At the Time Appointed
by A. Maynard Barbour · English · Gutenberg #21892 · 625,274 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of At the Time Appointed
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: At the Time Appointed
Author: A. Maynard Barbour
Illustrator: J. N. Marchand
Release date: June 21, 2007 [eBook #21892]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21892
Credits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Dave Macfarlane, Linda McKeown
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE TIME APPOINTED ***
Produced by Mark C. Orton, Dave Macfarlane, Linda McKeown
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
AT THE TIME APPOINTED
TWELFTH EDITION
* * * * *
_By A. Maynard Barbour_
THAT MAINWARING AFFAIR
ILLUSTRATED BY E. PLAISTED ABBOTT
12mo. Cloth, $1.50
"Possibly in a detective story the main object is to thrill. If so,
'That Mainwaring Affair' is all right. The thrill is there, full
measure, pressed down and running over."--_Life_, New York
"The book that reminds one of Anna Katherine Green in her palmiest
days.... Keeps the reader on the alert, defies the efforts of those who
read backward, deserves the applause of all who like mystery."--_Town
Topics_, New York
"The tale is well told, and the intricacies of the plot so adroitly
managed that it is impossible to foresee the correct solution of the
mysterious case until the final act of the tragedy.... Although vividly
told, the literary style is excellent and the story by no means
sensational, a fact that raises it above the level of the old-time
detective story,"--_Brooklyn Daily Eagle_
[Illustration: AS DARRELL DISMOUNTED, SHE CAME SWIFTLY TOWARDS HIM,
EXTENDING HER HAND. Page 110]
AT THE TIME APPOINTED
BY
A. Maynard Barbour
AUTHOR OF "THAT MAINWARING AFFAIR," ETC.
WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY
J. N. MARCHAND
"Yes, greater they who on life's battle-field,
With unseen foes and fierce temptations fight"
JOHN D. HIGINBOTHAM
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1903
By J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Published April, 1903
_Electrotyped and Printed by_
_J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A._
TO JOHN D. HIGINBOTHAM
"AS UNKNOWN, AND YET WELL KNOWN"
CONTENTS
PAGE
_Chapter_ I--John Darrell 9
" II--A Night's Work 25
" III--"The Pines" 32
" IV--Life? or Death? 43
" V--John Britton 48
" VI--Echoes from the Past 62
" VII--At the Mines 68
" VIII--"Until the Day Break" 81
" IX--Two Portraits 86
" X--The Communion of Two Souls 95
" XI--Impending Trouble 104
" XII--New Life in the Old Home 109
" XIII--Mr. Underwood "Strikes" First 123
" XIV--Drifting 134
" XV--The Awakening 146
" XVI--The Aftermath 166
" XVII--"She knows her Father's Will is Law" 180
" XVIII--On the "Divide" 194
" XIX--The Return to Camp Bird 206
" XX--Forging the Fetters 216
" XXI--Two Crimes by the Same Hand 224
" XXII--The Fetters Broken 237
" XXIII--The Mask Lifted 247
" XXIV--Foreshadowings 254
" XXV--The "Hermitage" 262
" XXVI--John Britton's Story 269
" XXVII--The Rending of the Veil 274
" XXVIII--"As a Dream when One Awaketh" 278
" XXIX--John Darrell's Story 285
" XXX--After Many Years 295
" XXXI--An Eastern Home 300
" XXXII--Marion Holmes 308
" XXXIII--Into the Fulness of Life 316
" XXXIV--A Warning 321
" XXXV--A Fiend at Bay 330
" XXXVI--Senora Martinez 337
" XXXVII--The Identification 343
" XXXVIII--Within the "Pocket" 352
" XXXIV--At the Time Appointed 360
AT THE TIME APPOINTED
_Chapter I_
JOHN DARRELL
Upon a small station on one of the transcontinental lines winding among
the mountains far above the level of the sea, the burning rays of the
noonday sun fell so fiercely that the few buildings seemed ready to
ignite from the intense heat. A season of unusual drought had added to
the natural desolation of the scene. Mountains and foot-hills were
blackened by smouldering fires among the timber, while a dense pall of
smoke entirely hid the distant ranges from view. Patches of sage-brush
and bunch grass, burned sere and brown, alternated with barren stretches
of sand from which piles of rubble rose here and there, telling of
worked-out and abandoned mines. Occasionally a current of air stole
noiselessly down from the canyon above, but its breath scorched the
withered vegetation like the blast from a furnace. Not a sound broke the
stillness; life itself seemed temporarily suspended, while the very air
pulsated and vibrated with the heat, rising in thin, quivering columns.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the rapid approach of the stage from
a distant mining camp, rattling noisily down the street, followed by a
slight stir within the apparently deserted station. Whirling at
breakneck pace around a sharp turn, it stopped precipitately, amid a
blinding cloud of dust, to deposit its passengers at the depot.
One of these, a young man of about five-and-twenty, arose with some
difficulty from the cramped position which for seven weary hours he had
been forced to maintain, and, with sundry stretchings and shakings of
his superb form, seemed at last to pull himself together. Having secured
his belongings from out the pile of miscellaneous luggage thrown from
the stage upon the platform, he advanced towards the slouching figure of
a man just emerging from the baggage-room, his hands thrust deep in his
trousers pockets, his mouth stretched in a prodigious yawn, the arrival
of the stage having evidently awakened him from his siesta.
"How's the west-bound--on time?" queried the young man rather shortly,
but despite the curtness of his accents there was a musical quality in
the ringing tones.
Before the cavernous jaws could close sufficiently for reply, two
distant whistles sounded almost simultaneously.
"That's her," drawled the man, with a backward jerk of his thumb over
his shoulder in the direction of the sound; "she's at Blind Man's Pass;
be here in about fifteen minutes."
The young man turned and sauntered to the rear end of the platform,
where he paused for a few moments; then, unconscious of the scrutiny of
his fellow-passengers, he began silently pacing up and down, being in no
mood for conversation with any one. Every bone in his body ached and his
head throbbed with a dull pain, but these physical discomforts, which he
attributed to his long and wearisome stage ride, caused him less
annoyance than did the fact that he had lost several days' time, besides
subjecting himself to numerous inconveniences and hardships, on what he
now denominated a "fool's errand."
An expert mineralogist and metallurgist, he had been commissioned by a
large syndicate of eastern capitalists to come west, primarily to
examine a certain mine recently offered for sale, and secondarily to
secure any other valuable mining properties which might happen to be on
the market. A promoter, whose acquaintance he had formed soon after
leaving St. Paul, had poured into his ear such fabulous tales of a mine
of untold wealth which needed but the expenditure of a few thousands to
place it upon a dividend-paying basis, that, after making due allowance
for optimism and exaggeration, he had thought it might be worth his
while to stop off and investigate. The result of the investigation had
been anything but satisfactory for either the promoter or the expert.
He was the more annoyed at the loss of time because of a telegram handed
him just before his departure from St. Paul, which he now drew forth,
and which read as follows:
"Parkinson, expert for M. and M. on trail. Knows you as our
representative, but only by name. Lie low and block him if
possible.
"BARNARD."
He well understood the import of the message. The "M. and M." stood for
a rival syndicate of enormous wealth, and the fact that its expert was
also on his way west promised lively competition in the purchase of the
famous Ajax mine.
"Five days," he soliloquized, glancing at the date of the message,
which he now tore into bits, together with two or three letters of
little importance. "I have lost my start and am now likely to meet this
Parkinson at any stage of the game. However, he has never heard of John
Darrell, and that name will answer my purpose as well as any among
strangers. I'll notify Barnard when I reach Ophir."
His plans for the circumvention of Parkinson were now temporarily cut
short by the appearance of the "double-header" rounding a curve and
rapidly approaching--a welcome sight, for the heat and blinding glare of
light were becoming intolerable.
Only for a moment the ponderous engines paused, panting and quivering
like two living, sentient monsters; the next, with heavy, labored
breath, as though summoning all their energies for the task before them,
they were slowly ascending the steadily increasing grade, moment by
moment with accelerated speed plunging into the very heart of the
mountains, bearing John Darrell, as he was to be henceforth known, to a
destiny of which he had little thought, but which he himself had,
unconsciously, helped to weave.
An hour later, on returning to the sleeper after an unsuccessful attempt
at dining, Darrell sank into his seat, and, leaning wearily back,
watched with half-closed eyes the rapidly changing scenes through which
he was passing, for the time utterly oblivious to his surroundings.
Gigantic rocks, grotesque in form and color, flashed past; towering
peaks loomed suddenly before him, advancing, receding, disappearing, and
reappearing with the swift windings and doublings of the train; massive
walls of granite pressed close and closer, seeming for one instant a
threatening, impenetrable barrier, the next, opening to reveal glimpses
of distant billowy ranges, their summits white with perpetual snow. The
train had now reached a higher altitude, and breezes redolent of pine
and fir fanned his throbbing brow, their fragrance thronging his mind
with memories of other and far-distant scenes, until gradually the bold
outlines of cliff and crag grew dim, and in their place appeared a cool,
dark forest through which flecks of golden sunlight sifted down upon the
moss-grown, flower-strewn earth; a stream singing beneath the pines,
then rippling onward through meadows of waving green; a wide-spreading
house of colonial build half hidden by giant trees and clinging
rose-vines, and, framed among the roses, a face, strong, tender, sweet,
crowned with silvered hair--one of the few which sorrow makes
beautiful--which came nearer and nearer, bending over him with a
mother's blessing; and then he slept.
The face of the sleeper, with its clear-cut, well-moulded features,
formed a pleasing study, reminding one of a bit of unfinished carving,
the strong, bold lines of which reveal the noble design of the
sculptor--the thing of wondrous beauty yet to be--but which still lacks
the finer strokes, the final touch requisite to bring it to perfection.
Strength of character was indicated there; an indomitable will that
would bend the most adverse conditions to serve its own masterful
purpose and make of obstacles the paving-stones to success; a mind
gifted with keen perceptive faculties, but which hitherto had dealt
mostly with externals and knew little of itself or of its own powers.
Young, with splendid health and superabundant vitality, there had been
little opportunity for introspection or for the play of the finer,
subtler faculties; and of the whole gamut of susceptibilities, ranging
from exquisite suffering to ecstatic joy, few had been even awakened.
His was a nature capable of producing the divinest harmonies or the
wildest discords, according to the hand that swept the strings as yet
untouched.
For more than an hour Darrell slept. He was awakened by the murmur of
voices near him, confused at first, but growing more distinct as he
gradually recalled his surroundings, until, catching the name of
"Parkinson," he was instantly on the alert.
"Yes," a pleasant voice was saying, "I understand the Ajax is for sale
if the owners can get their price, but they don't want less than a cold
million for it, and it's my opinion they'll find buyers rather scarce at
that figure when it comes to a show down."
"Well, I don't know; that depends," was the reply. "The price won't
stand in the way with my people, if the mine is all right. They can hand
over a million--or two, for that matter--as easily as a thousand, if the
property is what they want, but they've got to know what they're buying.
That's what I'm out here for."
Taking a quiet survey of the situation, Darrell found that the section
opposite his own--which, upon his return from the dining-car, had
contained only a motley collection of coats and grips--was now occupied
by a party of three, two of whom were engaged in animated conversation.
One of the speakers, who sat facing Darrell, was a young man of about
two-and-twenty, whose self-assurance and assumption of worldly wisdom,
combined with a boyish impetuosity, he found vastly amusing, while at
the same time his frank, ingenuous eyes and winning smile of genuine
friendliness, revealing a nature as unsuspecting and confiding as a
child's, appealed to him strangely and drew him irresistibly towards the
young stranger. The other speaker, whom Darrell surmised to be
Parkinson, was considerably older and was seated facing the younger
man, hence his back was towards Darrell; while the third member of the
party, and by far the eldest, of whose face Darrell had a perfect
profile view, although saying little, seemed an interested listener.
The man whom Darrell supposed to be Parkinson inquired the quickest way
of reaching the Ajax mine.
"Well, you see it's this way," replied the young fellow. "The Ajax is on
a spur that runs out from the main line at Ophir, and the train only
runs between there and Ophir twice a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays.
Let's see, this is Wednesday; we'll get into Ophir to-morrow, and you'll
have to wait over until Saturday, unless you hire a rig to take you out
there, and that's pretty expensive and an awfully rough jaunt besides."
"I don't mind the expense," retorted the other, "but I don't know as I
care to go on any jaunts over your mountain roads when there's no
special necessity for it; I can get exercise enough without that."
"I tell you what, Mr. Parkinson," said the young fellow, cordially, "you
and your friend here, Mr. Hunter,"--Darrell started at the mention of
the latter name,--"had better wait over till Saturday, and in the mean
time I'll take you people out to Camp Bird, as we call it, and show you
the Bird Mine; that's our mine, you know, and I tell you she is a
'bird,' and no mistake. You'll be interested in looking her over, though
I'll tell you beforehand she's not for sale."
"Do I understand that you have an interest in this remarkable mine, Mr.
Whitcomb?" Parkinson inquired, a tinge of amusement in his tone.
"Not in the way you mean; that is, not yet, though there's no telling
how soon I may have if things turn out as I hope," and the boyish cheek
flushed slightly. "But I know what I'm talking about all the same.
My uncle, D. K. Underwood, is a practical mining man of nearly thirty
years' experience, and what he doesn't know about mines and mining isn't
worth knowing. He's interested in a dozen or so of the best mines in the
State, but I don't think he would exchange his half-interest in the Bird
Mine for all his other holdings put together. She's a comparatively new
mine yet, but taking into consideration her depth and the amount of
development, she's the best-paying mine in the State. Here, let me show
you something." And hastily pulling a note-book from his pocket, he took
therefrom a narrow slip of paper which he handed to the expert.
"There's a statement," he continued, "made out by the United States
Assay Office, back here at Galena, that will show you the returns from a
sixty days' run at the Bird mill; what do you think of that?"
Parkinson's face was still invisible to Darrell, but the latter heard a
long, low whistle of surprise. Young Whitcomb looked jubilant.
"They say figures won't lie," he added, in tones of boyish enthusiasm,
"but if you don't believe those figures, I've got the cash right here to
show for it," accompanying the words with a significant gesture.
Parkinson handed the slip to Hunter, then leaned back in his seat,
giving Darrell a view of his profile.
"Sixty days!" he said, musingly. "Seventy-five thousand dollars! I think
I would like to take a look at the Bird Mine! I think I would like to
make Mr. Underwood's acquaintance!"
Whitcomb laughed exultingly. "I'll give you an opportunity to do both if
you'll stop over," he said; "and don't you forget that my uncle can give
you some pointers on the Ajax, for he knows every mine in the State."
Mr. Hunter here handed the slip of paper to Whitcomb. "Young man," he
said, with some severity, gazing fixedly at Whitcomb through his
eye-glasses, "do you mean to say that you are travelling with
seventy-five thousand dollars on your person?"
"Certainly, sir," Whitcomb replied, evidently enjoying the situation.
Mr. Hunter shook his head. "Very imprudent!" he commented. "You are
running a tremendous risk. I wonder that your uncle would permit it!"
"Oh, that's all right," said Whitcomb, confidently. "Uncle usually comes
down himself with the shipments of bullion, and he generally banks the
most of his money there at Galena, but he couldn't very well leave this
time, so he sent me, and as he was going to use considerable money
paying for a lot of improvements we've put in and paying off the men, he
told me to bring back the cash. There's not much danger anyway; the West
isn't as wild nowadays as it used to be."
Handing a second bit of paper to Parkinson, he added: "There's something
else that will interest you; the results of some assays made by the
United States Assay Office on some samples taken at random from a new
strike we made last week. I'll show you some of the samples, too."
"Great Scott!" ejaculated Parkinson, running his eye over the returns.
"You seem to have a mine there, all right!"
"Sure thing! You'll think so when you see it," Whitcomb answered,
fumbling in a grip at his feet.
At sight of the specimens of ore which he produced a moment later, his
two companions became nearly as enthusiastic as himself. Leaning eagerly
forward, they began an inspection of the samples, commenting on their
respective values, while Whitcomb, unfolding a tracing of the workings
of the mine, explained the locality from which each piece was taken, its
depth from the surface, the width and dip of the vein, and other items
of interest.
Darrell, who was carefully refraining from betraying any special
interest in the party across the aisle, soon became aware that he was
not the only interested listener to the conversation. In the section
directly in front of the one occupied by Whitcomb and his companions a
man was seated, apparently engrossed in a newspaper, but Darrell, who
had a three-quarter view of his face, soon observed that he was not
reading, but listening intently to the conversation of the men seated
behind him, and particularly to young Whitcomb's share in it. Upon
hearing the latter's statement that he had with him the cash returns for
the shipment of bullion, Darrell saw the muscles of his face suddenly
grow tense and rigid, while his hands involuntarily tightened their hold
upon the paper. He grew uncomfortable under Darrell's scrutiny, moved
restlessly once or twice, then turning, looked directly into the
piercing dark eyes fixed upon him. His own eyes, which were small and
shifting, instantly dropped, while the dark blood mounted angrily to his
forehead. A few moments later, he changed his position so that Darrell
could not see his face, but the latter determined to watch him and to
give Whitcomb a word of warning at the earliest opportunity.
"Well," said Parkinson, leaning back in his seat after examining the
ores and listening to Whitcomb's outline of their plans for the future
development of the mine, "it seems to me, young man, you have quite a
knowledge of mines and mining yourself."
Whitcomb flushed with pleasure. "I ought to," he said; "there isn't a
man in this western country that understands the business better or has
got it down any finer than my uncle. He may not be able to talk so
glibly or use such high-sounding names for things as you fellows, but he
can come pretty near telling whether a mine will pay for the handling,
and if it has any value he generally knows how to go to work to find
it."
"Well, that's about the 'gist' of the whole business," said Parkinson;
he added: "You say he can give me some 'tips' on the Ajax?"
"He can if he chooses to," laughed Whitcomb, "but you'd better not let
him know that I said so. He'll be more likely to give you information if
you ask him offhand."
"Well," continued Parkinson, "when we get to Ophir, I'll know whether or
not I can stop over. I've heard there's another fellow out here on this
Ajax business; whether he's ahead of me I don't know. I'll make
inquiries when we reach Ophir, and if he hasn't come on the scene yet I
can afford to lay off; if he has, I must lose no time in getting out to
the mine." Parkinson glanced at Hunter, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
"I guess that's the best arrangement we can make at present," said
Parkinson, rising from his seat. "Come and have a smoke with us, Mr.
Whitcomb?"
Whitcomb declined the invitation, and, after Hunter and Parkinson had
left, sat idly turning over the specimens of ore, until, happening to
catch Darrell's eye, he inquired, pleasantly,--
"Are you interested in this sort of thing?"
"In a way, yes," said Darrell, crossing over and taking the seat vacated
by Parkinson. "I'm not what you call a mining man; that is, I've never
owned or operated a mine, but I take a great interest in examining the
different ores and always try to get as much information regarding them
as possible."
Whitcomb at once launched forth enthusiastically upon a description of
the various samples. Darrell, while careful not to show too great
familiarity with the subject, or too thorough a knowledge of ores in
general, yet was so keenly appreciative of their remarkable richness and
beauty that he soon won the boy's heart.
"Say!" he exclaimed, "you had better stop off at Ophir with us; we would
make a mining man of you in less than no time! By the way, how far west
are you travelling?"
"Ophir is my destination at present, though it is uncertain how long I
remain there."
"Long enough, that we'll get well acquainted, I hope. Going into any
particular line of business?"
"No, only looking the country over, for the present."
To divert the conversation from himself, Darrell, by a judicious
question or two, led Whitcomb to speak of the expert.
"Parkinson?" he said with a merry laugh. "Oh, yes, he's one of those
eastern know-it-alls who come out here occasionally to give us fellows a
few points on mines. They're all right, of course, for the men who
employ them, who want to invest their money and wouldn't know a mine if
they saw one; but when they undertake to air their knowledge among these
old fellows who have spent a lifetime in the business, why, they're
likely to get left, that's all. Now, this Parkinson seems to be a pretty
fair sort of man compared with some of them, but between you and me, I'd
wager my last dollar that they'll lose him on that Ajax mine!"
"Why, what's the matter with the Ajax?" Darrell inquired, indifferently.
"Well, as you're not interested in any way, I'm not telling tales out of
school. The Ajax has been a bonanza in its day, but within the last year
or so the bottom has dropped out of the whole thing, and that's the
reason the owners are anxious to sell."
"I hear they ask a pretty good price for the mine."
