Along one of the most precipitous of the many Rocky Mountain trails a
man and a woman climbed slowly one spring morning. The air was cold,
and farther up the mountains little patches of snow lay here and there
in the hollows. Two or three miles below them nestled one of the most
famous pleasure resorts of the entire region. Three or four times as
distant lay the nearest town of any importance. Over the plain and
through the clear atmosphere it looked like a bird's-eye-view map
rather than an actual town. Far away to the left, gorgeous in coloring
and grotesque in outline, could be seen the odd figures of many
strangely piled rocks.
The two pedestrians stopped now and then to rest and look away over
the matchless scene and take in its wonderful beauty. The woman was
tall and slender, with a superb carriage. Even on that steep ascent
she moved with the grace and freedom of one who has entire command of
her body. She was well gowned also for such an excursion. Her short,
green cloth skirt did not impede her movements, and high, stout shoes
gave her firm footing. She had removed her jacket, and in her bright
pink silk blouse and abbreviated petticoat, with the glow of the
morning on her usually pale face, she looked almost girlish; but her
face was not that of girlhood. It was without lines, and the heavy
masses of her golden-brown hair were quite unstreaked with silver; but
her white forehead was serene with the calmness that follows
overcoming, and her dark gray eyes saw the world shorn of its
illusions. In her there were, or had been, unrealized capacities for
life in all its height and depth and breadth. In studying her one
became vaguely aware that, having missed these things, she had found a
fourth dimension which supplied the loss.
Her companion was younger by several years, and so much taller that
she seemed almost small in comparison. In his eyes there danced and
shone the light of truth and courage and hope, and he walked with the
buoyancy of joy and youth. Israfil, Antinous, Apollo,--he might have
stood as the model for any of them, or for a fit representation of the
words of the wise man, "Rejoice, oh, young man, in thy youth, and let
thine heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways
of thine heart."
The relation between the two was problematic. Certainly there was no
question of love on either side. Equally certainly there existed
between them a rare and exquisite camaraderie, a perfect comprehension
that often made words superfluous. A look sufficed.
They toiled up the steep, narrow path until they reached a wide trail,
a carriage road that had been laid out and abandoned. It swept around
the mountain-side, miles above the little city on the plain, and
terminated suddenly at an immense gateway of stone. Here the mountain
had been torn asunder, and two palisades of gray-green rock rose grim
and terrible for hundreds of feet, while between them, dashing over
boulders and trees and the impedimenta of ages, a little stream rushed
along in the eternal night at their base. Far away to the west, range
upon range piled themselves against the intense blue sky. Beyond a
rustic gate, standing across the path that narrowed to a few feet
before the wall of stone, a park, sparkling and green in the sunlight,
was visible. They stopped and regarded the two gateways,--one the work
of nature, the other the feeble counterfeit of man,--and then swinging
open the creaking wooden affair, passed into the peaceful valley. A
few yards away stood a small log cabin, but the chimney was smokeless,
and though the chickens clucked in the yard, and a collie lay on the
doorstep, it seemed desolate and deserted.
Passing along an almost invisible trail, they found themselves in the
wildest and most remote part of that wild and remote region. They saw
a few stray animals, but no human beings. This was one of the few
places where mining was not a universal pursuit, and it was too early
to do much in the few mines that did exist. There are entire sections
in the Rockies that are deserted for more than half the year, and this
was one of them. That day there was no one at the signal station. The
keeper had gone down to the valley for fresh stores, and to learn
something of the terrific disturbances that were said to be
threatening the entire Eastern coast with annihilation. Perhaps the
owners of the log cabin had made a similar pilgrimage.
The scene was flooded with moonlight when the travellers passed the
gate on their homeward way, and sat down on a boulder a few yards
without the frowning portal. The night was cold, and the woman had put
on her jacket, and sunk her numbed fingers in its pockets. In spite of
her weariness she was troubled and restless, and turning looked first
at the beetling crags back of them, then away over the plain at the
twinkling lights of the town below. They heard indistinctly the sounds
of bells ringing wildly, and overhead flocks of birds circled and
called with shrill, uncanny voices. Yet the moonlight was so bright
that they saw each other as plainly as if it were day, and its placid
radiance seemed strangely at variance with the disturbed wild-fowl,
and certain weird and fitful sounds that seemed to be sighed forth
from the bosom of the earth.
"It is a pity," she said, "that we cannot pass through this gateway
into paradise without descending to earth again."
"I don't believe you are half as tired of life as you say," he
answered with an impatient movement of his head. "You may not shrink
from death as I do, or enjoy life so keenly, but isn't it a good thing
to be alive to-night? Isn't it fine to be a mile or so above the rest
of humanity and the deadly conventionalities? Aren't you glad you
came?"
She did not answer, but presently said dreamily, "Suppose that plain
was the sea."
"It isn't hard to suppose," he answered. "I have seen the Pacific when
it looked just so."
