove down to the bank, so weak that she had to be helped from her carriage. She and the old man held a consultation. They agreed to go together to Charleston, and thought for the present, at least, that it would be better to bury the poor woman there, so as to avoid further publicity here.
"Mitchell returned to-day. Nobody knows exactly what took place between him and the young man, but it is thought that out of consideration for Mrs. Buckton he kept his temper. It is rumored that she and her son have left for New York, and that they may not be back to Atlanta for a long time.
"Mitchell's trouble seems to have strengthened his mind rather than weakened it. He is not so flighty or talkative. He is offering his home for sale, and has ordered it to be closed at once. He says he is going to live with his nieces in Virginia, who will now, I presume, inherit all his property. He is not likely to leave a penny to Mostyn, who, to do him justice, does not want any of it, I'm sure.
"Mostyn is staying at his sister's. She is doing all she can to help him bear up. His condition is truly pitiful, and it is made more unbearable by old Henderson, who has made many bold efforts to see him. Henderson is openly gloating over Mostyn's misfortune. He goes about chuckling, telling everybody that the retribution for which he has prayed so long has come at last. I had to drive him away yesterday. He was peering through my window with a grin on his face, and started to shout in at Mostyn. Mostyn saw him, I think, but said nothing. The poor fellow is losing flesh; his eyes have a strange, far-off glare, and his hands and knees shake. I see now that we must persuade him to go away for a while. A man of iron could not stand up under such awful trouble."
Saunders folded the letter, and with a profound sigh walked on. A man on a wagon loaded with hay passed. It was Tobe Barnett, who looked well and prosperous. He was working on Saunders's plantation, and getting good wages under the friendly direction of Tom Drake.
Tobe tipped his hat, as he always did to Saunders.
"Awful about Mr. Mostyn, ain't it?" he said. "I read it in the paper yesterday."
Saunders nodded. "Very sad, Tobe. He is having hard lines."
"I never had nothin' agin the fellermyself," Tobe remarked. "He always treatedmeright. Some folks said he was sorter wild in his ways, but I never blamed him much. He was young an' full o' blood. I've knowed fellers as wild as bucks to settle down in the end."
Tobe drove on. Saunders pursued his way along the shaded road. How peaceful the landscape looked in the mellow sunshine! How firm and eternal seemed the mountains, the highest peaks of which pierced the snowy clouds. Saunder's heart fairly ached under its load of sympathy. "What can be done? What can be done?" he thought. "I'd like to help him."
Presently down the road near his own house Saunders saw a trim form on a black horse. It was Dolly. She was coming toward him. She had not seen him, and he noted that she was constantly reining her restive mount in while she kept her eyes fixed on the ground as if in deep thought.
In a few minutes they met. She looked up, nodded, and bowed.
"I rode over to take a message to father," she announced. "He was in the wheat-field. I didn't want to bother to go around to the gate, so what do you think I did? I made my horse jump a fence eight rails high. Oh, it was fine! I rose like an arrow in the breeze and came down on the other side as light as a feather."
He caught her bridle-rein and held it to steady the impatient animal. "You really mustn't take such risks," he said, firmly. "If the horse had caught his feet on the top rail he would have thrown you. Don't, don't do it any more. Don't, please don't!"
She avoided his burning upward glance. Suddenly a shadow swept over her face. "Of course, you've heard about Mr. Mostyn?" she said, softly. "Isn't it simply awful?"
He nodded, telling her about the letter he had just received. When he had concluded she sat in silence for a moment, then he heard her sigh. "I thought I'd had trouble myself, but, really, Jarvis, if I tried I could not imagine a more horrible situation. He is proud, and his humiliation and grief combined must be unbearable. Losing his son was the hardest blow. I think you told me he loved the boy very much."
"He adored the little chap," Saunders said. "And well he might, for the boy was wonderfully bright and beautiful. He doted on his father."
