The story of Mr. Britton's life impressed Darrell deeply. In the days
following his friend's departure he would sit for hours revolving it in
his mind, unable to rid himself of the impression that it was in some
way connected with his own life. Impelled by some motive he could
scarcely explain, he recorded it in his journal as told by Mr. Britton
as nearly as he could recall it.
Left to himself he worked with unabated ardor, but his work soon grew
unsatisfying. The inspiring nature of his surroundings seemed to
stimulate him to higher effort and loftier work, which should call into
play the imaginative faculties and in which the brain would be free to
weave its own creations. Stronger within him grew the desire to write a
novel which should have in it something of the power, the force, of the
strenuous western life,--something which would seem, in a measure at
least, worthy of his surroundings. His day's work ended, he would walk
up and down the rocks, sometimes far into the night, the plot for this
story forming within his brain, till at last its outlines grew distinct
and he knew the thing that was to be, as the sculptor knows what will
come forth at his bidding from the lifeless marble. He made a careful
synopsis of the plot that nothing might escape him in the uncertain
future, and then began to write.
The order of his work was now reversed, the new undertaking being given
his first and best thought; then, when imagination wearied and refused
to rise above the realms of fact, he fell back upon his scientific work
as a rest from the other. Thus employed the weeks passed with incredible
swiftness, the monotony broken by an occasional visit from Mr. Britton,
until August came, its hot breath turning the grasses sere and brown.
One evening Darrell came forth from his work at a later hour than usual.
His mind had been unusually active, his imagination vivid, but, wearied
at last, he was compelled to stop short of the task he had set for
himself.
The heat had been intense that day, and the atmosphere seemed peculiarly
oppressive. The sun was sinking amid light clouds of gorgeous tints, and
as Darrell watched their changing outlines they seemed fit emblems of
the thoughts at that moment baffling his weary brain,--elusive,
intangible, presenting themselves in numberless forms, yet always beyond
his grasp.
Standing erect, with arms folded, his pose indicated conscious strength,
and the face lifted to the evening sky was one which would have
commanded attention amid a sea of human faces. Two years had wrought
wondrous changes in it. Strength and firmness were there still, but
sweetness was mingled with the strength, and the old, indomitable will
was tempered with gentleness. All the finer susceptibilities had been
awakened and had left their impress there. Introspection had done its
work. It was the face of a man who knew himself and had conquered
himself. The sculptor's work was almost complete.
Not a breath stirred the air, which moment by moment grew more
oppressive, presaging a coming storm. Darrell was suddenly filled with a
strange unrest--a presentiment of some impending catastrophe. For a
while he walked restlessly up and down the narrow plateau; then, seating
himself in front of the cabin, he bowed his head upon his hands,
shutting out all sight and thought of the present, for his mind seemed
teeming with vague, shadowy forms of the past. Duke came near and laid
his head against his master's shoulder, and the twilight deepened around
them both.
Far up the neighboring mountain a mighty engine loomed out from the
gathering darkness--a fiery-headed monster--and with its long train of
coaches crawled serpent-like around the rocky height, then vanished as
it came. The clouds which had been roving indolently across the western
horizon suddenly formed in line and moved steadily--a solid
battalion--upward towards the zenith, while from the east another
phalanx, black and threatening, advanced with low, wrathful mutterings.
Unmindful of the approaching storm Darrell sat, silent and motionless,
till a sudden peal of thunder--the first note of the impending
battle--roused him from his revery. Springing to his feet he watched the
rapidly advancing armies marshalling their forces upon the
battle-ground. Another roll of thunder, and the conflict began. Up and
down the mountain passes the winds rushed wildly, shrieking like demons.
Around the lofty summits the lightnings played like the burnished swords
of giants in mortal combat, while peal after peal resounded through the
vast spaces, reverberated from peak to peak, echoed and re-echoed, till
the rocks themselves seemed to tremble.
With quickening pulse and bated breath Darrell watched the
storm,--fascinated, entranced,--while emotions he could neither
understand nor control surged through his breast. More and more fiercely
the battle waged; more swift and brilliant grew the sword-play, while
the roar of heaven's artillery grew louder and louder. His spirit rose
with the strife, filling him with a strange sense of exaltation.
Suddenly the universe seemed wrapped in flame, there was a deafening
crash as though the eternal hills were being rent asunder, and
then--oblivion!
When that instant of blinding light and deafening sound had passed John
Darrell lay prostrate, unconscious on the rocks.
