The letter was written. It was full of manly sympathy and friendly
assurances. It brought the afflicted banker three days later to the
plantation. A delightful cool and airy room was assigned to him. The
open sympathy of the mountaineers and the negroes about the place was
vaguely soothing. Looking back upon the city, it seemed a jarring place
of torture when contrasted to the eternal peace of this remote spot.
Free to go when and whither he liked, Mostyn spent whole days rambling
alone through the narrow roads and by-paths of the mountains, often
reaching all but inaccessible nooks in canons and rocky crevices where
dank plants and rare flowers budded and bloomed, where velvet mosses
were spread like carpets, and ferns stood like miniature palms.
One morning Mostyn saw Saunders hoeing weeds out of the corn-rows in a
field back of the house; and, taking another hoe, he joined him,
working steadily by his friend's side till noon. And here he made a
discovery. He found that the work furnished a sort of vent for the
festering agony pent up within him. It seemed to ooze out with the
sweat which dampened his clothing, to be absorbed in his heated blood,
and after a cooling bath he slept more profoundly than he had slept for
years. He now saw the reason for Saunders's partiality to country life.
It was Nature's balm for all ills. In fact, he was sure now that he
could not do without it. Nearly every morning after this he insisted on
working in the fields. Sometimes it was with a plow, which he learned
to use under the advice of Tobe Barnett, a scythe in the hay-field, or
a woodman's ax in the depths of the forests. But still sorrow and shame
brooded over him like a material pall that refused to be put aside. As
he lay in his bed at night he would fancy that he heard little Dick
calling to him from the nursery, and the thought that the voice and
love of the child were forever dead to him was excruciating.
One evening after supper Saunders informed him that Dolly and some of
her literary friends were to hold a club-meeting at the schoolhouse to
discuss some topic of current interest, and asked him if he would care
to go along with him. Mostyn was seated at the end of the veranda
smoking. He hesitated, it seemed to Saunders, longer than was necessary
before he answered:
"I hope you will excuse me, but you mustn't let me keep you away. I am
very tired and shall go to bed early."
A little later Saunders left for the meeting. Mostyn saw him pass out
at the gate under the starlight. The bell was ringing. Mostyn recalled
the night he had gone with Dolly to a meeting of like nature, and the
impression her speech had made on him.
"All that is past--gone like a wonderful dream," he mused. "In feeling
I am an old man, bowed and broken under the blind errors of life.
Saunders and I are near the same age. Look at him; look at me; he walks
like a young Greek athlete. I have nothing to expect, nothing to hope
for. My wife died despising me; my friends merely bear with me out of
pity; my boy is dead; I have to die--all living creatures have to die.
What does the whole thing mean? It really must have a meaning, for many
great minds have seen nothing but beauty in it, not even excluding
sorrow, pain, and death. There must be an unpardonable sin, and I have
committed it. Some say that all wrong-doers may get right--I wonder if
there is a chance for me, _a single chance?_ No, no, I am sure there is
none--none whatever. But, oh, if only I could see my boy alive again! I
would be willing to suffer any torment for that, but better still--if
only he might be immortal--if only he could live forever in happiness
on some other plane, as good people believe, I'd ask nothing for my
part--absolutely nothing! I brought him into the world. I am
responsible for his marvelous being. I'd give my soul to save his--I
would--I would--I would!"
He went to bed. He said no prayer. He accepted his lot without any idea
that it might be otherwise. The night was profoundly still. He heard
singing. It was at the meeting-house. Softened by distance, the music
was most appealing. It seemed to float above the tree-tops, touch the
clouds, and fall lightly to earth. His mind, weighted down by care,
induced slumber. Dream-creatures flocked about him. He was a child
romping in a meadow over new-mown hay. He had a playmate, but he could
not see his face; it was ever eluding him. Suddenly he ran upon the
child, and with open arms clasped him to his breast. The child laughed
gleefully, as children do when caught in such games. It was little
Dick. He held him tightly, fearing that he would get away. He spoke
soothingly and yet anxiously. Endearing words rippled from his lips.
Presently his arms were empty. Little Dick was gone, and standing near,
a scowl of hate on his face, was old Henderson, who was shaking fierce
fingers at the dreamer.
"Retribution!" he cried. "Retribution! Now it is your time--your time
to suffer, and I am appointed to lay on the lash!"
Mostyn waked. The moonlight was shining in at the window. In the
distance he heard voices. They were coming nearer. Standing at a
window, Mostyn saw Saunders and Tobe Barnett as they were parting at
the gate.
"As soon as Dolly stood up," Tobe said, with a satisfied laugh, "I knew
she had it in for the whole dang bunch from the way she looked. An'
when she swatted 'em like she did with them keen points o' hers I
mighty nigh kicked the bench in front o' me to pieces. I throwed my hat
agin the ceilin' an' yelled. She's a corker, Mr. Saunders."
Mostyn could not hear Saunders's reply. As he came on to the house he
began to whistle softly. Mostyn saw him pause on the grass, light a
cigar, and begin to smoke as he strolled to and fro.
"Happy man!" Mostyn said, as he went back to his bed. "He's never had
anything to bother him. There must be a correct law of life, and he
seems to understand and obey it. He used to try to get me to listen to
his ideas, but I thought he was a fanatic. Lord, Lord, I thought he was
a fool!"