"Yes, they're trading on her reputation, but that's all past. The mine
is practically worked out. They've made a few good strikes lately, so
that there is some good ore in sight, and this is their chance to sell,
but there are no indications of any permanence. One of our own men was
over there a while ago, and he said there wasn't enough ore in the mine
to keep their mill running full force for more than six months."
"Is this Hunter an expert also?"
"Oh, no; Parkinson said he was a friend of his, just taking the trip for
his health."
Darrell smiled quietly, knowing Hunter to be a member of the syndicate
employing Parkinson, but kept his knowledge to himself.
A little later, when Darrell and Whitcomb left together for the
dining-car, quite a friendship had sprung up between them. There was
that mutual attraction often observed between two natures utterly
diverse. Whitcomb was unaccountably drawn towards the dark-eyed,
courteous, but rather reticent stranger, while his own frank
friendliness and childlike confidence awoke in Darrell's nature a
correlative tenderness and affection which he never would have believed
himself capable of feeling towards one of his own sex.
"I don't know what is the matter with me," said Darrell, as he seated
himself at a table, facing Whitcomb. "My head seems to have a
small-sized stamp-mill inside of it; every bone in my body aches, and my
joints feel as though they were being pulled apart."
Whitcomb looked up quickly. "Are you just from the East, or have you
been out here any time?"
"I stopped for a few days, back here a ways."
"In the mountain country?"
"Yes."
"By George! I believe you've got the mountain fever; there's an awful
lot of it round here this season, and this is just the worst time of
year for an easterner to come out here. But we'll look after you when we
get to Ophir, and bring you round all right."
"Much obliged, but I think I'll be all right after a night's rest,"
Darrell replied, inwardly resolved, upon reaching Ophir, to push on to
the Ajax as quickly as possible, though his ardor was considerably
cooled by Whitcomb's report.
When they left the dining-car the train was stopping at a small station,
and for a few moments the young men strolled up and down the platform. A
dense, bluish-gray haze hung low over the country, rendering the
outlines of even the nearest objects obscure and dim; the western sky
was like burnished copper, and the sun, poised a little above the
horizon, looked like a ball of glowing fire.
Just as the train was about to start Darrell saw the man whose peculiar
actions he had noticed earlier, leave the telegraph office and jump
hastily aboard. Calling Whitcomb's attention as he passed them, he
related his observations of the afternoon and cautioned him against the
man. For an instant Whitcomb looked serious.
"I suppose it was rather indiscreet in me to talk as I did," he said,
"but it can't be helped now. However, I guess it's all right, but I'm
obliged to you all the same."
They passed into the smoker, where Darrell was introduced to Hunter and
Parkinson. In a short time, however, he found himself suffering from
nausea and growing faint and dizzy.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you will have to excuse me. I'm rather off my
base this evening, and I find that smoking isn't doing me any good."
As he rose young Whitcomb sprang instantly to his feet; throwing away
his cigar and linking his arm within Darrell's, he insisted upon
accompanying him to the sleeper, notwithstanding his protests.
"Good-night, Parkinson," he called, cheerily; "see you in the morning!"
He accompanied Darrell to his section; then dropped familiarly into the
seat beside him, throwing one arm affectionately over Darrell's
shoulder, and during the next hour, while the sunset glow faded and the
evening shadows deepened, he confided to this acquaintance of only a few
hours the outlines of his past life and much regarding his hopes and
plans for the future. He spoke of his orphaned boyhood; of the uncle who
had given him a home in his family and initiated him into his own
business methods; of his hope of being admitted at no distant day into
partnership with his uncle and becoming a shareholder in the wonderful
Bird Mine.
"But that isn't all I am looking forward to," he said, in conclusion,
his boyish tones growing strangely deep and tender. "My fondest hope of
all I hardly dare admit even to myself, and I don't know why I am
speaking of it to you, except that I already like you and trust you as I
never did any other man; but you will understand what I mean when you
see my cousin, Kate Underwood."
He paused, but his silence was more eloquent to Darrell than words; the
latter grasped his hand warmly in token that he understood.
"I wish you all that you hope for," he said.
A few moments later Whitcomb spoke with his usual impetuosity. "What am
I thinking of, keeping you up in this way when you are sick and dead
tired! You had better turn in and get all the rest you can, and when we
reach Ophir to-morrow, just remember, my dear fellow, that no hotels
'go.' You'll go directly home with me, where you'll find yourself in
such good hands you'll think sure you're in your own home, and we'll
soon have you all right."
For hours Darrell tossed wearily, unable to sleep. His head throbbed
wildly, the racking pain throughout his frame increased, while a raging
fire seemed creeping through his veins. Not until long past midnight did
he fall into a fitful sleep. Strange fancies surged through his fevered
brain, torturing him with their endless repetition, their seeming
reality. Suddenly he awoke, bewildered, exhausted, oppressed by a vague
sense of impending evil.
_Chapter II_
A NIGHT'S WORK
For a few seconds Darrell tried vainly to recall what had awakened him.
Low, confused sounds occasionally reached his ears, but they seemed part
of his own troubled dreams. The heat was intolerable; he raised himself
to the open window that he might get a breath of cooler air; his head
whirled, but the half-sitting posture seemed to clear his brain, and he
recalled his surroundings. At once he became conscious that the train
was not in motion, yet no sound of trainmen's voices came through the
open window; all was dead silence, and the vague, haunting sense of
impending danger quickened.
Suddenly he heard a muttered oath in one of the sections, followed by an
order, low, but peremptory,--
"No noise! Hand over, and be quick about it!"
Instantly Darrell comprehended the situation. Peering cautiously between
the curtains, he saw, at the forward end of the sleeper, a masked man
with a revolver in each hand, while the mirror behind him revealed
another figure at the rear, masked and armed in like manner. He heard
another order; the man was doing his work swiftly. He thought at once of
young Whitcomb, but no sound came from the opposite section, and he sank
quietly back upon his pillow.
A moment later the curtains were quickly thrust aside, the muzzle of a
revolver confronted Darrell, and the same low voice demanded,--
"Hand out your valuables!"
A man of medium height, wearing a mask and full beard, stood over him.
Darrell quietly handed over his watch and purse, noting as he did so the
man's hands, white, well formed, well kept. He half expected a further
demand, as the purse contained only a few small bills and some change,
the bulk of his money being secreted about the mattress, as was his
habit; but the man turned with peculiar abruptness to the opposite
section, as one who had a definite object in view and was in haste to
accomplish it. Darrell, his faculties alert, observed that the section
in front of Whitcomb's was empty; he recalled the actions of its
occupant on the preceding afternoon, his business later at the telegraph
office, and the whole scheme flashed vividly before his mind. The man
had been a spy sent out by the band now holding the train, and
Whitcomb's money was without doubt the particular object of the hold-up.
Whitcomb was asleep at the farther side of his berth. Leaning slightly
towards him, the man shook him, and his first words confirmed Darrell's
intuitions,--
"Hand over that money, young man, and no fuss about it, either!"
Whitcomb, instantly awake, gazed at the masked face without a word or
movement. Darrell, powerless to aid his friend, watched intently,
dreading some rash act on his part to which his impetuous nature might
prompt him.
Again he heard the low tones, this time a note of danger in them,--
"No fooling! Hand that money over, lively!"
With a spring, as sudden and noiseless as a panther's, Whitcomb grappled
with the man, knocking the revolver from his hand upon the bed. A
quick, desperate, silent struggle followed. Whitcomb suddenly reached
for the revolver; as he did so Darrell saw a flash of steel in the dim
light, and the next instant his friend sank, limp and motionless, upon
the bed.
"Fool!" he heard the man mutter, with an oath.
An involuntary groan escaped from Darrell's lips. Slight as was the
sound, the man heard it and turned, facing him; the latter was screened
by the curtains, and the man, seeing no one, returned to his work, but
that brief glance had revealed enough to Darrell that he knew he could
henceforth identify the murderer among a thousand. In the struggle the
mask had been partially pushed aside, exposing a portion of the man's
face. A scar of peculiar shape showed white against the olive skin,
close to the curling black hair. But to Darrell the pre-eminently
distinguishing characteristic of that face was the eyes. Of the most
perfect steel blue he had ever seen, they seemed, as they turned upon
him in that intense glance, to glint and scintillate like the points of
two rapiers in a brilliant sword play, while their look of concentrated
fury and malignity, more demon-like than human, was stamped ineffaceably
upon his brain.
Having secured as much as he could find of the money, the murderer left
hastily and silently, and a few moments later the guards, after a
warning to the passengers not to leave their berths, took their
departure.
Having partially dressed, Darrell at once sprang across the aisle and
took Whitcomb's limp form in his arms. His heart still beat faintly, but
he was unconscious and bleeding profusely. All had been done so silently
and swiftly that no one outside of Darrell dreamed of murder, and soon
the enforced silence began to be broken by hurried questions and angry
exclamations. A man cursed over the loss of his money and a woman sobbed
hysterically. Suddenly, Darrell's incisive tones rang through the
sleeper.
"For God's sake, see if there is a surgeon aboard! Here is a man
stabbed, dying; don't stop to talk of money when a life is at stake!"
Instantly all thought of personal loss was for the time forgotten, and
half a dozen men responded to Darrell's appeal. When it became known
throughout the train what had occurred, the greatest excitement
followed. Train officials, hurrying back and forth, stopped, hushed and
horror-stricken, beside the section where Darrell sat holding Whitcomb
in his arms. Passengers from the other coaches crowded in, eager to
offer assistance that was of no avail. A physician was found and came
quickly to the scene, who, after a brief examination, silently shook his
head, and Darrell, watching the weakening pulse and shortening gasps,
needed no words to tell him that the young life was ebbing fast.
Just as the faint respirations had become almost imperceptible, Whitcomb
opened his eyes, looking straight into Darrell's eyes with eager
intensity, his face lighted with the winning smile which Darrell had
already learned to love. His lips moved; Darrell bent his head still
lower to listen.
"Kate,--you will see her," he whispered. "Tell her----" but the sentence
was never finished.
Deftly and gently as a woman Darrell did the little which remained to be
done for his young friend, closing the eyes in which the love-light
kindled by his dying words still lingered, smoothing the dishevelled
golden hair, wondering within himself at his own unwonted tenderness.
"An awful pity for a bright young life to go out like that!" said a
voice at his side, and, turning, he saw Parkinson.
"How did it happen?" the latter inquired, recognizing Darrell for the
first time in the dim light.
Briefly Darrell gave the main facts as he had witnessed them, saying
nothing, however, of his having seen the face of the murderer.
"Too bad!" said Parkinson. "He ought never to have made a bluff of that
sort; there were too many odds against him."
"He was impulsive and acted on the spur of the moment," Darrell replied;
adding, in lower tones, "the mistake was in giving one so young and
inexperienced a commission involving so much responsibility and danger."
"You knew of the money, then? Yes, that was bad business for him, poor
fellow! I wonder, by the way, if it was all taken."
At Darrell's suggestion a thorough search was made, which resulted in
the finding of a package containing fifteen thousand dollars which the
thief in his haste had evidently overlooked. This, it was agreed, should
be placed in Darrell's keeping until the arrival of the train at Ophir.
Gradually the crowd dispersed, most of the passengers returning to their
berths. Darrell, knowing that sleep for himself was out of the question,
sought an empty section in another part of the car, and, seating
himself, bowed his head upon his hands. The veins in his temples seemed
near bursting and his usually strong nerves quivered from the shock he
had undergone, but of this he was scarcely conscious. His mind,
abnormally active, for the time held his physical sufferings in
abeyance. He was living over again the events of the past few
hours--events which had awakened within him susceptibilities he had not
known he possessed, which had struck a new chord in his being whose
vibrations thrilled him with strange, undefinable pain. As he recalled
Whitcomb's affectionate familiarity, he seemed to hear again the low,
musical cadences of the boyish tones, to see the sunny radiance of his
smile, to feel the irresistible magnetism of his presence, and it seemed
as though something inexpressibly sweet, of whose sweetness he had
barely tasted, had suddenly dropped out of his life.
His heart grew sick with bitter sorrow as he recalled the look of
mingled appeal and trust which shot from Whitcomb's eyes into his own as
his young life, so full of hope, of ambition, of love, was passing
through the dim portals of an unknown world. Oh, the pity of it! that
he, an acquaintance of but a few hours, should have been the only one to
whom those eyes could turn for their last message of earthly love and
sympathy; and oh, the impotency of any and all human love then!
Never before had Darrell been brought so near the unseen, the
unknown,--always surrounding us, but of which few of us are
conscious,--and for hours he sat motionless, lost in thought, grappling
with problems hitherto unthought of, but which now perplexed and baffled
him at every turn.
At last, with a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes. The gray twilight of
dawn was slowly creeping down from the mountain-tops, dispelling the
shadows; and the light of a new faith, streaming downward
"From the beautiful, eternal hills
Of God's unbeginning past,"
was banishing the doubts which had assailed him.
That night had brought to him a revelation of the awful solitude of a
human soul, standing alone on the threshold of two worlds; but it had
also revealed to him the Love--Infinite, Divine--that meets the soul
when human love and sympathy are no longer of avail.
_Chapter III_
"THE PINES"
As the day advanced Darrell grew gradually but steadily worse. After the
excitement of the night had passed a reaction set in; he felt utterly
exhausted and miserable, the pain returned with redoubled violence, and
the fever increased perceptibly from hour to hour.
He was keenly observant of those about him, and he could not but note
how soon the tragedy of the preceding night seemed forgotten. Some
bemoaned the loss of money or valuables; a few, more fortunate, related
how they had outwitted the robbers and escaped with trivial loss, but
only an occasional careless word of pity was heard for the young
stranger who had met so sad a fate. So quickly and completely does one
human atom sink out of sight! It is like the dropping of a pebble in the
sea: a momentary ripple, that is all!
About noon Parkinson, who had sought to while away the tedium of the
journey by an interview with Darrell, became somewhat alarmed at the
latter's condition and went in search of a physician. He returned with
the one who had been summoned to Whitcomb's aid. He was an eastern
practitioner, and, unfortunately for Darrell, was not so familiar with
the peculiar symptoms in his case as a western physician would have
been.
"He has a high fever," he remarked to Parkinson a little later, as he
seated himself beside Darrell to watch the effect of the remedies
administered, "but I do not apprehend any danger. I have given him
something to abate the fever and induce sleep. If necessary, I will
write out a prescription which he can have filled on his arrival at
Ophir, but I think in a few days he will be all right."
They were now approaching the continental divide, the scenery moment by
moment growing in sublimity and grandeur. Darrell soon sank into a
sleep, light and broken at first, but which grew deeper and heavier. For
more than an hour he slept, unconscious that the rugged scenes through
which he was then passing were to become part of his future life; that
each cliff and crag and mountain-peak was to be to him an open book,
whose secrets would leave their indelible impress upon his heart and
brain, revealing to him the breadth and length, the depth and height of
life, moulding his soul anew into nobler, more symmetrical proportions.
At last the rocks suddenly parted, like sentinels making way for the
approaching train, disclosing a broad, sunlit plateau, from which rose,
in gracefully rounded contours, a pine-covered mountain, about whose
base nestled the little city of Ophir, while in the background stretched
the majestic range of the great divide.
A crowd could be seen congregated about the depot, for tidings of the
night's tragedy had preceded the train by several hours, and Whitcomb
from his early boyhood had been a universal favorite in Ophir, while his
uncle was one of its wealthiest, most influential citizens.
As the train slackened speed Parkinson, with a few words to the
physician, hastily left to make arrangements for transportation for
himself, Hunter, and Darrell to a hotel. Amid the noise and confusion
which ensued for the next ten minutes Darrell slept heavily, till,
roused by a gentle shake, he awoke to find the physician bending over
him and heard voices approaching down the now nearly deserted
sleeping-car.
"Yes," said a heavy voice, speaking rapidly, "the conductor wired
details; he said this young man did everything for the boy that could be
done, and stayed by him to the end."
"He did; he stood by him like a brother," Parkinson's voice replied.
"And he is sick, you say? Well, he won't want for anything within my
power to do for him, that's all!"
Parkinson stopped at Darrell's side. "Mr. Darrell," he said, "this is
Mr. Underwood, Whitcomb's uncle, you know; Mr. Underwood, Mr. Darrell."
Darrell rose a little unsteadily; the two men grasped hands and for an
instant neither spoke. Darrell saw before him a tall, powerfully built
man, approaching fifty, whose somewhat bronzed face, shrewd, stern, and
unreadable, was lighted by a pair of blue eyes which once had resembled
Whitcomb's. With a swift, penetrating glance the elder man looked
searchingly into the face of the younger.
"True as steel, with a heart of gold!" was his mental comment; then he
spoke abruptly, and his voice sounded brusque though his face was
working with emotion.
"Mr. Darrell, my carriage is waiting for you outside. You will go home
with me, unless," he added, inquiringly, "you are expecting to meet
friends or acquaintances?"
"No, Mr. Underwood," Darrell replied, "I am a stranger here, but, much
as I appreciate your kindness, I could not think of intruding upon your
home at such a time as this."
"Porter," said Mr. Underwood, with the air of one accustomed to command,
"take this gentleman's luggage outside, and tell them out there that it
is to go to 'The Pines;' my men are there and they will look after it;"
then, turning to Darrell, he continued, still more brusquely:
"This train pulls out in three minutes, so you had better prepare to
follow your luggage. You don't stop in Ophir outside of my house, and I
don't think you'll travel much farther for a while. You look as though
you needed a bed and good nursing more than anything else just now."
"I have given him a prescription, sir," said the physician, "that I
think will set him right if he gets needed rest and sleep."
"Humph!" responded Mr. Underwood, gruffly; "he'll get whatever he needs,
you can depend on that. You gentlemen assist him out of the car; I'll go
and despatch a messenger to the house to have everything in readiness
for him there."
At the foot of the car steps Darrell parted from the physician and,
leaning on Parkinson's arm, slowly made his way through the crowd to the
carriage, where Mr. Underwood awaited him. Parkinson having taken leave,
Mr. Underwood assisted the young man into the carriage. A spasm of pain
crossed Darrell's face as he saw, just ahead of them, waiting to precede
them on the homeward journey, a light wagon containing a stretcher
covered with a heavy black cloth, a line of stalwart young fellows drawn
up on either side, and he recalled Whitcomb's parting words on the
previous night,--"When we reach Ophir to-morrow, you'll go directly home
with me."
This was observed by Mr. Underwood, who remarked a moment later as he
seated himself beside Darrell and they started homeward,--
"This is a sad time to introduce you to our home and household, Mr.
Darrell, but you will find your welcome none the less genuine on that
account."
"Mr. Underwood," said the young man, in a troubled voice, "this seems to
me the most unwarrantable intrusion on my part to accept your
hospitality at such a time----"
Before he could say more, Mr. Underwood placed a firm, heavy hand on his
knee.
"You stood by my poor boy, Harry, to the last, and that is enough to
insure you a welcome from me and mine. I'm only doing what Harry himself
would do if he were here."
"As to what I did for your nephew, God knows it was little enough I
could do," Darrell answered, bitterly. "I was powerless to defend him
against the fatal blow, and after that there was no help for him."
"Did you see him killed?"
"Yes."
"Tell me all, everything, just as it occurred."
Mr. Underwood little knew the effort it cost Darrell in his condition to
go over the details of the terrible scene, but he forced himself to give
a clear, succinct, calm statement of all that took place. The elder man
sat looking straight before him, immovable, impassive, like one who
heard not, yet in reality missing nothing that was said. Not until
Darrell repeated Whitcomb's dying words was there any movement on his
part; then he turned his head so that his face was hidden and remained
motionless and silent as before. At last he inquired,--
"Did he leave no message for me?"
"He mentioned only your daughter, Mr. Underwood; he evidently had some
message for her which he was unable to give."
A long silence followed. Darrell, utterly exhausted, sank back into a
corner of the carriage. The slight movement roused Mr. Underwood; he
looked towards Darrell, whose eyes were closed, and was shocked at his
deathly pallor. He said nothing, however, for Darrell was again sinking
into a heavy stupor, but watched him with growing concern, making no
attempt to rouse him until the carriage left the street and began
ascending a long gravelled driveway; then putting his hand on Darrell's
shoulder, he said, quite loudly,--
"Wake up, my boy! We're getting home now."
To Darrell his voice sounded faint and far away, like an echo out of a
vast distance, and it was some seconds before he could realize where he
was or form any definite idea of his surroundings. Gradually he became
conscious that the air was no longer hot and stifling, but cool and
fragrant with the sweet, resinous breath of pines. Looking about him, he
saw they were winding upward along an avenue cut through a forest of
small, slender pines, which extended below them on one side and far
above them on the other.