Dolly was silent. Saunders saw her white throat throbbing. "It is bound to produce a change in him," she said. "It will either kill him or regenerate him. He has a queer nature. He is a two-sided man. All his life he has been tossed back and forth between good and bad impulses. How awful it must be for him to have to remain in Atlanta and be thrown with so many who know what has happened! His friends ought to beg him to go off somewhere."
"I am going to write him a letter to-day," Saunders said. "I shall assure him that my home is his, and beg him to come. Nature is the best balm for keen sorrow, and here in the mountains—"
"Oh, how good and sweet and noble of you!" Dolly broke in, tremulously. "You are always thinking of others. Yes, that would do him good. A city is no place for one in his trouble. I imagine that nothing will help him much, but you can do more for him here than any one can down there."
Saunders tried to meet her eyes, but they were steadily avoiding his.
"My God, does she still care for him?" the planter thought. "Does she still actually love him, and will not this trouble and his presence here unite them again? She has too great a heart to harbor resentment at such a time, and she may suspect that he still loves her. If that is so, I am simply joining their hands together—I who, if I lose her, will be as miserable as he. Oh, I can't give her up! I simply can't. She is my very life."
Dolly seemed to feel the force back of his agonized stare, for she kept her eyes averted.
"He will come, I'm sure," she said, musingly, and, as he thought, eagerly. "When will the letter reach him?"
"To-night," Saunders said. "I'll urge him to come at once. I'll make the invitation as strong as I can. Shall I—mention you—that is, would you like for me to express your—sympathies?"
"Oh no, I have already written him. I wrote as soon as I heard. I couldn't help it. I cried till the paper was damp. Oh, he will know how sorry I am."
"You have written!" Saunders formed the words in his brain, but they were not uttered. A storm of despair swept through him. He shook from head to foot. She and the horse floated in a swirling mist before him.
"He will appreciate your letter," he managed to say, finally. "He will value it above all else."
"Oh no, I don't think that." She gave him her eyes in what seemed to him to be a questioning stare. "In a deep, heartrending sorrow like his he will scarcely remember my words from one day to another. Do you know what I think, Jarvis? Down inside of him he has a deeply religious nature, and I predict that he will now simply have to turn to God. After all, God is the only resort for a man in his plight."
"You may be right," Saunders returned. "His whole spirit is broken. But hope will revive. In fact, all this, sad as it is, in the long run may be good for him."
Dolly shook her rein gently. "I must go," she said, smiling sadly. "Good-by."
The horse galloped down the road. Like a fair, winged creature she floated away in the sunlight.
"Am I to lose her at last?" he groaned. "After all these years of patient watching and waiting is she going back to the man who could have had her but would not? God knows that is not fair. Surely I deserve better treatment—if—if I deserve anything. Can I urge him to come—will it be possible for me sincerely to pen the words which may seal my doom? Yes, I must—if I don't I would not be worthy of her respect, and that I must have, even if I lose her."
The letter was written. It was full of manly sympathy and friendly assurances. It brought the afflicted banker three days later to the plantation. A delightful cool and airy room was assigned to him. The open sympathy of the mountaineers and the negroes about the place was vaguely soothing. Looking back upon the city, it seemed a jarring place of torture when contrasted to the eternal peace of this remote spot. Free to go when and whither he liked, Mostyn spent whole days rambling alone through the narrow roads and by-paths of the mountains, often reaching all but inaccessible nooks in canons and rocky crevices where dank plants and rare flowers budded and bloomed, where velvet mosses were spread like carpets, and ferns stood like miniature palms.
