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diff --git a/old/51954-0.txt b/old/51954-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 99b7626..0000000 --- a/old/51954-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3825 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Man: His Mark, by W. C. Morrow - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you’ll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: A Man: His Mark - A Romance, Second Edition - -Author: W. C. Morrow - -Illustrator: Elenore Plaisted Abbott - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51954] -Last Updated: November 16, 2016 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MAN: HIS MARK *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -A MAN: HIS MARK - -Second Edition - -A Romance - -By W. C. Morrow - -Author of “Bohemian Paris of To-Day,” - -“The Ape, The Idiot, and Other People,” etc. - -With a Frontispiece by Elenore Plaisted Abbott - -Philadelphia and London J. B. Lippincott Company - -1899 - -[Illustration: 0006] - -[Illustration: 0007] - - - - -A MAN: HIS MARK - - - - -CHAPTER ONE - -One forenoon, in the winter of the great storms that swept the Pacific -States, Adrian Wilder, a tall, slender, dark young man, stood in front -of his stone hut on a shoulder of Mt. Shasta and watched the assembling -of the elemental furies to do their savage work in the mountains. By all -the signs that he had learned he knew that mighty havoc was to be done; -but he did not foresee, nor did the oldest residents of that wilderness, -that this was the beginning of the most memorable winter of terrors -known to the white man’s history of the region. - -A strong sense of security and comfort filled him as, turning from the -gathering tumult about him, he studied the resistance of his hut. He, -with Dr. Malbone’s help, had built it from foundation to roof, using the -almost perfectly shaped blocks from the talus of the lofty perpendicular -basalt cliff at whose base he had built his nest that summer. With -nice discrimination he had selected the stones from the great heap that -stretched far down from one end of the shelf upon which he had built; -with mud he had fitted the stones to form floor, walls, arched roof, and -chimney. With boards and a window-sash borne by him up the mountain from -the road in the canon he had fashioned a window and doors. By the -same means--for the shelf was inaccessible to a wagon--he had brought -furniture, books, provisions, and fuel. - -The hut was strong and comfortable. - -Should snow fall to a great depth, he could easily shovel it down the -steep slope of the canon. Should an avalanche come,--that made him -wince. Still, he had made calculations on that account. By arching the -roof of his hut he had given it great strength. Better than that, should -an avalanche plunge over the edge of the cliff it must first gather -great speed and momentum. Stretching back mountainward from the top of -the cliff was a considerable space nearly level; an avalanche descending -from the higher reaches of the vast mountain would likely stop on this -level ground; but should it be so great and swift as to pass over, its -momentum would likely carry it safely over his hut, as the water of -a swiftly running stream, plunging over a ledge, leaves a dry space -between itself and the wall. - -But why think of the avalanche, with its crushing, burying snow, and, -far worse, its formidable bowlders that could annihilate any structure -made by men? It were better to think of the comfort and security of the -hut, and listen to the pleasant music of the little stream at the base -of the cliff. - -Better still was it to view the coming onslaught of the elements; to -note the marvellous coherency of the plan by which their destruction -was to be wrought; to observe how the splendid forces at play worked in -intelligent harmony to shape a malevolent design. To a man of Wilder’s -fine sensibilities, every fury unleashed in the gathering tumult seemed -to be possessed of superhuman malignancy of purpose and capability of -execution. The furious wind that came driving down the canon lying far -below him was the breath of the approaching multitude of storm-demons. -The giant trees on the slopes of the canon seemed to brace themselves -against the impending assault. Behind the wind, filling all the sky with -a gray blanket that darkened away to the source of the wind, was the -silent, stealthy snow-cloud, waiting to follow up and bury the havoc of -the wind, and finish the destruction that the wind would begin. - -From contemplation of this splendid spectacle the young man’s thoughts -turned to the dangers with which the storm threatened the mountain folk, -most of whom were engaged in the lumber traffic. Would any of these -be cut off from their homes? The rising rage of the wind indicated the -closing of all the roads with fallen trees: would that bring serious -hardships to any? In the summer, now past, the environs and flanks of -Mt. Shasta had sparkled with the life and gayety of hundreds of seekers -for health and pleasure,--the wealthy thronging a few fashionable -resorts, the poorer constrained to a closer touch with nature and the -spirit of the vast white mountain; but they now were gone, and the -splendid wilderness was left to the savage elements of winter. Had any -delayed their leaving and were at that moment in the drag-net of the -storm? - -Above all, there was Wilder’s one close friend in the mountains, Dr. -Malbone, who, like Wilder, had left the turmoil of city life to bury -himself in these wild fastnesses. They had known each other in San -Francisco years before. For five years the scattered people of the -mountains had employed the services of this skilful physician, and had -come to trust and honor him in the touching way that simple natures -trust and honor a commanding soul. It was Dr. Malbone who had so wisely -assisted in the building of the stone cabin at the foot of the cliff. It -was he who had explained the principle of the arch to the younger man, -and had shown him how to bend and place the supports of the growing -arch until the keystones were fitted in. It was he who had explained the -mysteries and uses of ties and buttresses. What would Dr. Malbone do -in the storm? What risks would he run, to what hardships be exposed, in -visiting his patients? Only a few miles separated these two friends, but -with such a storm as was hastening forward these few might as well be -thousands. - -Far up the canon Wilder heard the first fierce impact of the storm, for -the heavy crash of a falling tree sounded above the roaring of the wind. -By walking cautiously out to the extremity of a point that projected -from the shelf upon which his cabin stood, he had been accustomed to see -the snowy domes of Mt. Shasta. He knew that the storm sweeping down the -canon was but a feeble echo of the mightier tumult on the great father -of the north. In the hope that he might see something of this greater -battle, he now made his way to the extremity of the point, the wind -making his footing insecure; but only broad slaty clouds were visible -in that direction, transmitting the deep rumblings of the hurricane that -raged about Mt. Shasta’s higher slopes. - -It was while standing on the extremity of the point that the young man, -turning his glance to the deep canon beneath him, beheld a thing that -filled him with alarm. At the bottom of the canon, the Sacramento River, -here a turbulent mountain stream, and now a roaring torrent from the -earlier rains of the season, fumed and foamed as it raced with the wind -down the canon, hurrying on its way to its placid reaches in the plains -of California. The crooked road cut into the hither slope above the -high-water level of the river was not the main highway running north -and south through the mountains; it served the needs of a small local -traffic only. Wilder felt both surprise and apprehension to observe a -light wagon driven at a furious pace down the road, flying before the -storm. The incident would have been serious enough had the wagon, the -two horses, and the man and woman in the wagon belonged to the -mountains. The horses were of fine blood, and were unused and unsuited -to the alarming situation in which they now found themselves; the wagon -was too elegant and fragile for the mountains in winter; and even at the -distance that separated its occupants from Wilder, he could see that -they were filled with a terror such as the mountaineers never know. The -man was driving. Instead of proceeding with caution and keeping the -horses perfectly in hand, he was lashing them with the whip. A man used -to the mountains would never have been guilty of that folly. - -It was clear that they were heading down the canon for the main road, -still some miles away, by following which a little further they would -arrive at a station on the railway. Pieces of luggage in the rear end -of the wagon indicated that the travellers must have been spending the -summer or autumn in the remoter mountains, where some beautiful lakes -offered special charms to lovers of nature. Obviously their departure -had been delayed until the approach of the present storm drove them -hurriedly away, to be overtaken here in the canon. - -The roaring of the wind, the surge of the torrential river, and, worst -of all, the trees that were now crashing down, might