A moment later they came out into a clearing, whence he could see,
rising directly before him, in a series of natural terraces, the slopes
of the sombre-hued, pine-clad mountain which overlooked the little city.
Upon one of the terraces of the mountain stood a massive house of unhewn
granite, a house representing no particular style of architecture, but
whose deep bay-windows, broad, winding verandas, and shadowy, secluded
balconies all combined to present an aspect most inviting. To Darrell
the place had an irresistible charm; he gazed at it as though
fascinated, unable to take his eyes from the scene.
"You certainly have a beautiful home, Mr. Underwood," he said, "and a
most unique location. I never saw anything quite like it."
"It will do," said the elder man, quietly, gratified by what he saw in
his companion's face. "I built it for my little girl. It was her own
idea to have it that way, and she has named it 'The Pines.' Thank God,
I've got her left yet, but she is about all."
Something in his tone caused Darrell to glance quickly towards him with
a look of sympathetic inquiry. They were now approaching the house, and
Mr. Underwood turned, facing him, a smile for the first time lighting up
his stern, rugged features, as he said,--
"You will find us what my little girl calls a 'patched-up' family. I am
a widower; my widowed sister keeps house for me, and Harry, whom I had
grown to consider almost a son, was an orphan. But the family, such as
it is, will make you welcome; I can speak for that. Here we are!"
With a supreme effort Darrell summoned all his energies as Mr. Underwood
assisted him from the carriage and into the house. But the ringing and
pounding in his head increased, his brain seemed reeling, and he was so
nearly blinded by pain that, notwithstanding his efforts, he was forced
to admit to himself, as a little later he sank upon a couch in the room
assigned to him, that his impressions of the ladies to whom he had just
been presented were exceedingly vague.
Mr. Underwood's sister, Mrs. Dean, he remembered as a large woman,
low-voiced, somewhat resembling her brother in manner, and like him, of
few words, yet something in her greeting had assured him of a welcome
as deep as it was undemonstrative. Of Kate Underwood, in whom he had
felt more than a passing interest, remembering Whitcomb's love for his
cousin, he recalled a tall, slender, girlish form; a wealth of
golden-brown hair, and a pair of large, luminous brown eyes, whose
wistful, almost appealing look haunted him strangely, though he was
unable to recall another feature of her face.
Mr. Underwood, who had left the room to telephone for a physician,
returned with a faithful servant, and insisted upon Darrell's retiring
to bed without delay, a proposition which the latter was only too glad
to follow. Darrell had already given Mr. Underwood the package of
fifteen thousand dollars found on the train, and now, while disrobing,
handed him the belt in which he carried his own money, saying,--
"I'll put this in your keeping for a few days, till I feel more like
myself. I lost my watch and some change, but I took the precaution to
have this hidden."
He stopped abruptly and seemed to be trying to recall something, then
continued, slowly,--
"There was something else in connection with that affair which I wished
to say to you, but my head is so confused I cannot think what it was."
"Don't try to think now; it will come to you by and by," Mr. Underwood
replied. "You're in good hands, so don't worry yourself about anything,
but get all the rest you can."
With a deep sigh of relief Darrell sank on the pillows, and was soon
sleeping heavily.
A few moments later Mr. Underwood, coming from Darrell's room, having
left the servant in charge, met his sister coming down the long hall.
She beckoned, and, turning, slowly retraced her steps, her brother
following, to another part of the house, where they entered a darkened
chamber and together stood beside a low, narrow couch strewn with
fragrant flowers. Together, without a word or a tear, they gazed on the
peaceful face of this sleeper, wrapped in the breathless, dreamless
slumber we call death. They recalled the years since he had come to
them, the dying bequest of their youngest sister, a little,
golden-haired prattler, to fill their home with the music of his
childish voice and the sunshine of his smile. Already the great house
seemed strangely silent without his ringing laughter, his bursts of
merry song.
But of whatever bitter grief stirred their hearts, this silent brother
and sister, so long accustomed to self-restraint and self-repression,
gave no sign. Gently she replaced the covering over the face of the
sleeper, and silently they left the room. Not until they again reached
the door of Darrell's room was the silence broken; then the brother
said, in low tones,--
"Marcia, we've done all for the dead that can be done; it's the living
who needs our care now."
"Yes," she replied, quietly, "I was going to see what I could do for him
when you had put him to bed."
"Bennett is in there now, and I'm going downstairs to wait for Dr.
Bradley; he telephoned that he'd be up in twenty minutes."
"Very well; I'll sit by him till the doctor comes."
When Dr. Bradley arrived he found Darrell in a state of coma from which
it was almost impossible to arouse him. From Mr. Underwood and his
sister he learned whatever details they could furnish, but from the
patient himself very little information could be obtained.
"He has this fever that is prevailing in the mountainous districts, and
has it in its worst form," he said, when about to take leave. "Of
course, having just come from the East, it would be worse for him in any
event than if he were acclimated; but aside from that, the cerebral
symptoms are greatly aggravated owing to the nervous shock which he
received last night. To witness an occurrence of that sort would be more
or less of a shock to nerves in a normal state, but in the condition in
which he was at the time, it is likely to produce some rather serious
complications. Follow these directions which I have written out, and
I'll be in again in a couple of hours."
But in two hours Darrell was delirious.
"Has he recognized any one since I was here?" Dr. Bradley inquired, as
he again stood beside the patient.
"I don't think so," Mrs. Dean replied. "I could hardly rouse him enough
to give him the medicine, and even then he didn't seem to know me."
"I'll be in about midnight," said the physician, as he again took leave,
"and I'll send a professional nurse, a man; this is likely to be a long
siege."
"Send whatever is needed," said Mr. Underwood, brusquely, "the same as
if 'twere for the boy himself!"
"And, Mrs. Dean," the physician continued, "if he should have a lucid
interval, you had better ascertain the address of his friends."
It was nearly midnight. For hours Darrell had battled against the
darkening shadows fast settling down upon him, enveloping him with a
horror worse than death itself. Suddenly there was a rift in the clouds,
and the calm, sweet light of reason stole softly through. He felt a cool
hand on his forehead, and, opening his eyes, looked with a smile into
the face of Mrs. Dean as she bent over him. Bending still lower, she
said, in low, distinct tones:
"Can you tell me the name of your people, and where they live?"
In an instant he comprehended all that her question implied; he must
give his own name and the address of the far-away eastern home. He
strove to recall it, but the effort was too great; before he could
speak, the clouds surged together and all was blotted out in darkness.
_Chapter IV_
LIFE? OR DEATH?
Hour by hour the clouds thickened, obscuring every ray of light, closing
the avenues of sight and sound, until, isolated from the outer world by
this intangible yet impenetrable barrier, Darrell was alone in a world
peopled only with the phantoms of his imagination. Of the lapse of time,
of the weary procession of days and nights which followed, he knew
nothing. Day and night were to him only an endless repetition of the
horrors which thronged his fevered brain.
Again and again he lived over the tragic scene in the sleeping-car, each
iteration and reiteration growing in dreadful realism, until it was he
himself who grappled in deadly contest with the murderer, and the latter
in turn became a monster whose hot breath stifled him, whose malign,
demoniacal glance seemed to sear his eyeballs like living fire. Over and
over, with failing strength, he waged the unequal contest, striving at
last with a legion of hideous forms. Then, as the clouds grew still more
dense about him, these shapes grew dim and he found himself, weak and
trembling, adrift upon a sea of darkness whose black waves tossed him
angrily, with each breath threatening to engulf him in their gloomy
depths. Desperately he battled with them, each struggle leaving him
weaker than the last, until at length, scarcely breathing, his strength
utterly exhausted, he lay watching the towering forms as they swept
relentlessly towards him, gathering strength and fury as they came. He
saw the yawning abysses on each side, he heard the roar of the
on-coming waves, but was powerless to move hand or foot.
But while he waited in helpless terror the waves on which he tossed to
and fro grew calm; then they seemed to divide, and he felt himself going
down, down into infinite depths. The sullen roar died away; the darkness
was flooded with golden light, and through its ethereal waves he was
still floating downward more gently than ever a roseleaf floated to
earth on the evening's breath. Through the waves of golden light there
came to him a faint, distant murmur of voices, and the words,--
"He is sinking fast!"
He smiled with perfect content, wondering dreamily if it would never
end; then consciousness was lost in utter oblivion.
* * * * *
Three weeks had elapsed since Darrell came to The Pines. August had
given place to September, but the languorous days brought no cessation
of the fearful heat, no cooling rain to the panting earth, no promise of
renewed life to the drought-smitten vegetation. The timber on the ranges
had been reduced to masses of charred and smouldering embers, among
which the low flames still crept and crawled, winding their way up and
down the mountains. The pall of smoke overhanging the city grew more and
more dense, until there came a morning when, as the sun looked over the
distant ranges, the landscape was suffused with a dull red glare which
steadily deepened until all objects assumed a blood-red hue. Two or
three hours passed, and then a lurid light illumined the strange scene,
brightening moment by moment, till earth and sky glowed like a mass of
molten copper. The heat seemed to concentrate upon that part of the
earth's surface, the air grew oppressive, and an ominous silence
reigned, in which even the birds were hushed and the dumb brutes cowered
beside their masters.
As the brazen glow was fading to a weird, yellow light, an anxious group
was gathered about Darrell's bedside. He still tossed and moaned in
delirium, but his movements had grown pathetically feeble and the moans
were those of a tired child sobbing himself to sleep.
"He cannot hold out much longer," said Dr. Bradley, his fingers on the
weakening pulse, "his strength is failing rapidly."
"There will be a change soon, one way or the other," said the nurse,
"and there's not much of a chance left him now."
"One chance in a hundred," said Dr. Bradley, slowly; "and that is his
wonderful constitution; he may pull through where ninety-nine others
would die."
Dr. Bradley watched the sick man in silence, then noting that the room
was darkening, he stepped to an open window and cast a look of anxious
inquiry at the murky sky. As if in answer to his thought, there came the
low rumble of distant thunder, bringing a look of relief and hopefulness
to the face of the physician. Returning to the bedside, he gave a few
directions, then, as he was leaving, remarked,--
"There will be a change in the weather soon, a change that may help to
turn the tide in his favor, provided it does not come too late!"
Hours passed; the distant mutterings grew louder, while the darkness and
gloom increased, and the sense of oppression became almost intolerable.
Suddenly the leaden mass which had overspread the sky appeared to drop
to earth, and in the dead silence which followed could be heard the roar
of the wind through the gorges and down the canyons. A moment more, and
clouds of dust and debris, the outriders of the coming tempest, rushed
madly through the streets in whirling columns towering far above the
city. From their vantage ground the dwellers at The Pines watched the
course of the storm, but only for a moment; then blinding sheets of
water hid even the nearest objects from view, while lightnings flashed
incessantly and the thunder crashed and rolled in one ceaseless,
deafening roar. The trees waved their arms in wild, helpless terror as
one and another of their number were prostrated by the storm, while the
dry channels on the mountain-side became raging, foaming torrents.
Suddenly the winds changed, a chilling blast swept across the plateau,
and to the rush of the wind, the roar of the thunder, and the crash of
falling timber was added the sharp staccato of swiftly descending hail.
For nearly an hour the storm raged in its fury, then departed as
suddenly as it came; but it left behind a clear atmosphere, crisp as an
October morning.
As the storm clouds, touched with beauty by the rays of the setting sun,
were settling below the eastern ranges, Dr. Bradley again entered the
sick-room. The room was flooded with golden light, and the physician was
quick to note the changes which the few hours had wrought in the sick
man. The fever had gone and, his strength spent, his splendid energies
exhausted, life's forces were ebbing moment by moment.
"He is sinking fast," said Mrs. Dean.
Even as she spoke a smile stole over the pallid features; then, as they
watched eagerly for some token of returning consciousness, the nervous
system, so long strained to its utmost tension, suddenly relaxed and
utter collapse followed.
For hours Darrell lay as one dead, an occasional fluttering about the
heart being the only sign of life. But late in the forenoon of the
following day the watchers by the bedside, noting each feeble pulsation,
thinking it might be the last, felt an almost imperceptible quickening
of the life current. Gradually the fluttering pulse grew calm and
steady, the faint respirations grew deeper and more regular, until at
length, with a long, tremulous sigh, Darrell sank into slumber sweet and
restful as a child's, and the watchers knew that the crisis had passed.
_Chapter V_
JOHN BRITTON
It was on one of those glorious October days, when every breath quickens
the blood and when simply to live is a joy unspeakable, that Darrell
first walked abroad into the outdoor world. Several times during his
convalescence he had sunned himself on the balcony opening from his
room, or when able to go downstairs had paced feebly up and down the
verandas, but of late his strength had returned rapidly, so that now,
accompanied by his physician, he was walking back and forth over the
gravelled driveway under the pine-trees, his step gaining firmness with
every turn.
Seated on the veranda were Mr. Underwood and his sister, the one with
his pipe and newspaper, the other with her knitting; but the newspaper
had slipped unheeded to the floor, and though Mrs. Dean's skilful
fingers did not slacken their work for an instant, yet her eyes, like
her brother's, were fastened upon Darrell, and a shade of pity might
have been detected in the look of each, which the occasion at first
sight hardly seemed to warrant.
"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Underwood, at length; "it's hard for a young man
to be handicapped like that!"
"Yes," assented his sister, "and he takes it hard, too, though he
doesn't say much. I can't bear to look in his eyes sometimes, they look
so sort of pleading and helpless."
"Takes it hard!" reiterated Mr. Underwood; "why shouldn't he. I'm
satisfied that he is a young man of unusual ability, who had a bright
future before him, and I tell you, Marcia, it's pretty hard for him to
wake up and find it all rubbed off the slate!"
"Well," said Mrs. Dean, with a sigh, "everybody has to carry their own
burdens, but there's a look on his face when he thinks nobody sees him
that makes me wish I could help him carry his, though I don't suppose
anybody can, for that matter; it isn't anything that anybody feels like
saying much about."
"I'm glad Jack is coming," said Mr. Underwood, after a pause; "he may do
him some good. He has a way of getting at those things that you and I
haven't, Marcia."
"Yes, he's seen trouble himself, though nobody knows what it was."
Notwithstanding the tide of returning vitality was fast restoring tissue
and muscle to Darrell's wasted limbs and firmness and elasticity to his
step, it was yet evident to a close observer that some undercurrent of
suffering was doing its work day by day; sprinkling the dark hair with
gleams of silver, tracing faint lines in the face hitherto untouched by
care, working its subtle, mysterious changes.
When a new lease of life was granted to John Darrell and he awoke to
consciousness, it was to find that every detail of his past life had
been blotted out, leaving only a blank. Of his home, his friends, of his
own name even, not a vestige of memory was left. It was as though he had
entered upon a new existence.
By degrees, as he was able to hear them, he was given the details of his
arrival at Ophir, of his coming to The Pines, of the tragedy which he
had witnessed in the sleeping-car, but they awoke no memories in his
mind. For him there was no past. As a realization of his condition
dawned upon him his mental distress was pitiable. Despite the efforts of
physician and nurse to divert his mind, he would lie for hours trying to
recall some fragment from the veiled and shrouded past, but all in vain.
Yet, with returning physical strength, many of his former attainments
seemed to return to him, naturally and without effort. Dr. Bradley one
day used a Latin phrase in his hearing; he at once repeated it and,
without a moment's hesitation, gave the correct rendering, but was
unable to tell how he did it.
"It simply came to me," was all the explanation he could give.
From this the physician argued that the memory of his past life would
sooner or later return, and it was this hope alone which at that time
saved Darrell from total despair.
Aside from his professional interest in so peculiar a case, Dr. Bradley
had become interested in Darrell himself; many of his leisure hours were
spent at The Pines, and quite a friendship existed between the two.
In Mr. Underwood and his sister Darrell had found two steadfast friends,
each seeming to vie with the other in thoughtful, unobtrusive kindness.
His strange misfortune had only deepened and intensified the sympathy
which had been first aroused by the peculiar circumstances under which
he had come to them. But now, as then, they said little, and for this
Darrell was grateful. Even the silent pity which he read in their eyes
hurt him,--why, he could scarcely explain to himself; expressed in
words, it would have been intolerable. Early in his convalescence
Darrell had expressed an unwillingness to trespass upon their kindness
by remaining after he could with safety be moved, but the few words they
had spoken on that occasion had effectually silenced any further
suggestion of the kind on his part. He understood that to leave them
would be to forfeit their friendship, which he well knew was of a sort
too rare to be slighted or thrown aside.
Of Kate Underwood Darrell knew nothing, except as her father or aunt
spoke of her, for he had no recollection of her and she had left home
early in his illness to return to an eastern college, from which she
would graduate the following year.
With more animation than he had yet shown since his illness, Darrell
returned to the veranda. He was flushed and trembling slightly from the
unusual exertion, and Dr. Bradley, dropping down beside him, from force
of habit laid his fingers on Darrell's wrist, but the latter shook them
off playfully.
"No more of that!" he exclaimed, adding, "Doctor, I challenge you for a
race two weeks from to-day. What do you say, do you take me up?"
"Two weeks from to-day!" repeated the doctor, with an incredulous smile,
at the same time scrutinizing Darrell's form. "Well, yes. When you are
in ordinary health I don't think I would care to do much business with
you along that line, but two weeks from to-day is a safe proposition, I
guess. What do you want to make it, a hundred yards?" he inquired, with
a laughing glance at Mr. Underwood.
"One hundred yards," replied Darrell, following the direction of the
doctor's glance. "Do you want to name the winner, Mr. Underwood?"
"I'll back you, my boy," said the elder man, quietly, his shrewd face
growing a trifle shrewder.
"What!" exclaimed Dr. Bradley, rising hastily;
"I guess it's about time I was going, if that's your estimate of my
athletic prowess," and, shaking hands with Darrell, he started down the
driveway.
"I'll put you up at about ten to one," Mr. Underwood called after the
retreating figure, but a deprecatory wave of his hand over his shoulder
was the doctor's only reply.
"Oh," exclaimed Darrell, looking about him, "this is glorious! This is
one of the days that make a fellow feel that life is worth living!"
Even as he spoke there came to his mind the thought of what life meant
to him, and the smile died from his lips and the light from his eyes.
For a moment nothing was said, then, with the approaching sound of
rhythmic hoof-beats, Mr. Underwood rose, deliberately emptying the ashes
from his pipe as a fine pair of black horses attached to a light
carriage appeared around the house from the direction of the stables.
"You will be back for lunch, David?" Mrs. Dean inquired.
"Yes, and I'll bring Jack with me," was his reply, as he seated himself
beside the driver, and the horses started at a brisk trot down the
driveway.
With a smile Mrs. Dean addressed Darrell, who was watching the horses
with a keen appreciation of their good points.
"This 'Jack' that you've heard my brother speak of is his partner."
"Yes?" said Darrell, courteously, feeling slight interest in the
expected guest, but glad of anything to divert his thoughts.
"Yes," Mrs. Dean continued; "they've been partners and friends for more
than ten years. His name is John Britton, but it's never anything but
'Dave' and 'Jack' between the two; they're almost like two boys
together."
Darrell wondered what manner of man this might be who could transform
his silent, stern-faced host into anything boy-like, but he said
nothing.
"To see them together you'd wonder at their friendship, too," continued
Mrs. Dean, "for they're noways alike. My brother is all business, and
Mr. Britton is not what you'd really call a practical business man. He
is very rich, for he is one of those men that everything they touch
seems to turn to gold, but he doesn't seem to care much about money. He
spends a great deal of his time in reading and studying, and though he
makes very few friends, he could have any number of them if he wanted,
for he's one of those people that you always feel drawn to without
knowing why."
Mrs. Dean paused to count the stitches in her work, and Darrell, whose
thoughts were of the speaker more than of the subject of conversation,
watching her placid face, wondered whether it were possible for any
emotion ever to disturb that calm exterior. Presently she resumed her
subject, speaking in low, even tones, which a slight, gentle inflection
now and then just saved from monotony.
"He's always a friend to anybody in distress, and I guess there isn't a
poor person or a friendless person in Ophir that doesn't know him and
love him. He has had some great trouble; nobody knows what it is, but he
told David once that it had changed his whole life."
Darrell now became interested, and the dark eyes fixed on Mrs. Dean's
face grew suddenly luminous with the quick sympathy her words had
aroused.
"He always seems to be on the lookout for anybody that has trouble, to
help them; that's how he got to know my brother."
Mrs. Dean hesitated a moment. "I never spoke of this to any one before,
but I thought maybe you'd be interested to know about it," she said,
looking at Darrell with a slightly apologetic air.
