DEEPENING GLOOM
A yellow moon in splendor drooping,
A tired queen with her state oppressed,
Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping,
Lies she soft on the waves at rest.
The desert heavens have felt her sadness;
The earth will weep her some dewy tears;
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,
And goeth stilly, as soul that fears.
--JEAN INGELOW.
The easiest mental act I ever performed was the act of forgetting the
existence of Rachel Melrose. Before the stage had reached the divide
beyond the Wakarusa on its southward journey, I was thinking only of
Springvale and of what would be written in the letter that I knew was
waiting for me in our "Rockport." Oh, I was a fond and foolish lover. I
was only twenty-one and Judson may have been right about my being
callow. But I was satisfied with myself, as youth and inexperience will
be.
Travelling was slow in those rough-going times, and a breakdown on a
steep bit of road delayed us. Instead of reaching home at sunset, we did
not reach the ford of the Neosho until eight o'clock. As I went up Cliff
Street I turned by the bushes and slid down the rough stairway to the
ledge below "Rockport." I had passed under the broad, overhanging shelf
that made the old playground above, when I suddenly became aware of the
nearness of some one to me, the peculiar consciousness of the presence
of a human being. The place was in deep shadow, although the full moon
was sailing in glory over the prairies, as it had done above the lone
Topeka locust tree. My daily visits here had made each step familiar,
however. I was only a few feet from the cunningly hidden crevice that
had done post-office duty for Marjie and me in the days of our
childhood. Just beside it was a deep niche in the wall. Ordinarily I was
free and noisy enough in my movements, but to-night I dropped silently
into the niche as some one hurried by me, groping to find the way.
Instinctively I thought of Jean Pahusca, but Jean never blundered like
this. I had had cause enough to know his swift motion. And besides, he
had been away from Springvale so long that he was only a memory now. The
figure scrambled to the top rapidly.
"I'll guess that's petticoats going up there," I said mentally, "but
who's hunting wild flowers out here alone this time of night? Somebody
just as curious about me as I am about her, no doubt. Maybe some girl
has a lover's haunt down that ledge. I'll have to find out. Can't let my
stairway out to the general climbing public."
I was feeling for the letter in the crevice.
"Well, Marjie has tucked it in good and safe. I didn't know that hole
was so deep."
I found my letter and hurried home. It was just a happy, loving message
written when I was away, and a tinge of loneliness was in it. But Marjie
was a cheery, wholesome-spirited lass always, and took in the world from
the sunny side.
"There's a party down at Anderson's to-night, Phil," Aunt Candace
announced, when I was eating my late supper. "The boys sent word for
you to come over even if you did get home late. You are pretty tired,
aren't you?"
"Never, if there's a party on the carpet," I answered gayly.
I had nearly reached the Anderson home, and the noisy gayety of the
party was in my ears, when two persons met at the gate and went slowly
in together.
It was Amos Judson and Lettie Conlow.
"Well, of all the arrangements, now, that is the best," I exclaimed, as
I went in after them.
Tillhurst was talking to Marjie, who did not see me enter.
"Phil Baronet! 'The handsome young giant of the Neosho,'" O'mie shouted.
"Ladies and gentlemen: This is the very famous orator who got more
applause in Topeka this week than the very biggest man there. Oh, my
prophetic soul! but we were proud av him."
"Well, I guess we were," somebody else chimed in. "Why didn't you come
home with the crowd, handsome giant?"
"He was charmed by that pretty girl, an old sweetheart of his from
Massachusetts." Tillhurst was speaking. "You ought to have seen him with
her, couldn't even leave when the rest of us did."
There was a sudden silence. Marjie was across the room from me, but I
could see her face turn white. My own face flamed, but I controlled
myself. And Bud, the blessed old tow-head, came to my rescue.
"Good for you, Phil. Bet we've got one fellow to make a Bothton girl
open her eyeth even if Tillhurtht couldn't. He'th jutht jealouth. But we
all know Phil! Nobody'll ever doubt old Philip!"
