IN JANUARY AND MAY TIME.
The leaves on the mountain maples turned early that fall. The touch of
bitter frost brought forth their rarest colors. The snowflakes
fluttered down before November was past; fluttered down and softly
covered the furrows and brown earth with a mantle of white.
So the days of that autumn came to Job Malden. The beauty begotten of
pain crept into his face. The mantle of silence and peace hid deep the
scars of grief. He never talked of the past--no man ever dared broach
it. The children at their play in the twilight stopped and huddled
close as they saw a dark form climb the graveyard hill, and wondered
who it could be. Yet he did not live apart from the world. Never had
Gold City seen more of him; never did children love a playmate so much
as he who took them all into his heart. Yet he was not of them--all
felt it, all saw it. He was with them, not of them. Up higher in soul
he had climbed than the world of Gold City could go. He came down to
them often, and unconsciously they poured their sorrows at his feet,
and he comforted them; but when he went back into the secret holy
place of his soul, no man dared follow.
Up at the old ranch, the gray-haired, feeble owner sat by the fire
watching the crackling logs and the flames; sat and thought of the
years that were gone. Visions of childhood mingled with visions of
heaven; the murmur of voices long silent with the words, as Job read
them aloud: "In my Father's house are many mansions. I go to prepare
a place for you." Tony still sang at his chores, Hans was still at the
barn, Bess still neighed in the stable, Shot still barked at the door.
But the old home could never be quite the same to the brave, manly
fellow who strode in and out across its threshold.
It was New Year's Eve. Job sat by the old stone fireplace. The
household had gone to rest. The clock was ticking away the moments of
the dying year. Outside, the world was still and white. With head in
his hands, Job waited for the year to end.
He was ten years older than when it had begun. He was still a boy then
in heart and years; now he was well on in manhood. Yosemite, Glacier
Point, Gethsemane, Calvary, Jane Reed's grave, were in that year. He
longed to hear its death-knell. Yet that year--how much it had meant
to his soul! The sanctifying influence of sorrow had softened and
purified his life. The abiding Christ was with him; he lived, and yet
not he--it was Christ living in him.
He knelt and thanked Him for it all--heights of glory, depths of
tribulation; thanked Him for whatsoever Infinite Love had given in the
days of that dark, dark year now ending. The clock gave a warning
tick--it was going; a moment, and it would be gone forever. Into his
heart came a great purpose--the purpose to leave the past with the
past, and in the new year go out to a new life--a life of love for all
the world, of service for all hearts. Over his soul came a great joy.
The clock struck twelve. Somebody down the hill fired a gun, the dogs
barked a welcome--the new year had come. The school-house bell was
ringing, and to Job it seemed to say:
"Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring in the Christ that is to be."
The young man rose from his knees. He went and opened the door. The
white world flooded with silvery light lay before him. The past was
gone. He stood with his face to the future, to the years unscarred
and waiting. Into them he would go to live for others. He closed the
doors, brushed back the embers, and crept softly up to his room,
singing in a low voice the first song for many months:
"Oh, the good we all may do,
While the days are going by."
All day the drums had been beating. All day the tramp of martial feet
had been heard along the Gold City streets. The soldiers from Camp
Sheridan had marched in line with the local militia, and a few
trembling veterans who knew more of real war than either. "Old Glory"
on the court house had been at half-mast, the children had scattered
flowers on a few flag-marked graves, while faltering voices of age
read the Grand Army Ritual. The public exercises in the town square
were over.
The sun had set on Decoration Day when Job rode Bess up once more to
the old graveyard where Jane lay. Not often did he come here now--he
felt that she was up among the stars; it was only the shroud of clay
that lay under the sod--yet on this day when love scatters garlands
over its dead, he had come to place a wreath of wild-flowers on her
grave.
He thought of that night when he had first visited this spot. How far
in the past it seemed! He could never forget it, but he could think of
it now in quiet of soul, and feel, "He doeth all things well."
Reverently he laid the wreath on the grave, knelt in silent prayer,
and tarried a moment with bowed head. Memories sweet and tender,
memories sad and bitter, came back to him.
Just then he heard a noise, a foot-fall opposite, and looked up to see
a tall form supported by a crutch standing with bowed head.
"Why, Dan!" Job said, startled for a moment.
"Job!" answered a trembling voice.
And there they stood, those two men whose lives met in the one under
the sod; stood and looked in silence.