have bewildered the -steadiest head not trained to the winter savagery of the wilderness. A -single tree across the road ahead might have meant disaster. Except for -the little stone hut of Adrian Wilder, placed purposely to secure as -great isolation as possible, and invisible from the road, there was no -shelter within miles of the spot. - -Presently the catastrophe came. The man, evidently seeing just ahead a -tree that was swinging to its fall, shouted to the horses, and laid on -the whip with added vigor, aiming to pass before the tree should fall. -The horses, wholly beside themselves with terror, reared, and then -plunged forward; but a moment had been lost. The horses and wagon passed -under the falling tree just in time to be crushed and buried under it. -The thunder of the fall echoed above the roar of the wind and the crash -of more distant falling trees. Nothing of the four living things that -had passed under the trap remained to Wilder’s view; they had been as -completely blotted out as though they had never filled a place in the -great aching world. - - - - -CHAPTER TWO - -FOR a moment the young man gazed in a stupid hope that the impossible -would happen,--that horses, wagon, man, and woman would emerge and -continue their mad flight down the canon. Then, so completely and -suddenly had all this life and activity Ceased, he wondered if the old -anguish that had driven him to the solitude of the mountains was now -tricking an abnormal imagination and weaving phantasms out of the -storm, to torture him a moment with breathless dread, and then suppress -themselves in the seeming of a tragic death. He remembered the warnings -of Dr. Malbone,--he must close his mind upon the past, must find in the -present only the light with which the world is filled, and must aim for -a sane and useful future. - -All this consumed but a moment. At once there burst upon him the awful -reality of the tragedy that had worked itself out so logically before -him. Humanity cried aloud within him. He sprang toward his hut, procured -an axe, and plunged down the slope of the talus, taking no heed of the -crude but surer trail that he had made from the road to his hut. He -slipped, fell, gathered himself up, fell again, but rapidly neared his -goal. - -He paused when he had reached the prostrate tree. Through the branches -his peering revealed a crushed, still heap. He pushed his head and -shoulders within and called. There was no response. - -He was at the rear of the wagon, and soon saw that it had been crushed -into an indeterminate mass of wood and iron. By pushing apart the more -yielding branches he brought to view the up-turned face of the man, -whose eyes, fixed in death, stared horribly from a head curiously and -grotesquely unshaped by the crush of the branches. The young man drew -back. He gasped for breath; he called upon his self-command to bear him -up in this strenuous time. He attacked the branches with his axe and -cleared them away. He half wondered that the eyes of the dead remained -open while they filled with particles of the bark riven by the axe. -Presently the body came within reach. With unspeakable repulsion the -young man placed his hand upon the stranger’s chest. There was no sign -of life. Indeed, he wondered that he had taken any trouble to ascertain -what he already knew. - -All this time the young man’s dread and terror, heightened by a sense of -utter loneliness in the presence of the dead, had driven the woman from -his mind. He had not yet seen the slightest trace of her. Did he have -the strength to behold a woman mangled as he had found the man... Still, -they should have decent interment; that was his duty as a man. And -further, it was necessary that their identity be ascertained, in order -that their friends might be informed. - -There was something else. Far back in the mountains, that wilder -wilderness of the Trinity range, and in the Siskiyou range, beyond -them, there were huge gray wolves, fierce and formidable. Now and then -a daring hunter had come out of those mountains with the skin of a great -gray wolf. There were old stories in the mountains that when the snow -had been deep and of prolonged duration, the gray wolves came down to -the tamer reaches inhabited by men, driven thither by hunger, for the -game upon which they subsisted had fled before the snow to find herbage. -The first to come out had been deer; soon after them had come the -wolves. As the deer fell before the rifles of the settlers, the wolves -had been driven to depredations on cattle and horses. There were ugly -tales, too, of men attacked by them. Out of all this had grown the -legend of a she-wolf that bore away children to her wolf-pack. - -After the wind now raging in the mountains would come the snow, silent, -deep, and implacable, to hide the work of the fallen tree below the -hut; but would it hide everything so well that the great gray wolves, -if driven by hunger from the remoter mountains, would fail to find what -hunger required them to seek? - -Wilder again attacked the tree with his axe,--another one lay dead -there, and she must be found; and there was heavy and horrifying work -ahead before the wind should cease and the snow begin to fall. At -first the young man resumed his attack with the furious energy that had -hitherto sustained his effort; but wisdom and caution came now to -his aid. He realized his feebleness of mind, spirit, and body. He had -devoted weeks of arduous work to the construction of his hut, and that -had lent a certain strength to his muscles and buoyancy to his soul. -Still, he was hardly more than a shadow of his old self, before his life -had been wrecked a year ago, and he had come into the mountains to make -a sturdy fight for self-mastery, for the regeneration of whatever shreds -of manhood were left within him, and for their patching and binding into -a fabric that should take its place in the ranks of men and work out a -man’s destiny. - -He went about his task with greater deliberation. He forced himself to -regard with calmness the distorted dead face upturned toward him. He -worked with that slowness which makes greater haste in achievement. This -brought a surer judgment and an economy of effort and time. He cut the -branches one by one and dragged them away. - -Soon the woman’s form appeared. In the extreme moment of the catastrophe -she had evidently sprung forward; this had brought her body, face -downward, between the horses; they, in being crushed under the trunk -of the tree, fallen across them, had nevertheless given her a certain -protection; the trunk, in breaking the backs of the horses, had missed -her head. As for the rest, she was so closely wedged between the horses -that it would be difficult to extricate her. - -This, however, was finally accomplished after great labor. The woman’s -face and clothing were blood-stained. So much worse did she look than -the man, that Wilder had a new struggle with himself to command courage -and strength for the task. He dragged her out to a clear place in the -road, and made the same perfunctory examination as in the case of -the man. While he was doing so the woman moved and gasped, and this -unexpected indication of life was the greatest shock of the tragedy. - -But it was one of those shocks which bring new life and strength. -Whereas, before he had been facing, without daring to contemplate, the -awful duty that he owed the dead, here now was the most precious thing -that the world then could have offered him,--here was Life, human life, -fleeting, perhaps, but infinitely precious. - -Wilder knelt beside the unconscious woman and with eager hands loosened -her clothing. He ran to the river, dipped his handkerchief in the water, -bathed her face, and removed some of the blood that covered it. He -chafed her hands and wrists, anxiously watching for the slightest -change. This came rapidly and progressed steadily. Removed from the -crushing pressure of the horses, her chest found its natural expansion, -and the rhythm of deep, slow breathing was established. Wilder had -learned numerous elementary things from Dr. Malbone; he saw that, -although the sufferer was so grievously hurt as to be unconscious, life -was yet strong within her. - -Time, then, was the precious element here. The sufferer must be taken -at once to the hut, and Dr. Malbone summoned. As for the dead man, there -was no present danger on his account, and the living demanded first -attention. - -A formidable task now confronted the young man. First, he had to bear -the unconscious woman up the steep trail to the hut; then he should -have to go many miles afoot to summon Dr. Malbone. The young man thought -nothing of the difficulties, but all of the doing. - -He was about to assail the task of getting the woman upon his shoulder, -when it occurred to him that her injuries might possibly be aggravated -by his manner of carrying her. He thereupon made a hasty examination. -The head was bleeding. The face bore no visible injuries. The bones of -the arms were whole. The left leg, however, was broken above the knee. -What the particular cause of the sufferer’s unconsciousness was he could -only guess. Perhaps it was merely a condition of temporary congestion, -produced by the fearful pressure to which she had been subjected between -the horses. A bleeding at the ears and nose seemed to the young man a -bad sign. - -Her