"I am, and I think I understand and appreciate your motive," was his
quiet reply.
She dropped her work, folding her hands above it, and her face wore a
reminiscent look as she continued:
"When David's wife died, twelve years ago, it was an awful blow to him.
He didn't say much,--that isn't our way,--but we were afraid he would
never be the same again. His brother was out here at that time, but none
of us could do anything for him. He kept on trying to attend to business
just as usual, but he seemed, as you might say, to have lost his grip on
things. It went on that way for nearly two years; his business got
behind and everything seemed to be slipping through his fingers, when he
happened to get acquainted with Mr. Britton, and he seemed to know just
what to say and do. He got David interested in business again. He loaned
him money to start with, and they went into business together and have
been together ever since. They have both been successful, but David has
worked and planned for what he has, while Mr. Britton's money seems to
come to him. He owns property all over the State, and all through the
West for that matter, and sometimes he's in one place and sometimes in
another, but he never stays very long anywhere. David would like to have
him make his home with us, but he told him once that he couldn't think
of it; that he only stayed in a place till the pain got to be more than
he could bear, and then he went somewhere else."
A long silence followed; then, as Mrs. Dean folded her work, she said,
softly,--
"It's no wonder he knows just how to help folks who are in trouble, for
I guess he has suffered himself more than anybody knows."
A little later she had gone indoors to superintend the preparations for
lunch, but Darrell still sat in the mellow, autumn sunlight, his eyes
closed, picturing to himself this stranger silently bearing his hidden
burden, changing from place to place, but always keeping the pain.
It still lacked two hours of sunset when John Darrell, leaning on the
arm of John Britton, walked slowly up the mountain-path to a rustic seat
under the pines. They had met at lunch. Mr. Britton had already heard
the strange story of Darrell's illness, and, looking into his eyes with
their troubled questioning, their piteous appeal, knew at once by swift
intuition how hopelessly bewildering and dark life must look to the
young man before him just at the age when it usually is brightest and
most alluring; and Darrell, meeting the steadfast gaze of the clear,
gray eyes, saw there no pity, but something infinitely broader, deeper,
and sweeter, and knew intuitively that they were united by the
fellowship of suffering, that mysterious tie which has not only bound
human hearts together in all ages, but has linked suffering humanity
with suffering Divinity.
For more than two hours Darrell, taking little part himself in the
general conversation, had watched, as one entranced, the play of the
fine features and listened to the deep, musical voice of this stranger
who was a stranger no longer.
He was an excellent conversationalist; humorous without being cynical,
scholarly without being pedantic, and showing especial familiarity with
history and the natural sciences.
At last, while walking up and down the broad veranda, Mr. Britton had
paused beside Darrell, and throwing an arm over his shoulder had said,--
"Come, my son, let us have a little stroll."
Darrell's heart had leaped strangely at the words, he knew not why, and
in a silence pregnant with deep emotion on both sides, they had climbed
to the rustic bench. Here they sat down. The ground at their feet was
carpeted with pine-needles; the air was sweet with the fragrance of the
pines and of the warm earth; no sound reached their ears aside from the
chirping of the crickets, the occasional dropping of a pine-cone, or the
gentle sighing of the light breeze through the branches above their
heads.
A glorious scene lay outspread before them; the distant ranges half
veiled in purple haze, the valleys flooded with golden light, brightened
by the autumnal tints of the deciduous timber which marked the courses
of numerous small streams, and over the whole a restful silence, as
though, the year's work ended, earth was keeping some grand, solemn
holiday.
Mr. Britton first broke the silence, as in low tones he murmured,
reverently,--
"'Thou crownest the year with Thy goodness!'"
Then turning to Darrell with a smile of peculiar sweetness, he said,
"This is one of what I call the year's 'coronation days,' when even
Nature herself rests from her labors and dons her royal robes in honor
of the occasion."
Then, as an answering light dawned in Darrell's eyes and the tense lines
in his face began to relax, Mr. Britton continued, musingly:
"I have often wondered why we do not imitate Nature in her great annual
holiday, and why we, a nation who garners one of the richest harvests of
the world, do not have a national harvest festival. How effectively and
fittingly, for instance, something similar to the old Jewish feast of
tabernacles might be celebrated in this part of the country! In the
earliest days of their history the Jews were commanded, when the year's
harvest had been gathered, to take the boughs of goodly trees, of
palm-trees and willows, and to construct booths in which they were to
dwell, feasting and rejoicing, for seven days. In the only account given
of one of these feasts, we read that the people brought olive-branches
and pine-branches, myrtle-branches and palm-branches, and made
themselves booths upon the roofs of their houses, in their courts, and
in their streets, and dwelt in them, 'and there was very great
gladness.' Imagine such a scene on these mountain-slopes and foot-hills,
under these cloudless skies; the sombre, evergreen boughs interwoven
with the brightly colored foliage from the lowlands; this mellow, golden
sunlight by day alternating with the white, mystical radiance of the
harvest moon by night."
Mr. Britton's words had, as he intended they should, drawn Darrell's
thoughts from himself. Under his graphic description, accompanied by the
powerful magnetism of his voice and presence, Darrell seemed to see the
Oriental festival which he had depicted and to feel a soothing influence
from the very simplicity and beauty of the imaginary scene.
"Think of the rest, the relaxation, in a week of such a life!" continued
Mr. Britton. "Re-creation, in the true sense of the word. The simplest
joys are the sweetest, but our lives have grown too complex for us to
appreciate them. Our amusements and recreations, as we call them, are
often more wearing and exhausting than our labors."
For nearly an hour Mr. Britton led the conversation on general subjects,
carefully avoiding every personal allusion; Darrell following,
interested, animated, wondering more and more at the man beside him,
until the latter tactfully led him to speak--calmly and dispassionately,
as he could not have spoken an hour before--of himself. Almost before he
was aware, Darrell had told all: of his vain gropings in the darkness
for some clue to the past; of the helpless feeling akin to despair which
sometimes took possession of him when he attempted to face the situation
continuously confronting him.
During his recital Mr. Britton had thrown his arm about Darrell's
shoulder, and when he paused quite a silence followed.
"Did it ever occur to you," Mr. Britton said at length, speaking very
slowly, "that there are hundreds--yes, thousands--who would be only too
glad to exchange places with you to-day?"
"No," Darrell replied, too greatly astonished to say more.
"But there are legions of poor souls, haunted by crime, or crushed
beneath the weight of sorrow, whose one prayer would be, if such a thing
were possible, that their past might be blotted out; that they might be
free to begin life anew, with no memories dogging their steps like
spectres, threatening at every turn to work their undoing."
For a moment Darrell regarded his friend with a fixed, inquiring gaze,
which gradually changed to a look of comprehension.
"I see," he said at length, "I have got to begin life anew; but you
consider that there are others who have to make the start under
conditions worse than mine."
"Far worse," said Mr. Britton. "Don't think for a moment that I fail to
realize in how many ways you are handicapped or to appreciate the
obstacles against which you will have to contend, but this I do say: the
future is in your own hands--as much as it is in the hands of any
mortal--to make the most of and the best of that you can, and with the
negative advantage, at least, that you are untrammelled by a past that
can hold you back or drag you down."
The younger man laid his hand on the knee of the elder with a gesture
almost appealing. "The future, until now, has looked very dark to me; it
begins to look brighter. Advise me; tell me how best to begin!"
"In one word," said Mr. Britton, with a smile. "Work! Just as soon as
you are able, find some work to do. Did we but know it, work is the
surest antidote for the poisonous discontent and ennui of this world,
the swiftest panacea for its pains and miseries; different forms to suit
different cases, but every form brings healing and blessing, even down
to the humblest manual labor."
"That is just what I have wanted," said Darrell, eagerly; "to go to work
as soon as possible; but what can I do? What am I fitted for? I have not
the slightest idea. I don't care to work at breaking stone, though I
suppose that would be better than nothing."
"That would be better than nothing," said Mr. Britton, smiling again,
"but that would not be suited to your case. What you need is mental
work, something to keep your mind constantly occupied, and rest assured
you will find it when you are ready for it. Our Father provides what we
need just when we need it. 'Day by day' we have the 'daily bread' for
mental and spiritual life, as for temporal. But what you most want to do
is to keep your mind pleasantly occupied, and above all things don't
try to recall the past. In God's own good time it will return of
itself."
"And when it does, what revelations will it bring?" Darrell queried
musingly.
"Nothing that you will be afraid or ashamed to meet; of that I am sure,"
said Mr. Britton, confidently, adding a moment later, in a lighter tone,
"It is nearing sunset, my boy, and time that I was taking you back to
the house."
"You have given me new courage, new hope," said Darrell, rising. "I feel
now as though there were something to live for--as though I might make
something out of life, after all."
"I realize," said Mr. Britton, tenderly, as together they began the
descent of the mountain path, "as deeply as you do that your life is
sadly disjointed; but strive so to live that when the broken fragments
are at last united they will form one harmonious and symmetrical whole.
It is a difficult task, I know, but the result will be well worth the
effort. In your case, my son, even more than in ordinary lives, the
words of the poet are peculiarly applicable:
"'A sacred burden is this life ye bear:
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly;
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win.'"
An hour later John Britton stood alone on one of the mountain terraces,
his tall, lithe form silhouetted against the evening sky, his arms
folded, his face lifted upward. It was a face of marvellous strength and
sweetness combined. Sorrow had set its unmistakable seal upon his
features; here and there pain had traced its ineffaceable lines; but
the firmly set mouth was yet inexpressibly tender, the calm brow was
unfurrowed, and the clear eyes had the far-seeing look of one who, like
the Alpine traveller, had reached the heights above the clouds, to whose
vision were revealed glories undreamed of by the dwellers in the vales
below.
And to Darrell, watching from his room the distant figure outlined
against the sky, the simple grandeur, the calm triumph of its pose must
have brought some revelation concerning this man of whom he knew so
little, yet whose personality even more than his words had taken so firm
a hold upon himself, for, as the light faded and deepening twilight hid
the solitary figure from view, he turned from the window, and, pacing
slowly up and down the room, soliloquized:
"With him for a friend, I can meet the future with courage and await
with patience the resurrection of the buried past. As he has conquered,
so will I conquer; I will scale the heights after him, until I stand
where he stands to-night!"
_Chapter VI_
ECHOES FROM THE PAST
During his stay at The Pines Mr. Britton spent the greater portion of
his time with Mr. Underwood, either at their offices or at the mines.
Darrell, therefore, saw little of his new-found friend except as they
all gathered in the evening around the glowing fire in the large family
sitting-room, for, notwithstanding the lingering warmth and sunshine of
the days, the nights were becoming sharp and frosty, so that an open
fire added much to the evening's enjoyment. Each morning, however,
before his departure, Mr. Britton stopped for a few words with Darrell;
some quaint, kindly bit of humor, the pleasant flavor of which would
enliven the entire day; some unhackneyed expression of sympathy whose
very genuineness and sincerity made Darrell's position seem to him less
isolated and solitary than before; or some suggestion which, acted upon,
relieved the monotony of the tedious hours of convalescence.
At his suggestion Darrell took vigorous exercise each day in the morning
air and sunshine, devoting his afternoons to a course of light, pleasant
reading.
"If you are going to work," said Mr. Britton, "the first requisite is to
have your body and mind in just as healthful and normal a condition as
possible, in order that you may be able to give an equivalent for what
you receive. In these days of trouble between employer and employed, we
hear a great deal about the laborer demanding an honest equivalent for
his toil, but it does not occur to him to inquire whether he is giving
his employer an honest equivalent for his money. The fact is, a large
percentage of working-men and working-women, in all departments of
labor, are squandering their energies night after night in various forms
and degrees of dissipation until they are utterly incapacitated for one
honest day's work; yet they do not hesitate to take a full day's wages,
and would consider themselves wronged were the smallest fraction
withheld."
Darrell found himself rather restricted in his reading for the first few
days, as he found but a limited number of books at The Pines, until Mrs.
Dean, who had received a hint from Mr. Britton, meeting him one day in
the upper hall, led him into two darkened rooms, saying, as she hastened
to open the blinds,--
"These are what the children always called their 'dens.' All their books
are here, and I thought maybe you'd like to look them over. If you see
anything you like, just help yourself, and use the rooms for reading or
writing whenever you want to."
Darrell, left to himself, looked about him with much interest. The two
rooms were similar in style and design, but otherwise were as diverse as
possible. The room in which he was standing was furnished in embossed
leather. A leather couch stood near one of the windows, and a large
reclining-chair of the same material was drawn up before the fireplace.
Near the mantel was a pipe-rack filled with fine specimens of briar-wood
and meerschaum pipes. Signs of tennis, golf, and various athletic sports
were visible on all sides; in the centre of the room stood a large
roll-top desk, open, and on it lay a briar pipe, filled with ashes, just
where the owner's hand had laid it. But what most interested Darrell was
a large portrait over the fireplace, which he knew must be that of
Harry Whitcomb. The face was neither especially fine nor strong, but the
winsome smile lurking about the curves of the sensitive mouth and in the
depths of the frank blue eyes rendered it attractive, and it was with a
sigh for the young life so suddenly blotted out that Darrell turned to
enter the second room.
He paused at the doorway, feeling decidedly out of place, and glanced
about him with a serio-comic smile. The furnishings were as unique as
possible, no one piece in the room bearing any relation or similarity to
any other piece. There were chairs and tables of wicker-work, twisted
into the most ornate designs, interspersed among heavy, antique pieces
of carving and slender specimens of colonial simplicity; divans covered
with pillows of every delicate shade imaginable; exquisite etchings and
dainty bric-a-brac. In an alcove formed by a large bay-window stood a
writing-desk of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and on an easel in a
secluded corner, partially concealed by silken draperies, was the
portrait of Kate Underwood,--a childish, rather immature face, but with
a mouth indicating both sweetness and strength of character, and with
dark, strangely appealing eyes.
The walls of both rooms were lined with bookcases, but their contents
were widely diverse, and, to Darrell's surprise, he found the young
girl's library contained far the better class of books. But even in
their selection he observed the same peculiarity that he had noted in
the furnishing of the room; there were few complete sets of books;
instead, there were one, two, or three volumes of each author, as the
case might be, evidently her especial favorites.
But Darrell returned to the other room, which interested him far more,
each article in it bearing eloquent testimony to the happy young life
of whose tragic end he had now often heard, but of which he was unable
to recall the faintest memory. Passing slowly through the room, his
attention was caught by a violin case standing in an out-of-the-way
corner. With a cry of joy he drew it forth, his fingers trembling with
eagerness as he opened it and took therefrom a genuine Stradivarius. At
that moment his happiness knew no bounds. Seating himself and bending
his head over the instrument after the manner of a true violin lover, he
drew the bow gently across the strings, producing a chord of such
triumphant sweetness that the air seemed vibrating with the joy which at
that instant thrilled his own soul.
Immediately all thought of himself or of his surroundings was lost. With
eyes half closed and dreamy he began to play, without effort, almost
mechanically, but with the deft touch of a master hand, while liquid
harmonies filled the room, quivering, rising, falling; at times low,
plaintive, despairing; then swelling exultantly, only to die away in
tremulous, minor undertones. The man's pent-up feelings had at last
found expression,--his alternate hope and despair, his unutterable
loneliness and longing,--all voiced by the violin.
Of the lapse of time Darrell had neither thought nor consciousness until
the door opened and Mrs. Dean's calm smile and matter-of-fact voice
recalled him to a material world.
"I see that you have found Harry's violin," she said.
"I beg your pardon," Darrell stammered, somewhat dazed by his sudden
descent to the commonplace, "I ought not to have taken it; I never
thought,--I was so delighted to find the instrument and so carried away
with its tones,--it never occurred to me how it might seem to you!"
"Oh, that is all right," she interposed, quietly; "use it whenever you
like. Harry bought it two years ago, but he never had the patience to
learn it, so it has been used very little. I never heard such playing as
yours, and I stepped in to ask you to bring it downstairs and play for
us to-night. Mr. Britton will be delighted; he enjoys everything of that
sort."
Around the fireside that evening Darrell had an attentive audience,
though the appreciation of his auditors was manifested in a manner
characteristic of each. Mr. Underwood, after two or three futile
attempts to talk business with his partner, finding him very
uncommunicative, gave himself up to the enjoyment of his pipe and the
music in about equal proportions, indulging surreptitiously in
occasional brief naps, though always wide awake at the end of each
number and joining heartily in the applause.
Mrs. Dean sat gazing into the glowing embers, her face lighted with
quiet pleasure, but her knitting-needles twinkled and flashed in the
firelight with the same unceasing regularity, and she doubled and seamed
and "slipped and bound" her stitches with the same monotonous precision
as on other evenings.
Mr. Britton, in a comfortable reclining-chair, sat silent, motionless,
his head thrown back, his eyes nearly closed, but in the varying
expression of his mobile face Darrell found both inspiration and
compensation.
For more than three hours Darrell entertained his friends; quaint
medleys, dreamy waltzes, and bits of classical music following one after
another, with no effort, no hesitancy, on the part of the player. To
their eager inquiries, he could only answer,--
"I don't know how I do it. They seem to come to me with the sweep of
the bow across the strings. I have no recollection of anything that I am
playing; it seems as though the instrument and I were simply drifting."
Late in the evening, when they were nearly ready to separate for the
night, Darrell sat idly strumming the violin, when an old familiar
strain floated sweetly forth, and his astonished listeners suddenly
heard him singing in a rich baritone an old love-song, forgotten until
then by every one present.
Mrs. Dean had already laid aside her work and sat with hands folded, a
smile of unusual tenderness hovering about her lips, while Mr. Britton's
face was quivering with emotion. At its conclusion he grasped Darrell's
hand silently.
"That is a very old song," said Mrs. Dean. "It seems queer to hear you
sing it. I used to hear it sung when I was a young girl, and that," she
added smiling, "was a great many years ago."
"And I have sung it many a time a great many years ago," said Mr.
Britton. And he hastily left the room.
_Chapter VII_
AT THE MINES
Once fairly started on the road to health, Darrell gained marvellously.
Each day marked some new acquisition in physical health and muscular
vigor, while his systematic reading, the soothing influence of the music
to which he devoted a considerable time each day, and, more than all,
his growing intimacy with Mr. Britton, were doing much towards restoring
a better mental equipoise.
The race to which he had challenged Dr. Bradley took place on a frosty
morning early in November, Mr. Underwood himself measuring and marking
the course for the runners and Mr. Britton acting as starter. The result
was a victory for Darrell, who came out more than a yard ahead of his
opponent, somewhat to the chagrin of the latter, who had won quite a
local reputation as an athlete.
"You'll do," he said to Darrell, as he took leave a few moments later,
"but don't pose here as an invalid any longer, or I'll expose you as a
fraud. Understand, I cross your name off my list of patients to-day."
"But not off your list of friends, I hope," Darrell rejoined, as they
shook hands.
When Dr. Bradley had gone, Darrell turned to Mr. Britton, who was
standing near, saying, as his face grew serious,--
"Dr. Bradley is right; I'm no invalid now, and I must quit this idling.
I must find what I can do and go to work."
"All in good time," said Mr. Britton, pleasantly. "We'll find something
for you before I go from here. Meanwhile, I want to give you a little
pleasure-trip if you are able to take it. How would you like to go out
to the mines to-morrow with Mr. Underwood and myself? Do you think you
could 'rough it' with us old fellows for a couple of days?"
"You couldn't have suggested anything that would please me better,"
Darrell answered. "I would like the change, and it's time I was roughing
it. Perhaps when I get out there I'll decide to take a pick and shovel
and start in at the bottom of the ladder and work my way up."
"Is that necessary?" queried Mr. Britton, regarding the younger man with
close but kindly scrutiny. "Mr. Underwood tells me that you brought a
considerable amount of money with you when you came here, which he has
deposited to your credit."
Darrell met the penetrating gaze unwaveringly, as he replied, with quiet
decision, "That money may be mine, or it may not; it may have been given
me to hold in trust. In any event, it belongs to the past, and it will
remain where it is, intact, until the past is unveiled."
Mr. Britton looked gratified, as he remarked, in a low tone, "I don't
think you need any assurance, my boy, that I will back you with all the
capital you need, if you would like to start in business."
"No, Mr. Britton," said Darrell, deeply touched by the elder man's
kindness; "I know, without words, that I could have from you whatever I
needed, but it is useless for me to think of going into business with as
little knowledge of myself as I have at present. The best thing for me
is to take whatever work offers itself, until I find what I am fitted
for or to what I can best adapt myself."
