IN WHICH, STRANGE TO SAY, TIME PASSES. ALSO I RECEIVE THREE WARNINGS,
AND WITNESS AN UNPARALLELED EPISODE IN THE SMITHY
Four weeks have passed since Jeff Angel departed on his quest. Until
to-night I have not had the heart to face my journal. But to-day a
premonition came to me that my period of waiting was drawing to a close,
and pinning my faith to this invisible, silent herald which has spoken
to me before with prophetic voice, I take up my pen again.
Jeff's loyal, true declaration almost stunned me. It was entirely
unexpected. I could not conceive of such self-sacrificing nobility in
him. I had given him no serious thought, accepting him for what he
appeared to be on the surface; a harmless, almost half-witted wanderer
in the wilderness about Hebron, cursed with an inordinate love for
strong drink, and blessed with the pure soul of music. And here, when my
case seemed all but hopeless, he had gladly and willingly volunteered
for a task which could be no light one.
I pressed him to take some money--even a little; enough to insure him
against hunger, but he refused. He said he never had any trouble getting
food, and he was going to tramp. He needed nothing. He was going to
start at once--that afternoon. I made him come to the Lodge with me for
dinner, wished him quick success, and bade him God-speed with a strong
handclasp. He strode away chanting one of his absurd couplets.
With his going a great sense of loneliness descended upon me. I felt the
cold hand of despair feeling at my throat. With an effort of will I
flung the deadening weight from me, and began to pace my plateau
vigorously, my hands behind me, my head bent in thought. I must not
prove a weakling or a craven now. Celeste would return. Jeff would find
her--or if he did not, I would. The world was not big enough to hide her
from me. A kind of mad joy flared out in my breast at the thought, and I
smiled fiercely. Jeff had said positively that they would start home the
day he found them. How did he know this? I had urged him to tell me, but
he had only laughed, and repeated his statement. I could not clear this
point, but I would not let it depress me. I was convinced the Satyr was
genuine, and that he knew what he was talking about.
His time of absence was indefinite. That was the hardest of all to bear.
Had there been a fixed day in the future toward which I could walk with
the assurance that on that day I should greet my beloved again, I could
have gone laughing through the hours. But the uncertain waiting--the
rising of sun after sun and the falling of night after night, and the
still, empty minutes which must be lived! I strove to comfort myself in
those first few hours after my self-appointed messenger had left. He
knew these knobs intimately. He had been born in them, he had roamed
them all his life, he knew every nook and hiding place in them for
miles. He had also expressed his belief that the fugitives had not gone
far. Perhaps a few days would bring about our reunion; surely it would
not be longer than a week, or a fortnight at the farthest. There was
solace in this thought. And as I hugged this phantom belief to me my
furious pace slackened, and I continued my walking at a soberer gait,
still too perturbed to sit down and think quietly.
How my heart ached for my vanished Dryad that afternoon! Let another
opportunity come! Nay, let her but come, and I would make the
opportunity. I had dallied. I had not listened to the promptings of my
heart early enough, and now a jealous old woman who did not understand
had snatched her from me. Then came the distracting thought that perhaps
Jeff would fail! Perhaps Granny's plan was deeper than it seemed, and it
might be that she had hurried away to some far and obscure part of the
Commonwealth, or even to another State. The fact that they were poor
presented no foil to this theory. People like her and Gran'fer were not
as poor as they seemed. They never spent except for the absolute
necessities, and during their long life together they had doubtless
saved and pinched until a goodly hoard was stored away in some nook or
hole. I believe I knew Granny's mind. It could never entertain but one
idea at a time, and it was an utter impossibility for her to view both
sides of a question. I pitied her even in my vexation. She had had ample
cause for the course she had adopted, and I was being made to suffer for
the sin of a cultured renegade from the higher world. Granny had decided
that all relations of whatsoever nature must cease between her
granddaughter and myself. She mistrusted me, in spite of the evidences
she had had of my sincerity and honesty. Since I would not go away, then
she would take Celeste away. To carry out her idea, I am sure she would
have sacrificed the savings of years. This was the thought which burned
hotly in my breast now. Then to my mind came the vision of Jeff Angel,
coming dejectedly up the road to my plateau, with the news that the lost
ones could not be found. Oh, it is a terrible thing, my brothers! To be
suddenly and swiftly swept into the maelstrom of a mighty love, and then
to be confronted by the possible loss of the girl who aroused this
feeling.
