Lane's return to consciousness was an awakening into what seemed as
unreal and unbelievable as any of his morbid dreams.
But he knew that his mind was clear. It did not take him a moment to
realize from the feel of his body and the fact that he could not lift
his hand that he had been prostrate a long time.
The room he lay in was strange to him. It had a neatness and
cleanliness that spoke of a woman's care. It had two small windows,
one of which was open. Sunshine flooded in, and the twitter of
swallows and hum of bees filled the air outside. Lane could scarcely
believe his senses. A warm fragrance floated in. Spring! What struck
Lane then most singularly was the fact of the silence. There were no
city sounds. This was not the Iden home. Presently he heard soft
footfalls downstairs, and a low voice, as of some one humming a tune.
What then had happened?
As if in answer to his query there came from below a sound of heavy
footfalls on a porch, the opening and closing of a door, a man's
cheery voice, and then steps on the stairs. The door opened and Doctor
Bronson entered.
"Hello, Doc," said Lane, in a very faint voice.
"Well, you son of a gun!" ejaculated the doctor, in delight. Then he
called down the stairs. "Mel, come up here quick."
Then came a low cry and a flying patter of light feet. Mel ran past
the doctor into the room. To Lane she seemed to have grown along with
the enchantments his old memories had invoked. With parted lips,
eager-eyed, she flashed a look from Lane to Doctor Bronson and back
again. Then she fell upon her knees by the bed.
"Do you know me?" she asked, her voice tremulous.
"Sure. You're the wife--of a poor sick soldier--Daren Lane."
"Oh, Doctor, he has come to," cried Mel, in rapture.
"Fine. I've been expecting it every day," said Doctor Bronson, rubbing
his hands. "Now, Daren, you can listen all you want. But don't try to
talk. You've really been improving ever since we got you out here to
the country. For a while I was worried about your mind. Lately,
though, you showed signs of rationality. And now all's O.K. In a few
days we'll have you sitting up."
Doctor Bronson's prophecy was more than fulfilled. From the hour of
Lane's return to consciousness, he made rapid improvement. Most of the
time he slept and, upon awakening, he seemed to feel stronger. Lane
had been ill often during the last eighteen months, but after this
illness there was a difference, inasmuch as he began to make
surprising strides toward recovery. Doctor Bronson was nonplussed, and
elated. Mel seemed mute in her gratitude. Lane could have told them
the reason for his improvement, but it was a secret he hid in his
heart.
In less than a week he was up, walking round his little room, peering
out of the windows.
Mel had told Lane the circumstances attending his illness. It had been
late in February when she and her father had called for him at his
lodgings. He had collapsed in the cab. They took him to the Iden home
where he was severely ill during March. In April he began to improve,
although he did not come to his senses. One day Mr. Iden brought Jacob
Lane, an uncle of Lane's, to see him. Lane's uncle had been at odds
with the family for many years. There had been a time when he had
cared much for his nephew Daren. The visit had evidently revived the
old man's affection, for the result was that Jacob Lane offered Daren
the use of a cottage and several acres of land on Sycamore River, just
out of town. Joshua Iden had seen to the overhauling of the cottage;
and as soon as the weather got warm, Doctor Bronson had consented to
Lane's removal to the country. And in a few days after his arrival at
the cottage, Lane recovered consciousness.
"Well, this beats me," said Lane, for the hundredth time. "Uncle Jake
letting us have this farm. I thought he hated us all."
"Daren, it was your going to war--and coming back--that you were ill
and fell to so sad a plight. I think if your uncle had known, he'd
have helped you."
"Mel, I couldn't ask anybody for help," said Lane. "Don't you
understand that?"
"You were a stubborn fellow," mused Mel.
"Me? Never. I'm the meekest of mortals.... Mel, I know every rock
along the river here. This is just above where at flood time the
Sycamore cuts across that rocky flat below, and makes a bad rapid.
There's a creek above and a big woods. I used to fish and hunt there a
good deal."
Two weeks passed by and Daren felt himself slowly but surely getting
stronger. Every morning when he came down to breakfast he felt a
little better, had a little more color in his pale cheeks. At first he
could not eat, but as the days went by he regained an appetite which,
to Mel's delight, manifestly grew stronger. No woman could have been
brighter and merrier. She laughed at the expression on his face when
he saw her hands red from hot dish-water, and she would not allow him
to help her. The boast she had made to him of her housekeeping
abilities had not been an idle one. She prepared the meals and kept
the cottage tidy, and went about other duties in a manner that showed
she was thoroughly conversant with them.