The next morning found Darrell at an early hour on his way to the mining
camp with Mr. Underwood and Mr. Britton. The ground was white and
glistening with frost, and the sun, not yet far above the horizon, shone
with a pale, cold light, but Darrell, wrapped in a fur coat of Mr.
Underwood's, felt only the exhilarating effect of the thin, keen air,
and as the large, double-seated carriage, drawn by two powerful horses,
descended the pine-clad mountain and passed down one of the principal
streets of the little city, he looked about him with lively interest.
Leaving the town behind them, they soon began the ascent of a winding
canyon. After two or three turns, to Darrell's surprise, every sign of
human habitation vanished and only the rocky walls were visible, at
first low and receding, but gradually growing higher and steeper. On
they went, steadily ascending, till a turn suddenly brought the distant
mountains into closer proximity, and Mr. Britton, pointing to a lofty,
rugged range on Darrell's right, said,--
"There lies the Great Divide."
For two hours they wound steadily upward, the massive rocks towering on
all sides, barren, grotesque in form, but beautiful in coloring,--dull
reds, pale greens, and lovely blues and purples staining the sombre
grays and browns.
Darrell had grown silent, and his companions, supposing him absorbed in
the grandeur and beauty of the scenery, left him to his own reflections
while they talked on matters of interest to themselves.
But to Darrell the surrounding rocks were full of a strange, deep
significance. The colorings and markings in the gray granite were to him
what the insignia of the secret orders are to the initiated, replete
with mystical meaning. To him had come the sudden realization that he
was in Nature's laboratory, and in the hieroglyphics traced on the
granite walls he read the symbols of the mysterious alchemy silently and
secretly wrought beneath their surface. The vastness of the scale of
Nature's work, the multiplicity of her symbols, bewildered him, but in
his own mind he knew that he still held the key to this mysterious code,
and the knowledge thrilled him with delight. He gazed about him,
fascinated, saying nothing, but trembling with joy and with eagerness to
put himself to the test, and it was with difficulty that he controlled
his impatience till the long ride should come to an end.
At last they left the canyon and followed a steep road winding up the
side of a mountain, which, after an hour's hard climbing, brought them
to the mining camp. As the carriage stopped Darrell was the first to
alight, springing quickly to the ground and looking eagerly about him.
At a short distance beyond them the road was terminated by the large
milling plant, above which the mountain rose abruptly, its sides dotted
with shaft-houses and crossed and recrossed with trestle-work almost to
the summit. A wooden flume clung like a huge serpent to the steep
slopes, and a tramway descended from near the summit to the mill below.
At a little distance from the mill were the boarding-house and
bunk-houses, while in the foreground, near the road was the office
building, to which the party adjourned after exchanging greetings with
Mr. Hathaway, the superintendent, who had come out to meet them and to
whom Darrell was duly introduced. The room they first entered was the
superintendent's office. Beyond that was a pleasant reception-room,
while in the rear were the private rooms of the superintendent and the
assayer, who were not expected to share the bunk-houses with the miners.
Mr. Underwood and the superintendent at once proceeded to business, but
Mr. Britton, mindful of Darrell's comfort, ushered him into the
reception-room. A coal-fire was glowing in a small grate; a couch, three
or four comfortable chairs, and a few books and magazines contributed to
give the room a cosey appearance, but the object which instantly riveted
Darrell's attention was a large case, extending nearly across one side
of the room, filled with rare mineralogical and geological specimens.
There were quartz crystals gleaming with lumps of free-milling gold,
curling masses of silver and copper wire direct from the mines, gold
nuggets of unusual size and brilliancy, and specimens of ores from the
principal mines not only of that vicinity, but of the West.
Observing Darrell's interest in the contents of the case, Mr. Britton
threw open the doors for a closer inspection, and began calling his
attention to some of the finest specimens, but at Darrell's first
remarks he paused, astonished, listened a few moments, then stepping to
the next room, called Mr. Underwood. That gentleman looked somewhat
perturbed at the interruption, but at a signal from Mr. Britton,
followed the latter quietly across the room to where Darrell was
standing. Here they stood, silently listening, while Darrell,
unconscious of their presence, went rapidly through the specimens,
classifying the different ores, stating the conditions which had
contributed to their individual characteristics, giving the approximate
value of each and the mode of treatment required for its reduction; all
after the manner of a student rehearsing to himself a well-conned
lesson.
At last, catching sight of the astonished faces of his listeners, his
own lighted with pleasure, as he exclaimed, joyously,--
"I wanted to test myself and see if it would come back to me, and it
has! I believed it would, and it has!"
"What has come back to you?" queried Mr. Underwood, too bewildered
himself to catch the drift of Darrell's meaning.
"The knowledge of all this," Darrell answered, indicating the collection
with a swift gesture; "it began to come to me as soon as I saw the rocks
on our way up; it confused me at first, but it is all clear now. Take me
to your mill, Mr. Underwood; I want to see what I can do with the ores
there."
At that moment Mr. Hathaway entered to summon the party to dinner, and
seeing Darrell standing by the case, his hands filled with specimens, he
said, addressing Mr. Underwood with a pleasant tone of inquiry,--
"Mr. Darrell is a mining man?"
But Mr. Underwood was still too confused to answer intelligibly, and it
was Mr. Britton who replied, as he linked his arm within Darrell's on
turning to leave the room,--
"Mr. Darrell is a mineralogist."
At dinner Darrell found himself too excited to eat, so overjoyed was he
at the discovery of attainments he had not dreamed he possessed, and so
eager to put them to every test possible.
It had been Mr. Underwood's intention to visit the mines that afternoon,
but at Darrell's urgent request, they went first to the mill. Here he
found ample scope for his abilities. He fairly revelled in the various
ores, separating, assorting, and classifying them with the rapidity and
accuracy of an expert, and at once proceeded to assay some samples
taken from a new lead recently struck, the report of which had
occasioned this particular trip to the camp. He worked with a dexterity
and skill surprising in one of his years, producing the most accurate
results, to the astonishment and delight of both Mr. Underwood and Mr.
Britton.
After an extended inspection of the different departments of the large
milling plant, he was taken into a small laboratory, where the assayer
in charge was testing some of the recently discovered ore for the
presence of certain metals. After watching for a while in silence
Darrell said, turning to Mr. Underwood,--
"I can give you a quicker and a surer test than that!"
The assayer and himself at once exchanged places, and, unheeding the
many eyes fixed upon him, Darrell seated himself before the long table
and deftly began operations. Not a word broke the silence as by methods
wholly new to his spectators he subjected the ore to successive chemical
changes, until, within an incredibly short time, the presence of the
suspected metals was demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt.
"Mineralogist and metallurgist!" exclaimed Mr. Britton delightedly, as
he congratulated Darrell upon his success.
The short November day had now nearly drawn to a close, and after supper
the gentlemen adjourned to the office building, where they spent an hour
or more around the open fire. Darrell, who was quite wearied with the
unusual exertion and excitement of the day, retired early, the
superintendent and assayer had gone out on some business at the mill,
and Mr. Underwood and Mr. Britton were left together. No sooner were
they by themselves than Mr. Britton, who was walking up and down the
room, stopped beside his partner as he sat smoking and gazing
abstractedly into the fire, and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said,--
"Well, Dave, what do you think? After what we've seen to-day, can't you
make a place over there at the mill for the boy?"
"Hang it all!" answered the other, somewhat testily, secretly a little
jealous of the growing intimacy between his partner and Darrell;
"supposing I can, is there any need of your dipping in your oar about
it? Do you think I need any suggestion from you in the way of
befriending him or standing by him?"
"No, Dave," said Mr. Britton, pleasantly, dropping into a chair by Mr.
Underwood's side, "I did not put my question with a view of making any
suggestions. I know, and Darrell knows, that he hasn't a better friend
than you, and because I know this, and also because I am a friend to you
both, I was interested to ask you what you intended doing for him."
"What I intended doing for him and what I probably will actually do for
him are two altogether different propositions--all on account of his own
pig-headedness," was the rather surly response.
"How's that?" Mr. Britton inquired.
"Why, confound the fellow! I took a liking to him from the first, coming
here the way he did, and after what he did for Harry there was nothing I
wouldn't have done for him. Then, after his sickness, when we found his
memory had gone back on him and left him helpless as a child in some
ways, I knew he'd stand no show among strangers, and my idea was to take
him in, in Harry's place, give him a small interest in the business
until he got accustomed to it, and then after a while let him in as
partner. But when I broached the subject to him, a week ago or so, he
wouldn't hear to it; said he'd rather find some work for which he was
adapted and stick to that, at a regular salary. I told him he was
missing a good thing, but nothing that I could say would make any
difference."
"Well," said Mr. Britton, slowly, "I'm not sure but his is the wiser
plan. You must remember, Dave, that his stay with us will probably be
but temporary. Whenever that portion of his brain which is now dormant
does awaken, you can rest assured he will not remain here long. He no
doubt realizes this and wishes to be absolutely foot-loose, ready to
leave at short notice. And as to the financial side of the question, if
you give him the place in your mill for which he is eminently fitted, it
will be fully as remunerative in the long run as the interest in the
business which you intended giving him."
"What place in the mill do you refer to?" Mr. Underwood asked, quickly.
"Oh, I'm not making any 'suggestions,' Dave; you don't need them." And
Mr. Britton smiled quietly into the fire.
"Go ahead and say your say, Jack," said the other, his own face relaxing
into a grim smile; "that was only a bit of my crankiness, and you know
me well enough to know it."
"Give him the position of assayer in charge."
"Great Scott! and fire Benson, who's been there for five years?"
"It makes no difference how long he's been there. Darrell is a better
man every way,--quicker, more accurate, more scientific. You can put
Benson to sorting and weighing ores down at the ore-bins."
After a brief silence Mr. Britton continued, "You couldn't find a better
man for the place or a better position for the man. The work is
evidently right in the line of his profession, and therefore congenial;
and even though you should pay him no more salary than Benson, that,
with outside work in the way of assays for neighboring camps, will be
better than any business interest you would give him short of twelve or
eighteen months at least."
"I guess you're right, and I'll give him the place; but hang it all! I
did want to put him in Harry's place. You and I are getting along in
years, Jack, and it's time we had some young man getting broke to the
harness, so that after a while he could take the brunt of things and let
us old fellows slack up a bit."
"We could not expect that of Darrell," said Mr. Britton. "He is neither
kith nor kin of ours, and when once Nature's ties begin to assert
themselves in his mind, we may find our hold upon him very slight."
Both men sighed deeply, as though the thought had in some way touched an
unpleasant chord. After a pause, Mr. Britton inquired,--
"You have no clue whatever as to Darrell's identity, have you?"
Mr. Underwood shook his head. "Queerest case I ever saw! There wasn't a
scrap of paper nor a pen-mark to show who he was. Parkinson, the mine
expert who was on the same train, said he didn't remember seeing him
until Harry introduced him; he said he supposed he was some friend of
Harry's. Since his sickness I've looked up the conductor on that train
and questioned him, but all he could remember was that he boarded the
train a little this side of Galena and that he had a ticket through from
St. Paul."
"You say this Parkinson was a mine expert; what was he doing out here?"
"He was one of three or four that were here at that time, looking up the
Ajax for eastern parties."
"In all probability," said Mr. Britton, musingly, "Darrell was here on
the same business."
"If that was his business, he said nothing about it to me, and I would
have thought he would, under the circumstances."
"I wonder whether we could ascertain from the owners of the Ajax what
experts were out here or expected out here at that time?"
Mr. Underwood smiled grimly. "Not from the former owners, for nobody
knows where they are, though there are some people quite anxious to
know; and not from the present owners, for they are too busy looking for
their predecessors in interest to think of anything else."
"Why, has the Ajax really changed owners? Did they find any one to buy
it?"
"Yes, a Scotch syndicate bought it. They sent over a man--one of their
own number, I believe, and authorized to act for them--that I guess knew
more about sampling liquors than ores. The Ajax people worked him
accordingly, with the result that the mine was sold at the figure
named,--one million, half down, you know. The man rushed back to New
York, to meet a partner whom he had cabled to come over. About ten days
later they arrived on the ground and began operations at the Ajax. The
mill ran for just ten days when they discovered the condition of affairs
and shut down, and they have been looking for the former owners ever
since."
Both men laughed, then relapsed into silence. A little later, as Mr.
Britton stirred the fire to a brighter glow, he said, while the tender
curves about his mouth deepened,--
"I cannot help feeling that the coming to us of this young man, whose
identity is wrapped in so much mystery, has some peculiar significance
to each of us. I believe that in some way, whether for good or ill I
cannot tell, his life is to be henceforth inseparably linked with our
own lives. He already holds, as you know, a place in each of our hearts
which no stranger has held before, and I have only this to say, David,
old friend, that our mutual regard for him, our mutual efforts for his
well-being, must never lead to any estrangement between ourselves. We
have been stanch friends for too many years for any one at this late
date to come between us; and you must never envy me my little share in
the boy's friendship."
The two men had risen and now stood before the fire with clasped hands.
"I was an old fool to-night, Jack; that was all," said Mr. Underwood,
rather gruffly. "I haven't the knack of saying things that you
have,--never had,--but I'm with you all the time."
On the forenoon of the following day Darrell was shown the underground
workings of the various mines, not excepting the Bird Mine, located
almost at the summit of the mountain. This was the newest mine in camp,
but, in proportion to its development, the best producer of all.
After an early dinner there was a private meeting in the reception-room
beyond the office, at which were present only Mr. Underwood, Mr.
Britton, and Darrell, and at which Mr. Underwood duly tendered to
Darrell the position of assayer in charge at the Camp Bird mill, which
the latter accepted with a frank and manly gratitude which more than
ever endeared him to the hearts of his two friends. In this little
proceeding Mr. Britton purposely took no part, standing before the
grate, his back towards the others, gazing into the fire as though
absorbed in his own thoughts. When all was over, however, he
congratulated Darrell with a warmth and tenderness which filled both the
heart and the eyes of the latter to overflowing. That night, after their
arrival at The Pines, as Mr. Britton and Darrell took their accustomed
stroll, the latter said,--
"Mr. Britton, I feel that I have you to thank for my good fortune of
to-day. You had nothing to say when Mr. Underwood offered me that
position, but, nevertheless, I believe the offer was made at your
suggestion. It was, in reality, your kindness, not his."
"You are partly right and partly wrong," replied Mr. Britton, smiling.
"Never doubt Mr. Underwood's kindness of heart towards yourself. If I
had any part in that affair, it was only to indicate the channel in
which that kindness should flow."
Together they talked of the strange course of events which had finally
brought him and the work for which he was especially adapted together.
"Do you know," said Mr. Britton, as they paused on the veranda before
entering the house, "I am no believer in accident. I believe that of the
so-called 'happenings' in our lives, each has its appointed time and
mission; and it is not for us to say which is trivial or which is
important, until, knowing as we are known, we look back upon life as God
sees it."
_Chapter VIII_
"UNTIL THE DAY BREAK"
A week later Darrell was duly installed at the mining camp. Mr. Britton
had already left, called on private business to another part of the
State. After his departure, life at The Pines did not seem the same to
Darrell. He sorely missed the companionship--amounting almost to
comradeship, notwithstanding the disparity of their years--which had
existed between them from their first meeting, and he was not sorry when
the day came for him to exchange the comfort and luxury with which the
kindness of Mr. Underwood and his sister had surrounded him for the
rough fare and plain quarters of the mining camp.
Mrs. Dean, when informed of Darrell's position at the camp, had most
strenuously objected to his going, and had immediately stipulated that
he was to return to The Pines every Saturday and remain until Monday.
"Of course he's coming home every Saturday, and as much oftener as he
likes," her brother had interposed. "This is his home, and he
understands it without any words from us."
On the morning of his departure he realized as never before the depth of
the affection of his host and hostess for himself, manifesting itself as
it did in silent, unobtrusive acts of homely but heartfelt kindness. As
the storing of Darrell's belongings in the wagon which was to convey him
to the camp was about completed, Mrs. Dean appeared, carrying a large,
covered basket, with snow-white linen visible between the gaping edges
of the lids. This she deposited within the wagon, saying, as she turned
to Darrell,--
"There's a few things to last you through the week, just so you don't
forget how home cooking tastes."
And at the last moment there was brought from the stables at Mr.
Underwood's orders, for Darrell's use in going back and forth between
The Pines and the camp, a beautiful bay mare which had belonged to Harry
Whitcomb, and which, having sadly missed her young master, greeted
Darrell with a low whinny, muzzling his cheek and nosing his pockets for
sugar with the most affectionate familiarity.
It was a cold, bleak morning. The ground had frozen after a heavy rain,
and the wagon jolted roughly over the ruts in the canyon road, making
slow progress. The sky was overcast and straggling snowflakes wandered
aimlessly up and down in the still air.
Darrell, from his seat beside the driver, turned occasionally to speak
to Trix, the mare, fastened to the rear end of the wagon and daintily
picking her way along the rough road. Sometimes he hummed a bit of
half-remembered song, but for the most part he was silent. While not
attempting any definite analysis of his feelings, he was distinctly
conscious of conflicting emotions. He was deeply touched by the kindness
of Mr. Underwood and Mrs. Dean, and felt a sort of self-condemnation
that he was not more responsive to their affection. He knew that their
home and hearts were alike open to him; that he was as welcome as one of
their own flesh and blood; yet he experienced a sense of relief at
having escaped from the unvarying kindliness for which, at heart, he was
profoundly grateful. Even late that night, in the solitude of his
plainly furnished room, with the wind moaning outside and the snow
tapping with muffled fingers against the window pane, he yet exulted in
a sense of freedom and happiness hitherto unknown in the brief period
which held all he recalled of life.
The ensuing days and weeks passed pleasantly and swiftly for Darrell. He
quickly familiarized himself with the work which he had in charge, and
frequently found leisure, when his routine work was done, for
experiments and tests of his own, as well as for outside work which came
to him as his skill became known in neighboring camps. His evenings were
well filled, as he had taken up his old studies along the lines of
mineralogy and metallurgy, pushing ahead into new fields of research and
discovery, studying by night and experimenting by day. Meanwhile, the
rocky peaks around him seemed beckoning him with their talismanic signs,
as though silently challenging him to learn the mighty secrets for ages
hidden within their breasts, and he promised himself that with the
return of lengthening days, he would start forth, a humble learner, to
sit at the feet of those great teachers of the centuries. He had
occasional letters from Mr. Britton, cheering, inspiring, helpful, much
as his presence had been, and in return he wrote freely of his present
work and his plans for future work.
Sometimes, when books were closed or the plaintive tones of the violin
had died away in silence, he would sit for hours pondering the strange
problem of his own life; watching, listening for some sign from out the
past; but neither ray of light nor wave of sound came to him. His
physician had told him that some day the past would return, and that the
intervening months or years as the case might be, would then doubtless
be in turn forgotten, and as he revolved this in his mind he formed a
plan which he at once proceeded to put into execution.
On his return one night from a special trip to Ophir he went to his room
with more than usual haste, and opening a package in which he seemed
greatly interested, drew forth what appeared to be a book, about eleven
by fifteen inches in size, bound in flexible morocco and containing some
five or six hundred pages. The pages were blank, however, and bound
according to an ingenious device which he had planned and given the
binder, by which they could be removed and replaced at will, and, if
necessary, extra pages could be added.
For some time he stood by the light, turning the volume over and over
with an expression of mingled pleasure and sadness; then removing some
of the pages, he sat down and prepared to write. The new task to which
he had set himself was the writing of a complete record, day by day, of
this present life of his, beginning with the first glimmerings of
memory, faint and confused, in the earliest days of his convalescence at
The Pines. He dipped his pen, then hesitated; how should this strange
volume be inscribed?
Only for a moment; then his pen was gliding rapidly over the spotless
surface, and the first page, when laid aside, bore the following
inscription:
"To one from the outer world, whose identity is hidden among the
secrets of the past:
"With the hope that when the veil is lifted these pages may assist
him in uniting into one perfect whole the strangely disjointed
portions of his life, they are inscribed by
"JOHN DARRELL."
Below was the date, and then followed the words,--
"Until the day break, and the shadows flee away."
After penning the last words he paused, repeating them, vainly trying to
recall when or where he had heard them. They seemed to ring in his ears
like a strain of melody wafted from some invisible shore, and blending
with the minor undertone he caught a note of triumph. They had come to
him like a voice from out the past, but ringing with joyful assurance
for the future; the assurance that the night, however dark, must end in
a glorious dawning, in which no haunting shadow would have an
abiding-place.