That night I climbed the peak; climbed it by the soft light of the stars
alone, for the moon was young, and I saw it only after I had reached the
top--a crescent thread of silver cradled on the tops of the trees on the
furthest western range. Up there, between creation and infinity, as it
were, I applied all the philosophy I could bring to bear upon my case. I
got results, too, thank goodness! Had I not been able to persuade my
mind into a certain channel of common sense, I can't say what would have
become of me, for I was idiotically in love. Howbeit, I levied on the
very bases of my reason for strength and guidance, and deep down where
the fundamentals of character perpetually abide, I found that which
saved me.
It was thus my sane self argued with my insane self:
_Insane Self_: If Celeste is not restored to me within a short time, I
shall go wild.
_Sane Self_: What's the good of going wild? Then you will be in no
condition to greet her when she does come, and may lose her forever.
_Insane Self_: I cannot rest, or sleep, until I see her again.
_Sane Self_: A suicidal attitude. Be sensible instead. Take the best
care of yourself, and so be fit in every way to welcome her back.
_Insane Self_: But, I must see her; I _must_ see her soon!
_Sane Self_: Perhaps. Be calm. Nothing is to be gained by rashness. You
will only succeed in wearing yourself out.
_Insane Self_: I am on this peak to-night because of a racked mind. I
may climb it again before morning.
_Sane Self_: What of Buck Steele?
_Insane Self_: Ah!
_Sane Self_: What of Buck Steele? His love is just as great as
yours--perhaps greater, for he has not the restraining leash of a
cultivated mind. He is your rival. Is he sapping his strength by doing
without food, straying through the forest, and climbing mountains? No;
he is making those iron muscles harder every day at his forge, and when
the time comes when you and he face each other--as come it inevitably
must--he will twist you in two like a winter-rotted weed! He is
sensible; you are a fool!
My insane self made no reply to this last speech, because it no longer
existed. I was effectually sobered. What Buck's laugh that morning may
have meant did not really matter. All day he had been on the outskirts
of my mind, but I had been too busy with other subjects to admit him for
intimate inspection and consideration. Now my sane self proceeded to
shove him forward relentlessly, and I accepted his presence as something
quite necessary, but undesired. Whether or not he sensed the approaching
encounter as plainly as I, of course I could not say. But I knew that a
bulldog resolve had lodged in his mind to have Celeste for his wife, and
it took no seer to declare that he would use every weapon in his reach
to prevent me from taking her. He had only one weapon--his superb
physical strength--and I knew he would arrange or provoke a meeting, if
none arose naturally. What would become of me then? Instinctively I
flexed my right arm and grasped the bulging biceps. Like rock. Not as
large as the smith's, I was sure, but might dwelt there. I felt my other
arm, my legs, and thumped my chest with my fist. Yes; I, too, was some
man. I was hard as nails all over, but I was fearfully tired. All I
needed was rest; good, sound, eight hours a day sleep, and presently I
would be fit. I must adopt a rigid system of living, and hold to it
faithfully until these parlous times were over.
For perhaps two hours then my mind worked along rational lines, and when
I left my perch to carefully descend the perilous declivity, I realized
with intense satisfaction that I had myself admirably well in hand.
The door to the Lodge stood open. I remembered distinctly drawing it to
after me when I came out, although I never locked it. The night was
calm. It could not have been blown wide by the wind. Not alarmed, but
vaguely uneasy, I entered and walked to the table. I knew a box of
matches was here, and I thrust out my hand. It encountered something
upright in the darkness; something which did not belong there, for the
object yielded to the force of my touch, to fly back in place when I
removed my hand. Nervously I fumbled about until I grasped the matches.