condition having been thus approximately ascertained, the next -problem was to bear her to the hut in a way that should do the least -harm to her injuries. The first necessary thing to be done, therefore, -was to prevent any mobility in the region of the fracture. To this end -he burrowed again into the débris and brought forth some boards that -had served as the bottom of the wagon. Tearing strips from the woman’s -clothing, he bound the boards to her in a way to protect her from harm -in moving her. - -The strain upon his attentiveness sharpened and strengthened him in -every way. He formed the whole plan of his bearing her to the hut, -making her temporarily comfortable, summoning Dr. Malbone, and attending -to the details of nursing her back to health. - -To lift her gently upon a bowlder; to bend forward and adjust her -upon his back with infinite care; to proceed with her up the laborious -ascent,--all this was skilfully and expeditiously done. - -Serious difficulties began soon to embarrass him. He discovered that -she was above the average height and weight of women, heavier than he, -although he was the taller. He found that the numerous abrupt steps in -the trail laid a heavy tax upon his strength, and that some steep places -proved slippery under the burden that he bore. In addition, the muscles -of his arms strained and cramped; and long before he had reached the -shelf upon which his hut was perched he fell to his knees a number of -times from exhaustion. But the end came at last when he staggered into -his hut, dragged a cover from his bed to the floor, and gently laid his -burden upon it. - - - - -CHAPTER THREE - -DURING all this time the fury of the storm had not abated in the least. -That, indeed, had been one of the worst obstacles with which he had -contended in mounting the steep to his hut. Immediately upon laying his -charge on the floor he had begun to prepare his bed for the guest, -but weakness from exhaustion overcame him. He reeled; a red blindness -assailed him; and, in spite of a fierce effort to maintain command of -his strength and faculties, he found himself plunging headlong upon his -bed. - -A moan recalled him to consciousness, and it was not until later that he -realized the distressing length of time that he had lain unconscious. -He remembered that when he fell he was very warm from the exertion of -ascending the slope, and that when he awoke he was excessively cold. -Furthermore, twilight had come. - -Dismayed over the loss of time, he proceeded at once to make his charge -comfortable. He prepared his bed for her and placed her upon it. She was -still unconscious, but he saw that she was rallying. - -He suddenly realized that it was now impossible for him to summon Dr. -Mal-bone, for the fury of the storm had been steadily increasing, and -the crash of falling trees still sounded above the roaring of the wind. -It would be worse than foolhardy for him to brave the storm and the -darkness. At any moment she might recover consciousness and find herself -alone and suffering in this strange place; and a whole night and day -would hardly have been sufficient for him to fetch the surgeon, had that -been a physical possibility. So the young man realized that he alone, -with no training in the surgeon’s and physician’s art, must take this -woman’s life in his hands, and for a long time to come be her physician -and nurse, cook and housekeeper, mother and confidant, father and -protector. - -That realization was sufficiently cruel and taxing, but the ordeal that -now confronted him was the most trying of all. He had not yet given any -attention to the appearance of his charge, further than to ascertain to -what extent she was hurt. When he now lighted a candle and held it to -her face, he saw that she was a young and handsome woman. - -He noted the high-bred patrician face through the grime, the abundant -dark-brown hair, the black brows but slightly arched and nearly meeting -between the eyes, the fine nose, the habitual, half-hidden curve of scorn -at the corners of her mouth, and the firm, strong, elegantly moulded -chin. - -It was evident that the man and the woman were father and daughter, for -the resemblance between the distorted dead face and the grimy living one -was strong; the manifest difference in ages finished the conclusion. - -Was she fatally hurt? What if she should die? What effect would the -knowledge of her father’s death have upon her? How long would she remain -helpless on the couch, held by her injuries; and how long, after her -possible recovery, would she be held a prisoner by the impassable -condition of the roads? Would she be cheerful and brave through it all? - -She was growing more and more restless; wise haste was now the crowning -necessity. First of all, she must have suitable clothing, and it must be -provided before he made his bungling efforts to set her broken bone. -How could he hope to perform this difficult surgical feat with no more -knowledge of its requirements than he had secured while serving a few -times as Dr. Malbone’s untrained assistant in the mountains, and with -the most inadequate understanding of the use of such splints, bandages, -needles, and ligatures as Dr. Malbone had given him for his use upon -himself in case of an emergency, and with an imperfect knowledge of the -narcotics, stimulants, febrifuges, and other medicines with which Dr. -Malbone had provided him? The sufferer had youth and superb health; but -how could he feel the smallest assurance that, in the event he should -secure a knitting of the fracture, crookedness and deformity from -improper adjustment would not result? But there was nothing to do but -try, and to bring every intelligent force of his nature to the task. - -He hoped that she would not regain consciousness before he should make -another trip to the scene of the tragedy and secure her luggage. The -twilight was deepening. He threw logs on the smouldering fire in the -chimney-place and started to leave. He paused a moment at the door to -watch his patient. She was again stirring and moaning. - -“A sedative would be safer,” he reflected. And then, when he had poured -it with great difficulty down her throat, he wondered if he had given -her too much, and if it would have a bad effect in depressing her -vitality and working against her rallying. He waited until she had -become still and quiet, and then hastened down to the road. - -The storm had been gradually changing in character. He had expected -the snow to wait until the wind had fallen, but a hurricane was still -blowing, and snow was coming down in long gray slants. Already it had -begun to whiten and fill crevices into which the wind was driving it. It -would have been better had he brought a lantern, but there was no time -for that; and the wind doubtless would have made its use impossible. - -At the wreck he found his axe and cleared away more branches. Only a -very faint suggestion of the dead white face peering up at him came -through the twilight; and there was work to be done in that quarter -to-morrow, however much snow might be lodged and packed in the branches. -Soon he found two large and heavy travelling bags, one larger than the -other; this, he reasoned, must be the woman’s; his strength to -carry both to the hut was inadequate now, and he needed all possible -steadiness of nerve for the task ahead. A laborious climb brought him -back to the hut with the bag and his axe. By the light of a candle he -anxiously read the name on a silver tag attached to the handle of the -bag. It was,--“Laura Andros, San Francisco.” - -It was with awe and reverence that he opened the bag and in a gingerly -fashion drew forth its contents and carefully laid them aside. He had -already noted in a vague way that his guest was a woman of wealth and -elegance, and he now observed that, although the articles he disclosed -were intended in large part for vigorous mountain use, an unmistakable -stamp of daintiness and refinement was upon them all. - -Having now found garments in which he could make her comfortable after -his surgical work was done, he proceeded with the stupendous task that -awaited him. He wondered how much precious time he had lost, if any, -through sheer dread of his duty. But whatever the delay, and whatever -its causes, it had been useful in preparing him for the ordeal. Up -to this moment an unaccountable and distressing trembling of all -his members at frequent intervals had alarmed him, but strength and -steadiness came with his nearer approach to the task. - -Commanding his soul to meet the need of the hour, he went sturdily -about his work. He knew how desperately painful were operations for the -setting of fractured bones, and how great was the skill required for -the administering of an anæsthetic. He had never known even a skilled -surgeon to undertake alone what he must now do without either skill or -assistance. It would not be sufficient should he do his best: his best -must be perfectly done. - -He produced his store of splints, bandages, stimulants, and -anaesthetics, and arranged them conveniently to hand, as he had seen Dr. -Malbone do. He examined his patient’s pulse; it was too quick and weak -to give him high confidence. He made a good fire, for the night was -cold; and he called heavily upon his store of candles to furnish as much -light as possible. - -His bed, upon which she lay, was a most crude