White and still, lay the world of the far Northwest, wrapped in peace
as profound as that which reigned in primeval ages; when ancestral
Nahuas, dragging their sleds across frozen Behring Straits, or cast
amid other drift of the Japanese current upon the strange new Pacific
shore, climbed the mountains, and fell on their faces before the sun,
whose worshippers have sacrificed in all hemispheres.
If civilization be the analogue of geologic accretion, how tortuous is
the trend and dip of the ethnological strata, how abrupt the
overlapping of myths. How many aeons divided the totem coyote from the
she-wolf of Romulus and Remus? Which is the primitive and parent flame,
the sacred fire of Pueblo Estufas, of Greek Prytaneum, of Roman Vesta,
of Persian Atish-khudahs? If the Laurentian system be the oldest
upheaval of land, and its "dawn animal" the first evolution of life
that left fossil footprints, where are all the missing links in
ethnology, which would save science that rejects Genesis--the paradox
of peopling the oldest known continent by immigration from those
incalculably younger?
Winter had lagged, loath to set his snow shoes upon the lingering,
diaphanous train of Indian Summer, but December was inexorable, and the
livery of ice glittered everywhere in the mid-day sun.
Along a well-worn bridle trail, now slippery as glass, winding around
the base of crags, through narrow gorges that almost overarched,
leaving a mere skylight of intense blue to mark the way, moved a party
of four persons in single file, slowly ascending a steep spiral. In
advance, mounted on a black pony, was a cowled monk, whose long, thin
profile suggested that of Savonarola; and just behind him rode a
Canadian half-breed guide, with the copperish red of aboriginal America
on his high cheek bones, and the warm glow of sunny France in his keen
black eyes. Guiding his horse with the left hand, his right led the
dappled mustang belonging to the third figure; a tall,
broad-shouldered man wearing an overcoat that reached to his knees, who
walked with his hand on the bridle bit of a white mule, whereon sat a
woman, wrapped in silver fox furs from throat to feet. A cap or hood of
the same soft, warm material was worn over her head, where a roll of
dark auburn hair coiled at the back; and around her white temples
clustered rings and tendrils of the glossy bronze locks that
contrasted so singularly with the black arch of the brows, and the
fringe that darkened the luminous gray eyes.
One month had elapsed since the Umilta Sisters of the "Anchorage",
following Sister Ruth, walked in the star-lit dawn of a November day,
to a neighboring church, and watched Doctor Grantlin lead down the
aisle, a pale, trembling woman whose hand he placed in that of the man,
waiting in front of the altar. The Sisterhood had listened to the
solemn words of the marriage service, the interchange of vows, and the
benediction, while priestly hands were laid tapon two bowed heads.
When the rising sun greeted the husband and wife, they were speeding
westward, on the first stage of their long journey.
To-day, the quest would end; and into Beryl's face had crept the
wistful yearning that was a reflection of that strange blending of
patience and longing, which made her so beautiful in her husband's
eyes; so strong in faith, so serene in waiting resignation. Suddenly
the monk drew rein, threw up his drooping head, and listened. Clear and
sweet as the silvery chime of bells ringing in happy dreams, floated
through the crystal air the sound of the Angelus; and fainter and
fainter fell the echoes, dying in immeasurable distance. Low bent the
shaven head, and through brown, fingers stole the consecrated beads,
while with closed eyes the prayers were uttered; and in the pause, the
guide made the sign of the cross, and Mr. Dunbar instinctively took off
his hat.
"Six hours' steady climbing is a severe tax. Are you very tired?" he
whispered, laying his arm around Beryl's waist, and lifting his
brilliant eyes eloquent with an infinite tenderness.
With one hand on his shoulder as he stood beside her, she leaned down
until her lips touched the black hair tossed back from his forehead.
"After waiting so many terrible years, what are a few more hours of
suspense? Since I have you, can I ever again feel tired?"
Behind them lay a dark undulating line, where oak and cedar had made
their last stand on the upward march; nearer, the spectral ranks of
stunted firs showed the outposts of forest advance; and a few feet from
the narrow path, a perpendicular cliff formed one wall of a deep canon,
where a glittering ribbon of water hurried to leap into the Pacific,
ere pursuing Winter arrested and bound it with icy manacles to its
stony bed. To the north dazzling white peaks cut strange solemn shapes,
like silver cameos on a ground of indigo sky; and overhead, burnished
lines of snow geese printed their glittering triangles on the paler
blue of the zenith, as the winged host dipped southward.