The way in which she had absolutely put aside the past, her witty
sallies and her innocent humor, her habit of singing while at work,
the depth of her earnest conversation; in all, the sweet wholesome
strength and beauty of her nature had a remarkable effect on Lane. He
began to live again. It was simply impossible to be morbid in her
presence. While he was with her he escaped from himself.
The day came when he felt strong enough to take a walk. He labored up
the hillside toward a wood. Thereafter he went every day and walked
farther every time.
With his returning strength there crept into his mind the dawning of a
hope that he might get well. At first he denied it, denied even the
conviction that he wished to live. But not long. The hope grew, and
soon he found himself deliberately trying to build up his health.
Every day he put a greater test upon himself, and as summer drew on he
felt his strength gradually increasing. Against Doctor Bronson's
advice, he got an axe and set to work on the wood pile, very
cautiously at first.
Every day he wielded the axe until from sheer exhaustion he could not
lift it. Then he would sit on a log and pant and scorn his weakness.
What a poor man it was who could not chop wood for ten minutes without
getting out of breath! This pile of logs became to him a serious and
meaning obstacle. Every morning he went at it doggedly. His back grew
lame, his arms sore, his hands raw and blistered. But he did not give
up.
Mel seemed happy to see him so occupied, and was loath to call him
even when it was necessary. After lunch it was his habit to walk in
the woods. Unmindful of weather, every day he climbed the hill,
plunged into the woods, and tramped until late in the afternoon.
Returning, he usually slept until Mel called him to dinner. Afterward
they spent the evening in the little library. The past seemed buried.
Lane's curiosity as to family and friends had not reawakened.
Mel possessed a rich contralto voice which had been carefully
cultivated. Every evening in the twilight, with only the flickering of
the wood fire in the room, she would sit at the piano and sing. Lane
would close his eyes and let the mellow voice charm his every sense.
It called up his highest feelings; it lingered in his soul, thrilled
along his heart and played on the chords of love and hope. It
dispelled the heavy gloom that so often pressed down upon him; it
vanquished the depression that was the forerunner of his old terrible
black mood.
It came about that Lane spent most of his time outdoors, in the
fields, along the river, on the wooded hills. The morbid brooding lost
its hold on his mind, and in its place came memories, dreams,
imaginations. He walked those hills with phantoms of the past and
phantoms of his fancy.
The birds sang, the leaves fluttered, the wind rustled through the
branches. White clouds sailed across the blue sky, a crow cawed from a
hilltop, a hawk screeched from above, the roar of the river rapids
came faintly upward. And Lane saw eyes gazing dreamily downward,
thoughtful at a word, looking into life, trying to pierce the veil. It
was all so beautiful--so terrible.
The peeping of frogs roused in Lane sensations thrilling and strange.
The quick sharp notes were suggestive of cool nights, of flooded
streams and marshy places. How often Lane wandered in the dusk along
the shore to listen to this chorus!
At that hour twilight stole down; the dark hills rose to the pale blue
sky; there was a fair star and a wisp of purple cloud; and the shadowy
waters gleamed. Breaking into the trill of the frogs came the song of
a lonely whippoorwill.
Lane felt a better spirit resurging. He felt the silence, the beauty,
the mystery, the eternal that was there. All that was small and frail
was passing from him. There came a regurgitation of physical
strength--a change of blood.
The following morning while Lane was laboring over his wood pile, he
thought he heard voices in the front yard, and presently Mel came
around the walk accompanied by Doctor Wallace and Doctor Bronson.
"Well, Lane, glad to see you," said Doctor Bronson, in his hearty
tones. "Doctor Wallace and I are on our way to the Grange and thought
we'd stop off a minute."
"How are you, Mr. Lane? I see you're taking work seriously," put in
Doctor Wallace, in his kindly way.
"Oh, I'm coming round all right," replied Lane.
He stood there with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his face bronzed a
little and now warm and moist from the exercise, with something proven
about him, with a suggestion of a new force which made him different.
There was an unmistakable kindliness in the regard of both men and a
scarcely veiled fear Lane was quick to read. Both men were afraid they
would not find him as they had hoped to.
"Mel, you've chosen a charming location for a home," observed Doctor
Wallace.
When Mel was showing her old teacher and friend the garden and
flowerbeds the practical Doctor Bronson asked Lane: "Did you chop all
that wood?"
The doctor pointed to three long piles of wood, composed of short
pieces regularly stacked one upon another.
"I did."
"How long did it take you?"
"I've been weeks at it. That's a long time, but you know, Doctor, I
was in pretty poor condition. I had to go slow."
"Well, you've done wonders. I want to tell you that. I hardly knew
you. You're still thin, but you're gaining. I won't say now what I
think. Be careful of sudden or violent exertion. That's all. You've
done more than doctors can do."