One morning Mostyn saw Saunders hoeing weeds out of the corn-rows in a field back of the house; and, taking another hoe, he joined him, working steadily by his friend's side till noon. And here he made a discovery. He found that the work furnished a sort of vent for the festering agony pent up within him. It seemed to ooze out with the sweat which dampened his clothing, to be absorbed in his heated blood, and after a cooling bath he slept more profoundly than he had slept for years. He now saw the reason for Saunders's partiality to country life. It was Nature's balm for all ills. In fact, he was sure now that he could not do without it. Nearly every morning after this he insisted on working in the fields. Sometimes it was with a plow, which he learned to use under the advice of Tobe Barnett, a scythe in the hay-field, or a woodman's ax in the depths of the forests. But still sorrow and shame brooded over him like a material pall that refused to be put aside. As he lay in his bed at night he would fancy that he heard little Dick calling to him from the nursery, and the thought that the voice and love of the child were forever dead to him was excruciating.
One evening after supper Saunders informed him that Dolly and some of her literary friends were to hold a club-meeting at the schoolhouse to discuss some topic of current interest, and asked him if he would care to go along with him. Mostyn was seated at the end of the veranda smoking. He hesitated, it seemed to Saunders, longer than was necessary before he answered:
"I hope you will excuse me, but you mustn't let me keep you away. I am very tired and shall go to bed early."
A little later Saunders left for the meeting. Mostyn saw him pass out at the gate under the starlight. The bell was ringing. Mostyn recalled the night he had gone with Dolly to a meeting of like nature, and the impression her speech had made on him.
"All that is past—gone like a wonderful dream," he mused. "In feeling I am an old man, bowed and broken under the blind errors of life. Saunders and I are near the same age. Look at him; look at me; he walks like a young Greek athlete. I have nothing to expect, nothing to hope for. My wife died despising me; my friends merely bear with me out of pity; my boy is dead; I have to die—all living creatures have to die. What does the whole thing mean? It really must have a meaning, for many great minds have seen nothing but beauty in it, not even excluding sorrow, pain, and death. There must be an unpardonable sin, and I have committed it. Some say that all wrong-doers may get right—I wonder if there is a chance for me,a single chance?No, no, I am sure there is none—none whatever. But, oh, if only I could see my boy alive again! I would be willing to suffer any torment for that, but better still—if only he might be immortal—if only he could live forever in happiness on some other plane, as good people believe, I'd ask nothing for my part—absolutely nothing! I brought him into the world. I am responsible for his marvelous being. I'd give my soul to save his—I would—I would—I would!"
He went to bed. He said no prayer. He accepted his lot without any idea that it might be otherwise. The night was profoundly still. He heard singing. It was at the meeting-house. Softened by distance, the music was most appealing. It seemed to float above the tree-tops, touch the clouds, and fall lightly to earth. His mind, weighted down by care, induced slumber. Dream-creatures flocked about him. He was a child romping in a meadow over new-mown hay. He had a playmate, but he could not see his face; it was ever eluding him. Suddenly he ran upon the child, and with open arms clasped him to his breast. The child laughed gleefully, as children do when caught in such games. It was little Dick. He held him tightly, fearing that he would get away. He spoke soothingly and yet anxiously. Endearing words rippled from his lips. Presently his arms were empty. Little Dick was gone, and standing near, a scowl of hate on his face, was old Henderson, who was shaking fierce fingers at the dreamer.
"Retribution!" he cried. "Retribution! Now it is your time—your time to suffer, and I am appointed to lay on the lash!"
Mostyn waked. The moonlight was shining in at the window. In the distance he heard voices. They were coming nearer. Standing at a window, Mostyn saw Saunders and Tobe Barnett as they were parting at the gate.
"As soon as Dolly stood up," Tobe said, with a satisfied laugh, "I knew she had it in for the whole dang bunch from the way she looked. An' when she swatted 'em like she did with them keen points o' hers I mighty nigh kicked the bench in front o' me to pieces. I throwed my hat agin the ceilin' an' yelled. She's a corker, Mr. Saunders."
Mostyn could not hear Saunders's reply. As he came on to the house he began to whistle softly. Mostyn saw him pause on the grass, light a cigar, and begin to smoke as he strolled to and fro.
"Happy man!" Mostyn said, as he went back to his bed. "He's never had anything to bother him. There must be a correct law of life, and he seems to understand and obey it. He used to try to get me to listen to his ideas, but I thought he was a fanatic. Lord, Lord, I thought he was a fool!"