_Chapter IX_
TWO PORTRAITS
The winter proved to be mild and open, so that Darrell's weekly visits
to The Pines were made with almost unbroken regularity, and to his
surprise he discovered as the months slipped away that, instead of a
mere obligation which he felt bound to perform, they were becoming a
source of pleasure. After a week of unremitting toil and study and
contact with the rough edges of human nature, there was something
unspeakably restful in the atmosphere of that quiet home; something
soothing in the silent, steadfast affection, the depth of which he was
only beginning to fathom.
One Saturday evening in the latter part of April Darrell was, as usual,
descending the canyon road on his way to The Pines. For weeks the winter
had lingered as though loath to leave, and Darrell, absorbed in work and
study, had gone his way, hiding his loneliness and suffering so deeply
as to be ofttimes forgotten even by himself, and at all times
unsuspected by those about him. Then, in one night had come the warm
breath of the west winds, and within a few hours the earth was
transformed as though by magic, and the restless longing within his
breast awoke with tenfold intensity.
As he rode along he was astounded at the changes wrought in one week.
From the southern slopes of the mountains the snow had almost
disappeared and the sunny exposures of the ranges were fast brightening
into vivid green. The mountain streams had burst their icy fetters and,
augmented by the melting snows, were roaring tumultuously down their
channels, tumbling and plunging over rocky ledges in sheets of
shimmering silver or foaming cascades; then, their mad frolic ended,
flowing peacefully through distant valleys onward to the rivers, ever
chanting the song which would one day blend in the great ocean
harmonies.
The frail flowers, clinging to the rocks and smiling fearlessly up into
the face of the sun, the silvery sheen of the willows along the distant
water-courses, the softened outlines and pale green of budding
cottonwoods in the valleys far below, all told of the newly released
life currents bounding through the veins of every living thing. From the
lower part of the canyon, the wild, ecstatic song of a robin came to him
on the evening breeze, and in the slanting sunbeams myriads of tiny
midges held high carnival. The whole earth seemed pulsating with new
life, and tree and flower, bird and insect were filled anew with the
unspeakable joy of living.
Amid this universal baptism of life, what wonder that he felt his own
pulse quicken and the warm life-blood leaping swiftly within his veins!
His heart but throbbed in unison with the great heart of Nature, but its
very beating stifled him as the sense of his own restrictions came back
upon him with crushing weight. For one moment he paused, his spirit
struggling wildly against the bars imprisoning it; then, with a look
towards the skies of dumb, appealing anguish, he rode onward, his head
bowed, his heart sick with unutterable longing.
Arriving at The Pines, he received the usual welcome, but neither its
undemonstrative affection nor the restful quiet of the old home could
soothe or satisfy him that night. But if his host and hostess noted the
gloom on his face or his restless manner they made no comments and asked
no questions.
On going upstairs at a late hour he went across the hall to the
libraries in search of a book with which to pass away the time, as he
was unable to sleep. He had no definite book in mind and wandered
aimlessly through both rooms, reading titles in an abstracted manner,
until he came at last face to face with the picture of Kate Underwood.
He had seen it many times without especially observing it, but in his
present mood it appealed to him as never before. The dark eyes seemed
fixed upon his face with a look of entreaty from which he could not
escape, and, drawing a chair in front of the easel, he sat down and
became absorbed in a study of the picture. Heretofore he had considered
it merely the portrait of a very young and somewhat plain girl. Now he
was surprised to find that the more it was studied in detail, the more
favorable was the impression produced. Though childish and immature,
there was not a weak line in the face. The nose and mouth were
especially fine, the former denoting distinct individuality, the latter
marked strength and sweetness of character; and while the upper part of
the face indicated keen perceptions and quick sympathies, the general
contour showed a nature strong either to do or to endure. The eyes were
large and beautiful, but it was not their beauty which riveted Darrell's
attention; it was their look of wistful appeal, of unsatisfied longing,
which led him at last to murmur, while his eyes moistened,--
"You dear child! How is it that in your short life, surrounded by all
that love can provide, you have come to know such heart hunger as that?"
Long after he had returned to his room those eyes still haunted him,
nor could he banish the conviction that some time, somewhere, in that
young life there had been an unfilled void which in some degree, however
slight, corresponded to the blank emptiness of his own.
The next morning Darrell attended church with Mrs. Dean. The latter was
a strict church-woman, and Darrell, by way of showing equal courtesy to
host and hostess, usually accompanied her in the morning, devoting the
afternoon to Mr. Underwood.
After lunch he and Mr. Underwood seated themselves in one of the sunny
bay-windows for their customary chat, Mrs. Dean having gone to her room
for the afternoon nap which was as much a part of her Sunday programme
as the morning sermon.
For a while they talked of the latest developments at the mines, but Mr.
Underwood seemed preoccupied, gazing out of the window and frowning
heavily. At last, after a long silence, he said, slowly,--
"I expect we're going to have trouble at the camp this season."
"How is that?" Darrell asked quickly, in a tone of surprise.
"Oh, it's some of this union business," the other answered, with a
gesture of impatience, "and about the most foolish proposition I ever
heard of, at that. But," he added, decidedly, "they know my position;
they know they'll get no quarter from me. I've steered clear of them so
far; they've let me alone and I've let them alone, but when it comes to
a parcel of union bosses undertaking to run my business or make terms to
me, I'll fight 'em to a finish, and they know it."
Darrell, watching the face of the speaker, saw the lines about his mouth
harden and his lips settle into a grim smile that boded no good to his
opponents.
"What do they want--higher wages or shorter hours?" he inquired.
"Neither," said Mr. Underwood, shortly, as he re-lighted his pipe. After
a few puffs he continued:
"As I said before, it's the most foolish proposition I ever heard of.
You see, there's five or six camps, all told, in the neighborhood of our
camp up there. One or two of the lot, like the Buckeye group, for
instance, are run by men that haven't much capital, and I suppose are
working as economically as they can. Anyhow, there's been some kicking
over there among the miners about the grub, and the upshot of the whole
thing is that the union has taken the matter in hand and is going to
open a union boarding-house and take in the men from all the camps at
six bits a day for each man, instead of the regular rate of a dollar a
day charged by the mining companies."
"The scale of wages to remain the same, I suppose," said Darrell; "so
that means a gain to each man of twenty-five cents a day?"
"Exactly," said Mr. Underwood. "It means a gain of two bits a day to
each man; it means loss and inconvenience to the companies, and it means
a big pile of money in the pockets of the bosses who are running the
thing."
"There are not many of the owners up there that can stand that sort of
thing," said Darrell, reflectively.
"Of course they can't stand it, and they won't stand it if they've got
any backbone! Take Dwight and Huntley; they've been to heavy expense in
enlarging their mill and have just put up a new boarding-house, and
they're in debt; they can't afford to have all that work and expenditure
for nothing. Now, with us the loss wouldn't be so great as with the
others, for we don't make so much out of our boarding-house. My motto
has always been 'Live and let live,' and I give my men a good
table,--just what I'd want for myself if I were in their places. It
isn't the financial part that troubles me. What I object to is this: I
won't have my men tramping three-quarters of a mile for meals that won't
be as good as they can get right on their own grounds; more than that,
I've got a good, likely set of men, and I won't have them demoralized by
herding them in with the tough gangs from those other camps; and above
all and once for all,"--here Mr. Underwood's tones became excited as he
exclaimed, with an oath,--"I've always been capable of running my own
business, and I'll run it yet, and no damned union boss will ever run it
for me!"
"How do the men feel about it? Have you talked with them?" Darrell
inquired.
"There isn't one of them that's dissatisfied or would leave of his own
free will," Mr. Underwood replied, "but I don't suppose they would dare
to stand out against the bosses. Why, man, if the workingmen only knew
it, they are ten times worse slaves to the union bosses than ever they
were to corporations. They have to pay over their wages to let those
fellows live like nabobs; they have to come and go at their beck and
call, and throw up good positions and live in enforced idleness because
of some other fellows' grievances; they don't dare express an opinion or
say their souls are their own. Humph!"
"Mr. Underwood," said Darrell, who had been smilingly listening to the
other's tirade, "what will you do if this comes to a strike?"
"Strike!" he exclaimed in tones of scathing contempt. "Strike? I'll
strike too, and they'll find I can strike just as hard as they can, and
a little harder!"
"Will you close down?"
The shrewd face grew a bit shrewder. "If it's necessary to close down,"
he remarked, evasively, "I'll close down. I guess I can stand it as long
as they can. Those mines have lain there in those rocks idle for
centuries, for aught that I know; 'twon't hurt 'em to lie idle a few
weeks or months now; nobody'll run off with 'em, I guess."
Darrell laughed aloud. "Well, one thing is certain, Mr. Underwood; I,
for one, wouldn't want to quarrel with you!"
Mr. Underwood slowly shook his head. "You'd better not try it, my boy;
you'd better not!"
"When do you expect this trouble to come to a head?" Darrell asked at
length.
"Some time in the early part of July, probably; they expect to get their
arrangements completed by that time."
A long silence followed; Mrs. Dean came softly into the room and took
her accustomed seat, and, as Mr. Underwood made it a point never to talk
of business matters in his sister's presence, nothing more was said
regarding the prospective disturbance at the mines.
After dinner the beauty of the sunset brought them out upon the veranda.
The air was warm and fragrant with the breath of spring. The buds were
swelling on the lilacs near the house, and out on the lawn, beyond the
driveway, millions of tiny spears of living green trembled in the light
breeze.
"David," said Mrs. Dean, presently, "have you shown Mr. Darrell that
picture of Katherine that came yesterday?"
"I declare! No; I had forgotten it!" Mr. Underwood exclaimed.
"It's well for you she isn't here to hear you say that!" Mrs. Dean
remarked, smiling.
"Puss knows her old father well enough to know he wouldn't forget her
very long. Bring the picture out, Marcia."
Darrell heard Mrs. Dean approaching, and turned, with the glory of the
sunset in his eyes.
"Don't you want to see Katherine's new picture?" she inquired.
Her words instantly recalled the portrait he had studied the preceding
night, and with that in his mind he took the picture she handed him and
silently compared the two.
Ah, the beauty of the spring, everywhere confronting him, was in that
face also; the joy of a life as yet pure, untainted, and untrammelled.
It was like looking into the faces of the spring flowers which reflect
only the sunshine, the purity and the sweetness of earth. There was a
touch of womanly dignity, too, in the poise of the head, but the
beautiful eyes, though lighted with the faint dawn of coming womanhood,
were the same as those that had appealed to him the night before with
their wistful longing.
"It is a fine portrait, but as I do not remember her, I cannot judge
whether it is like herself or not," he said, handing the picture to Mr.
Underwood, who seemed almost to devour it with his eyes, though he spoke
no word and not a muscle moved in his stern, immobile face.
"She is getting to be such a young lady," remarked Mrs. Dean, "that I
expect when she comes home we will feel as though she had grown away
from us all."
"She will never do that, Marcia, never!" said Mr. Underwood, brusquely,
as he abruptly left the group and went into the house.
There was a moment's silence, then Mrs. Dean said, in a low tone,--
"She is getting to look just like her mother. I haven't seen David so
affected since his wife died as he was when that picture came
yesterday."
Darrell bowed silently, in token that he understood.
"She was a lovely woman, but she was very different from any of our
folks," she added, with a sigh, "and I guess Katherine is going to be
just like her."
"When is Miss Underwood expected home?" Darrell inquired.
"About the last of June," was the reply.
Long after the sun had set Darrell paced up and down the veranda,
pausing at intervals to gaze with unseeing eyes out over the peaceful
scene below him, his only companions his own troubled thoughts. The
young moon was shining, and in its pale radiance his set face gleamed
white like marble.
Like, and yet unlike, it was to the face of the sleeper journeying
westward on that summer afternoon eight months before. Experience, the
mighty sculptor, was doing his work, and doing it well; only a few lines
as yet, here and there, and the face was already stronger, finer. But it
was the face of one hardened by his own sufferings, not softened by the
sufferings of others. The sculptor's work was as yet only begun.
_Chapter X_
THE COMMUNION OF TWO SOULS
Gradually the springtide crept upward into the heart of the mountains,
quickening the pulses of the rocks themselves until even the mosses and
lichens slumbering at their feet awakened to renewed life. Bits of green
appeared wherever a grass root could push its way through the rocky
soil, and fragile wild flowers gleamed, starlike, here and there, fed by
tiny rivulets which trickled from slowly melting snows on the summits
far above.
With the earliest warm days Darrell had started forth to explore the
surrounding mountains, eager to learn the secrets which they seemed ever
challenging him to discover. New conditions confronted him, sometimes
baffling him, but always inciting to renewed effort. His enthusiasm was
so aroused that often, when his day's work was done, taking a light
lunch with him, he pursued his studies while the daylight lasted,
walking back in the long twilight, and in the solitude of his room
making full notes of the results of that day's research before retiring
for the night.
Returning one evening from one of these expeditions he saw, pacing back
and forth before the office building, a figure which he at once
recognized as that of Mr. Britton. Instantly all thought of work or
weariness was forgotten, and he hastened forward, while Mr. Britton,
catching sight of Darrell rapidly approaching, turned and came down the
road to meet him.
"A thousand welcomes!" Darrell cried, as soon as they were within
speaking distance; "say, but this is glorious to see you here! How long
have I kept you waiting?"
"A few hours, but that does not matter; it does us good to have to stop
and call a halt on ourselves once in a while. How are you, my son?" And
as the two grasped hands the elder man looked searchingly through the
gathering dusk into the face of the younger. Even in the dim twilight,
Darrell could feel that penetrating glance reading his inmost soul.
"I am well and doing well," he answered; "my physical health is perfect;
as for the rest--your coming is the very best thing that could have
happened. Are you alone?" he asked, eagerly, "or did Mr. Underwood come
with you?"
"I came alone," Mr. Britton replied, with quiet emphasis, linking his
arm within Darrell's as they ascended the road together.
"How long have you been in town?"
"But two days. I am on my way to the coast, and only stopped off for a
few days. I shall spend to-morrow with you, go back with you Saturday to
The Pines, and go on my way Monday."
Having made his guest as comfortable as possible in his own room,
Darrell laid aside his working paraphernalia, his hammer, and bag of
rock specimens, and donning a house coat and pair of slippers seated
himself near Mr. Britton, all the time conscious of the close but kindly
scrutiny with which the latter was regarding him.
"This is delightful!" he exclaimed; "but it is past my comprehension how
Mr. Underwood ever let you slip off alone!"
Mr. Britton looked amused. "I told him I was coming to see you, and I
think he intended coming with me till he heard me order my saddle-horse
for the trip. I think that settled the matter. I believe there can be no
perfect interchange of confidence except between two. The presence of a
third party--even though a mutual friend--breaks the magnetic circuit
and weakens the current of sympathy. Our interviews are necessarily
rare, and I want to make the most of them; therefore I would come to you
alone or not at all."
"Yes," Darrell replied; "your visits are so rare that every moment is
precious to me, and think of the hours I lost by my absence to-day!"
"Do you court Dame Nature so assiduously every day, subsisting on cold
lunches and tramping the mountains till nightfall?"
"Not every day, but as often as possible," Darrell replied, smiling.
"And I suppose if I were not here you would now be burrowing into that
pile over there?" Mr. Britton said, glancing significantly towards the
table covered to a considerable depth with books of reference,
note-books, writing-pads, and sheets of closely written manuscript.
"Let me show you what I am doing; it will take but a moment," said
Darrell, springing to his feet.
He drew forth several sets of extensive notes on researches and
experiments he was making along various lines of study, in which Mr.
Britton became at once deeply interested.
"You have a good thing here; stick to it!" he said at length, looking up
from the perusal of Darrell's geological notes, gathered from his
studies of the rock formations in that vicinity. "You have a fine field
in which to pursue this branch, and with the knowledge you already have
on this subject and the discoveries you are likely to make, you may be
able to make some very valuable contributions to the science one of
these days."
"That is just what I hope to do!" exclaimed Darrell eagerly; "just what
I am studying for day and night!"
"But you must use moderation," said Mr. Britton, smiling at the younger
man's enthusiasm; "you are young, you have years before you in which to
do this work, and this constant study, night and day, added to your
regular routine work, is too much for you. You are looking fagged
already."
"If I am, it is not the work that is fagging me," Darrell replied,
quickly, his tones becoming excited; "Mr. Britton, I must work; I must
accomplish all I can for two reasons. You say I have years before me in
which to do this work. God knows I hope I haven't got to work years like
this,--only half alive, you might say,--and when the change comes, if it
ever does, you know, of course, I cannot and would not remain here."
"I understand you would not remain here," said Mr. Britton slowly, and
laying his hand soothingly on the arm of his agitated companion, "but
you can readily see that not only your education, but your natural trend
of thought, is along these lines; therefore, when you are fully restored
to your normal self you will be the more--not the less--interested in
these things, and I predict that no matter when the time comes for you
to leave, you will, after a while, return to continue this same line of
work amid the same surroundings, but, we hope, under far happier
conditions."
Darrell shook his head slowly. "It does not seem to me that I would ever
wish to return to a place where I had suffered as I have here."
Mr. Britton smiled, one of his slow, sad, sweet smiles that Darrell
loved to watch, that seemed to dawn in his eyes and gradually to spread
until every feature was irradiated with a tender, beneficent light.
"I once thought as you do," he said, gently, "but after years of
wandering, I find that the place most sacred to me now is that hallowed
by the bitterest agony of my life."
Without replying Darrell unconsciously drew nearer to his friend, and a
brief silence followed, broken by Mr. Britton, who inquired, in a
lighter tone,--
"What is the other reason for your constant application to your work?
You said there were two."
Darrell bowed his head upon his hands as he answered in a low,
despairing tone,--
"To stop thinking, thinking, thinking; it will drive me mad!"
"I have been there, my boy; I know," Mr. Britton responded; then, after
a pause, he continued:
"Something in the tenor of your last letter made me anxious to come to
you. I thought I detected something of the old restlessness. Has the
coming of spring, quickening the life forces all around you, stirred the
life currents in your own veins till your spirit is again tugging at its
fetters in its struggles for release?"
With a startled movement Darrell raised his head, meeting the clear eyes
fixed upon him.
"How could you know?" he demanded.
"Because, as Emerson says, 'the heart in thee is the heart of all.'
There are few hearts whose pulses are not stirred by the magic influence
of the springtide, and under its potent spell I knew you would feel your
present limitations even more keenly than ever before."
"Thank God, you understand!" Darrell exclaimed; then continued,
passionately: "The last three weeks have been torture to me if I but
allowed myself one moment's thought. Wherever I look I see life--life,
perfect and complete in all its myriad forms--the life that is denied to
me! This is not living,--this existence of mine,--with brain shackled,
fettered, in many ways helpless as a child, knowing less than a child,
and not even mercifully wrapped in oblivion, but compelled to feel the
constant goading and galling of the fetters, to be reminded of them at
every turn! My God! if it were not for constant work and study I would
go mad!"
In the silence which followed Darrell's mind reverted to that autumn day
on which he had first met John Britton and confided to him his trouble;
and now, as then, he was soothed and strengthened by the presence beside
him, by the magnetism of that touch, although no word was spoken.
As he reviewed their friendship of the past months he became conscious
for the first time of its one-sidedness. He had often unburdened himself
to his friend, confiding to him his griefs, and receiving in turn
sympathy and counsel; but of the great, unknown sorrow that had wrought
such havoc in his own life, what word had John Britton ever spoken? As
Darrell recalled the bearing of his friend through all their
acquaintance and his silence regarding his own sufferings, his eyes grew
dim. The man at his side seemed, in the light of that revelation,
stronger, grander, nobler than ever before; not unlike to the giant
peaks whose hoary heads then loomed darkly against the starlit sky,
calm, silent, majestic, giving no token of the throes of agony which,
ages agone, had rent them asunder except in the mystic symbols graven on
their furrowed brows. In that light his own complaints seemed puerile.
At that moment Darrell was conscious of a new fortitude born within his
soul; a new purpose, henceforth to dominate his life.
A heavy sigh from Mr. Britton broke the silence. "I know the fetters are
galling," he said, "but have patience and hope, for, at the time
appointed, the shackles will be loosened, the fetters broken."
Darrell faced his companion, a new light in his eyes but recently so
dark with despair, as he asked, earnestly and tenderly,--
"Dearest and best of friends, is there no time appointed for the lifting
of the burden borne so nobly and uncomplainingly, 'lo, these many
years?'"
With a grave, sweet smile the elder man shook his head, and, rising,
began pacing up and down the room. "There are some burdens, my son, that
time cannot lift; they can only be laid down at the gates of eternity."