Swiftly I struck one, and in the light of its tiny flare I saw what the
foreign thing was. But I lighted my lamp very calmly, in spite of the
disturbing nature of my discovery. Then I thrust my hands in my pockets
and stood staring at the long hunting knife which had been driven
through the orderly pile of manuscript composing my journal, deep into
the oak top of the table. There it was, horn-handled, hafted, with a
murderous blade six inches long.
I could not doubt its meaning, were I so inclined, any more than I could
doubt the big brown hand which had planted that steel blade so deeply
and firmly in the wood. It was a warning; a warning such as was given in
the middle ages, but the man who had delivered it belonged by right just
there. He dwelt in the same mental and moral atmosphere as did his
forebears hundreds of years ago. And his declaration of war was
assuredly convincing. Nothing could be more real, more significant, more
productive of contemplation, than that bit of imbedded steel, shining
threateningly in the lamplight. I gathered one comforting fact from this
sinister messenger. All was not well between Buck and Celeste. He, too,
was in the dark as to her whereabouts, and he, too, failed to nurse in
his heart any reassuring message given before she went away. Plainly
this man had reached a stage in his infatuation where he would employ
any means to rid himself of me. Doubtless he had come to square accounts
that night. He had found me out, had very likely waited, and when I had
not come his wild hate and mad rage had found expression in the savage
act whose result now confronted me. I remained for a long time looking
at that knife, and my thoughts were many. Grave, too, they grew to be,
as I traced the near future to a climax as fixed as Fate. There were two
ways, as there always are, but no third consistent with honor. I must
give up the Dryad, or I must kill or be killed. Neither alternative bore
rosy tints. The thought of taking a human life filled me with a
rebellious horror, but the thought of resigning Celeste--my
golden-haired, gray-eyed Dryad--to the uncouth caresses of the smith of
Hebron charged my inmost soul with a white-hot denial. I would not do
it. I could not do it. The decision had passed from my control. I would
wait for her; I would yearn for her sweet presence with all the power of
my spirit, and I would fight for her unto the death! Strange that not
once did the thought come that I might be vanquished.
I put out my finger and rocked the weapon to and fro. It had been
planted well. Then I grasped the handle and strove to draw it out. What
a hold it had! In the end I had to get on the table with my knees and
take both hands to force the blade loose. A silly and jealous anger now
seized me at the power here shown. I took some unused paper, and made a
bundle as near the size of my manuscript as I could, and placed it on
the table. Then I set my teeth, gripped the knife, and lifting my arm
drove downward furiously. The stroke fully equaled Buck Steele's, as a
quick investigation showed, and brought a warm glow of animal
satisfaction.
For the first time since I began life at the Lodge, before I went to bed
I dropped the heavy bar of wood into the brackets on either side the
door, thus making it absolutely secure. The windows remained open, as
usual, but I placed my revolver under my pillow.
The next ten days would have been idyllic had I been entirely at peace.
As it was, I managed to absorb a great deal from them which strengthened
and comforted. Each was a miraculous procession of perfect hours. I had
laid down some simple rules of conduct which I followed strictly. I
arose early, bathed, breakfasted, took a course in calisthenics which
brought muscles into action mere tramping would not reach except
faintly, and did some garden work. The rush of recent events had
interfered with my horticultural notions lamentably, and now it was too
late for anything except corn and beans. I rested an hour after dinner,
and then walked until dusk. The quest of the life-plant had long ago
become mechanical, and I never stirred abroad without the consciousness
that I might find it this time. But I had come to believe of late that I
had no need for it now. Perhaps 'Crombie had diagnosed my case
wrong--had taken too much for granted, and had banished a man with an
ulcerated throat, or a bleeding gum. For the first time I remembered my
throat _was_ sore at that interview! Could it be possible? I had never
felt better than at present, when the longest walks and the hardest
pulls over the steep knobsides were play. I was abed every night by nine
o'clock.
My poise was speedily regained under this regimen. Vigor seemed to flow
into me, and I must confess to a certain pride in my superb physical
condition.
Then one pearl-gray morning which promised a flawless day, I flung open
the door to find a piece of paper fluttering in my face. Right on a
level with my eyes it hung and writhed in the twilight breeze, as if it
was a live thing suffering from the bright new horse-shoe nail which
impaled it. With finger and thumb I disengaged the soiled, flimsy sheet.