and inadequate affair. It -was of his own construction, and had been intended to serve its part -in the life of severe austerity that he had made for himself in the -mountains. It was made of rough boards nailed to wooden posts. To serve -for mattress, fragrant pine-needles filled it. Upon this were spread -sheets and blankets. The pillow also was made of pine-needles. Thus, -without springs, the bed was hard and unfit for a daintily reared woman; -more so because of the illness that she would suffer and the great -length of time that she would be confined to the bed; but it was the -best he had. As the hut was very small and had but one room, this bed -had been fitted snugly into a corner. Wilder moved it out, that he might -be able to work freely on both sides of it. This cramped the hut all the -more. - -The examination that he had made in the road was for the purpose of -discovering broken bones. There he had found the bone of the left thigh -broken at some undetermined point between the knee and the hip. But -broken bones are not all the hurts that one may receive in such -an accident,--cuts and contusions might prove equally dangerous if -overlooked. - -With exquisite care he prepared her for the work that he must do. As -she was fully dressed, this required patience from his unskilled hands. -Finally, this part of the task, inexpressibly hard for a man of his -delicacy of feeling, was accomplished. What anguish he suffered on his -own account and in foreseeing her confusion and possible resentment upon -realizing that he, an utter stranger, and not a physician, had done all -this for her, it were idle to set forth here. - -To his great relief he found that the bone of the left thigh was, so -far as he could judge, the only one that had suffered fracture; but a -careful inspection revealed several bruises; and at last, in searching -for the source of the blood that had covered her face when he drew her -from the débris, he found a cut in her crown. His first work must be -there. - -Covering her comfortably, he washed the blood from her hair and face, -and, bearing in mind the pride that she must have cherished for her -glorious hair, he quickly shaved as small a space on her crown as -possible. He first tried adhesive plaster to bring the edges of the -cut together; but the water and his handling of the wound started -the hemorrhage afresh, and this compelled him to close the wound with -ligatures. - -He was pleased to observe that the hemorrhage was stopped. This made -him so well satisfied and so confident that the greater magnitude of the -remaining work appalled him less. Indeed, that had begun to exercise a -scientific fascination that abnormally sharpened his wits and steadied -his nerves. It was this task that he now attacked. - -All this time the sufferer had lain unconscious. This was a blessing, -unless the state had been induced by causes worse than consciousness of -the pain from setting the bone. There was time hereafter to consider -all that. The one present duty was to proceed with the operation without -another moment’s delay, for inflammation had already set in. - -While, with infinite care, he was fitting, as best he could, the ends of -the broken bone, he was startled out of all self-command by a scream -of agony from her, half-strangled, and therefore made all the more -terrifying, by the bandage under her chin; and she was sitting up, -staring at him. Every one of the young man’s faculties was temporarily -paralyzed. A benumbing coldness was upon him. With a mighty effort he -gathered himself up, but his breathing was difficult, and sweat streamed -down his face. He firmly laid her back upon the pillow, and said,-- - -“Be quiet; you shall not be hurt again.” She was singularly docile, -although he could see by the wildness of her eyes and a fluttering in -her throat that something was raging within her. With one hand he gently -pressed her eyelids down, and with the other he wetted a handkerchief -from a bottle of chloroform and held it just clear of her mouth and -nostrils. For a moment she rebelled against the stifling vapor and tried -to drag his hand away; but, finding him determined, she yielded, and -soon was stupefied. - -The work must be rapid now. There was no time to wonder if she had -comprehended anything or seen in him a stranger. No interruption could -come from her now; that was the vital thing; but the anaesthetic would -soon lose its force. He resumed his work, taking great care, in matching -the injured member with the sound one, to avoid crippling her for life. -He then adjusted the splints, keeping the member straight. Finally, he -secured it against bending at the knee by adjusting a board on the under -side of the leg throughout its entire length. He finished his work by -binding the upper part of her body to the bed-frame, to prevent her -rising. Then, extinguishing his candles, making her as comfortable as -possible on the hard bed, and putting more wood on the fire, he sat down -to watch. Everything seemed to be going well. - -By this time the night was far advanced. The wind was still blowing a -terrific gale. An aching, irresistible weariness stole over the watcher. -He drew his chair close to the bed and anxiously observed his charge. -He examined her pulse; it was rising; her skin was hot and dry. She had -passed from under the influence of the anaesthetic, and was now sleeping -restlessly. He waited in dread for her awaking, for the unexpected -situation in which the young man found himself was complex and -difficult. It was essential that his patient should be as tranquil as -possible. Knowledge of her father’s death might prove disastrous. Hence -she must be deceived, and yet deception was unspeakably repugnant to the -young man’s nature. But now it was a duty, which above all things must -be done. She must be buoyed with hope. All her fortitude would be needed -to bear the miserable conditions of her imprisonment. Meantime, the -young man would post notices along the road, calling for help from the -first persons passing. - - - - -CHAPTER FOUR - -MUCH thinking and planning had to be done, for the unexpected situation -in which the young man found himself was complex and difficult. It was -essential that his patient should be as tranquil as possible. Knowledge -of her father’s death might prove disastrous. Hence she must be -deceived, and yet deception was unspeakably repugnant to the young man’s -nature. But now it was a duty, which above all things must be done. She -must be buoyed with hope. All her fortitude would be needed to bear the -miserable conditions of her imprisonment. Meantime, the young man would -post notices along the road, calling for help from the first persons -passing. - -Already the road was wholly impassable, and it would grow worse. None -of the friends or relatives of the dead man and his daughter could have -been informed of their leaving the lakes. The natural conclusion from -their absence would be that an early winter of unusual severity had -compelled them to remain until spring. The people in the mountains would -have no way of learning that the two had failed to reach the railway. -Thus had the travellers been completely blotted out of their world. -No relief parties would be sent out to search for them. Not until the -unlikely discovery of the notices that Wilder would post could there be -the slightest knowledge of the tragedy. - -More than that, the road upon which Wilder’s hut looked down was only -one of two that penetrated the wilderness in that direction. In -the summer it had a small travel, but by reason of its crookedness, -narrowness, and sharp grades it was avoided by heavy traffic. It would -be the last road to be cleared. Snow-shoes were practically unknown in -these mountains, for seasons of long snow blockades were rare; but -there would be no occasion for snow-shoe travel over this road. The only -prospect for the escape of Wilder and his charge was on foot, after the -lapse of the months that would be required for her recovery, and after -the snow was gone. - -Innumerable domestic perplexities presented themselves to the young -man’s mind. His charge, being perfectly helpless, must depend entirely -upon him for her every want. Would she have the wisdom and goodness to -accept the situation cheerfully, or would its humiliation and hardships -gnaw constantly at her strength and patience, and delay her recovery -or precipitate her death? How could she possibly accept the situation -philosophically? She would find a bitter contrast between this life and -the one of luxury and indulgence to which she had been accustomed. Even -should she develop the highest order of fortitude, the rude food, in -small variety, that he had to give her, cooked badly, could hardly -tempt her appetite, and thus build up her strength. Then, her bed was a -wretched affair, and there was serious danger that its hardness alone, -without regard to her possible resignation to its discomforts, would -produce hurtful physical results. If only wise and helpful Dr. Malbone -could know and come! - -Let the days bring forth what they would, Wilder would do his duty as -he knew it. The fire crackled cheerily on the hearth and filled the hut -with its warmth and glow and peace. The walls were tight and strong, and -were holding firm against the storm. The agonizing strain of the last -twelve hours was over, and all