A few hours later Lyle stood in the gloaming, taking leave of Jack, in
the quaint, cozy room in the cabin, little dreaming that they stood
there together for the last time.
They had talked long and earnestly of the new life opening up before
her, and her tears flowed fast as she recalled the happy hours they
had spent together, or as she anticipated the days to come. Her tears
were not the only ones, but the friendly twilight, rapidly deepening,
concealed the others.
"And to think that you have known so much of this all the time, and
did not tell me!" she exclaimed.
"It was best, my little one, best for each of us. I was constantly
planning how I might bring this about when the right time came. That
time has come, and as my little girl, whom I have loved as deeply as
any one in the future can ever love her, and whom I have cherished and
helped to the extent of my limited power, goes forth into this new
life, I can and will rejoice in the joy, the love and the happiness
that will be hers. And I know that amid new scenes, new friends and
new loves, she will never quite forget the old friend and the old
love."
"Never, Jack; I could never forget you, and Everard and Morton will
never forget you. They are coming to see you to-night. Dear Jack, why
could you not give up this lonely life, and go with us to the east?
We would all love you and make you one of us, and our home would be
yours."
"My dear child," he replied with a slight shudder, "you know not what
you ask. I know the love that prompted it, but never ask it again."
"Very well," said Lyle, with a sorrowful submission, "but I know what
I can do." And she put her arms about his neck. "I will come out to
the mountains and visit you here."
Then, as he remained silent, she queried:
"You would be here, wouldn't you, Jack, where I could find you?"
Oh, the agony which his strong, loving heart endured! How could he
tell her that even then he never expected to look upon her face again!
He could not. He only said:
"I cannot tell, dear, my life is an erratic and wandering one. No one,
not even I, can say where I may be."
"But you have not lived a wandering life lately; you have lived here
for many years."
"Because the lodestone, the magnet of my heart was here," he answered
half-playfully, half-tenderly. "When that is gone, I shall be likely
to fly off in a tangent again."
"Oh, Jack, you must not talk so. I want to see you in the years to
come. I must and I will. I feel it," she added brightly.
For answer, Jack, for the first time, placed his arms about her, and
for a moment folded her closely to his breast. Then, bending his head,
he kissed her reverently, first on the forehead, then on the lips,
saying, "God bless you always, my dear child!"
She returned the kiss, and as he released her, she whispered:
"Good-night, dear Jack!"
"Good-night, my dear," he answered, adding under his breath, "and
good-bye!"
After she had gone, he sat in the gathering darkness alone, lost in
thought. The collie, returning from attending Lyle on her homeward
walk, divined, with keen, unerring instinct, the sorrow in his
master's heart, and coming close, laid his head upon his knee, in
mute sympathy and affection. His master stroked the noble head, but
his thoughts were far away, and he was only aroused at length by the
sound of voices, as Everard Houston and Morton Rutherford entered the
cabin. The moon had now risen, and the little room in which he sat was
filled with a soft, silver radiance.
Jack rose to meet his guests, and his quick ear detected the vibration
of a new emotion in Houston's voice, and as they exchanged greetings,
there was something in the clasp of their hands that night that
thrilled the heart of each one as never before.
At heart, Jack was glad of the presence of Morton Rutherford. He
feared that alone with Houston, after the events of that day, and in
the light of the anticipated events of the morrow, his own emotions
might prove too strong, weakening the perfect self-control which he
felt he must now exercise. The presence of Rutherford acted as a
tonic, and restored the desired equilibrium.
"Mr. Houston already knows my aversion to a lamp, and if you do not
object, Mr. Rutherford, we will sit for a while in the moonlight."
"By all means," said Rutherford. "I myself dislike the glare of a
bright light for genuine, friendly intercourse. A soft, subdued light
is much more conducive to mutual confidence and interchange of thought
and feeling."
"Jack, my dear friend," said Houston, after a few moments of general
conversation upon indifferent subjects, an effort on Jack's part to
ward off the inevitable which he felt was surely coming, "You have
added very materially to our happiness to-day, in that you have helped
us to a happy solution of some of the mysteries that have perplexed
us, and in doing this, have brought us all into much closer relations
with one another."
"You refer, of course, to Lyle," Jack replied, "but while I am very
glad to have contributed to your happiness, I really deserve no credit
therefor. I have suspected the relationship for some time, and was
only waiting for the necessary proofs, which I felt would be found in
good time."
"But that is not the only mystery you have solved for us, or for me,"
said Houston. "I think we now have a reason for the interest you have
manifested in Lyle, and the kindness you have shown her; and, speaking
for myself, I believe I have found a clue to the strange bond of
mutual sympathy which has united us almost from our first meeting,
even before we had exchanged one word; notwithstanding the coldness
and reserve of your manner, I felt that back of it all you were my
friend, and so it has proved. There has sprung up between us an
affection which I believe to be mutual, and of a depth and power
remarkable for such a brief acquaintance. But to-night there seems, to
my mind, to be a reason for this, which I have been so blind as never
to suspect."
"And what may that reason be?" inquired Jack, calmly.
"You will understand of course, my dear friend, as I have often said
to you, I have no wish to question you regarding your life in the
past, or to lead you to make any statements regarding yourself which
you would not make freely and voluntarily; but to me it is evident
that, although we met as strangers, you must sometime have been at
least a trusted friend of the members of my uncle's family, if not
more intimately connected with them."
