"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_