strength must be saved for the future. - -In the flickering firelight the young man studied the face of his charge -at leisure, and he saw that she was singularly handsome; but there -seemed to be a certain hardness in her face, relaxed in unconsciousness -though it was. Perhaps it was only because there stood out before his -memory the one face in all the world that, with its infinite gentleness -and sweetness, embodied every grace for which his spirit yearned. It was -not so beautiful and brilliant a face as this,--but there came up -Dr. Malbone’s warning, uttered over and over with the most earnest -impressiveness: - -“As you value your reason and life, as you value the possibilities of -your happiness and your usefulness to humanity, turn your face from the -past, and with all the courage and will of a man confront the future. -Nature is kind to all of her children who love her and seek her. She -heaps our past with wreckage, only to train and prepare us for a noble -future. There can be no peace where there has been no travail. There -would be no strength were there no weakness in need of its help. The man -who fails to the slightest extent in his duties to humanity and himself -burdens his life to that extent. Be brave and hopeful and helpful, as it -becomes a man to be, and labor incessantly for the best, as it becomes a -man to do.” - -And the man with the curiously-twisted face peering out from the -tree-branches, what had been the aim of his life, that it should find -such an end? After all, was there any taint of unmanliness in that end? -Doubtless even now he was covered deep under snow. If he should be left -there, the great gray wolves might come down and find him. They were -big and powerful, and men who had seen them hungry told fearful tales -of their daring and ferocity. If the snow should drive them down, they -would find the dead horses under the tree; and after that there would be -but one house here where they could find human beings. - -There need be no dread of them; but suppose that some night there should -come a scratching at the door of the hut,--that would mean the gaunt -shewolf, who bore away children to the wolf-pack. - -She would beg for a rind of bacon to eat, and a corner on the hearth -to sleep. She would bear ugly wounds from her struggles with men and -beasts, and these would have to be dressed, and rents in her hide -stitched; and if there were broken bones, they must be set. Would she be -patient under the torture, or would she snap and howl after the manner -of wolves?... - -Wilder was startled to full consciousness by a moan. He bent over his -patient and looked into her open eyes. She gazed up at him vacantly. He -took her hand; it was hot. He placed a hand upon her forehead; it was -burning. A haggard look of pain and distress sat upon her face. - -An eager appeal was in her glance, and her lips moved feebly. He bent -his ear to them. She was faintly whispering-- - -“Water, water!” - -His heart bounding with gladness, he brought cold water. With difficulty -he restrained her eagerness, lest she discover that she was crippled -and bound. He covered her eyes with a napkin, for he observed that her -glance was becoming strained and curious. She submitted quietly, while -he gave her the water with a spoon. After that she sighed in weariness -and content, but her deep inspiration was checked by pain. Her burning -skin and an uneasiness throughout her entire frame warned him that she -had a fever. He gave her a remedy for that. It was not until daylight -had come that, after watching her for hours as she lay awake and -seemingly halfconscious, he observed her finally drift into sound -slumber. - -The young man rose and found himself weak and dizzy; but after he had -prepared and eaten a simple breakfast he felt stronger. Seemingly by a -miracle, he had gone through his task in safety thus far. He must now -leave his patient for a while, to discharge a grim duty that awaited -him in the road below,--a duty from which his every sensibility recoiled -with unspeakable repugnance. Lest an untoward accident should happen in -his absence, he gave his patient a stupefying drug. - -He dreaded to open the front door of his hut. When he did, he found the -thing that he feared: the wind had ceased after midnight, and the snow -had been falling ever since, and still was falling. It had whitened -the walls of the canon, and, before the wind had ceased, had eddied and -drifted about the hut in a way that filled the young man with alarm for -the future. Would his strength be sufficient to fight it if the storm -should be greatly prolonged, to the end that he and his charge should -not be buried alive? - -He put this dread away, and with a heavy heart followed the steep trail -down to the road. - - - - -CHAPTER FIVE - -NOON was near at hand when the guest of the hut waked to full -consciousness. Her first impulse was to cry out with the pain that -tortured her; but her strong will assumed command, and she looked -inquiringly into the anxious face beside her Obviously she realized that -a catastrophe had overtaken her, and she was now silently demanding an -explanation. - -Wilder had not expected this. Her calmness, and, more than that, her -silent demand, were so different from the childish and unreasonable -petulance that he had expected, that he was unprepared and confused. - -“You have been hurt,” he stammered; “and it will be necessary for you to -keep very quiet for a time.’ - -“How was I hurt?” she faintly asked. “The horses were frightened by the -storm and ran away.” - -“Oh, the storm! I remember.” Then she looked quickly and anxiously -about. “My father,” she said,--“where is he?” - -For a moment the oddly distorted face in the branches came grimacing -between Wilder and his duty, but with a gasp and a repelling gesture he -drove it away,--not so dexterously but that his struggle was seen. - -“He--has gone to bring help,” he said. Then, quickly leaving the bedside -to conceal his weakness and the shame of the lie that choked him, he -added hastily, “Yes, he was not hurt; and when he and I had brought you -to this hut he went to find help. He will return as soon as possible.” - He felt that her glance was upon him with merciless steadiness. -“Now,” said he, returning to the couch, “I will remove these -bandages,”--referring to the cords that bound her to the bed;--“but you -must promise me not to move except under my direction. Do you?” - -She slightly nodded an assent, and he unbound her. - -“Come,” he added, “you must have some of this broth. No, don’t try to -rise; I will feed you from this spoon. It is not too hot, is it? That is -good. Presently you will feel much better. You are not in much pain now, -are you?” - -“I am not a child,” she answered, with a slight touch of disdain and -reproof. But he cheerily said,-- - -“Excellent, excellent! That is the way to feel!” - -She lay silent for a while, looking up at the roof. Presently she -said,-- - -“I imagine that I am badly hurt. Please tell me how and where I am -injured.” - -“Well, your left leg was hurt, and we shall have to keep it bandaged and -your knee from bending. And there were some bruises on your side, and an -injury to the scalp.” - -“My scalp?” she quickly asked, raising her hand and asking, “Surely you -did not shave my head?” - -“No,” he replied, smiling amusedly; “except a small spot, and you can -cover that until the hair grows out.” - -She was not fully satisfied until she had felt the splendid wealth of -hair that lay massed upon the pillow. - -“May I ask who you are?” This was the question that he had dreaded most -of all; but before he could stammer out the truth a light broke over her -face, and she astounded him with this exclamation: - -“Oh, you are the famous Dr. Mal-bone! This is extraordinary! I am very, -very fortunate.” - -Wilder had never conceived a lie so dazzling and happy as this mistake. -Between wonder at his stupidity for not having thought of it, and a -great delight that she had so naturally erred, he was too bewildered -either to affirm or deny. He only realized that she had unwittingly -solved the most difficult of his present problems. Had she been looking -at him, she might have wondered at the strange expression that lighted -up his face, and particularly the crimson temporarily displacing the -death-like pallor that she had observed. - -“Yes,” she resumed, after a pause, “I am fortunate; for I suppose that -my injuries are a great deal worse than you have given me to believe, -and that such skill as yours is needed.” She turned her glance again -full upon him; but he had recovered his address, and now met her look -with an approach to steadiness. “But,” she said, “you are a much younger -man than I had expected to see; and you don’t look so crabbed as I might -have inferred you were from the message you sent me a month ago.” - -She paused, evidently expecting him to make some explanation; but he was -silent, and looked so distressed that she smiled. - -“You may remember,” she continued, “that a young lady at the lakes sent -for you to treat her for bruises sustained in a fall, and that you -told her messenger to give her your compliments and say that cold-water -applications, an old woman, and God would do as well with such a case as -you. I am that young lady.” - -Wilder liked the young woman’s blunt and forthright manner, although it -was novel and