"'She an' her mother--a lady deaf an' feeble--were alone, saving
the servants in a remote corner o' the house. A sound woke her in
the still night. She lay a while listening. Was it her husband
returning without his key? She rose, feeling her way in the dark
and trembling with the fear of a nervous woman. Descending stairs,
she came into a room o' many windows. The shades were up, an'
there was dim moon-light in the room. A door, with panels o' thick
glass, led to the garden walk. Beyond it were the dark forms of
men. One was peering in, his face at a panel, another kneeling at
the lock. Suddenly the door opened; the lady fell fainting with a
loud cry. Next day the kidnapped boy was born.'"
Darrel stopped reading, put the clipping into his pocket-book, and
smothered the torch.
"It seems the woman died the same day," said he.
"And was my mother," the words came in a broken voice.
Half a moment of silence followed them. Then Darrel rose slowly,
and a tremulous, deep sigh came from the lips of Trove.
"Thy mother, boy!" Darrel whispered.
The fire had burnt low, and the great shadow of the night lay dark
upon them. Trove got to his feet and came to the side of Darrel.
"Tell me, for God's sake, man, tell me where is my father," said he.
"Hush, boy! Listen. Hear the wind in the trees?" said Darrel.
There was a breath of silence broken by the hoot of an owl and the
stir of high branches. "Ye might as well ask o' the wind or the
wild owl," Darrel said. "I cannot tell thee. Be calm, boy, and
say how thou hast come to know."
Again they sat down together, and presently Trove told him of those
silent men who had ever haunted the dark and ghostly house of his
inheritance.
"'Tis thy mother's terror,--an' thy father's house,--I make no
doubt," said Darrel, presently, in a deep voice. "But, boy, I
cannot tell any man where is thy father; not even thee, nor his
name, nor the least thing, tending to point him out, until--until I
am released o' me vow. Be content; if I can find the man, ere
long, thou shalt have word o' him."
Trove leaned against the breast of Darrel, shaking with emotion.
His tale had come to an odd and fateful climax.
The old man stroked his head tenderly.
"Ah, boy," said he, "I know thy heart. I shall make haste--I
promise thee, I shall make haste. But, if the good God should
bring thy father to thee, an' thy head to shame an' sorrow for his
sin, forgive him, in the name o' Christ, forgive him. Ay, boy,
thou must forgive all that trespass against thee."
"If I ever see him, he shall know I am not ungrateful," said the
young man.
A while past twelve o'clock, those two, lying there in the
firelight, thinking, rose like those startled in sleep. A mighty
voice came booming over the still water and echoed far and wide.
Slowly its words fell and rang in the great, silent temple of the
woods:--
"'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have
not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
"'And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all
mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that
I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.
"'And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I
give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me
nothing.
"'Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity
vaunteth not itself; is not puffed up,
"'Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not
easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
"'Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things.
"'Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they
shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether
there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.'"
As the last words died away in the far woodland, Trove and Darrel
turned, wiping their eyes in silence. That flood of inspiration
had filled them. Big thoughts had come drifting down with its
current. They listened a while, but heard only the faint crackle
of the fire.
"Strange!" said Trove, presently.
"Passing strange, and like a beautiful song," said Darrel.
"It may be some insane fanatic."
"Maybe, but he hath the voice of an angel," said the old man.
They passed a sleepless night and were up early, packing to leave
the woods. Darrel was to go in quest of the boy's father. Within
a week he felt sure he should be able to find him.
They skirted the pond, crossing a long ridge on its farther shore.
At a spring of cool water in a deep ravine they halted to drink and
rest. Suddenly they heard a sound of men approaching; and when the
latter had come near, a voice, deep, vibrant, and musical as a
harp-string, in these lines of Hamlet:--
"'Why right; you are i' the right;
And so without more circumstance at all,
I hold it fit that we shake hands and part;
You as your business and desire shall point you;
For every man has business and desire
Such as it is; and for mine own part
Look you, I'll go pray.'"