After a pause Jack replied, slowly:
"As you are aware, I once knew Lyle's mother, and her memory is still
unspeakably dear to me. I also knew the other members of Mr. Cameron's
family, but that was all long ago in that past which is gone beyond
recall, and to which any reference only brings the most bitter pain.
When I learned your name and your true business here, I knew, of
course, to what family you belonged, and I may have felt some degree
of interest in you on that account, but the deep affection between us,
which is, as you say, mutual, is, on my part, wholly for your own
sake, because I knew you worthy of it. Regarding Lyle, I observed the
wonderful resemblance between her and her mother, and it has been to
me a source both of joy and of pain, especially of late, since it has
grown so marked, and I have sometimes wondered that you did not
observe it for yourself."
"Now that I can see the resemblance so plainly, it seems strange that
I did not think of it before," Houston replied. "She has always
reminded me vaguely of some one, I could not recall whom. I can only
account for it from the fact that I really saw my cousin Edna but
seldom after I went to my uncle's home, as she was married very soon,
and then we saw her only occasionally until her death, which occurred
when I was only about twelve years of age. Consequently, my
recollection of her was not particularly distinct. I am anticipating
the meeting between her and my uncle and aunt,--they will recognize
her immediately, and I am confident they will adopt her as their own
daughter, in her mother's place."
Jack started almost imperceptibly. "You do not expect Mrs. Cameron
here with her husband?"
"She will not come out with him, but she insisted on coming as far as
Chicago, so that she would be able to reach us more readily in case of
trouble, and I have thought to-day, since this recent discovery, that
if the case against the company seems likely to take some time, I
might go on to Chicago and bring her out to meet Lyle, and I would, of
course, like her to meet Leslie, also."
Jack remained silent, and withdrew a little farther into the shadow.
It was Morton Rutherford who spoke now.
"Did you not once tell me, Everard, in the old college days, that Mr.
Cameron had lost a son also?"
"Yes," said Houston, with a sigh. "That was a far heavier blow for
them than the death of their daughter. He was their joy and pride,
their hearts were bound up in him."
"Ah," said Jack, in a voice almost cold in its even calmness. "I
remember that Miss Cameron,--as I knew her,--had a brother. Is he also
dead?"
"We are compelled to believe that he must be dead," Houston answered,
after a pause, in a tone of deep sadness. "He left home soon after his
sister's death, and we have never heard from him since, though his
parents searched for him, not in this country alone, but in others as
well."
"I beg your pardon for having alluded to it, Everard," said
Rutherford, "you never told me the particulars, and I did not realize
they were so painful."
"No apologies are necessary among us three friends," Houston replied.
"Guy's parents and I are the only living human beings who know, or
ever will know, the reason for his leaving as he did. My uncle spent
vast sums of money and employed detectives all over the world in his
efforts to find him, and to let him know that the old home was open to
him, and would always be just what it had been in the past. But it was
of no avail, we could not even get any tidings of him, and uncle, long
ago, gave him up for dead, though Aunt Marjorie believes that he is
still living, and that he will yet return."
"The faith of a good woman is sometimes simply sublime," replied
Rutherford, "and a mother's love is something wonderful. To me it
seems the nearest divine of anything we meet on earth."
There was no response from the figure sitting motionless in the
shadow. At that moment it required all the force of his tremendous
will power to stem the current of almost uncontrollable emotion,
surging across his soul.
But the moments passed, other topics were introduced and discussed,
and Jack joined in the conversation as calmly as the others.
"I suppose," he remarked, as, a little later, he accompanied his
guests to the door, "I suppose that before this time to-morrow, Mr.
Cameron will have already arrived at the camp?"
"Yes," Houston replied, "we expect him over on the evening train, with
Van Dorn."
As Houston and Rutherford took leave of Jack, there was something in
his manner, something in the long, lingering hand-clasp which seemed
more like a farewell than like a simple good-night, at which they
silently wondered.
Could they have looked in upon him an hour later, they would have
understood the cause. Silently he moved about the room, gathering
together the few little keepsakes among his possessions which he most
prized. These he placed in a small gripsack which he carefully locked,
saying to himself, as he looked around the room with a sigh, "Mike can
have the rest."
Then going to the window, he stood looking out upon the calm, moonlit
scene, which for many years had been the only home he had known.
"This is my last night here," he soliloquized, "my work here is done.
After to-morrow, Everard Houston will need me no longer, everything in
which I can render him assistance is now done, and his friends will
afford him all needed protection. Lyle has found her own, her future
is provided for. The wrongs which I have witnessed for years in
silence, will be righted without any assistance of mine. There is
nothing more for me to do, and to-morrow I will start forth on the
old, wandering life again."
His head dropped lower; he was thinking deeply.
"He said the old home was open, and would always be what it had been
in the past. Home! What would that not mean now, after all these
years! But that was long ago. I am dead to them now,--dead and
forgotten. They will be happy with their new-found daughter, and
Everard will be to them as a son, their happiness will be complete,
and I will not mar it by any reminders of the wretched past."
He glanced upward at the surrounding peaks.
"To-morrow I go forth again into the mountains,--those towers of
refuge and strength,--and in their soothing solitudes I shall once
more find peace!"
Then he retired. But to Jack, resting for the last time in his cabin
home, to those then peacefully sleeping in the little mining camp, or
to the others speeding westward through the night, on the wings of
steam, there came no vision, no thought of what the morrow was, in
reality, to bring.