It took the edge off the embarrassment, and O'mie, who had sidled over
into Marjie's neighborhood, said in a low voice:
"Tillhurst is a consummit liar, beautiful to look upon. That girl tagged
Phil. He couldn't get away an' be a gintleman."
I did not know then what he was saying, but I saw her face bloom again.
Later I had her alone a moment. We were eating water melon on the back
porch, half in the shadow, which we didn't mind, of course.
"May I take you home, Marjie, and tell you how sweet that letter was?" I
asked.
"Phil, I didn't know you were coming, and Richard Tillhurst asked me
just as you came in. I saw Amos Judson coming my way, so I made for the
nearest port."
"And you did right, dearie," I said very softly; "but, Marjie, don't
forget you are my girl, my only girl, and I'll tell you all about this
Topeka business to-morrow night. No, I'll write you a letter to-night
when I go home. You'll find it at 'Rockport' to-morrow."
She smiled up at me brightly, saying contentedly, "Oh, you are always
all right, Phil."
As we trailed into the kitchen from the water melon feast, Lettie
Conlow's dress caught on a nail in the floor. I stooped to loose it, and
rasped my hand against a brier clinging to the floppy ruffle (Lettie was
much given to floppy things in dress), and behold, a sprig of little red
blossoms was sticking to the prickles. These blooms were the kind Marjie
had sent me in her letter to Topeka. They grew only in the crevices
about the cliff. It flashed into my mind instantly that it was Lettie
who had passed me down on that ledge.
"I suppose I'll find her under my plate some morning when I go to
breakfast," I said to myself. "She is a trailer of the Plains. Why
should she be forever haunting my way, though?"
Fate was against me that night. Judson was called from the party to open
the store. A messenger from Red Range had come posthaste for some
merchandise. We did not know until the next day that it was the burial
clothes for the beautiful young girl whose grave held Dave Mead's heart.
Before Judson left, he came to me with Lettie.
"Will you take this young lady home for me? I must go to the store at
once. Business before pleasure with me. That's it, business first. Very
sorry, Miss Lettie; Phil will see you safely home."
I was in for the obligation. The Conlows lived four blocks beyond the
shop down toward the creek. The way was shadowy, and Lettie clung to my
arm. I was tired from my stage ride of a day and a half, and I had not
slept well for two nights. I distrusted Lettie, for I knew her
disposition as I knew her father's before her.
"Phil, why do you hate me?" she asked at the gate.
"I don't hate you, Lettie. You use an ugly word when you say 'hate,'" I
replied.
"There's one person I do hate," she said bitterly.
"Has he given you cause?"
"It's not a man; it's a woman. It's Marjie Whately," she burst out. "I
hate her."
"Well, Lettie, I'm sorry, for I don't believe Marjie deserves your
hate."
"Of course, you'd say so. But never mind. Marjie's not going to have my
hate alone. You'll feel like I do yet, when her mother forces her away
from you. Marjie's just a putty ball in her mother's hands, and her
mother is crazy about Amos Judson. Oh, I've said too much," she
exclaimed.
"You have, Lettie; but stop saying any more." I spoke sternly.
"Good-night."
She did not return my greeting, and I heard her slam the door behind
her.
That night, late as it was, I wrote a long letter to Marjie. I had no
pangs of jealousy, and I felt that she knew me too well to doubt my
faith, and yet I wanted just once more to assure her. When I had
finished, I went out softly and took my way down to "Rockport." It was
one of those glorious midsummer moonlit nights that have in their
subdued splendor something more regal than the most gorgeous midday. I
was thankful afterwards for the perfect beauty of that peaceful night,
with never a hint of the encroaching shadows, the deep gloom of sorrow
creeping toward me and my loved one. The town was sleeping quietly. The
Neosho was "chattering over stony ways," and whispering its midnight
melody. The wooded bottoms were black and glistening, and all the
prairies were a gleaming, silvery sea of glory. The peace of God was on
the world, the broad benediction of serenity and love. Oh, many a
picture have I in my memory's treasure house, that imperishable art
gallery of the soul. And among them all, this one last happy night with
its setting of Nature's grand handiwork stands clear evermore.
