There was much coming and going that night. When, just before dawn, the
last man was going, the Sun Chaser still lay upon the black sofa, his
breath loud and hoarse, his face livid, and his wooden-shod foot hanging
over the edge of the sofa.
Outside, were gray stones luminous at dawn. Outside, as birds left their
perches, was the stir of branches. Outside, even the spiral roots of
bush and flower and the stiffened tendrils of vines knew what the Sun
Chaser no longer knew: that dawn was coming and the sun would rise over
the eastern hills and take its stately, beneficent way westward.
Outside, a little pool which had always lain on the margin of the
Miller’s stream, caught the coming dawn as good eyes take the light,
and, like faith, reflected the color of heaven and was tremulous with
the virgin white of birches.
“Get up!” shouted Harding.
Ambrose Clark did not answer. The Miller fetched a glass of cold water
and flung it in the Sun Chaser’s face. With a cry Ambrose jerked upright
and put out his hands to shield himself.
“Get out of here now, you fool!” commanded the Miller, pushing him
towards the door.
This to the Sun Chaser,--he who could and would overtake the sun one day
and be lord of all its domain of joy and warmth.
The Miller’s left hand was already on the bolt that would bar the Sun
Chaser outside. And Ambrose stumbled forward over the sill into a world
of dawn.
Clip-clop and stop, clip-clop and on, clip-clop and stop, clip-clop and
on. As wooden-shod struck the ground the frozen earth sounded like vast,
dry, shackling ribs of frost. Clip-clop and on, clip-clop and stop, and
on and stop and on and stop.
By the road were bare, swinging, bead-budded larches waiting for the
kindling of another spring, and up on the hillsides the wave-lines of
wind-swept, pain-tossed trees. Again, dawn was coming and coming
quickly. Above the deep blue hills was a horizon of clear amber and
above this, flocking a million-fold, were rosy, winged clouds. Clip-clop
and on, clip-clop and stop, on, clip-clip-clip-clip and fall.
There were no leaves anywhere on the trees except the withered, still
grayish-green leaves of the poplar. Everywhere in the dark, leafless
woods were seen the fine, white lines of birch saplings etching the
sombreness.
Not much more than a tree’s length from his own door the Sun Chaser
fell. The door, still ajar, was moving to and fro in the cool, playful
gusts of the dawn wind. The sun was coming--undoubtedly the sun was
coming, heralded by light and song, wind and color. But the Sun Chaser
saw none of it, for he was lying face down in the ditch by the
roadside. The sun was coming; already the little, white, spiral roots
felt it, the mice in the fields knew it, the squirrels in their holes,
wing of bird and tip of tree knew it, but the Sun Chaser, face down in
the ditch, knew nothing.
At no point of the Sun Chaser’s consciousness did the sun touch him. He
had passed the Border Land and entered a land where, for the time being,
there was nothing, neither cry of the heart nor stirring of the soul.
The lamp-lighter, who should be putting out his lights now, lay face
down in the ditch.
As the night wore on Sybil Clark toiled heavily back to consciousness,
aware of a weight on breast and heart. But when she opened her eyes
slowly there shaped itself before her only the outlines of the kitchen
stove.
“Oh,” she sighed, “the fire’s gone out!”
Consciousness widened and grew warmer. Against her bosom lay something
lighter than the heavy breath she drew,--something soft and warm and
comforting. She lifted her left hand and felt the child’s head over
which she had closed with the Sun Chaser. With a cry she drew it closer.
Blessed, blessed, blessed, blessed little one! She knew not whether this
was sleep or what it was,--may be heaven itself.
Strength rushed back on her like a tidal wave. She struggled to her feet
and gathered up the sleeping child and stumbled with her into the
adjoining room. All the hard, all the bitter realities were gone, and
there remained only the kindest and greatest of them all,--mother and
child! She laid Pearl on the bed. She lighted a candle and gazed down on
the little face, and upon the child’s temple with its long, red blister
where the lamp chimney had scarred it.
“I’ll light the fire first,” she said. “I wonder where he is?”
The fire lighted, she went to the door and looked out, saw the changing
night and the morning star in the east. She stood there for a few
seconds. Color was brightening behind the dark hills and gray turning
to blue and blue to rose and to gold. The morning star was waning and
pearl-colored clouds, a million-fold, were flocking upwards.
With one look back into the kitchen where the fire was crackling, she
drew the door to softly and went out.
As she started up towards the mill, she saw a figure coming towards her.
It was Stephen Short, the sheriff. Her hand felt nervously at her torn
collar and traveled up her chin to the gashed cheek and bruised temple.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said the young sheriff, looking past her.
Sybil followed his glance. Yes, there was what she had come to seek. It
was lying face downward in the ditch.
Sybil Clark was the first to go forward.
“Ambrose,” she said quietly, turning him towards her, “wake up!”
The Sun, bringer of joy, of warmth, healer, comforter, had risen to the
hill summit and shone down upon the ditch. The Sun Chaser was
dreaming--dreaming that he did not want to go back, for all the misery
he had ever known in this world had come from going back. He wanted to
overtake the sun, and, then, Sybil and Pearl beside him, go on and on
with it forever.
“Don’t stop me,” he moaned.
“Ambrose,” repeated the wife, “Ambrose, wake up!”
“There,” said the sheriff, “he isn’t fit to go with you. I’ll take him
along with me.”
“No, no,” cried Sybil. “He’s mine and you can’t take him.”
“I’ll take him just the same. This has gone on long enough,” and Stephen
Short looked significantly at the scarred cheek.
“He didn’t mean to--it was the lamp--he--”
“Well, he’ll come with me.”
“No, no,” came from Sybil, “you mustn’t! Everything would be different
if you could only make men see things different. Ambrose isn’t bad.
It’s just that Ambrose hasn’t ever settled down to what it means to be
a--a husband.”
“Or a father.”
“Or a father, Stephen Short. But there are lots of children in the world
who haven’t ever had more than one parent, Stephen Short. The birds
could teach men lessons they haven’t ever learned. Men are that way,
Stephen Short. They keep on traveling. Ambrose has that idea about the
sun in his head.”
“Well,” said the young sheriff quietly, “I’ll take him along with me and
give him a chance to think about the idea.”