The monk moved on, and after a while his companions perceived that the
way descended rapidly until they reached the face of a rock that rose
straight and smooth as a wall of human masonry, and apparently barred
further progress. Taking from his bosom the twisted section of a
polished horn, only a finger's length, the cowled figure raised it to
his lips, and blew three whistles, that ended in a rising inflection
which waked all the wolfish pack of mountain echoes into fitful
barking. Two moments later, an answering signal seemed to issue from
the invisible jaws of Hades; a wild, quivering sepulchral cry, as of a
monster half throttled. Twenty feet beyond the spot where the party had
halted, a steep descent led them to a shelving canon, once the bed of a
broad mountain torrent, whose course some seismic upheaval had diverted
to other channels. Following for a few yards the sinuous stony way,
worn here and there into smooth circular cavities like miniature wells,
by the eddying of the ancient current and the grinding of pebbles, the
travellers turned a sharp angle, and found themselves at the mouth of
Tartarus.
The force of the stream had originally cut a low arch in its egress,
which human needs and ingenuity had broadened, heightened and closed by
heavy iron bars, slipped into stone slots. Behind this gateway
glimmered a faint light that brightened into a red star; and soon, a
figure clad in the long, black monastic gown, and bearing a huge torch
of blazing pitch pine, emerged from the bowels of the earth. There was
the rattle of a chain, the creak of a pulley, and the bars were lowered.
So vividly did the scene recall that black, stormy night in February,
when Mr. Dunbar had seen the lantern of the gaoler flash through the
penitentiary gates closing on the young convict, that he drew his
breath now through clinched teeth, and quickly laid his hand upon that
of his wife, which grasped the bridle resting upon the neck of her
mule. Silently the procession filed in, and with little delay the torch
bearer replaced the bars, advanced to the head of the column, and with
long, swift strides led the way down a wide tunnel. Between the monks
no salutation was exchanged; and only the ringing tramp of the horses'
feet on the stone pavement, jarred the profound stillness. The lurid
glare of the torch danced on the rocky vault, and the shadows projected
by men and beasts were gigantic and grotesque. Very soon a gray
twilight stole to meet them; an arch of light like a window opening
into heaven brightened, glared, and the party emerged into a courtyard
that seemed an entrance to some vast amphitheatre.
Opposite the mouth of the tunnel, and distant perhaps two hundred
yards, lay an oval lake, bordered on the right by a valley running
southeast, while its northern shore rose abruptly in a parapet of rock,
that patient cloistered workmen had cut into broad terraces; and upon
which opened rows of cells excavated from the mountain side, and
resembling magnified swallow nests, or a huge petrified honeycomb
sliced vertically.
A legend so hoary, that "the memory of man runneth not to the
contrary", had assigned the outlines of this stone cutting to that dim
dawn of primeval tribal life, which left its later traces in the Watch
Tower of the Mancos, the Casa del Eco, and the "niche stairway of the
Hovenweep".
In the slow deposition of the human strata, cliff dwellers disappeared
beneath predatory, nomadic modern savages, who, hunting and fishing in
this lonely fastness, had increased its natural fortifications, and
made it an impregnable depot of supplies, until Hudson Bay trappers
wrenched it from their grasp, and appropriated it as a peltry magazine.
To the dynasty of traders had succeeded the spiritual rule of a Jesuit
Mission; then miners kindled camp fires in the deserted excavations, as
they probed the mountain for ores; and more recently the noiseless feet
of a band of holy celibates belonging to an austere Order, went up and
down the face of the cliff, with cross and bell and incense exorcising
haunting aboriginal spectres; while holy water sprinkled the uncanny,
dismal precincts of a circular room hollowed behind and beneath all
other apartments, the monumental, sacred Estufa.
At a signal from the monk who had escorted them, Mr. Dunbar lifted
Beryl from her saddle, and hand in hand they followed him across the
courtyard, mounted a flight of steps cut in the rock, and passed into a
low, dim room, where the ceiling was crossed in squares by heavy, red
cedar beams. The floor was paved with diamond-shaped slabs of purple
slate, the whitewashed wall adorned with colored lithographs of the
Passion; and above the cavernous chimney arch, where cedar logs blazed,
ran the inscription: "Otiositas inimica est animae."