With a strange, choking sensation in his throat Darrell rose, and, going
to the window, stood looking out at the dim outlines of the neighboring
peaks. Their vast solitude no longer oppressed him as at the first; it
calmed and soothed him in his restless moods, and to-night those grim
monarchs dwelling in silent fellowship seemed to him the embodiment of
peace and rest.
After a time Mr. Britton paused beside him, and, throwing his arm about
his shoulders, asked,--
"What are your thoughts, my son?"
"Only a whim, a fancy that has taken possession of me the last few days,
since my wanderings among the mountains," he answered, lightly; "a
longing to bury myself in some sort of a retreat on one of these old
peaks and devote myself to study."
"And live a hermit's life?" Mr. Britton queried, with a peculiar smile.
"For a while, yes," Darrell replied, more seriously; "until I have
learned to fight these battles out by myself, and to conquer myself."
"There are battles," said the other, speaking thoughtfully, "which are
waged best in solitude, but self is conquered only by association with
one's fellows. Solitude breeds selfishness."
Mr. Britton had resumed his pacing up and down, but a few moments later,
as he approached Darrell, the latter turned, suddenly confronting him.
"My dear friend," he said, "you have been everything to me; you have
done everything for me; I ask you to do one thing more,--forgive and
answer this question: How have you conquered?"
The look of pain that crossed his companion's face filled Darrell with
regret for what he had said, but before he could speak again Mr. Britton
replied gently, with his old smile,--
"I doubt whether I have yet wholly conquered; but whatever victory is
mine, I have won, not in solitude and seclusion, but in association with
the sorrowing, the suffering, the sinning, and in sharing their burdens
I found rest from my own."
He paused a moment, then continued, his glowing eyes holding Darrell as
though under a spell:
"I know not why, but since our first meeting you have given me a new
interest, a new joy in life. I have been drawn to you and I have loved
you as I thought never again to love any human being, and some day I
will tell you what I have told no other human being,--the story of my
life."
On Saturday Mr. Britton and Darrell returned to The Pines. The
increasing intimacy between them was evident even there. For the last
day or so Mr. Britton had fallen into the habit of addressing Darrell by
his Christian name, much to the latter's delight. For this Mrs. Dean
laughingly called him to account, compelling Mr. Britton to come to his
own defence.
"'John,'" he exclaimed; "of course I'll call him 'John.' It seems
wonderfully pleasant to me. I've always wanted a namesake, and I can
consider him one."
"A namesake!" ejaculated Mrs. Dean, smiling broadly; "I wonder if
there's a poor family or one that's seen trouble of any kind anywhere
around here that hasn't a 'John Britton' among its children! I should
think you had namesakes enough now!"
"One might possibly like to have one of his own selection," he replied,
dryly.
As Darrell took leave of Mr. Britton the following Monday morning the
latter said,--
"By the way, John, whenever you are ready to enter upon that hermit life
let me know; I'll provide the hermitage."
"Are you joking?" Darrell queried, unable to catch his meaning.
"Never more serious in my life," he replied, with such unusual gravity
that Darrell forbore to question further.
_Chapter XI_
IMPENDING TROUBLE
The five or six weeks following Mr. Britton's visit passed so swiftly
that Darrell was scarcely conscious of their flight. His work at the
mill, which had been increased by valuable strikes recently made in the
mines, in addition to considerable outside work in the way of attests
and assays, had left him little time for study or experiment. For nearly
three weeks he had not left the mining camp, the last two Saturdays
having found him too weary with the preceding week's work to undertake
the long ride to Ophir.
During this time Mr. Underwood had been a frequent visitor at the camp,
led not only by his interest in the mining developments, but also by his
curiosity regarding the progress made by the union in the construction
of its boarding-house, and also to watch the effect on his own
employees.
Entering the laboratory one day after one of his rounds of the camp, he
stood for some time silently watching Darrell at his work.
"In case of a shut-down here," he said at length, speaking abruptly,
"how would you like a clerical position in my office down there at
Ophir,--book-keeping or something of the sort,--just temporarily, you
know?"
Darrell looked up from his work in surprise. "Do you regard a shut-down
as imminent?" he inquired, smiling.
"Well, yes; there's no half-way measures with me. No man that works for
me will go off the grounds for his meals. But that isn't answering my
question."
Darrell's face grew serious. "You forget, Mr. Underwood, that until I am
put to the test, I have no means of knowing whether or not I can do the
work you wish done."
"By George! I never once thought of that!" Mr. Underwood exclaimed,
somewhat embarrassed, adding, hastily, "but then, I didn't mean
book-keeping in particular, but clerical work generally; copying
instruments, looking up records, and so on. You see, it's like this," he
continued, seating himself near Darrell; "I'm thinking of taking in a
partner--not in this mining business, it has nothing to do with that,
but just in my mortgage-loan business down there; and in case I do,
we'll need two or three additional clerks and book-keepers, and I
thought you might like to come in just temporarily until we resume
operations here. Of course, the salary wouldn't be so very much, but I
thought it might be better than nothing to bridge over."
"How long do you expect to be closed down here, Mr. Underwood?"
"Until the men come to their senses or we find others to take their
places," the elder man answered, decidedly; "it may be six weeks or it
may be six months. I was talking with Dwight, from the Buckeye Camp,
this morning. He says they've been to too much expense to put up with
the proposition for a moment; they simply can't stand it, and won't;
they'll shut down and pull out first. I don't believe that mine is
paying very well, anyway."
"Mr. Underwood," said Darrell, slowly, "if this were a question of
accommodation to yourself, of coming into your office and helping you
out personally, I would gladly do it; salary would be no object; but to
take a merely clerical position for an indefinite time when I have a
good, lucrative profession does not seem to me a very wise policy. There
must be plenty of assaying to be done in Ophir; why couldn't I
temporarily open an office there?"
"I guess there's no reason why you couldn't if you want to," Mr.
Underwood replied, evidently disappointed by Darrell's reply and eying
him sharply, "and if you want to open up an office of your own there's
plenty of room for you in our building. You know the building was
formerly occupied by one of Ophir's wildcat banks that collapsed in the
general crash six years ago, and there's a fine lot of private offices
in the rear, opening on the side street; one of those rooms fitted up
would be just the place for you."
"Much obliged," said Darrell, smiling; "we'll see about it if the time
comes that I need it. Possibly your prospective partner will have use
for all the private offices."
"I guess I'll have some say about that," Mr. Underwood returned,
gruffly; then, after a short pause, he continued: "I haven't fully
decided about this partnership business. I talked it over with Jack when
he was here, but he didn't seem to favor the idea; told me that at my
age I had better let well enough alone. I told him that I didn't see
what my age had to do with it, that I was capable of looking after my
own interests, partner or no partner, but that I'd no objection to
having some one else take the brunt of the work while I looked on."
"Is the man a stranger or an acquaintance?" Darrell inquired.
"I'm not personally acquainted with him, but he's not exactly a
stranger, for he's lived in Ophir, off and on, for the last five years.
His name is Walcott. He says his father is an Englishman and very
wealthy; he himself, I should judge, has some Spanish blood in his
veins. He spends part of his time in Texas, where he has heavy cattle
interests; in fact, has been there for the greater part of the past
year. He wants to go into the mortgage-loan business, and offers to put
in seventy-five thousand and give his personal attention to the business
for thirty-three and a third per cent. of the profits."
"What has been his business in Ophir all these years?"
"Life insurance mostly, I believe; had two offices, one in Ophir and one
at Galena, and has also done some private loan business."
"What sort of a reputation has he?"
"First-rate. I've made a number of inquiries about him in both places,
and nobody has a word to say against him; very quiet, minds his own
business, a man of few words; just about my sort of a man, I should
judge," Mr. Underwood concluded as he rose from his chair.
"Well, Mr. Underwood," said Darrell, "whatever arrangements you decide
to make, I wish you success."
"No more than I do you, my boy, in anything your pig-headedness leads
you into," Mr. Underwood replied, brusquely, but with a humorous twinkle
in his eyes. "Confound you!" he added; "I'd help you if you'd give me a
chance, but maybe it's best to let you 'gang your ain gait.'" And he
walked out of the room before Darrell could reply.
A moment later he looked in at the door. "By the way, if you're not at
The Pines by five o'clock sharp next Saturday afternoon, Marcia says
she's going to send an officer up here after you with a writ of habeas
corpus, or something of the sort."
"All right; I'll be there," Darrell laughed.
"You'll find the old place a bit brighter than you've seen it yet, for
we had a letter from Puss this morning that she'll be home to-morrow."
With the last words the door closed and Darrell was left alone with his
thoughts, to which, however, he could then give little time. But when
the day's work was done he went for a stroll, and, seating himself upon
a large rock, carefully reviewed the situation.
Hitherto he had given little thought to the impending trouble at the
camp, supposing it would affect himself but slightly; but he now
realized that a suspension of operations there would mean an entire
change in his mode of living. The prospective change weighed on his
sensitive spirits like an incubus. Even The Pines, he dismally
reflected, would no longer seem the same quiet, homelike retreat, since
it was to be invaded and dominated by a youthful presence between whom
and himself there would probably be little congeniality.
But finally telling himself that these reflections were childish, he
rose as the last sunset rays were sinking behind the western ranges and
the rosy flush on the summits was fading, and, walking swiftly to his
room, resolutely buried himself in his studies.
_Chapter XII_
NEW LIFE IN THE OLD HOME
On the following Saturday, as Darrell ascended the long driveway leading
to The Pines, he was startled at the transformation which the place had
undergone since last he was there. The rolling lawn seemed carpeted with
green velvet, enlivened here and there with groups of beautiful foliage
plants. Fountains were playing in the sunlight, their glistening spray
tinted with rainbow lights. Flowers bloomed in profusion, their colors
set off by the gray background of the stone walls of the house. The
syringas by the bay-windows were bent to the ground with their burden of
snowy blossoms, whose fragrance, mingled with that of the June roses,
greeted him as he approached. He forgot his three weeks' absence and the
rapid growth in that high altitude; the change seemed simply magical.
Then, as he caught a glimpse through the pines of a slender, girlish
figure, dressed in white, darting hither and thither, he wondered no
longer; it was but the fit accompaniment of the young, joyous life which
had come to the old place.
As he came out into the open, he saw a young girl romping up and down
before the house with a fine Scotch collie, and he could not restrain a
smile as he recalled Mrs. Dean's oft-repeated declaration that there was
one thing she would never tolerate, and that was a dog or a cat about
the house. She had not yet seen him; but when she did, the frolic ceased
and she started towards the house. Then suddenly she stopped, as though
she recognized some one or something, and stood awaiting his approach,
her lips parted in a smile, two small, shapely hands shading her eyes
from the sun. As he came nearer, he had time to note the lithe, supple
figure, just rounding into the graceful outlines of womanhood; the full,
smiling lips, the flushed cheeks, and the glint of gold in her brown
hair; and the light, the beauty, the fragrance surrounding her seemed an
appropriate setting to the picture. She was a part of the scene.
Darrell, of course, had no knowledge of his own age, but at that moment
he felt very remote from the embodiment of youth before him; he seemed
to himself to have been suddenly relegated to the background, among the
elder members of the family.
The collie had been standing beside his mistress with his head on one
side, regarding Darrell with a sharp, inquisitive look, and he now broke
the silence, which threatened to prove rather embarrassing, with a short
bark.
"Hush, Duke!" said the girl, in a low tone; then, as Darrell dismounted,
she came swiftly towards him, extending her hand.
"This is Mr. Darrell, I know," she said, speaking quite rapidly in a
clear, musical voice, without a shade of affectation, "and you probably
know who I am, so we will need no introduction."
"Yes, Miss Underwood," said Darrell, smiling into the beautiful brown
eyes, "I would have recognized you anywhere from your picture."
"And you have Trix, haven't you?" she exclaimed, turning to caress the
mare. "Dear old Trix! Just let her go, Mr. Darrell; she will go to the
stables of her own accord and Bennett will take care of her; that was
the way Harry taught her. Go find Bennett, Trix!"
They watched Trix follow the driveway and disappear around the corner,
then both turned towards the house.
"Auntie is out just now," said the girl; "she had to go down town, but I
am expecting her back every minute. Will you go into the house, Mr.
Darrell, or do you prefer a seat on the veranda?"
"The veranda looks inviting; suppose we sit here," Darrell suggested.
They had reached the steps leading to the entrance. On the top step the
collie had seated himself and was now awaiting their approach with the
air of one expecting due recognition.
"Mr. Darrell," said the young girl, with a merry little laugh, "allow me
to present you to His Highness, the Duke of Argyle!"
The collie gave his head a slight backward toss, and, with great
dignity, extended his right paw to Darrell, which the latter, instantly
entering into the spirit of the joke, took, saying, with much gravity,--
"I am pleased to meet His Highness!"
The girl's brown eyes danced with enjoyment.
"You have made a friend of him for life, now," she said as they seated
themselves, Duke stationing himself at her side in such a manner as to
show his snow-white vest and great double ruff to the best possible
advantage. "He is a very aristocratic dog, and if any one fails to show
him what he considers proper respect, he is greatly affronted."
"He certainly is a royal-looking fellow," said Darrell, "but I cannot
imagine how you ever gained Mrs. Dean's consent to his presence here.
You must possess even more than the ordinary powers of feminine
persuasion."
"Aunt Marcia?" laughed the girl; "oh, well, you see it was a case of
'love me, love my dog.' Wherever I go, Duke must go, so auntie had to
submit to the inevitable."
Darrell found the situation far less embarrassing than he had expected.
His young companion, with keen, womanly intuition, had divined something
of his feeling, and tactfully avoiding any allusion to their previous
meeting, of which he had no recollection, kept the conversation on
subjects within the brief span of his memory. She seemed altogether
unconscious of the peculiar conditions surrounding himself, and the
brown eyes, meeting his own so frankly, had in their depths nothing of
the curiosity or the pity he had so often encountered, and had grown to
dread. She appeared so childlike and unaffected, and her joyous,
rippling laughter proved so contagious, that unconsciously the extra
years which a few moments before seemed to have been added to his life
dropped away; the grave, tense lines of his face relaxed, and before he
was aware he was laughing heartily at the account of some school-girl
escapade or at some tricks performed by Duke for his especial
entertainment.
In the midst of their merriment they heard the sound of hoof-beats, and,
turning, saw the family carriage approaching, containing both Mr.
Underwood and his sister.
"You two children seem to be enjoying yourselves!" was Mr. Underwood's
comment as the carriage stopped.
Darrell sprang to Mrs. Dean's assistance as she alighted, while Kate
Underwood ran down the steps to meet her father. Both greeted Darrell
warmly, but Mrs. Dean retained his hand a moment as she looked at him
with genuine motherly interest.
"I'm glad the truant has returned," she said, with her quiet smile; "I
only hope it seems as good to you to come home as it does to us to have
you here!"
Darrell was touched by her unusual kindness. "You can rest assured that
it does, mother," he said, earnestly. He was astonished at the effect of
his words: her face flushed, her lips trembled, and as she passed on
into the house her eyes glistened with tears.
Darrell looked about him in bewilderment. "What have I said?" he
questioned; "how did I wound her feelings?"
"She lost a son years ago, and she's never got over it," Mr. Underwood
explained, briefly.
"You did not hurt her feelings--she was pleased," Kate hastened to
reassure him; "but did she never speak to you about it?"
"Never," Darrell replied.
"Well, that is not to be wondered at, for she seldom alludes to it. He
died years ago, before I can remember, but she always grieves for him;
that was the reason," she added, reflectively, half to herself, "that
she always loved Harry better than she did me."
"Better than you, you jealous little Puss!" said her father, pinching
her cheek; "don't you have love enough, I'd like to know?"
"I can never have too much, you know, papa," she answered, very
seriously, and Darrell, watching, saw in the brown eyes for the first
time the wistful look he had seen in the two portraits.
She soon followed her aunt, but her father and Darrell remained outside
talking of business matters until summoned to dinner. On entering the
house Darrell saw on every hand evidences of the young life in the old
home. There was just a pleasant touch of disorder in the rooms he had
always seen kept with such precision: here a bit of unfinished
embroidery; there a book open, face down, just where the fair reader had
left it; the piano was open and sheets of music lay scattered over it.
From every side came the fragrance of flowers, and in the usually sombre
dining-room Darrell noted the fireplace nearly concealed by palms and
potted plants, the chandelier trimmed with trailing vines, the epergne
of roses and ferns on the table, and the tiny boutonnieres at his plate
and Mr. Underwood's. With a smile of thanks at the happy young face
opposite, he appropriated the one intended for himself, but Mr.
Underwood, picking up the one beside his plate, sat twirling it in his
fingers with a look of mock perplexity.
"Puss has introduced so many of her folderols I haven't got used to them
yet," he said. "How is this to be taken,--before eating, or after?" he
inquired, looking at her from under heavy, frowning brows.
"To be taken! Oh, papa!" she ejaculated; "why don't you put it on as Mr.
Darrell has his? Here, I'll fix it for you!"
With an air of resignation he waited while she fastened the flowers in
the lapel of his coat, giving the latter an approving little pat as she
finished.
"There!" she exclaimed; "you ought to see how nice you look!"
"H'm! I'm glad to hear it," he grunted; "I feel like a prize steer at a
county fair!"
In the laughter which followed Kate joined as merrily as the rest, and
no one but Darrell observed the deepening flush on her cheek or heard
the tremulous sigh when the laughter was ended.
After dinner they adjourned to the large sitting-room, Mr. Underwood
with his pipe, Mrs. Dean with her knitting, and Darrell, while
conversing with the former, watched with a new interest the latter's
placid face, wondering at the depth of feeling concealed beneath that
calm exterior.
As the twilight deepened and conversation began to flag, there came from
the piano a few sweet chords, followed by one of Chopin's dreamy
nocturnes. Mr. Underwood began to doze in his chair, and Darrell sat
silent, his eyes closed, his whole soul given up to the spell of the
music. Unconscious of the pleasure she was giving, Kate played till the
room was veiled in darkness; then going to the fireplace she lighted the
fire already laid--for the nights were still somewhat chilly--and sat
down on a low seat before the fire, while Duke came and lay at her feet.
It was a pretty picture; the young girl in white, her eyes fixed
dreamily on the glowing embers, the firelight dancing over her form and
face and lighting up her hair with gleams of gold; the dog at her feet,
his head thrown proudly back, and his eyes fastened on her face with a
look of loyal devotion seldom seen even in human eyes.
Happening to glance in Mr. Underwood's direction Darrell saw pride,
pleasure, and pain struggling for the mastery in the father's face as he
watched the picture in the firelight. Pain won, and with a sudden
gesture of impatience he covered his eyes with his hand, as though to
shut out the scene. It was but a little thing, but taken in connection
with the incident before dinner, it appealed to Darrell, showing, as it
did, the silent, stoical manner in which these people bore their grief.
Mrs. Dean's quiet voice interrupted his musings and broke the spell
which the music seemed to have thrown around them.
"You will have some one now, Katherine, to accompany you on the violin,
as you have always wanted; Mr. Darrell is a fine violinist."
Kate was instantly all animation. "Oh, that will be delightful, Mr.
Darrell!" she exclaimed, eagerly; "there is nothing I enjoy so much as a
violin accompaniment; it adds so much expression to the music. I think a
piano alone is so unsympathetic; you can't get any feeling out of it!"
"I'm afraid, Miss Underwood, I will prove a disappointment to you,"
Darrell replied; "I have never yet attempted any new music, or even to
play by note, and don't know what success I would have, if any. So far I
have only played what drifts to me--some way, I don't know how--from out
of the past."
The unconscious sadness in his voice stirred the depths of Kate's tender
heart. "Oh, that is too bad!" she exclaimed, quickly, thinking, not of
her own disappointment, but of his trouble of which she had unwittingly
reminded him; then she added, gently, almost timidly,--
"But you will, at any rate, let me hear you play, won't you?"
"Certainly, if it will give you any pleasure," he replied, with a slight
smile.
"Very well; then we will arrange it this way," she continued, her
cheerful manner restored; "you will play your music, and, if I am
familiar with it, I will accompany you on the piano. I will get out
Harry's violin to-morrow, and while auntie is taking her nap and papa is
engaged, we will see what we can accomplish in a musical way."
Before Darrell could reply, Mr. Underwood, who had started from his
revery, demanded,--
"What engagement are you talking about, you chatterbox?"
"I can't say, papa," she replied, playfully seating herself on the arm
of his chair; "I only know that when I asked your company for a walk
to-morrow afternoon, you pleaded a very important engagement. Now, how
is that?" she asked archly; "have you an engagement, really, or didn't
you care for my society?"