I had put my letter safe in its place, deep where nobody but Marjie
would find it. I knew that if even the slightest doubt troubled her this
letter would lift it clean away. I told her of Rachel Melrose and of my
fear of her designing nature, a fear that grew, as I reflected on her
acts and words. I did not believe the young lady cared for me. It was a
selfish wish to take what belonged to somebody else. I assured my little
girl that only as a gentleman should be courteous, had been my courtesy
to Rachel. And then for the first time, I told Marjie of her father's
dying message. I had wanted her to love me for myself. I did not want
any sense of duty to her father's wishes to sway her. I knew now that
she did love me. And I closed the affectionate missive with the words:
"To my father and Aunt Candace you are very dear. Your mother has
always been kind to me. I believe she likes me. But most of all,
Marjie, your father, who lies wrapped in the folds of that
Springvale flag, who gave his life to make safe and happy the land
we love and the home we hope to build, your father, sent us his
blessing. When the roar of cannon was changing for him to the chant
of seraphim, and the glare of the battle field was becoming 'a sea
of glass mingled with fire' that burst in splendor over the
jewelled walls and battlements of the New Jerusalem, even in that
moment, his last thought was of us two. 'I hope they will love each
other,' he said to my father. 'If they do, give them my blessing.'
And then the night shut down for him. But in the eternal day where
he waits our coming and loves us, Marjie, if he knows of what we do
here, he is blessing our love.
"Good-night, my dear, dear girl, my wife that is to be, and know
now and always there is for me only one love. In sunny ways or
shadow-checkered paths, whatever may come, I cannot think other
than as I do now. You are life of my life. And so again,
good-night."
I had climbed to the rock above the crevice and was standing still as
the night about me for the moment when a grip like steel suddenly closed
on my neck and an arm like the tentacle of a devilfish slid round my
waist. Then the swift adroitness of knee and shoulder bent me backward
almost off my feet. I gave a great wrench, and with a power equal to my
assailant, struggled with him. It was some moments before I caught sight
of his face. It was Jean Pahusca. I think my strength grew fourfold
with that glimpse. It was the first time in our lives that we had
matched muscle. He must have been the stronger of the two, but
discipline and temperate habits had given me endurance and judgment. It
was a life-and-death strife between us. He tried to drag me to the edge
of the rock. I strove to get him through the bushes into the street. At
length I gained the mastery and with my hand on his throat and my knee
on his chest I held him fast.
"You miserable devil!" I muttered, "you have the wrong man. You think me
weak as O'mie, whose body you could bind. I have a mind to choke you
here, you murderer. I could do it and rid the world of you, now." He
struggled and I gave him air. There was something princely about him
even as he lay in my power. And, fiend as he was, he never lost the
spirit of a master. To me also, brute violence was repulsive now that
the advantage was all mine.
"You deserve to die. Heaven is saving you for a fate you may well dread.
You would be in jail in ten minutes if you ever showed your face here in
the daylight, and hanged by the first jury whose verdict could be given.
I could save all that trouble now in a minute, but I don't want to be a
murderer like you. For the sake of my own hands and for the sake of the
man whose son I believe you to be, I'll spare your life to-night on one
condition!"
I loosed my hold and stepped away from him. He rose with an effort, but
he could not stand at first.
"Leave this country to-night, and never show your face here again. There
are friends of O'mie's sworn to shoot you on sight. Go now to your own
tribe and do it quickly."
Slowly, like a promise made before high heaven, he answered me.
"I will go, but I shall see you there. When we meet again, my hand will
have you by the throat. And--I don't care whose son you are."