Noiselessly as the wings of a huge bat, a leathern screen was folded
back from the corner of the room, and a venerable man advanced from the
gloom.
A fringe of white hair surrounded his head like a laurel chaplet in old
statues, and the heavy, straight brows that almost met across the nose,
hung as snowflakes over the intensely black eyes as glowing as lamps
set in the sockets of an ivory image. Scholarly and magnetic as
Abelard, with a certain innate proud poise of the head and shoulders,
that ill accorded with the Carlo-Borromeo expression of seraphic
serenity and meekness, set like a seal on the large square mouth, he
looked a veritable type of the ecclesiastical cenobites who, since the
days of Pachomius at Tabennae, have made their hearts altars of the
Triple Vows, and girdled the globe with a cable of scholastic
mysticism. The pale, shrunken hand he laid on the black serge that
covered his breast, was delicate as a woman's, and checkered with
knotted lines where the blood crept feebly.
Bowing low, he spoke in a carefully modulated voice, deep and resonant
as a bass viol:
"Welcome to such hospitality as our poverty permits. A cipher telegram
forwarded from the nearest station, sixty miles hence, prepared us to
expect a newly-married woman searching for a man, known to the secular
world as Robert Luke Brentano. You claim to be his nearest blood
relative?"
"I am his sister. How is he?"
"Alive, but sinking fast; sustained beyond all human calculation by the
hope of seeing you. You have not come one moment too soon. The man you
seek is only a lay brother here. The rules of our Order forbid the
admission of women to the cloister, but in articulo mortis! can I deny
him now the confession he wishes to offer you? Our holy ordinances have
done their divine work; the last rites of the Church have soothed and
consecrated the heart of Brother Luke, and an hour ago, extreme unction
was administered. Follow me."
"He knows that I am coming?" asked Beryl, raising her white,
tear-drenched face from her husband's shoulder.
"He knows; and holds death back to see you. His self-imposed penance
makes him steadfastly refuse the comparative comfort of our meagre
infirmary, and it is his wish to die, where he has spent so many nights
in penitential prayer. For several days, the paralysis of years has
been gradually loosening its fetters, and this morning, the distressing
and ghastly distortion of one side of his face almost disappeared.
Though his voice is well nigh gone, it returns fitfully, and his
strength seems supernatural. Fearing that you might not arrive in time,
I have written down his last confession, and here commit it to you."
He placed a roll of paper in her hand, and drawing his cowl over his
head, led them up an easy stairway cut in the stone, to a second
terrace four feet wide, that projected as a roof beyond the lower tier
of cells.
A hundred feet below lay the lakelet, shining as a mirror; to the
southeast stretched a valley bounded by buttes crowned with cedar, and
in the undulating field, locked from fierce winds, cattle and goats
sunned themselves, where in summer time grain waved, fruit ripened, and
bees hummed.
From the parapet of a low wall facing west, rose a round tower heavily
buttressed, where swung the bell; and through an open arch in the side,
under the uplifted cross, the eye swept on and on, over a world of
snowy peaks, dark canons, mountain minarets girding the northern
horizon; and far, far away a scintillating thread of white fire marked
where the Pacific smiled behind the fiords that channelled the
rock-ribbed coast.
In that still, cold and brilliant atmosphere, how dazzling the snow
blink, how sharp the outline of projected shadows, how close the
bending heavens seemed; but to the yearning soul of Beryl, the silent,
solemn sublimity of the mighty panorama made no appeal.
Through slowly dripping tears she saw only the spectral flitting of her
mother's sad face, as in their last interview she had committed the
soul of the son to the guardianship of the daughter.
The monk paused, and pointed to the third cell from the spot where he
stood.
"It is but a step farther. Yonder, where the skull is set over the
entrance."
"I will wait here," said Mr. Dunbar, relinquishing with a tight
pressure, his wife's cold hand.
"No, come. Are we not one?"
She hurried along the terrace, and reached the low open doorway
fronting the South, where the sunshine streamed in like God's smile of
forgiveness.
On the stone floor was a straw pallet covered with coarse brown
blankets, whereon, half propped by one elbow, with head against the
gray rocky wall, lay the emaciated wreck of a man, whose pallid face
might have been mistaken for that of a corpse, but for the superhuman
splendor of the wide, deep brown eyes.
Beryl sprang into the cave-like recess, and fell on her knees. She
snatched him to her heart, laid his head on her shoulder.
