"GETHSEMANE."
It was evening and Tony was carrying the milk from the barn to the
milk-house, when Job tripped down the trail from Lookout Point, and
Shot and Carlo ran barking to meet him. A sort of momentary
consciousness that Bess was not there came to him, then something that
sounded like her neigh reached his ears. A shout to Tony--who in his
surprise dropped the milk pail and vanished--a bound, and Job was on
the veranda. He pushed open the door, and stood face to face with
Andrew Malden.
The old man's face was white and deeply furrowed. He looked ten years
older than when Job had seen him last, and the young man felt a sharp
pang of remorse to think he had left him. Then he remembered Jane and
knew he would not have missed the trip for all the world.
At sight of him Andrew Malden's face grew still whiter, he started
back as if shot, and fell in a faint on the couch. Job was appalled
and greatly mystified, as he dashed water into the wrinkled, haggard
face.
At last the old man's eyes opened and he whispered hoarsely, "Oh, Job!
Job! how could you? Once I could have believed it, but I cannot now!
Oh, Job, tell me! tell me all! I'll stand by you, though you did
it--you're my boy still! Oh, Job, it is awful, awful! But I knew you
would come! Oh, Job! oh, Job!" he moaned.
Did what? "Awful"? "Come"? Of course he had come. It was an accident,
Job explained; he did not mean to stay away.
"An accident? Oh, yes, I told them so, Job; but they won't believe it.
They are coming to take my boy and--oh, I can't stand it! I won't
stand it!" and Andrew Malden tottered to and fro across the room.
Was the old man insane? Had something dreadful happened? Job stood,
his face growing paler, his heart sinking with an undefined fear. Then
he caught the words, "Jane--dead--you!"--words that made every nerve
quiver, and tortured him till he sank on his knees and begged to know
the worst.
Oh, the awful story! It burned into the depths of his soul. Now it
seemed like a dream, now dreadful reality. Jane was dead. Somebody had
found her lifeless and still on the rocks below the cliff just around
from Inspiration Point, and Bess had come home riderless. All the
country was wild with excitement. Everybody was searching for him. He
had done it, they said. Tom Reed had seen him go away with her, and
knew there was a quarrel on hand. Dan was telling that Jane had
promised to marry him, and that Job had followed her to the valley to
make her break the engagement or kill her. All the evidence was
against Job. They had buried her from the old church, buried her in
the cemetery on the hill, outside of whose gate his father lay. Yes,
Jane was dead!
Job listened and listened--all else fell unheeded on his ear. Jane was
dead, his Jane, and lay beneath the pines far down the Gold City road!
It was all he heard--it was all he knew. He did not stop to explain;
he heard Bess neigh again, and rushed out into the shadowy night, and
mounted her with only a bridle. He heeded not the old man's cries. His
brain was on fire, his soul in agony. Only one thing he knew--Jane was
dead and he must go to her; go as fast as Bess could fly down that
road which many a dark night she had traveled.
Men standing on the steps of the Miners' Home that evening said a dark
ghost went by like a flash--it was too swift for a flesh-and-blood
horse and rider--and they crept in by the bar and drank to quiet their
fears.
He found it at last. The fresh earth, the uplifted pine cross with the
one word "Jane" on it, told the story. He left Bess to roam among the
white stones and the grass, flung himself across that mound, half hid
by withered flowers, and lay as if dead--dead as she who slept
beneath. At last the sobs came; the tears mingled with the flowers;
the heart of manhood was bleeding. Jane was dead! How had it happened?
Who had done this awful thing? God or man, it mattered little to him.
The dreadful fact that burned itself deeper and deeper into his soul
was--Jane was dead!
Oh, that awful night! The stars forgot to shine; the trees moaned over
his head; the lightnings played on yonder mountains. The thunders
rolled, and he heeded them not; the rain-drops pattered now and then
on the branches above, but he never knew it.
Gethsemane! Once it had seemed a strange, far-away place where the
heart broke and the cup was drunk to its bitter dregs. Job had
wondered what it meant. He knew now. It was here on the slopes of the
Sierras. These pines were the gnarled olive trees, this was the garden
of grief. Gethsemane--it had come into the life of Job Malden.
At length the first great storm of grief had spent itself, and he sat
alone in the silence broken only by the far-off mutter of thunder; sat
alone with his dead and his thoughts. Again, as on far Glacier Point,
memory came and turned the pages of a lifetime. He was back in the old
boyhood days, laughing at her dusty, tanned feet--he would kneel to
kiss them now, if he could; again he was climbing Sugar Pine trail
with her; he was following her and Dan out on that bitter winter
night, maddened with jealousy and drink. Still the pages turned. He
was kneeling by her side at the Communion table, and a voice said, "As
oft as ye drink of this cup"--he was drinking of it now--the cup the
Master drank in the garden's gloom. Then the sobs overcame him. Again
he was still. The storm had spent its fury, the moon was struggling
through the rifted clouds. He remembered Glacier Point and that
immortal night, and he felt as if she was here and God was here, and
he knelt and prayed, "Thy will, not mine, be done," and the angels of
peace and rest came and ministered unto him.
From sheer exhaustion he finally slept. It was but the passing of a
moment, and he was awake again. There in the moonlight he read,
"Jane." Could he bear it? He could see her now saying good-by. Oh, it
was forever, forever! Then, like a flash it came--forever? No; only a
little span of life, and, at the gates of pearl, he would see her
waiting to welcome him. She was there now, up where the stars were
shining and the moon had parted the clouds. Her frail body was here
perhaps--but Jane, his Jane, who that night at Glacier Point had said
she loved him--she was there. He would be brave; he would be true to
God; he would lean on the Master's arm. Jesus was left--he was with
him here in the lonely graveyard, and Jane was his still for all
eternity.
The young man looked up from the dark earth to the clear sky, and
prayed a prayer of hope and trust and submission. Near the hour of
dawn he walked out to the gate where Bess stood waiting. He mounted
her--dear Bess! who alone knew the story of the awful tragedy. He
patted her neck; he whispered his sorrow in her ear. And then a
strange, wild thought came to him. He would not go back--he would go
away to the great, outside world, never to see the mountains again.
How could he ever climb Sugar Pine Hill, or go past the old
school-house, or enter the old church? He would go where no gleam from
sun-kissed El Capitan could reach his eye, where no associations that
would remind of a life forever past could haunt his soul.
Then he remembered something--it seemed like a nightmare. They had
said he did it--how, when, why, he knew not. If he went away they
would think he was afraid to face them, they would believe him guilty,
and the old man would be broken-hearted. Job had forgotten him--he had
forgotten all but his awful sorrow. What of it? Go anyway, his heart
said. Go away from this world that has been full of trial after trial
for you. No matter what men think. God knows--God can take care of
the old man.
There on Bess' back Job sat, while the bitter conflict within went on.
It was over at last. He turned Bess' steps toward Pine Mountain and
home. He would face it all--the world's scorn, the old scenes which
seemed each one to pierce anew his heart. He had been down to
Gethsemane; he would climb Calvary.