embarrassing. - -“There were doubtless important cases demanding attention,” he -explained. - -“No doubt,” she agreed. - -“And, after all,” he suggested, “didn’t you follow the advice and get -good results?” - -“Yes,” she answered, again smiling faintly; “that is true.” She closed -her eyes. Presently she extended her hand, which Wilder took. She looked -earnestly into his face, and asked, “It will be a long siege with me, -will it not?” - -“Much depends upon your temperament,” he answered. “If------” - -“That is evasion,” she interrupted. “Be candid with me.” There was no -demand in this request; it was an appeal from such depths of her as she -knew, and it touched him. - -“Yes,” he stammered, “unless------” - -“The bone is broken, isn’t it?” - -“Yes; but you are young and your health is superb. That is everything.” - -A despairing look grayed her face, which then quickly reddened with -anger and rebellion. Her host said nothing. He saw that she was -competent to make the fight with herself without his aid; that her mind, -though now disturbed by her suffering, was able to comprehend much that -her condition meant, being obviously an uncommonly strong, clear mind, -and that it would give to an acceptance of her position the philosophic -view that was so much needed. He saw the hard, brave fight that she -was making, and he had no fear for the outcome. Gradually he saw the -contemplative expression of the eyes turned within, and the face grow -gaunt and haggard under the strain. As slowly he saw her emerge from the -depths into which he had thrust her, and from the very slowness of the -victory, he knew that she had won. When again she looked into his face, -he knew that her soul had been tried as it never had been before, and -that she was stronger and better for it. And he knew that there was yet -another trial awaiting her which perhaps she could not have borne had -not she passed through this one. - -“Another thing,” she said, as earnestly as before; “when do you expect -my father to return?” - -“Very soon--as soon as he----” - -“Evasion again,” she protested, a slight frown of impatience darkening -her face; but it instantly disappeared, and her manner was appealing -again. “Be my friend as well as my physician, Dr. Malbone. Please tell -me the truth. I can bear it now.” - -The young man bowed his head in dejection. - -“Snow is still falling,” he said, “and doubtless many trees are across -the road. We can only wait and hope.” - -A transient look of gratitude for his seeming candor softened her hard -beauty, and she withdrew her hand and her glance. Then he knew that -another mighty struggle was taking place within her. He knew from the -deep crimson that suffused her face how fully she realized all that -he must be to her during the weary weeks to come. He saw the outward -evidences of the unthinkable revulsion that filled her, with him as its -cause. He knew that in agony of soul she rebelled against the fate that -had placed her helpless in the hands of a stranger, and that stranger -a man, and that man the one now serving her, however willingly, however -faithfully, with whatever tact and delicacy. He saw, from her hopless -glance about the cabin, the bitterness of the fight that she was making -to accept its repellent hospitality. And, worst of all, he saw, or -thought he saw, that in the victory that she finally won there was -more of an iron determination to endure than of a simple resignation to -accept. - -So these two began their strange life together. As may be supposed, it -was wholly devoid of true companionship, and necessarily so. That made -it the harder, in a way, for both. From the severe furnishings of his -larder the host did his best to provide for her comfort. She never -complained of the coarse, inadequate food, all of which had to be of a -kind that could bear keeping for months, and none of which was pleasing -to a fastidious taste made all the more delicate by illness and -prostration from her injuries. All of the countless attentions that her -helplessness imposed upon him he gave with the business-like directness -of a physician and nurse, and this was obviously gratifying to her. She -never complained of the cruel hardness of the bed, and never failed -to express her gratitude for the slight shiftings of position that he -deemed it safe to give her. - -Most cheering to the host was the fair progress that his patient made. -Her curious mistake that he was Dr. Malbone had given him a mastery of -the situation that was of inestimable value. Manifestly she reposed full -confidence in his skill, and he made the most of that. She never again -asked for opinions concerning her father’s return. Her only inquiries -were with regard to the weather, the severity of which did not relax -from day to day, from week to week. When Wilder would return from short -excursions over the snow, which now lay deep throughout the mountains -and was steadily growing deeper, she would look at him a moment -expectantly, hoping for good news; but it was not necessary for him to -say that there was none, and she asked no questions. - -The dread and dismay of Wilder grew with the heaping up of snow about -the hut. Before he built the house, he had learned that in winter, when -the storms were very severe, the shelf upon which he had reared the -structure was banked with snow, but to what height no one had ever -ascertained. There had never been such a storm as this within the -memory of the white settlers. Hence the snow was heaped higher than -ever before. There were special reasons for this. The shelf formed an -eddying-point for the wind that came in the intervals of the snowfall, -and the snow from all sides was thus swirled and pitched upon the shelf. -It had not yet reached the roof, but it had to be kept cleared from the -window and the front door, and that meant watchfulness and labor. Should -it continue to accumulate until it reached the roof and the top of the -chimney, a serious situation would confront the prisoners. - -Not while the patient remained helpless was there anything but a rigid -business bearing between these two unhappy mortals. Between them was -reared an impalpable wall that neither cared to attack. But in time the -patient grew better and stronger both in body and mind; and, besides, -strange developments began to make themselves felt. - -Among the effects of the young woman, Wilder had discovered a book in -which she kept a journal. She had called for it as soon as she was able -to write; and, as a woman’s observation is keener than a man’s, it is -best to introduce here (and in other places throughout the narrative) -such extracts from her journal as seem helpful. - - - - -CHAPTER SIX - - -THE following is from the lady’s journal: - -“Yes, I will write it again, absurd though it may turn out to be: There -is some mystery about this cabin. I have tried over and over to convince -myself that my weakness and the unnatural situation in which I am placed -make me morbid and suspicious; but I know that I am still a hard-headed -woman, without a particle of nonsense in my composition; and I know that -I am able to see things in their proper light, and to understand them in -a way. And I say that the signs of something wrong here are growing more -and more evident, without furnishing me the least clue to the nature of -the mystery; but I feel that, whatever the mystery is, it is one to be -dreaded. I try not to think about it; but where is the sense in that? -Is it not better for me to do all the observing and thinking I can, and -thus be the better prepared for whatever may happen. - -“I sometimes try to think that it is only the strangeness of this -strange man--if I may call him a man--that makes me feel a mystery in -the air. It is hard to get hold of anything tangible in his bearing, so -unobtrusively alert he is. There must be some explanation of the fact -that a physician as skilful as he is should bury himself in these -mountains--should hide himself from the different world to which he -evidently belongs. - -“He is a gentleman,--I will do him the justice to admit that. He is a -great deal besides any gentleman that I have ever seen before. Let me -try to explain this to myself. Although he makes not the slightest show -of attending to my wants, I know his every thought is upon me. He sleeps -on the stone floor in front of the fireplace,--that is, if he sleeps at -all, which I sometimes doubt. Even when he is not looking at me in that -distant, abstracted way that he has, I feel that the whole cabin is -filled with his eyes, and that they are always looking at me, day and -night, but with an expression different from the veiled one of his -own eyes. They do not have the distant, thoughtful, perfunctory, -business-like expression of the eyes in his head, but a different -one,--an expression that seems to be a mixture of duty, pity, kindness, -patience, forbearance, and--it will make me feel better to write -it--_contempt_. I feel that these countless eyes are reading my deepest -thoughts, and looking over my shoulder as I write. - -“Of course I do not really feel all this, else I should not be writing -thus. But I feel something. O God! when will this wretched strain be -over?... - -“I have discovered that he guards most jealously the back door of the -cabin. When I first came to consciousness after my hurt, I saw what I -took to be evidence that my strength