_Chapter XXVIII_
"AS A DREAM WHEN ONE AWAKETH"
As the morning sun arose over the snowy summits of the Great Divide, the
sleeper on the rocks stirred restlessly; then gradually awoke to
consciousness--a delightful consciousness of renewed life and vigor, a
subtle sense of revivification of body and mind. The racking pain, the
burning fever, the legions of torturing phantoms, all were gone; his
pulse was calm, his blood cool, his brain clear.
With a sigh of deep content he opened his eyes; then suddenly rose to a
sitting posture and gazed about him in utter bewilderment; above him
only the boundless dome of heaven, around him only endless mountain
ranges! Dazed by the strangeness, the isolation of the scene, he began
for an instant to doubt his sanity; was this a reality or a chimera of
his own imagination? But only for an instant, for with his first
movement a large collie had bounded to his side and now began licking
his hands and face with the most joyful demonstrations. There was
something soothing and reassuring in the companionship even of the dumb
brute, and he caressed the noble creature, confident that he would soon
find some sign of human life in that strange region; but the dog,
reading no look of recognition in the face beside him, drew back and
began whining piteously.
Perplexed, but with his faculties thoroughly aroused and active, the
young man sprang to his feet, and, looking eagerly about him,
discovered at a little distance the cabin against the mountain ledge.
Hastening thither he found the door open, and, after vainly waiting for
any response to his knocking, entered.
The furnishings were mostly hand-made, but fashioned with considerable
artistic skill, and contributed to give the interior a most attractive
appearance, while etchings, books and papers, pages of written
manuscript, and a violin indicated its occupants to be a man of refined
tastes and studious habits. The dog had accompanied him, sometimes
following closely, sometimes going on in advance as though to lead the
way. Once within the cabin he led him to the store-room in the rock
where was an abundance of food, which the latter proceeded to divide
between himself and his dumb guide.
Having satisfied his hunger, the young man took a newspaper from the
table, and, going outside the cabin, seated himself to await the return
of his unknown host. Sitting there, he discovered for the first time the
railway winding around the sides of the lofty mountain opposite. The
sight filled him with delight, for those slender rails, gleaming in the
morning sunlight, seemed to connect him with the world which he
remembered, but from which he appeared so strangely isolated.
Unfolding the newspaper his attention was attracted by the date, at
which he gazed in consternation, his eyes riveted to the page. For a
moment his head swam, he was unable to believe his own senses. Dropping
the sheet and bowing his head upon his hands he went carefully over the
past as he now remembered it,--the business on which he had been
commissioned to come west; his journey westward; the tragedy in the
sleeping-car--he shuddered as the memory of the murderer's face flashed
before him with terrible distinctness; his reception at The Pines,--all
was as clear as though it had happened but yesterday; it was in August,
and this was August, but two years later! Great God! had two years
dropped out of his life? Again he recalled his illness, the long agony,
the final sinking into oblivion, the strange awakening in perfect
health; yes, surely there must be a missing link; but how? where?
He rose to re-enter the cabin, and, passing the window, caught a glimpse
of his face reflected there; a face like, and yet unlike, his own, and
crowned with snow-white hair! In doubt and bewilderment he paced up and
down within the cabin, vainly striving to connect these fragmentary
parts, to reconcile the present with the past. As he passed and repassed
the table covered with manuscript his attention was attracted by an
odd-looking volume bound in flexible morocco and containing several
hundred pages of written matter. It lay partly open in a conspicuous
place, and upon the fly-leaf was written, in large, bold characters,--
"To my Other Self, should he awaken."
He could not banish the words from his mind; they drew him with
irresistible magnetism. Again and again he read them, until, impelled by
some power he could not explain, he seized the volume and, seating
himself in the doorway of the cabin, proceeded to examine it. Lifting
the fly-leaf, he read 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."
He smiled as he read the name and recalled the circumstances under which
he had taken it, but he no longer felt any hesitation regarding the
volume in his hands, and he began to read. It was written as a
communication from one stranger to another, from the mountain recluse to
one of whose life he had not the slightest knowledge; but he knew
without doubt that it was addressed to himself, yet written by
himself,--that writer and reader were one and the same.
For more than two hours he read on and on, deeply absorbed in the tale
of that solitary life, his own heart responding to each note of joy or
sorrow, of hope or despair, and vibrating to the undertone of loneliness
and longing running through it all.