At last Dan spoke. But how different his voice sounded! All the
scornfulness had gone out of it.
"Job," he said, "Job, I knew you were here. Many a night I have seen
you come, have watched you kneeling here, and hated you for it--yet
loved you for it. I knew you would come again to-night. I came to
stand beneath that old pine yonder, and watched you lay the wreath on
the grave. I could stand it no longer. I have come, Job--I have
come--" and Dan, yes, Dan Dean, faltered!--"come to be forgiven. For
years I have dogged your footsteps, hated you, persecuted you, lain in
wait to ruin you. For this alone I have lived. God only knows--you
don't--how bad I have been. But, Job, you are too much for me. The
more I harm you, the nobler you grow. I have hated religion, but
to-night I would give all I ever hope to own to have a little like
yours. If religion can do for a fellow what it has for you, there is
nothing in the world like it."
A little nearer he came, as Job, hardly believing his ears, listened.
"Job," he cried, "I don't deserve it, God knows! I have wronged you
beyond all hope of mercy. But I must be forgiven, or I must die. You
must forgive me. I cannot live another day with this awful feeling in
my heart. I cannot sleep--I cannot work. I don't care whether I die or
not, but I cannot go into eternity without knowing that you forgive
me!"
At last the tears came, and Dan sank, crutch in hand, beside Jane's
grave.
Job could not speak. For a moment, only the sound of a strong man's
sobs and the hoot of an owl filled the air, then a passionate cry
burst from Dan's lips:
"Tell me, Job, tell me, is it possible for you to forgive?"
For a moment Job faltered. He could see Trapper Bill pace the tepee
and say, "Bill forgive Mono Indian;" he could hear the Master saying,
"After this manner pray ye, Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive
those who trespass against us;" and, kneeling and putting his arm
about the quivering form, he whispered:
"Dan, I forgive!"
Long hours they stayed there, praying and talking, till Dan, grown
quiet as a child, looked up with a strange, new expression, and said:
"You forgive and God forgives! Oh, Job, this is more than I ever hoped
for! I can hardly stand it!"
* * * * *
It was Children's Day when Daniel Dean was received into the Gold City
church. No one knew what was coming. Job rode down from the ranch with
the secret hid in his heart. It was a lovely June Sunday. The roses
were blossoming over the cottages, and the birds sang as if wild with
joy. The mountains were covered with green, the valleys were robed in
flowers, and golden plains stretched below.
Old friends were greeting each other, and familiar forms passing in at
the church door, as Job led Andy Malden, leaning on his cane, to the
family pew. The church was a bower of flowers, the songs of birds rang
out from gayly bedecked cages, and the patter of children's feet was
heard in the aisle.
It was a beautiful service. Music of voice and organ filled the air,
wee tots tripped up to the platform and down again, saying in
frightened voices little "pieces" that made mothers proud and big men
listen. The pastor brought forth a number of candles, large and
small, wax and common tallow, and put them on the pulpit, where he lit
them one by one, showing how one, lit by the flame of the largest,
could pass along and light the others; how one life lit by the fire of
Jesus' love could light all the hearts around it. And from smallest
bright-eyed boy to gray-haired Andrew Malden, all knew what he meant
by the transforming power of a transformed life. It was then that song
and service had its living illustration.
[Illustration: From Glacier Point, Yosemite.]
It was just as the preacher finished his sermon and asked if any had
children to be baptized, that Job arose and said there was one present
who had come as a little child to Christ, and who wished to come as a
little child into the church, and he would present him for baptism if
he might.
The preacher gave willing consent, and the wondering congregation
waited. Job rose and passed to the rear. Every head was turned. Then
he came back, and on his arm, neatly dressed in a plain black suit,
came poor, crippled Dan Dean.
The people who saw that scene can never agree on just what happened
then. A resurrection from the dead could scarcely have surprised them
more. It is said that they rose en masse and stood in silence as the
pair passed down the aisle. Then someone started up, "There's a
wideness in God's mercy like the wideness of the sea," and the whole
church rang.
Some say that Dan told of his conversion and his faith in Jesus; some,
that Job told it; some, the preacher. The preacher's tears, it is
said, mingled with the baptismal waters, and the noonday sun kissed
them into gold, on that famous Sunday when Daniel Dean was baptized
and received as a little child into the Gold City church.