of will was greater than his. I -believe so yet; but he certainly has a way of baffling me and holding me -in a position from which I cannot escape. I am curious to know a great -many things; it is my right to know them. Why does he surround himself -with a deafness that nothing can penetrate? Why and how does he make it -impossible for me to ask him questions? And who ever heard of a man -so supremely indifferent as not to ask a woman placed as I am a single -question about herself, her life, her tastes, her family, her world? Why -has he made it impossible for me to ask him any questions? At first he -had placed my bed so that I could see the rear door by turning my head; -but when he observed that I had become curious, he found an excuse to -turn my bed so that it was impossible for me to see the door, and I was -too proud to object. - -“I wish I could have respect for him. Of course he surmises that I -am wealthy, and he must know that he will be handsomely paid for his -services. I gave him to understand as much one day, and he looked at me -in a blank way that was most disconcerting. But that did not deceive me. -I do not wish to be unjust, but I know something about human nature. I -think that the man’s whole course may be to impress me with his great -solicitude and make his services appear the more valuable. Bah! he -needn’t have gone to the trouble. - -“I am going to watch that door in spite of him. I know already that he -keeps it carefully locked, and that when he goes out he bars it on the -other side. Such distrust, when I am so unable to pry into his secrets, -is unwarranted and offensive. Another thing I have noted. The back door -leads into some kind of inner apartment. - -“How is he going to guard it when I am able to be about? Then his life -will be a burden. I will make it so. - -“Gratitude? Oh, yes! I have heard of such a thing. But this is an -obligation that money can discharge, and I will see that it does. Has -he done anything more for me than a physician ought to do? I am familiar -with the ways in which these gentry play upon the gratitude of their -wealthy patients, and present bills that they think a sense of shame -will accept. So long as the rich are the prey of the poor, the poor need -not expect sympathy from the rich. I know the power of money to secure -attendance of all sorts, and I can see its power manifested now. - -“This man seems to be utterly lacking in masculine qualities. To give -an illustration: The other day, when he thought I was absorbed in -reading,--I must say that he has excellent taste in books,--I found -tears trickling down his cheeks while he was reading before the fire. I -noted from the division of the book as he held it open the approximate -place where he was reading. Afterward I asked him for the book, -and found that it opened readily at a place where the leaves were -tear-stained. It was the silliest story imaginable,--a foolish account -of true-lovers separated by designing persons and dying of a broken -heart! Imagine a grown man crying over such nonsense as that! - -“Here is a queer circumstance that I have noted, and have wondered -about: In not a single one of Dr. Malbone’s books does his name appear; -and it is evident that wherever it did appear he has erased it. There -may be easy ways of accounting for this, but to me it looks suspicious. -Is it a part of the mystery of a refined and skilful physician -burying--I believe hiding--himself in these mountains? I remember to -have heard at the lakes that he never attended city people spending the -summer here if he could avoid it. I certainly know that he refused to -visit me, and that he sent me an insulting message besides. What is the -reason? Is he more or less acquainted with people of the better class, -and is he afraid of meeting some whom he may have known when he lived -somewhere else and passed under a different name? The inhabitants of -these mountains venerate him, and believe that his skill is omnipotent. -Well, I have nothing to say against his skill, for certainly he -has handled my case perfectly; but if these simple and ignorant -mountain-folk should see him in the intimacy in which I know him, and -discover what a cold, suspicious, weak, petty man he is, I think they -would reform their opinion of him. - -“During the last month he has been going oftener and oftener through the -back door. What business has he there? If I did not have a feeling -that, little as he trusts me, I might safely trust him to the end of the -world, I would have a fear for my own safety. But I rest secure in the -belief that the prospect of collecting a generous fee for restoring -me safe to my father is a sufficient protection, to say nothing of the -confidence that I have in the man’s queer sense of honor. Why, he treats -me as though I were a queen, and bears himself as my humblest subject -hanging upon my smallest word--up to a certain point. Beyond that I get -bewildered. - -“Oh, my father, my father! There is no man in the world like you, none -that knows me, that loves me as you do! If you only knew how my heart -yearns every moment for you! Why could not this man have the least of -your qualities,--your iron will, your scorn of weak things in human -nature, your dominating, achieving power It is in comparing this man -with you that I find him so small, so pusillanimous, so different from -the standard of manhood that you have made me adopt, so different from -me, so infinitely far from me. It is good that it is so, but it makes me -lonely beyond all expression. I would rather be alone in a desert than -with this strange mirage of a man, this male with an infinite capacity -for the little things that only little women are suited to do. He -tortures me with his goodness, his self-sacrifice to me, his making -me feel that he lives only to make me comfortable and bring me back to -health. Where are you, my father? I know that you will come to me when -you can. That much I know, I know! Come, father, and take me from this -awful prison!... - -“I think I have done remarkably well to be as patient as I have been. -This horrid food is enough to kill a healthy woman,--tinned meats and -vegetables, tinned everything, and hardly any flour, but sea-biscuits -instead! Of course my poor slave does his best to prepare things in -such a way that it will be possible for me to eat them, for he seems to -realize that I am a human being.... - -“I am determined to bring this man to an acquaintance with his tongue. -The loneliness that I feel is unbearable. He must be as lonely as I, -and, like me, he is probably too proud to make a sign. Of course he -talks to me now when I make him, but about things in Asia or Africa -that I am certain are as dull to him as to me. He is maintaining this -distance, I am certain, just to guard his history and true character, -and to keep me in a position where it will remain impossible for me to -find out what is going forward on the other side of that door. I will -talk to him about myself; that will compel him to talk about himself. -I can’t bear this isolation. It is inhuman. And I have no fears that he -will presume. They passed long ago. - -“I have just two more things to record at present. One is that my host -is growing thinner and more hollow-eyed, and the other is that several -times lately I have dreamed of hearing the strangest and sweetest music. -It sounded like the playing of a violin by a master hand. I have been -unable to determine whether I was really dreaming. One singular thing in -connection with it is that when I looked for him the other night on his -rugs before the fire after I had heard the music, or dreamed I heard -it, he was not there. I tried to remain awake until he returned, for -I wondered where he could be in the middle of the night, with the snow -heaped up to the roof of the house and a fearful gale blowing cold -outside, and I felt lonely and uneasy. But I went to sleep before he -returned. I have no doubt, however, that he was on the other side of the -rear door.” - -This ends, for the present, the extracts from the lady’s journal. - - - - -CHAPTER SEVEN - -THE patient had so far recovered that she could be propped up in -bed, where she straightened out the bungling work of her inexperienced -hair-dresser, and made her glorious hair a fit embellishment of her -beauty. She was pale, and her cheeks had lost the roundness and her eyes -the brilliancy of their wont. But she was regaining the flesh that she -had lost, and the brightness of spirit that her afflictions had dimmed; -and her pallor only softened and refined a beauty that likely had been -somewhat too showy in health. - -Something even better than that had been accomplished. It was not -conceivable that her strong and rebellious spirit had been ever before -brought under other than the ordinary restraints of a conventional -life. She had developed the good sense to make the most of her present -uncomfortable situation, and the will to bear its hardships. In the eyes -of her host the superiority of her character entitled her to admiration, -which he gave her simply and unconsciously, without any regard to her -sex and beauty. Her acute insight had informed her of this admiration, -and her spirit chafed under its character. One day she said,-- - -“It seems strange to me, Dr. Malbone, that you have never taken any -interest in my past life.” - -He looked at her quickly