"Why, yes, to be sure; it had escaped my mind for the moment," her
father answered, rather vaguely she thought; then, looking at Darrell,
he said,--
"Walcott is coming to-morrow for my final decision in that matter."
Darrell bowed in token that he understood, but did not feel at liberty
to inquire whether the decision was to be favorable to Mr. Walcott, or
otherwise. Kate glanced quickly from one to the other, but before she
could speak her father continued:
"I rather think if he consents to two or three conditions which I shall
insist upon, that my answer will be in the affirmative."
"I thought that quite probable from your conversation the other day,"
Darrell replied.
"See here, papa!" Kate exclaimed, mischievously, "you needn't talk over
my head! You used to do so when I was little, but you can't any longer,
you know. Who is this 'Walcott,' and what is this important decision
about?"
Mr. Underwood, who did not believe in taking what he called the "women
folks" into his confidence regarding business affairs, looked
quizzically into the laughing face beside him.
"Didn't I hear you arranging some sort of a musical programme with Mr.
Darrell?" he inquired.
"Yes; what has that to do with your engagement?" she queried.
"Nothing whatever; only you carry out your engagement and I will mine,
and we'll compare notes afterwards."
For an instant her face sobered; then catching sight of her father's
eyes twinkling under their beetling brows, she laughingly withdrew from
his side, saying,--
"That's all very well; you can score one this time, papa, but don't you
think we won't come out pretty near even in the end!"
Upon learning from Darrell that the violin she expected him to use was
in his room at the mining camp, she then proposed a stroll to the summit
of the pine-clad mountain for the following afternoon, and having
secured his promise that he would bring the violin with him on his next
visit, she waltzed gayly across the floor, turned on the light, and
seating herself at the piano soon had the room ringing with music and
laughter while she sang a number of college songs.
To Darrell she seemed more child than woman, and he was constantly
impressed with her unlikeness to her father or aunt. She seemed to have
absolutely none of their self-repression. Warm-hearted, sympathetic, and
demonstrative, every shade of feeling betrayed itself in her sensitive,
mobile face and in the brown eyes, one moment pensive and wistful, the
next luminous with sympathy or dancing with merriment.
As Darrell took leave of Mrs. Dean that night, he said, looking frankly
into her calm, kindly face,--
"I am very sorry if I wounded your feelings this afternoon; it was
wholly unintentional, I assure you."
"You did not in the least," she answered; "it is so long since I have
been called by that name it took me by surprise, but it sounded very
pleasant to me. My boy, if he had lived, would have been just about your
age."
"It seemed pleasant to me to call you 'mother,'" said Darrell; "it made
me feel less like an outsider."
"You can call me so as often as you wish; you are no outsider here; we
consider you one of ourselves," she responded, with more warmth in her
tones than he had ever heard before.
The following morning Darrell accompanied the ladies to church. After
lunch he lounged for an hour or more in one of the hammocks on the
veranda, listening alternately to Mr. Underwood's comments as he
leisurely smoked his pipe, and to the faint tones of a mandolin coming
from some remote part of the house. Mr. Underwood grew more and more
abstracted, the mandolin ceased, and Darrell, soothed by his
surroundings to a temporary forgetfulness of his troubles, swung gently
back and forth in a sort of dreamy content. After a while, Kate
Underwood appeared, dressed for a walk, and, accompanied by Duke, the
two set forth for their mountain ramble, for the time as light-hearted
as two children.
Upon their return, two or three hours later, while still at a little
distance from the house, they saw Mr. Underwood and a stranger standing
together on the veranda. The latter, who was apparently about to take
his departure, and whom Darrell at once assumed to be Mr. Walcott, was
about thirty years of age, of medium height, with a finely proportioned
and rather muscular form, erect and dignified in his bearing, with a
lithe suppleness and grace in all his movements. He was standing with
his hat in his hand, and Darrell, who had time to observe him closely,
noting his jet-black hair, close cut excepting where it curled slightly
over his forehead, his black, silky moustache, and the oval contour of
his olive face, remembered Mr. Underwood's remark of the probability of
Spanish blood in his veins.
As they came near, Duke gave a low growl, but Kate instantly hushed him,
chiding him for his rudeness. At the sound, the stranger turned towards
them, and Mr. Underwood at once introduced Mr. Walcott to his daughter
and Mr. Darrell. He greeted them both with the most punctilious
courtesy, but as he faced Darrell, the latter saw for an instant in the
half-closed, blue-black eyes, the pity tinged with contempt to which he
had long since become accustomed, yet which, as often as he met it,
thrilled him anew with pain. The look passed, however, and Mr. Walcott,
in low, well-modulated tones, conversed pleasantly for a few moments
with the new-comers, the three young people forming a striking trio as
they stood there in the bright sunshine amid the June roses; then, with
a graceful adieu, he walked swiftly away.
As soon as he was out of hearing Mr. Underwood, turning to Darrell,
said,--
"It is decided; the papers will be drawn to-morrow."
Then taking his daughter's flushed, perplexed face between his hands, he
said,--
"Mr. Walcott and I are going into partnership; how do you like the looks
of my partner, Puss?"
She looked incredulous. "That young man your partner!" she exclaimed;
"why, he seems the very last man I should ever expect you to fancy!"
Then she added, laughing,--
"Oh, papa, I think he must have hypnotized you! Does Aunt Marcia know?
May I tell her?" And, having gained his consent, she ran into the house
to impart the news to Mrs. Dean.
"That's the woman of it!" said Mr. Underwood, grimly; "they always want
to immediately tell some other woman! But what do you think of my
partner?" he asked, looking searchingly at Darrell, who had not yet
spoken.
Darrell did not reply at once; he felt in some way bewildered. All the
content, the joy, the sunshine of the last few hours seemed to have been
suddenly blotted out, though he could not have told why. The remembrance
of that glance still stung him, but aside from that, he felt his whole
soul filled with an inexplicable antagonism towards this man.
"I hardly know yet just what I do think of him," he answered, slowly; "I
have not formed a definite opinion of him, but I think, as your daughter
says, he somehow seems the last man whom I would have expected you to
associate yourself with."
Mr. Underwood frowned. "I don't generally make mistakes in people," he
said, rather gruffly; "if I'm mistaken in this man, it will be the first
time."
Nothing further was said on the subject, though it remained uppermost in
the minds of both, with the result that their conversation was rather
spasmodic and desultory. At the dinner-table, Kate was quick to observe
the unusual silence, and, intuitively connecting it in some way with the
new partnership, refrained alike from question or comment regarding
either that subject or Mr. Walcott, while it was a rule with Mrs. Dean
never to refer to her brother's business affairs unless he first alluded
to them himself.
The evening passed more pleasantly, as Kate coaxed her father into
telling some reminiscences of his early western life, which greatly
interested Darrell. Something of the old restlessness had returned to
him, however. He spent a wakeful night, and was glad when morning came
and he could return to his work.
As he came out of the house at an early hour to set forth on his long
ride he found Kate engaged in feeding Trix with lumps of sugar. She
greeted him merrily, and as he started down the avenue he was followed
by a rippling laugh and a shower of roses, one of which he caught and
fastened in his buttonhole, but on looking back over his shoulder she
had vanished, and only Duke was visible.
_Chapter XIII_
MR. UNDERWOOD "STRIKES" FIRST
The ensuing days were filled with work demanding close attention and
concentration of thought, but often in the long, cool twilight, while
Darrell rested from his day's work before entering upon the night's
study, he recalled his visit to The Pines with a degree of pleasure
hitherto unknown. He had found Kate Underwood far different from his
anticipations, though just what his anticipations had been he did not
stop to define. There was at times a womanly grace and dignity in her
bearing which he would have expected from her portrait and which he
admired, but what especially attracted him was her utter lack of
affectation or self-consciousness. She was as unconscious as a child;
her sympathy towards himself and her pleasant familiarity with him were
those of a warm-hearted, winsome child.
He liked best to recall her as she looked that evening seated by the
fireside: the childish pose, the graceful outlines of her form
silhouetted against the light; the dreamy eyes, with their long golden
lashes curling upward; the lips parted in a half smile, and the gleam of
the firelight on her hair. But it was always as a child that he recalled
her, and the thought that to himself, or to any other, she could be
aught else never occurred to him. Of young Whitcomb's love for her, of
course, he had no recollection, nor had it ever been mentioned in his
hearing since his illness.
Day by day the work at the camp increased, and there also began to be
indications of an approaching outbreak among the men. The union
boarding-house was nearing completion; it was rumored that it would be
ready for occupancy within a week or ten days; the walking delegates
from the union could be frequently seen loitering about the camp,
especially when the changes in shifts were made, waiting to get word
with the men, and it was nothing uncommon to see occasional groups of
the men engaged in argument, which suddenly broke off at the appearance
of Darrell, or of Hathaway, the superintendent.
So engrossed was Mr. Underwood with the arrangement of details for the
inauguration of the new firm of Underwood & Walcott that he was unable
to be at the camp that week. On Saturday afternoon Darrell, having
learned that Hathaway was to be gone over Sunday, and believing it best
under existing circumstances not to leave the camp, sent Mr. Underwood a
message to that effect, and also informing him of the status of affairs
there.
Early the following week Mr. Underwood made his appearance at the camp,
and if the union bosses had entertained any hope of effecting a
compromise with the owner of Camp Bird, as it was known, such hope must
have been blasted upon mere sight of that gentleman's face upon his
arrival. Darrell himself could scarcely restrain a smile of amusement as
they met. Mr. Underwood fairly bristled with defiance, and, after the
briefest kind of a greeting, started to make his usual rounds of the
camp. He stopped abruptly, fumbled in his pocket for an instant, then,
handing a dainty envelope to Darrell, hastened on without a word.
Darrell saw smiles exchanged among the men, but he preserved the utmost
gravity until, having reached his desk, he opened and read the little
note. It contained merely a few pleasant lines from Kate, expressing
disappointment at his failure to come to The Pines on the preceding
Saturday, and reminding him of his promise concerning the violin; but
the postscript, which in true feminine style comprised the real gist of
the note, made him smile audibly. It ran:
"Papa has donned his paint and feathers this morning and is
evidently starting out on the war-path. I haven't an idea whose
scalps he intends taking, but hope you will at least preserve your
own intact."
At dinner Mr. Underwood maintained an ominous silence, replying in
monosyllables to any question or remark addressed to him. He soon left
the table, and Darrell did not see him again till late in the afternoon,
when he entered the laboratory. A glance at the set lines of his face
told Darrell as plainly as words that his line of action was fully
determined upon, and that it would be as fixed and unalterable as the
laws of the Medes and Persians.
"I am going home now," he announced briefly, in reply to Darrell's
somewhat questioning look; "I'll be back here the last of the week."
"What do you think of the outlook, Mr. Underwood?" Darrell inquired.
"It is about what I expected. I have seen all the men. They are, as I
supposed, under the thumb of the union bosses. A few of them realize
that the whole proposition is unreasonable and absurd, and they don't
want to go out, but they don't dare say so above their breath, and they
don't dare disobey orders, because they are owned, body and soul, by the
union."
"Have any of the leaders tried to make terms?"
"I met one of their 'walking delegates' this morning," said Mr.
Underwood, with scornful emphasis; "I told him to 'walk' himself out of
the camp or I'd boot him out; and he walked!"
Darrell laughed. Mr. Underwood continued: "The boarding-house opens on
Thursday; on next Monday every man not enrolled in that institution will
be ordered out."
"It's to be a strike then, sure thing, is it?" Darrell asked.
"Yes, there'll be a strike," Mr. Underwood answered, grimly, while a
quick gleam shot across his face; "but remember one thing," he added, as
he turned to leave the room, "no man ever yet got the drop or the first
blow on me!"
Matters continued about the same at the camp. On Friday favorable
reports concerning the new boarding-house began to be circulated,
brought the preceding evening by miners from another camp. Some of the
men looked sullen and defiant, others only painfully self-conscious, in
the presence of Darrell and the superintendent, but it was evident that
the crisis was approaching.
Late Friday night a horseman dismounted silently before the door of the
office building and Mr. Underwood walked quietly into Darrell's room.
"How's the new hotel? Overrun with boarders?" he asked, as he seated
himself, paying little attention to Darrell's exclamation of surprise.
"Chapman's men--about fifty in all--are the only ones there at present."
"Chapman!" ejaculated Mr. Underwood; "what is Chapman doing? He agreed
to stand in with the rest of us on this thing!"
"He told Hathaway this morning he was only doing it for experiment. The
boarding-house is located near his claims, you know, and he has
comparatively few men. So he said he didn't mind trying it for a month
or so."
"Confound him! I'll make it the dearest experiment ever he tried," said
Mr. Underwood, wrathfully; "he was in our office the other day trying to
negotiate a loan for twenty-five thousand dollars that he said he had
got to have within ten days or go to the wall. I'll see that he doesn't
get it anywhere about here unless he stands by his word with us."
After further conversation Mr. Underwood went out, saying he had a
little business about the camp to attend to. He returned in the course
of an hour, and Darrell heard him holding a long consultation with
Hathaway before he retired for the night.
The following morning the mill men of the camp, on going to their work,
were astonished to find the mill closed and silent, while fastened on
the great doors was a large placard which read as follows:
NOTICE.
The entire mining and milling plant of Camp Bird is closed down for
an indefinite period. All employees are requested to call at the
superintendent's office and receive their wages up to and including
Saturday, the 10th inst.
D. K. UNDERWOOD.
The miners found the hoist-house and the various shaft-houses closed and
deserted, with notices similar to the above posted on their doors.
Darrell, upon going to breakfast, learned that Mr. Underwood and the
superintendent had breakfasted at an early hour. A little later, on his
way to the mill, he observed groups of men here and there, some
standing, some moving in the direction of the office, but gave the
matter no particular thought until he reached the mill and was himself
confronted by the placard. As he read the notice and recalled the groups
of idlers, certain remarks made by Mr. Underwood came to his mind, and
he seemed struck by the humorous side of the situation.
"The old gentleman seems to have got the 'drop' on them, all right!" he
said to himself, as, with an amused smile, he walked past the mill and
out in the direction of the hoist. The ore-bins were closed and locked,
the tram-cars stood empty on their tracks, the hoisting engine was
still, the hoist-house and shaft-houses deserted. After the ceaseless
noise and activity to which he had become accustomed at the camp the
silence seemed oppressive, and he turned and retraced his steps to the
office.
A crowd of men was gathered outside the office building. In single file
they passed into the office to the superintendent's window, received
their money silently, in almost every instance without comment or
question, and passed out again. Once outside, however, there they
remained, their number constantly augmented by new arrivals, for the men
on the night shift had been aroused by their comrades and were now
streaming down from the bunk-houses. A few laughed and joked, some
looked sullen, some troubled and anxious, but all remained packed about
the building, quiet, undemonstrative, and mute as dumb brutes as to
their reason for staying there. They were all prepared to march boldly
out of the mill and mines on the following Monday, on a strike, in
obedience to orders; even to resort to violence in defence of their
so-called "rights" if so ordered, but Mr. Underwood's sudden move had
disarmed them; there had been no opportunity for a conference with their
leaders, with the result that they acted more in accordance with their
own individual instincts, and the loss of work for which they would have
cared little in the event of a strike was now uppermost in their minds.
They eyed Darrell furtively and curiously, making way for him as he
entered the building, but still they waited. For a few moments Darrell
watched the scene, then he passed through the office into the room
beyond, where he found Mr. Underwood engaged in sorting and filing
papers. The latter looked up with a grim smile:
"Been down to the mill?"
"Oh, yes," Darrell answered, laughing; "I went to work as usual, only to
find the door shut in my face, the same as the rest."
"H'm! What do you think of the 'strike' now?"
"I think you are making them swallow their own medicine, but I don't see
why you need give me a dose of it; I haven't threatened to strike."
Mr. Underwood's eyes twinkled shrewdly as he replied, "You had better go
out there and get your pay along with the rest, and then go to your room
and pack up. You may not be needed at the mill again for the next six
months."
"Will it be as serious as that, do you think?" Darrell inquired.
Before Mr. Underwood could reply the superintendent opened the office
door hastily.
"Mr. Underwood," he said, "will you come out and speak to the men? They
are all waiting outside and I can't drive them away; they say they won't
stir till they've seen you."
With a look of annoyance Mr. Underwood rose and passed out into the
office; Darrell, somewhat interested, followed.
"Well, boys," said Mr. Underwood, as he appeared in the doorway, "what
do you want of me?"
"If you please, sir," said one man, evidently spokesman for the crowd,
and whom Darrell at once recognized as Dan, the engineer,--"if you
please, sir, we would like to know how long this shut-down is going to
last."
"Can't tell," Mr. Underwood replied, shortly; "can't tell anything about
it at present; it's indefinite."
"Well," persisted the man, "there's some of us as thought that mebbe
'twould only be till this 'ere trouble about the meals is settled, one
way or t'other; and there's some as thought mebbe it hadn't nothing to
do with that."
"Well?" said Mr. Underwood, impatiently.
"Well, sir," said Dan, lowering his voice a little and edging nearer Mr.
Underwood, "you know as how the most of us was satisfied with things as
they was, and didn't want no change and wouldn't have made no kick,
only, you see, we had to, and we felt kinder anxious to know whether if
this thing got settled some way and the camp opened up again, whether we
could get back in our old places?"
"Dan," said Mr. Underwood, impressively, and speaking loudly enough for
every man to hear, "there can be no settlement of this question except
to have things go on under precisely the same terms and conditions as
they've always gone; so none of your leaders need come to me for terms,
for they won't get 'em. And as to opening up the mines and mill, I'll
open them up whenever I get ready, not a day sooner or later; and when I
do start up again, if you men have come to your senses by that time and
are ready to come back on the same terms, all right; if not," he paused
an instant, then added with emphasis, "just remember there'll be others,
and plenty of 'em, too."
"Yes, sir; thank ye, sir," Dan answered, somewhat dubiously; then one
and all moved slowly and mechanically away.
Mr. Underwood turned to Darrell. "Get your things together as soon as
you can. I'm going to send down three or four of the teams after dinner,
and they can take your things along. And here's the key to the mill; go
over and pick out whatever you will want in the way of an assaying
outfit, and have that taken down with the rest. There's no need of your
going to the expense of buying an outfit just for temporary use."
By two o'clock scarcely a man remained at the camp. Mr. Underwood and
Darrell were among the last to leave. Two faithful servants of Mr.
Underwood's had arrived an hour or so before, who were to act as
watchmen during the shut-down. Having taken them around the camp and
given them the necessary instructions, Mr. Underwood then gave them the
keys of the various buildings, saying, as he took his departure,--
"There's grub enough in the boarding-house to last you two for some
time, but whenever there's anything needed, let me know. Bring over some
beds from the bunk-house and make yourselves comfortable."
He climbed to a seat on one of the wagons, and, as they started, turned
back to the watchmen for his parting admonition:
"Keep an eye on things, boys! You're both good shots; if you catch
anybody prowling 'round here, day or night, wing him, boys, wing him!"
The teams then rattled noisily down the canyon road, Darrell, with Trix,
bringing up the rear, feeling himself a sort of shuttlecock tossed to
and fro by antagonistic forces in whose conflicts he personally had no
part and no interest. However, he wasted no moments in useless regrets,
but rode along in deep thought, planning for the uninterrupted pursuit
of his studies amid the new and less favorable surroundings. Thus far he
had met with unlooked-for success along the line of his researches and
experiments, and each success but stimulated him to more diligent study.
On their arrival at Ophir, Mr. Underwood gave directions to have the
assaying outfit taken to the rooms in the rear of his own offices, after
which he and Darrell, with the remaining teams, proceeded in the
direction of The Pines. Trix, on finding herself headed for home,
quickened her steps to such a brisk pace that on reaching the long
driveway Darrell was considerably in advance of the others. He had no
sooner emerged from the pines into the open, in full view of the house,
than Duke came bounding down the driveway to meet him, with every
possible demonstration of joyous welcome. His loud barking brought the
ladies to the door just as Darrell, having quickly dismounted and sent
Trix to the stables, was running up the broad stairs to the veranda, the
collie close at his side.
"Just look at Duke!" Kate Underwood exclaimed, shaking hands with
Darrell; "and this is only the second time he has met you! You surely
have won his heart, Mr. Darrell."
"You are the only person outside of Katherine he has ever condescended
to notice," said Mrs. Dean, with a smile.
"I assure you I feel immensely flattered by his friendship," Darrell
replied, caressing the collie; "the more so because I know it to be
genuine."
"He won't so much as look at me," Mrs. Dean added.
"That is because you objected at first to having him here," s
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/21892