POOR PETE.
They buried the artist in the cave as he had directed, close under the
wall on the ledge above the cañon, with no stone or mark of any sort to
fix the place. The old mine which he had discovered was reached by one
of the side passages far below in the depth of the mountain. The grave
would never be disturbed.
For two weeks longer, Dr. Coughlan staid with his friend; out on the
hills with him all day, helping to cook their meals at the ranch, or
sitting on the porch at the Matthews place when the day was gone. When
the time finally came that he must go, the little physician said, as he
grasped the shepherd’s hand, “You’re doing just right, Daniel; just
right. Always did; always did. Blast it all! I would stay, too, but
what would Sarah and the girls do? I’ll come again next spring, Daniel,
sure, sure, if I’m alive. Don’t worry, no one will ever know. Blast it
all! I don’t like to leave you, Daniel. Don’t like it at all. But you
are right, right, Daniel.”
The old scholar stood in the doorway of his cabin to watch the wagon as
it disappeared in the forest. He heard it rattle across the creek
bottom below the ruined cabin under the bluff. He waited until from
away up on Compton Ridge the sound of wheels came to him on the breeze
that slipped down the mountain side. Still he waited, listening,
listening, until there were only the voices of the forest and the
bleating of the sheep in the corral. Slipping a book in his pocket, and
taking a luncheon for himself and Pete he opened the corral gate and
followed his flock to the hills.
All that summer Pete was the shepherd’s constant companion. At first he
seemed not to understand. Frequently he would start off suddenly for
the cave, only to return after a time, with that look of trouble upon
his delicate face. Mr. Howitt tried to help the boy, and he appeared
gradually to realize in part. Once he startled his old friend by saying
quietly, “When are you goin’, Dad?”
“Going where? Where does Pete think Dad is going?”
The boy was lying on his back on the grassy hillside watching the
clouds. He pointed upward, “There, where _he_ went; up there in the
white hills. Pete knows.”
The other looked long at the lad before answering quietly, “Dad does
not know when he will go. But he is ready any time, now.”
“Pete says better not wait long, Dad; ’cause Pete he’s a goin’ an’
course when he goes I’ve got to go ’long. Do you reckon Dad can see
Pete when he is up there in them white hills? Some folks used to laugh
at Pete when he told about the white hills, the flower things, the sky
things, an’ the moonlight things that play in the mists. An’ once a
fellow called Pete a fool, an’ Young Matt he whipped him awful. But
folks wasn’t really to blame, ’cause they couldn’t see ’em. That’s what
_he_ said. An’ _he_ knew, ’cause he could see ’em too. But Aunt Mollie,
an’ Uncle Matt, an’ you all, they don’t never laugh. They just say,
‘Pete knows.’ But they couldn’t see the flower things, or the tree
things neither. Only _he_ could see.”
The summer passed, and, when the blue gray haze took on the purple
touch and all the woods and hills were dressed with cloth of gold, Pete
went from the world in which he had never really belonged, nor had been
at home. Mr. Howitt, writing to Dr. Coughlan of the boy’s death, said:
“Here and there among men, there are those who pause in the hurried
rush to listen to the call of a life that is more real. How often have
we seen them, David, jostled and ridiculed by their fellows, pushed
aside and forgotten, as incompetent or unworthy. He who sees and hears
too much is cursed for a dreamer, a fanatic, or a fool, by the mad mob,
who, having eyes, see not, ears and hear not, and refuse to understand.
“We build temples and churches, but will not worship in them; we hire
spiritual advisers, but refuse to heed them; we buy bibles, but will
not read them; believing in God, we do not fear Him; acknowledging
Christ, we neither follow nor obey Him. Only when we can no longer
strive in the battle for earthly honors or material wealth, do we turn
to the unseen but more enduring things of life; and, with ears deafened
by the din of selfish war and cruel violence, and eyes blinded by the
glare of passing pomp and folly, we strive to hear and see the things
we have so long refused to consider.
“Pete knew a world unseen by us, and we, therefore, fancied ourselves
wiser than he. The wind in the pines, the rustle of the leaves, the
murmur of the brook, the growl of the thunder, and the voices of the
night were all understood and answered by him. The flowers, the trees,
the rocks, the hills, the clouds were to him, not lifeless things, but
living friends, who laughed and wept with him as he was gay or
sorrowful.
“‘Poor Pete,’ we said. Was he in truth, David, poorer or richer than
we?”
They laid the boy beside his mother under the pines on the hills; the
pines that showed so dark against the sky when the sun was down behind
the ridge. And over his bed the wild vines lovingly wove a coverlid of
softest green, while all his woodland friends gathered about his couch.
Forest and hill and flower and cloud sang the songs he loved. All day
the sunlight laid its wealth in bars of gold at his feet, and at night
the moonlight things and the shadow things came out to play.
Summer and autumn slipped away; the winter passed; spring came, with
all the wonder of the resurrection of flower and leaf and blade. So
peace and quiet came again into the shepherd’s life. When no answer to
his letter was received, and the doctor did not return as he had
promised, the old man knew that the last link connecting him with the
world was broken.