It was a torn portion of wrapping paper, and bore a brief message; a
formless scrawl traced with a blunt lead pencil.
"THES HERE HOLERS AINT HELTHY
FOR SITY FELLRS PLANE TALK
IS BES UNDERSTUD"
It was Buck's second warning for me to leave. Could he have known my
mental condition when I read the ignorant, threatening lines, I believe
even he would have hesitated before attempting any radical move to be
rid of me. I was not alarmed; I was not even annoyed. I am sure my heart
action was not accelerated at all. It may be surmised that I did not
comprehend the full significance of the words. But I did. They meant,
differently presented: "If you don't get away from here I'm going to
kill you." I knew what he meant to say, and I knew what he meant to do.
It must have been the consciousness of my bodily power which prevented
even the slightest tremor as I labored through the misspelled, scarcely
intelligible missive. I looked at it almost disinterestedly a moment
after I had mastered it, then crumpled it into a wad and tossed it
aside. At various times during the day I thought of it, but only as
one's mind naturally reverts to an incident. I did not suppose the smith
would ambush me. Apart from assassination, the belief was strong within
me that I could hold my own, and more, with him.
The third Saturday after the disappearance of the family at Lizard
Point, I went to Hebron in the afternoon. A sense of supreme loneliness
assailed me that day, and I realized more than I had ever done that
mankind is by nature gregarious. In common with other animals, he must
have the fellowship of his kind. That Saturday morning the billowing
ranges seemed types of eternal loneliness, and the old walks which
heretofore had charmed were alive with the echo of dead voices. I
suddenly became aware that I wanted to see somebody, to hear a human
voice, however rough and untaught. I wanted to look into somebody's
eyes, to talk to somebody, to sit down by somebody, cross my legs and
smoke. The longing grew, until, at noon, I knew that I must see some of
my fellow creatures. Should I go to the priest? He was kind, cultured,
hospitable. No; I didn't want kindness and culture. I just wanted to rub
shoulders with mere _humans_. Besides, I would have been more or less
constrained with Father John. It was not in the nature of a mere man to
forget that Beryl Drane was at the bottom of all this miserable
condition of things, and had I gone to chat with his reverence, I should
have had to listen to fulsome praises of that--person, and should also
have been expected to add my little word of appreciation and compliment,
since I had had the rare pleasure of a brief acquaintance with the
paragon.
I went to Hebron, with a fine large twist of tobacco in my pocket, and
an aching desire just to be with people.
It was Hebron's busy day--or busy half-day, of all the week. Not until I
hove in sight of the little settlement and saw a row of horses hitched
to the pole near the store, and at least eight or ten persons in plain
view, did I realize the truth. In nearly all rural communities, all farm
work is knocked off at noon Saturday. Then dissipation follows in going
to the store. There is nothing else to do, unless one sneaks off to the
barn and goes to sleep on the hay, or slips down to the river and goes
seining. But seining was unlawful, and this was the wrong time of year,
anyway. It was early in the afternoon--not past two o'clock--and only
the advance guard had arrived. But the sight made me glad. I wanted to
mix, move and talk with the yeomanry that day. So I sauntered up the
road toward the store, paying no heed to the open-doored smithy as I
strolled by. Buck was one who could not let up this day, for more than
one horse's hoof had grown sore going barefoot a portion of that week,
waiting for this afternoon. Though I did not turn my head, I knew there
were a number of horses standing under the shed in front of the shop. I
had barely passed it when I heard a harsh, prolonged--
"_Who-oa!_ Durn ye! Can't ye stan' still a _minute_?"
This was accompanied by the sound of scuffling within. I turned to see a
couple of urchins make their escape through the broad doorway, and I
could discern fright on their faces as their bare feet patted the hot
yellow dust of the road. They were headed toward the creek over which
hung the home-made bridge, and they did not stop nor lessen their speed
until they splashed into the shallow water. It was not sham terror,
either, for now they stood holding each other by the arms, and gazing
back at the shop.