He slid down the cliff-side like a lizard, and was gone. I turned and
stumbled through the bushes full into Lettie Conlow crouching among
them.
"Lettie, Lettie," I cried, "go home."
"I won't unless you will come with me," she answered coaxingly.
"I have taken you home once to-night," I said. "Now you may go alone or
stay here as you choose," and I left her.
"You'll live to see the day you'll wish you hadn't said that," I heard
her mutter threateningly behind me.
A gray mist had crept over the low-hanging moon. The world, so glorious
in its softened radiance half an hour ago, was dull and cheerless now.
And with a strange heartache and sense of impending evil I sought my
home.
The next day was a busy one in the office. My father was deep in the
tangle of a legal case and more than usually grave. Early in the
afternoon, Cam Gentry had come into the courthouse, and the two had a
long conference. Toward evening he called me into his private office.
"Phil, this land case is troubling me. I believe the papers we want are
in that old cabin. Could you go out again to-morrow?" He smiled now. "Go
and make a careful search of the premises. If there are any boxes, open
them. I will give you an order from Sheriff Karr. And Phil, I believe I
wouldn't take Marjie this time. I want to have a talk with her
to-morrow, anyhow. You can't monopolize all her time. I saw Mrs. Whately
just now and made an appointment with her for Marjie."
When he spoke again, his words startled me.
"Phil, when did you see Jean Pahusca last?"
"Last night, no, this morning, about one o'clock," I answered
confusedly.
My father swung around in his chair and stared at me. Then his face grew
stern, and I knew my safety lay in the whole truth. I learned that when
I was a boy.
"Where was he?" The firing had begun.
"On the point of rock by the bushes on Cliff Street."
"What were you doing there?"
"Looking at the moonlight on the river."
"Did you see him first?"
"No, or he would not have seen me."
"Phil, save my time now. It's a matter of great importance to my
business. Also, it is serious with you. Begin at the party. Whose escort
were you?"
"Lettie Conlow's."
My father looked me straight in the eyes. I returned his gaze steadily.
"Go on. Tell me everything." He spoke crisply.
"I was late to the party. Tillhurst asked Marjie for her company just as
I went in. Judson was going her way, and she chose the lesser of
two--pleasures, we'll say. Just before the party broke up, Judson was
called out. He had asked Lettie for her company, and he shoved her over
to my tender mercies."
"And you went strolling up on Cliff Street in the moonlight with her
till after midnight. Is that fair to Marjie?" I had never heard his
voice sound so like resonant iron before.
"I, strolling? I covered the seven blocks from Anderson's to Conlow's in
seven minutes, and stood at the gate long enough to let the young lady
through, and to pinch my thumb in the blamed old latch, I was in such a
hurry; and then I made for the Baronets' roost."
"But why didn't you stay there?" he asked.
I blushed for a certainty now. My actions seemed so like a brain-sick
fool's.
"Now, Phil," my father said more kindly, "you remember I told you when
you came to let me know you were twenty-one, that you must not get too
old to make a confidant of me. It is your only safe course now."
"Father, am I a fool, or is it in the Baronet blood to love deeply and
constantly even unto death?"
The strong man before me turned his face to the window.
"Go on," he said.
"I had been away nearly a week. I sat up and wrote a long letter to
Marjie. It would stand as clean evidence in court. I'm not ashamed of
what I put on paper, although it is my own business. Then I went out to
a certain place under the cliff where Marjie and I used to hide our
valentines and put little notes for each other years ago."
"The post-office is safer, Phil."
"Not with Tell Mapleson as postmaster."
He assented, and I went on. "I had come to the top again and was looking
at the beauty of the night, when somebody caught me by the throat. It
was Jean Pahusca."
Briefly then I related what had taken place.
"And after that?" queried my questioner.