"Bertie! My darling! my darling!--"
He tried to raise one arm to her neck, but it fell back. She lifted it,
held it close, and face to face with her lips on his, she broke into
passionate sobbing, rocking herself to and fro, in the tempest of grief.
"Give me, give--me--air--" He struggled for breath, which her tight
clasp denied him; and for some minutes he panted, while Mr. Dunbar
fanned him with his hat. Then the heaving chest grew more quiet, and
after a moment, his eyes lighted with a happy smile as they fastened on
Beryl's face, bent over him.
"Gigina, sweet, faithful sister, it is almost heaven to see you once
more. God is good, even to me."
"If I could have found you sooner! All these dreadful years I have
lived at God's feet--with one prayer: let me help my Bertie, let me see
my brother's face," moaned Beryl, pressing her lips to the clammy,
fleshless hand she held against her throat.
"I was too unworthy. I dreaded your pure eyes, and mother's, as I would
an accusing angel's. I did not know, then, that mother was already one
of the Beatified. I know now, that neither life nor death, nor sin nor
shame, nor the brand of disgrace can change mother's love; for I see
her to-day, smiling at the door, beckoning me to follow where the sun
shines forever. My sainted mother."
"Her last breath was a blessing for you. See, Bertie! this was her
wedding ring. Her final message was, 'Give this to my darling!' Be
comforted, dear Bertie, she loved you even to the end--supremely. You
were her idol in death as in life. Our father's ring was the most
sacred relic she owned, and she left it to you."
She attempted to place the gold band on one of his fingers, but he
closed that hand, and the dark eyes so like his mother's, were for an
instant dimmed by tears.
"Keep it; no sin of theft soils your hands. You can wear it without a
blush. You never robbed an old man of his gold. That was my crime, I am
a thief."
"Our God sees you have repented bitterly; and He has pardoned your sins
for His dear Son's sake. Tell me, Bertie, have you made your eternal
salvation sure? Are you, in your soul, at peace with God?"
"At perfect peace. I want to die, because now I am no longer afraid to
meet Him, who forgives even thieves. Gigi, wait a little--"
He seemed to make a desperate effort to rally his strength, and the
thin, fine nostril flared, in the battle for breath.
"There has been a terrible mistake, and they made you suffer for what
they imagined happened. When I found I had only a few months to live, I
wrote to Father Beckx, whom I had known in Montreal, and asked him to
tell mother where I was. I never knew till he went to X---and wrote us
about the trial, that you were suspected and punished for a crime that
was never committed. I thought you and mother were safe in New York,
all those years, and I knew that you would be sure to take care of her.
I have it all written down--and I can't tell you now--but I want to
look straight into your dear eyes--my brave sister, my loving
sister--and let you learn first from me--the reward you have won--your
Bertie is not a murderer. I did take the money from the vault which was
wide open, when first I saw it. I did steal and destroy the will, which
I thought unjustly robbed us all of our right to the Darrington estate,
but that was my sole offence. I am a thief, before God and man, but
there is no more stain of blood on my hands than on yours. General
Darrington was not murdered. He died by the hand of God alone--"
A bluish shadow settled around his parted lips, and he panted.
Mr. Dunbar raised him, fanned him, rested his head more comfortably
against his sister's shoulder; and again he looked intently into her
eyes, as though his soul, plumed for departure, must right itself in
the presence of hers, before the final flight.
"He struck me with the andiron, and broke my wrist here--then before I
ever touched him--as he raised it to assault me the second time--there
came an awful blinding glare--the world was wrapped in a blue fire--and
God struck us both down. When I became conscious, my senses were all
stunned, but after a while I knew I was lying on the floor, with a cold
hand resting like lead on my face. I got up; the figure didn't move,
and I supposed that like myself he was stunned by the shock. As I
passed a mirror on my way to the window--I saw myself--for the lamp was
burning bright. God had branded me a thief. Do you see
here--drawn--paralyzed, oh, Gina! All these years I have worn the dark
streak, and one eye was blind, one ear stone deaf. I was a walking
shadow of my own sin; horrible to look upon--and I fled to avoid the
gaze of my race. Somewhere, in Illinois I think, I heard two men on a
train speak of a large reward offered for the recovery of Gen'l
Darrington's will, which had been stolen by one of his heirs, whom the
police were hunting. I was branded--and on my breast here was printed
the face of the dead man--for he had torn my shirt open as he seized me
with one hand, and struck me with the other. I hid in mines, crossed
the plains, secreted myself in a bee ranche. Then the Canadian railroad
was partly built, and I joined the grading party and worked--until the
curse of my sin was more than I could bear. I heard of the holy
Brothers here, made my last journey, confessed my theft, and entered on
my penance. Gina, General Darrington was killed instantly by the
lightning."