The next morning, Saunders having left home on some business pertaining to the building of his new cotton-factory, Mostyn started out on one of his all-day rambles in the mountains. As he was passing the store Wartrace called out to him cordially.
"You ought to come around about one o'clock, Mr. Mostyn," he said. "A big crowd will be here to listen to John Leach, the tramp preacher. He's billed for my store, an' he never fails to be on time."
Mostyn passed on after exchanging a few labored platitudes with the storekeeper. He shrank from the thought of meeting a crowd even of simple mountain people. The high open spaces above silently beckoned to him. Never before had solitude in the breast of Nature had such appeal for him. He found growing interest in plants, flowers, insects, and birds. He wondered if they, too, suffered from grief and pain. At noon, when the day was warmest, he reclined on the mossy bank of a clear brook. He took off his shoes and bathed his feet in the cool, swift-running water, feeling the chill course through his veins. What was it that kept whispering within him that here and here alone was the balm for such wounds as his? Contrasting the mystic quiet of his surroundings with the snarling jangle of the life he had led in town, a faint hope of eventual peace began to spring up within him. Once he raised his hands to the infinite blue above him, and his thought, if not his words, was all but a prayer for mercy.
He was descending the mountain road near sunset. The valley into which he was going was already in shadow. Suddenly he heard a mellow masculine voice singing a hymn, and, turning a bend in the road, his body bent downward and swinging his hat in his hand, was Leach, the preacher.
"Well, well, well!" Leach exclaimed, gladly, when he was near enough to recognize him. "I heard you were in these diggings, and was sorry not to see you out at my meeting."
Leach took his hand, pressing his fingers in a tense and sincere clasp while he looked into his eyes tenderly. His strong face filled with emotion; his big lower lip actually shook.
"You needn't tell me about it, brother," he said, huskily. "I've heard it all, and I never was so sorry for a man in my life. You have been sorely stricken—you've had as much as you can stand up under and live. As soon as I heard it I said to myself: 'Here is a man that has to suffer as much as I went through.' Brother"—Leach still hung on to his hand—"you can't see it as I do now, and you will think I am crazy for saying it, I reckon, but if things work out right, you will see the time that you will thank God for giving you the load that's on you. Everything that happens under the Lord's sun is according to law, and is right—so right that average human beings can't see it. You've heard me tell about what I went through in prison, and I thank God for every minute of it. The backbone of my pride had to be broken, and it took that to do it. Are you in a big hurry?"
"No," Mostyn faltered. "I have plenty of time."
"Well, if you don't mind, let's sit here on the rocks," Leach suggested. "I want to see the sun set. I never miss a sunset on a mountain if I can help it. That's why I walked up here. A fellow asked me to spend the night with him on his farm in the valley, but I refused. The longer I live the more I want to get away from houses, tables, beds, and chairs. They are just babies' rag dolls and playing-blocks. I'll rake up a pile of pine-needles at the highest point I can reach on this mountain to-night and lie with my eyes on the stars-pin-hole windows to God's glory. Sometimes I can't sleep—I get so full of worship. I was reading the other day that it would take a fast train forty million years to get to the nearest fixed star. Isn't that awful? And think of it, when you got there, a billion times more would lie beyond—so much more that you wouldn't even then have touched the fringe of the wonderful scheme. It is too big for the mind of man to grasp, and so is the other, the realm of spirit, which is, after all, the main thing—in fact, theonlything."
They sat in silence for several minutes. The sun was now a great bleeding ball of crimson. Leach's big hands were locked over his knee. Now and then his lips moved as if in prayer. He smiled; he laughed; he chuckled. The sun sank lower and finally went out of sight. The sky along the horizon was an ocean of pink and purple, with shores of shimmering opal.