He strove vainly to recall the characters in the strange drama in which
he had played his part but of which he had now no distinct recollection;
dimly they passed before his vision like the shadowy phantoms of a dream
from which one has just awakened. He started at the first mention of
John Britton's name, eagerly following each outline of that noble
character, his heart kindling with affection as he read his words of
loving, helpful counsel. His face grew tender and his eyes filled at the
love-story, so pathetically brief, faithfully transcribed on those
pages, but of Kate Underwood he could only recall a slender girl with
golden-brown hair and wistful, appealing brown eyes; he wondered at the
strength of character shown by her speech and conduct, and his heart
went out to this unknown love, notwithstanding that memory now showed
him the picture of another and earlier love in the far East.
But it was the story of John Britton's life which moved him most. With
strained, eager eyes and bated breath he read that sad recital, and at
its termination, buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child.
When he had grown calm he sat for some time reviewing the past and
forming plans for future action. While thus absorbed in thought he heard
a step, and, looking up, saw standing before him a man of apparently
sixty years, with bronzed face and grizzled hair, whose small, piercing
eyes regarded himself with keen scrutiny. In response to the younger
man's greeting he only bowed silently.
"You must be Peter, the hermit," the young man exclaimed; "but whoever
you are, you are welcome; I am glad to see a human face."
"And you," replied the other, slowly, "you are not the same man that you
were yesterday; you have awakened, as he said you would some day."
"As who said?" the young man questioned.
"John Britton," the other replied.
"Yes, I have awakened, and my life here is like a dream. Sit down,
Peter; I want to ask you some questions."
For half an hour they sat together, the younger man asking questions,
the other answering in as few words as possible, his keen eyes never
leaving the face of his interlocutor.
"Where is this John Britton?" the young man finally inquired.
"In Ophir--at a place called The Pines."
"I know the place; I remember it. How far is it from here?"
"Fifteen miles by rail from the station at the foot of the mountain."
"I must go to him at once; you will show me the way. How soon can we get
away from here?"
Peter glanced at the sun. "We cannot get down the trail in season for
to-day's train. We will start to-morrow morning."
Without further speech he then went into the cabin and busied himself
with his accustomed duties. When he reappeared he again stood silently
regarding the younger man with his fixed, penetrating gaze.
"What awakened you?" he asked, at length.
The abruptness of the question, as well as its tenor, startled the
other; that was a phase of the mystery surrounding himself of which he
had not even thought.
"I do not know," he replied, slowly; "that question had not occurred to
me before. What do you think? Might it not have come about in the
ordinary sequence of events?"
Peter shook his head. "Not likely," he muttered; "there must have been a
shock of some kind."
The young man smiled brightly. "Well, I cannot answer for yesterday's
events," he said, "having neither record nor recollection of the day;
but I certainly sustained a shock this morning on awaking on the bare
rocks at such an altitude as this and with no trace of a human being
visible!"
"On the rocks!" Peter repeated; "where?"
"Yonder," said the young man, indicating the direction; "come, I will
show you the exact spot."
He led the way to his rocky bed, near one end of the plateau, then
watched his companion's movements as he knelt down and carefully
inspected the rock, then, rising to his feet, looked searchingly in
every direction with his ferret-like glance.
"Ah!" the latter suddenly exclaimed, with emphasis, at the same time
pointing to a rock almost overhanging their heads.
Following the direction indicated, the young man saw a pine-tree on the
edge of the overhanging rock, the entire length of its trunk split open,
its branches shrivelled and blackened as though by fire.
Peter, notwithstanding his age, sprang up the rocks with the agility of
a panther, the younger man following more slowly. As he came up Peter
turned from an examination of the dead tree and looked at him
significantly.
"An electric shock!" he said; "that was a living tree yesterday. There
was an electric storm last night, the worst in years; it brought death
to the tree, but life to you."
To the younger man the words of the old hermit seemed incredible, but
that night brought him a strange confirmation of their truth. Upon
disrobing for the night, what was his astonishment to discover upon his
right shoulder and extending downward diagonally across the right breast
a long, blue mark of irregular, zigzag form, while running parallel with
it its entire length, perfect as though done in India ink with an
artist's pen, was the outline of the very scene surrounding him where he
lay that morning--cliff and crag and mountain peak--traced indelibly
upon the living flesh, an indubitable evidence of the power which had
finally aroused his dormant faculties and a souvenir of the lost years
which he would carry with him to his dying day.
_Chapter XXIX_