As the burden Beryl had long borne slipped suddenly from her heart, the
joy of release from blood-stain was so unexpected, so intense, that her
face blanched to a deadly pallor, and the glad eyes she lifted to her
husband's shone as those of an angel.
"Bertie--Bertie--" Words failed her. She could only kiss the wasted
cold hands that were innocent of bloodshed.
After some moments, the dying man said almost in a whisper:
"I never knew you were punished for my sin, until it was too late to
save you, but God's witness cleared your pure name. The lightning that
scorched me, printed its testimony to set you free. My sister--my
sister--God will surely recompense your faithful--" The voice died in a
quivering gurgle.
"I have my reward, dear Bertie. Oh, how much more than I deserve! I
have you in my arms, innocent of murder, thank God! thank God! I have
the blessed absurance that your pardoned soul goes to meet mother's in
Eternal Peace; and to secure that, I would have willingly died an
ignominious death. It was through the fiery flames of prison, and trial
and convict shame, that God led me to the most precious crown any woman
ever wore, my husband's confidence and love. Only behind dungeon bars
could I have won my husband's heart, which holds for me the whole wide
world of earthly peace and hope. For your sin, you have suffered. Its
consequences to others from the destruction of the will, have been
averted by the prompt transfer of all the property which Gen'l
Darrington left, to his chosen heir Prince. Pecuniarily no one was
injured by your act. Dear Bertie--Bertie, are you listening?"
He smiled but made no answer, and his eyes had a strained and exultant
expression. After a long silence, he cried huskily:
"The curse is taken away--out of my blinded eye I see--Agnus Dei qui
tollis peccata mundi--"
A slight spasm shook him, and feeling his cheek grow colder, Beryl
threw off the fur cloak, and folded it closely around the wasted body
which leaned heavily against her. The sunny short rings of hair clung
to his sunken, blue veined temples, where cold drops gathered; and a
gray seal was set about the wan lips that writhed in the fight for
breath.
"Bertie, kiss me--tell me you are not afraid."
She fancied he nestled his face closer, but the wide eyes were fixed on
the golden light that was fading fast across the narrow doorway.
Pressing her quivering lips to his, she sobbed:
"Tell mother, her little girl was faithful--"
Another spasm shook the form, and after a little while, the eyes
closed; the panting ceased, and the tired breath was drawn in long,
shuddering sighs.
Mr. Dunbar beckoned to the cowled form who, rosary in hand, paced the
terrace, and the two laid the dying man back on his pallet of straw.
Fainter grew the slow breath, and the voice of the monk rolled through
the silence, like the tremolo swell of an organ:
"Delicta juventutis, et ignorantias ejus, quoesumus, ne memineris,
Domine; sed secundum magnam misericordiam tuam memor esto illius in
gloria claritatis tuoe."
On the stone floor Beryl knelt, with her brother's icy hand clasped
against her cheek, and as she watched, the twitching of the muscles
ceased, the lips so long distorted, took on their old curves of beauty.
A marble pallor blanched the dark stain of the branded cheek, and the
Bertie of innocent youth came slowly out of the long eclipse.
Death, God's most tender angel, laid her divine lips upon the scars of
sin, that vanished at her touch; drew her white fingers across the
lines and shadows of suffering time, and leaving the halo of eternal
peace upon the frozen features, gave back to Beryl her beautiful Bertie
of old.
The sun was setting; and far away the ice domes and minarets of
immemorial mountains took on the burnished similitude of the New
Jerusalem, which only the exiled saw from lonely Patmos.
Lennox Dunbar lifted his wife from the form of the sleeper, whose
ransomed soul had entered early into Rest; and folded her tenderly to
the heart that henceforth was her refuge from all earthly woes.
At midnight, the brooding silence of the snow-hooded solitude was
broken by the tolling of the monastery bell; and while all the mountain
echoes responded to the slow knell for the departed soul, there rose
from the chapel under the cliffs, the solemn chant of the monks for
their dead:
"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis."
"Give them eternal rest, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon
them."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's At the Mercy of Tiberius, by August Evans Wilson