"Oh, no," she said quickly. "Nothing is like the sea but itself. You
will never persuade me that I love the mountains so well. And the
plains,--just imagine if all that gray green silver were gray blue,
with here and there a gathering crest of foam, racing to break in
spray about these mountains--"
"Why, look," he said, drawing her a little to one side, "there is your
liquid blue, with its white crest moving toward us. Could the real sea
look more wonderful than that? It is blotting out everything. Now it
recedes,--was it not real?"
She started to her feet. "This is a very strange night," she said
irrelevantly, in a rather strained voice. "Listen,--and see how many
birds are flying about us; I never saw them fly so at night. What does
it mean?"
They stood together, looking at each other with startled faces. The
whole mountain, all the mountains, seemed to be alive and trembling
under them. Overhead thousands of birds wheeled and screamed with
terror in their mingled outcries. The little creeping things scuttled
away up the mountain. The silver-blue wave widened and spread over the
plain from north to south, and the air was full of a dull, terrible
roar, as if the fountains of the great deep had broken up, and a
thousand white-crested waves rushed toward the hapless city before
them. They covered it, and with a wild jangle of bells, faintly
audible over the tumult, it sank out of sight, all the gleaming,
dancing lights disappearing in an instant. The white crests came on
and broke about the mountains, and receded and came on again with a
deafening roar. Then the crust of the earth between the mountain range
and the spot where the city had been, seemed to crack like a bit of
dried orange peel, and the flood rushed over the abyss, and there
arose a blinding steam that hid the whole scene below, and ascending
circled the mountain peaks in mist.
All about them on the mountain-side rose the cries of terrified wild
things, and along the narrow pathway into the park a herd of cattle
and horses rushed and disappeared among the aspens that trembled as
never before. The collie, scenting their presence, came and crouched
whining at their feet, and a bird fell exhausted into the woman's
arms. She closed her hands over it, unconsciously giving it the
protection none could give them, and in the fog moved toward the
figure of her companion. His arm closed about her convulsively.
"Shall we go farther up the mountain?" he asked.
"'If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be
now,'" she answered, insensibly finding it easier to use another's
words than to coin phrases while holding death-watch over a continent.
They sat down on the boulder. After what seemed like countless hours,
she said, "I wonder how long we have been here. Perhaps it is years."
He looked at his watch. "I do not know whether we are in time or
eternity," he answered simply. "It is nearly four o'clock by this
watch."
Through the dense vapor they saw the sun rise, red and sullen, but the
mist was so impenetrable that they dared not move about. The day and
night passed, almost without their knowledge, and the second morning
found them, as the first, by the great boulder. The wind rose with the
sun, and when it blew aside the veil of mist, far as the eye could
reach, there rolled a sea, white-capped, turbulent, fretful, as if
unwilling to leave a single peak to tower above its lordly dominion.
The man and woman followed the collie to the cabin, and there found
some food, then they retraced their way until they could look down
over the valley where the town had slept. Nothing was left. There was
not even a prospector's cabin. The shock which had succeeded the first
wild dash had been volcanic. The very cañons looked strange, and
though they called again and again there came no answer.
"Come," the man said imperiously. "Let us go to the Peak. There must
be some one there."
They reached the signal station late in the afternoon; no one was
there. Looking down from that awful eminence, they saw on the other
side of the range the same desolation, the same watery waste. They
seemed to be on an island, alone on a wide, wide sea. Nowhere curled a
friendly wreath of smoke; nowhere was there sound of any human thing.
They went wearily back. There was nowhere else to go. If the gateway
had been awful in its solitude, the Peak was still more desolate.
There was nothing living there, except themselves and the dog that
followed closely at their heels, making no excursions of its own. The
hour was wearing toward midnight when they sank down by the boulder
once more to watch the darkness disappear, and wait for they knew not
what. The man built a huge fire, so that if any other waifs had been
left by this wreck of a world they might see the beacon, and reply in
some fashion. They did not talk, except now and then, in a half
whisper, they gave monosyllabic queries and replies. The shock that
had obliterated a continent seemed to deprive them of all active use
of their senses. They moved only in circles, returning always to the
place from which they had watched the cataclysm.
It was almost sundown when, with a superhuman effort, they again
entered the sunny, beautiful park. The air was balmy, and there all
remained quite as before. In front of the cabin stood an Alderney; as
they approached her, she lowed uneasily. The woman looked up, and then
spoke aloud with the quick sympathy that had always been her greatest
attraction. She seemed to understand so readily, whether it was a
man's head, a woman's heart, or an animal's wants.
"She needs to be milked," she said, and pushing open the door she
entered the cabin. There were two rooms, the farther of which was
evidently a bedroom. There was a large fireplace at one end of the
main room. At one side of it was a primitive dresser, with such
utensils and china as the place afforded; on the other were some
miner's implements and a shovel. There was a small table and beside it
were placed two chairs. There was a rocker by the one window, and a
pot of geraniums on the sill; forming a kind of window seat was a long
seaman's chest. At the other end of the room there was a desk covered
with green oilcloth, and above it was a shelf containing some books
and a clock.