"I ran into Lettie Conlow. She may have been there all the time. I do
not know, but I felt no obligation to take care of a girl who will not
take care of herself. It was rude, I know, and against my creed, but
that's the whole truth. I may be a certain kind of a fool about a girl I
know. But I'm not the kind of gay fool that goes out after divers and
strange women. Bill Mead told me this morning that he and Bud Anderson
passed Lettie somewhere out west alone after one o'clock. He was in a
hurry, but he stopped her and asked her why she should be out alone. I
think Bud went home with her. None of the boys want harm to come to her,
but she grows less pleasant every day. Bill would have gone home with
her, but he was hurrying out to Red Range. Dave's girl died out there
last night. Poor Dave!"
"Poor Dave!" my father echoed, and we sat in silence with our sympathy
going out to the fine young man whose day was full of sorrow.
"Well," my father said, "to come back to our work now. There are some
ugly stories going that I have yet to get hold of. Cam Gentry is helping
me toward it all he can. This land case will never come to court if
Mapleson can possibly secure the land in any other way. He'd like to
ruin us and pay off that old grudge against you for your part in
breaking up the plot against Springvale back in '63 and the suspicion it
cast on him. Do you see?"
I was beginning to see a little.
"Now, you go out to the stone cabin to-morrow afternoon and make a
thorough search for any papers or other evidence hidden there. The man
who owned that land was a degenerate son of a noble house. There are
some missing links in the evidence that our claim is incontestable. The
other claimant to the land is entirely under Tell Mapleson's control.
That's the way it shapes up to me. Meanwhile if it gets into court, two
or more lines are ready to tighten about you. Keep yourself in straight
paths and you are sure at last to win. I have no fear for you, Phil, but
be a man every minute."
I understood him. As I left the courthouse, I met O'mie. There was a
strange, pathetic look in his eyes. He linked his arm in mine, and we
sauntered out under the oak trees of the courthouse grounds.
"Phil, do ye remimber that May mornin' when ye broke through the vines
av the Hermit's Cave? I know now how the pityin' face av the Christ
looked to the man who had been blind. I know how the touch av his hands
felt to them as had been lepers. They was made free and safe. Wake as I
was that sorry mornin' I had one thought before me brain wint dark, the
thought that I might some day help you aven a little. I felt that way in
me wakeness thin. To-day in me strength I feel it a hundred times more.
Ye may not nade me, but whin ye do, I'm here. Whin I was a poor lost
orphan boy, worth nothin' to nobody, you risked life an' limb to drag me
back from the agony av a death by inches. And now, while I'm only a
rid-headed Irishman, I can do a dale more thinkin' and I know a blamed
lot more 'n this blessed little burg iver drames of. They ain't no
bloodhound on your track, but a ugly octopus of a devilfish is gittin'
its arms out after you. They's several av 'em. Don't forgit, Phil; I
know I'd die for your sake."
"O'mie, I believe you, but don't be uneasy about me. You know me as well
as anybody in this town. What have I to fear?"
"Begorra, there was niver a purer-hearted boy than you iver walked out
of a fun-lovin', rollickin' boyhood into a clane, honest manhood. You
can't be touched."
Just then the evening stage swung by and swept up the hill.
"Look at the ould man, now, would ye? Phil, he's makin' fur Bar'net's.
Bet some av your rich kin's comin' from the East, bringing you their
out-av-style clothes, an' a few good little books and Sunday-school
tracts to improve ye."
There was only one passenger in the stage, a woman whose face I could
not see.
That evening O'mie went to Judson at closing time.
"Mr. Judson, I want a lave of absence fur a week or tin days," he said.
"What for?" Judson was the kind of man who could never be pleasant to
his employees, for fear of losing his authority over them.
"I want to go out av town on business," O'mie replied.
"Whose business?" snapped Judson.
"Me own," responded O'mie calmly.
"I can't have it. That's it. I just can't have my clerks and underlings
running around over the country taking my time."
"Then I'll lave your time here whin I go," O'mie spoke coolly. He had
always been respectful toward his employer, but he had no servile fear
of him.