"Forgive me, brother." Leach turned his soft glance on his companion. "You don't want to talk, I reckon, but the Lord has given me the power to sort o' feel human trouble. I can see it in your face and feel it ooze out of your body like a sad, murky stream. I don't want to part with you to-night without helping you if I can. I wouldn't talk this way if I hadn't helped hundreds. I never have failed where they would open their hearts plumb wide. All I'd want to know would be what particular thing was standing in your way. Something must be in the way. You may think it strange, but I can almost feel it hanging over you, like a thing that ought to be jerked off."
Mostyn was tempted to reply, but he said nothing. Half an hour passed. It was growing cool, damp, and darker. He rose to go. The preacher stood up with him, and grasped his hand.
"I may never see you again, brother," he said, "and I'm sorry, for I feel drawn powerful close to you somehow. I'd like nothing better than to have you along with me. I'm going to leave this part of the country pretty soon. I want to see more of God's beautiful world. I've always wanted to go to California, and I'm going to do it now."
"That will be fine," Mostyn remarked. "I am going somewhere soon myself. I don't know where, but somewhere."
"You'd better come along with me," the preacher said, eagerly. "We could pull together all right. I'd do my best to make you happy. I'd hammer at you till you saw the truth that has lifted me out o' the mire. God loves you, brother—He really does, and you will find it out some day. The worst sin in the world is simply not knowing God's goodness. It is as plentiful as rain and air. What do you say? Couldn't we go together?"
Mostyn was fairly thrilled by the idea. It was a strange suggestion, and appealed to him strongly. There was a soothing quality about the man that attracted him beyond anything else. "When do you leave?" he asked.
"In a couple of weeks. I wish you would go—by Jacks, I do! I know when I like a man, and I like you. I don't want to part from you like this. What do you say?"
"I'll think over it," Mostyn promised. "Shall you be in Atlanta again this summer?"
"I'll leave from there," Leach answered. "I have to go there to draw a little money that is coming to me."
"Well, look me up down there," Mostyn said. "I shall want to see you again, anyway."
They parted. Mostyn trudged down into the deeper shadows. He heard Leach singing along the rocky way as he ascended higher. How odd! But the going of the man left him more deeply depressed than ever. He felt like running back and calling on him to wait a moment. There was something he wanted to tell him. He wanted to tell him about a certain haunting circumstance and ask his advice. He wanted to reveal the whole story of Henderson's loss and his gain—of the old man's fall and his rise on the ruins of that wrecked life. But what was the use? He knew what Leach would say. He would say: "Make restitution, and make it quick, for God's eye is on you—God's wide ear is bending down from that sky up there to hear the words you speak."
Mostyn stood still in the lonely road. "Yes, he'd advise that," he muttered, "but I can't do it. It would take almost all I have left, and I must live. Leach can talk, but I am not in his shoes. I might be better off if I were. I know I ought to do it. I ought to have done it years ago. How can I refrain now when I have no one depending on me and Henderson has that helpless family of his? I robbed them—law or no law to back me, I robbed them. A higher law than man's holds me guilty. I wonder what—" He stumbled along through the thickening shadows beneath the trees, the boughs of which were locked and interlaced overhead. "I wonder what Dolly would say. I needn't wonder—I know. Many women would tell me not to bother, but she wouldn't. She would be like Leach—so would Saunders. Great God! I reallyamvile. I know what I ought to do, but can't. Then there is my child. If I have a hope left it is that he is safe with—God. Yes, that's it—withGod. There must be a God—so many say so, and He must love my little boy, and both of them would want me to do my duty.
"Oh, Dick, Dick! my son, my son!" he cried aloud, "are you close to me now? Tell me, tell me what to do. Take my hand, little boy. Lead me. I need you. I am your father, and you are only a child, but you can take me out of this, for you are stronger than I am now."
The echo of his voice came back from the rocky heights. A cricket snarled in a tree. A nightingale's song came up from the valley. He heard sheep-bells, the mooing of a cow, the bleating of a calf, a farmer calling up his hogs. Groaning, and bowed closer to the earth, he continued his way.