The woman took off her hat and jacket and brushed back her hair, then
turning back her sleeves went outdoors again. Under the rude porch on
a slab table stood a number of buckets, and there was a stool by the
door. She took a bucket and the stool and walked away a few paces, the
Alderney following. As she began milking she looked over her shoulder
at the man watching her and said, "Won't you build a fire?"
He gathered some wood and went into the cabin. She threw out the first
pint or so of milk, then finished milking and strained the foaming
contents of her pail into some crocks left sunning by the door, and
went into the house. She found some cornmeal and salt, and deftly
mixed the dough, and arranging the shovel in the hot ashes, set her
hoe-cake to bake. In the mean time the man had brought water from the
brook, and as the woman swung the crane over the blaze, he filled the
iron kettle hanging therefrom. There was some sour milk, and by a
mysterious process she converted it into Dutch cheese. There was some
butter and a few eggs, and she found a white cloth and spread the
table with the few poor dishes, placing the geranium in the centre. As
the water steamed and boiled, she caught up a tin canister.
"See," she said with forced gayety; "let us eat, drink, and be merry,
for there is just enough tea in the world for two people to drink
once!"
She made the beverage and poured it into the thick cups, and breaking
the yellow pone and piling it on a platter, they sat down to the
strangest meal they had ever known.
The man watched her with fascinated eyes. He had never before seen her
do anything for herself, yet she presided over the simple meal she had
prepared as graciously as over the course dinners of her chef. How
should she know how to make hoe-cake?
All through the singular feast the sparkle and play of her fancy kept
them in hysterical laughter. Afterwards, as she cleared away, the same
wild mood possessed her. The man wondered if her mind was going with
all else; but as she hung up the towel, her humor changed, and she ran
out of the cabin into the dusk as if she could not bear the simple,
homely tasks in a homeless world, the firelight and the bounds of a
dwelling when doom must be at hand. The man put a fresh log on the
fire, and covered the coals with ashes. He would have preferred to
remain there, but he knew why she was hurrying back to the
mountain-side, and he took her coat and followed her. She was standing
by the boulder, looking out over the waters with a despair on her face
that made him groan. It was so like what he felt in his heart. She
pointed weakly toward the water, but her lips formed no words.
"Yes," he answered, "it was not a dream."
Dawn found them still sitting by the boulder. The man shook her half
roughly.
"Come," he said, "let us go back to the cabin."
"No," she answered. "I cannot believe it; we are both mad. We are
dreaming the same mad dream; let us go down, and when we feel the
spray on our faces, and taste the brine, it will be time enough to
believe."
She began the descent with reckless rapidity, and he followed,
checking and holding her back. The roar of the surf grew momentarily
louder, but though she looked at him with wild, grieved eyes, she went
on. A monster wave dashed up over the rocks and wet them to the skin.
She flung out her arms, and would have fallen headlong into the
greedy, crawling water, but he caught her and made his way back. The
hot, bitter tears on her face brought her to herself, and with one
great sob she broke down, clinging to him and crying till from sheer
exhaustion she fell asleep.
He carried her back to the cottage and laid her gently on the bed in
the tiny room. Her hair was falling about her, and he removed her
dusty shoes, and covered her over as if she had been a child. Then he
went out into the sunlight and sat down on the doorstep and tried to
grasp the situation.
He had been a very ambitious man, and she had been as ambitious for
him as he was for himself; that had been the main bond of union. He
was to have made a great place in the world: the applause of
listening senates was to have been his; wealth, fame, position,
all the possibilities of life were gone; nothing but barely life
itself remained. A living might be wrung from nature, but for
ambition,--what? Surely somewhere on earth there were other human
beings; the destruction, if irreparable, was not universal. Sooner or
later some hardy sailor would find the surviving peaks of this new
Atlantis. At least, if the woman within was not his world, he was
thankful that no one else was; and having looked the grim truth in the
face, he too slept.
It was long past noon when the dog wakened him, and he started to his
feet, determined that, having lost all else, they should keep their
sound, clear brains. He walked about the park, which contained perhaps
five hundred acres. There were half a dozen cows, as many horses, some
burros, and a few chickens. There was a rude stable and a few farm
implements. There was a large tunnel in the mountain-side, and some
mining machinery lying about its entrance. The dog, seeming to realize
some of the responsibilities of life, herded the cattle and drove them
toward the cabin. When they reached it, she was standing in the
doorway. She had made her toilet, and looked fresh and calm.
"These are our flocks and our herds," he said in greeting. "What shall
we call them?"
She smiled rather wanly. "Wasn't it Adam who named the animals? You
shall have that honor."
"Very well," he answered; "but if this is the garden, there is an
angel with a flaming sword at the gateway. Do not pass it again. Our
life is here, here,--do you understand? We must give ourselves time to
get used to it, time to realize that we are alive. We must be very
patient, for whatever has befallen us, whether we are in the body or
out of it, this through which we have passed is a miracle, and only
time can tell if it is more. Do not look upon the change again, at
least not now. You will stay here, and we will work together, and be
content for awhile?"
"Content?" she said, "content? We will be happy."