"I just can't allow it," Judson went on. "I need you here." O'mie was
the life of the business, the best asset in the store. "It may be a
slack time, but I can't have it; that's it, I just can't put up with it.
Besides," he simpered a little, in spite of himself, "besides, I'm
likely to be off a few days myself, just any time, I can get ready for a
step I have in mind, an important step, just any minute, but it's
different with some others, and we have to regard some others, you know;
have to let some others have their way once in a while. We'll consider
it settled now. You are to stay right here."
"Ye'll consider it settled that I'm nadin' a tin days' vacation right
away, an' must have it."
"I can't do it, O'Meara; that's it. I would not give you your place
again, and I won't pay you a cent of this quarter's salary."
Judson's foolish temper was always his undoing.
"You say you won't?" O'mie asked with a smile.
"No, I won't. Hereafter you may beg your way or starve!" Judson fairly
shouted.
"Excuse me, Mr. Amos Judson, but I'm not to thim straits yit. Not yit.
I've a little bank account an' a good name at Cris Mead's bank. Most as
good as yours."
The shot went home. Judson had but recently failed to get the bank's
backing in a business dealing he had hoped to carry through on loans,
and it had cut his vanity deeply.
"Good-bye, Amos, I'll be back, but not any sooner than ye nade me," and
he was gone.
The next day Dever the stage driver told us O'mie was going up to
Wyandotte on business.
"Whose business?" I asked. "He doesn't know a soul in Wyandotte, except
Tell and Jim, who were working up there the last I knew. Tell may be in
Fort Scott now. Whose business was it?"
"That's what I asked him," Dever answered with a grin, "and he said, his
own."
Whatever it was, O'mie was back again before the end of the week. But he
idled about for the full ten days, until Judson grew frantic. The store
could not be managed without him, and it was gratifying to O'mie's
mischievous spirit to be solicited with pledge and courtesy to take his
place again.
After O'mie had left me in the courthouse yard, the evening after the
party, I stopped on my way home to see Marjie a moment. She had gone
with the Meads out to Red Range, her mother said, and might not be back
till late, possibly not till to-morrow. Judson was sitting in the room
when I came to the door. I had no especial reason to think Mrs. Whately
was confused by my coming. She was always kind to everybody. But somehow
the gray shadows of the clouded moon of the night before were chilling
me still, and I was bitterly disappointed at missing my loved one's face
in her home. It seemed ages since I had had her to myself; not since the
night before my trip to Topeka. I stopped long enough to visit the
"Rockport" letter-box for the answer to my letter I knew she would leave
before she went out of town. There was no letter there. My heart grew
heavy with a weight that was not to lift again for many a long day. Up
on the street I met Dr. Hemingway. His kind eyes seemed to penetrate to
my very soul.
"Good-evening, Philip," he said pleasantly, grasping my hand with a firm
pressure. "Your face isn't often clouded."
I tried to look cheerful. "Oh, it's just the weather and some loss of
sleep. Kansas Augusts are pretty trying."
"They should not be to a young man," he replied. "All weathers suit us
if we are at peace within. That's where the storm really begins."
"Maybe so," I said. "But I'm all right, inside and out."
"You look it, Philip." He took my hand affectionately. "You are the very
image of clean, strong manhood. Let not your heart be troubled."
I returned his hand-clasp and went my way. However much courage it may
take to push forward to victory or death on the battle field, not the
least of heroism does it sometimes require to walk bravely toward the
deepening gloom of an impending ill. I have followed both paths and I
know what each one demands.
At our doorway, waiting to welcome me, stood Rachel Melrose, smiling,
sure, and effusively demonstrative in her friendship. She must have
followed me on the next stage out of Topeka. Behind her stood Candace
Baronet, the only woman I have ever known who never in all my life
doubted me nor misunderstood me. Somehow the sunset was colorless to me
that night, and all the rippling waves of wide West Prairie were shorn
of their glory.