and curiously, and somewhat awkwardly -replied,-- - -“I did not wish to intrude, Miss Andros.” - -“Would that have been intrusion? I hadn’t thought of it.” - -“You must know that I feel an interest in everything that concerns you.” - He said this readily, simply, and naturally, and she wondered if he was -sincere. - -“Of course,” she went on, “lack of all companionship between us means -mutual distrust.” This was a sharp thrust, and it found him unguarded. -Then she saw that she had gone too far at the start; and this impression -was confirmed when, after a pause, he remarked,-- - -“You and I have been strangely placed. I knew that the conventions of -the best-bred people mean much to you, and I have merely respected your -natural and proper regard for them. Under these circumstances it was not -possible for me to make the first effort to be--friendly, if you will -permit the expression.” - -She smiled, but the manliness of the rebuke and its entire justice made -her secretly resent it. She was determined to hold herself perfectly in -hand, for a serious purpose now moved her, and she would not be balked. - -“That is all in the past now,” she said. “I have learned to know you -as a man of the finest sense of honor, proud, reserved, and -self-sacrificing. It would not have been possible for any other sort -of man to treat a woman as you have treated me. No, don’t interrupt -me. There is nothing but common sense and simple justice in what I am -saying, and unless you let me say it you will be harsh and cruel. After -all that you have done for me, it is my right to tell you how I feel -about it.” - -He looked so embarrassed and miserable that she laughed outright; and -the music of that rare note sounded in his heart; for it was not a -cruel laugh, but merry and hearty, as one would laugh at the comical -discomfiture of a friend; and as such it fulfilled its purpose. - -Thus the ice that had filled the cabin was broken, in a measure, at -last, and this at once eased the gloom and coldness of the wretched -lives imprisoned therein. - -From that beginning the convalescent drifted easily and gracefully into -an account of her world of wealth and pleasure and fashion. She realized -that she must first open her own life before she could expect her host -to give her a view of his and of the nearer and stranger things -that impinged upon her. Her voice was smooth and musical. She dwelt -particularly upon the lighter and fashionable side of her life, because -she believed that the tact and refinement of the man who listened -so well, yet so silently, were born of such a life, and that he had -deliberately withdrawn himself from it. - -Matters went more smoothly after that day. But the young woman was -finally forced to accept her defeat,--she had opened her own simple, -vacant life, but had gained not a glimpse into his. And she realized, -further, that all the advances toward a friendlier understanding had -been made by her, and none by him; that his manner toward her, with all -its tireless watchfulness, its endless solicitude, its total extinction -of every selfish thought, its impenetrable reserve, had not changed one -jot or tittle. Then a bitter resentment filled her, and she hated him -and determined to torture him. - -He had not been so guarded but that she had found a vulnerable spot in -his mail. This was what she regarded as the silly, sentimental side of -his nature. She had led him into this disclosure by a long series of -adroit moves, the purpose of which he had not suspected. Assuming a -profound appreciation of the softer and tenderer things of life, she had -brought herself into the attitude of one who cherishes them, and thus -led him into the trap. Their talk concerned love, and he opened his -heart and displayed all its foolish weakness. - -“Can there be anything more sacred,” he asked, warmly, “than the love -of men and women? Is there anything to which trifling should be more -repugnant? The man who loves one woman with all in him that makes him -a man, has taken that into his soul which will be its refining and -uplifting force to the end of all things with him; and, noble as that -is, the love of a woman for one man who loves her surpasses it beyond -all comprehension, and is the truest gleam of heavenly radiance in human -lives.” - -It was spared him to see the amused and contemptuous curl of lip that -bespoke a world-worn heart; but he had let down his guard, and his -punishment would come. - -It was some days afterward that the blow fell. The convalescent was now -sitting on a chair, where her ever-solicitous nurse had placed her. -She was now ready to strike. She would hold up to him a mirror of -himself,--a weak, sentimental, pusillanimous man. Fortunately, she could -relate from an experience in her own life a tale whose ridiculous -hero she judged had been just such a man as Dr. Malbone. She would be -violating none of the rules of hospitality. Her host had permitted her -to walk into a humiliating position, and her desire to punish him should -not be denied gratification. - -She had brought the talk round to the mistakes that men and women make -in the bestowal of their affection, and remarked carelessly that men -were proverbially stupid in estimating the loveliness of women. Almost -without exception, she declared, they preferred girls for their beauty, -their softness, their negative qualities, their genuine or pretended -helplessness; and she added that a woman of strength and true worth -would scorn a love so cheaply won and held in so light esteem by its -bestowers. - -“But some girls,” she added, “are even worse than men. You may generally -expect stupidity from a man, but not always folly from a girl. A rather -distressing case of a girl’s folly once came to my notice. There was a -girl who had been my classmate in school. It was there that we formed -for each other the girlish affection which all girls must have at that -age. Yet the difference between us was great even then, and it increased -after we had gone out into the world. She and I moved in the same -circle. Her parents were wealthy, and she had every opportunity to see -and learn life and get something of value from it. Instead of that, she -grew more and more retired, and less fitted for the life to which she -belonged. She was the most unpractical and romantic girl that ever -lived. Her girl friends dropped her one by one. I was the last to -remain, and I did all I could to get some worldly sense into her soft -and foolish head. She would only smile, and put her arms round me, and -declare that she knew she was foolish, but that she couldn’t help it. - -“She was very fond of music and poetry, and at last I learned that she -was taking lessons on the violin from some fiddling nobody who made his -living by playing and teaching. I never happened to see him, or I might -have done something to stop the mischief that was brewing. Her parents -were blind to her folly, but that is a common weakness of parents. - -“There never had been any great exchange of confidences between Ada and -me since our school-days. I could have told her a great deal about the -ways of men,--you see,” the narrator hastened to add, “I had been a very -good observer, and had learned some things that it is to the advantage -of every girl to know. I mean, you understand, about love. It is only -people with a silly view of that subject that ever get into trouble. -Girls of Ada’s disposition have no sense; they invariably suffer through -lack of perception and strength. - -“Although I did not see much of her, it at last became evident that -something serious was the matter. Her manner became softer and gentler, -her sympathies were keener, and there was a light in her eyes that an -observing woman cannot misunderstand. I was somewhat older than she, -and that gave me an advantage in the plan that I decided upon; but of -greater advantage was her reliance upon me. It was necessary that I -should gain her full confidence, as I didn’t wish to take any step in -the dark, nor one that might have proved useless. You will understand -that in all I afterward did and caused to be done I acted solely from a -regard for her welfare. I believed that she had formed an attachment for -this--this fiddler--bah! Everything in me revolts when I think of it. -Here was a girl that was pretty, sweet, gracious, the soul of trust and -fidelity, ready to throw herself away upon an unspeakable fiddler! And -there was no excuse whatever for it. A score of men adored her,--men of -her own station in life,--men of wealth, men of culture, men of strength -and character, men of birth, men of consequence in the world. Incredible -as it may seem, they passed over other girls far more capable in every -way, and sighed for this shy violet. - -“I knew that there was something wrong in her refusal to accept the -attentions of any of them. I knew that her inherited tastes, the -examples all around her, and her natural regard for the wishes of her -parents and friends, ought to have induced her to give her affections -to a man worthy of her. I determined to find out what that obstacle was; -and it was solely for her own good that I did so. I knew that if -she married this--this low musician, her life would be filled with -bitterness, disappointment, and regrets. I knew that she would soon come -to be ashamed of the alliance. I knew----” - -“How did you know all that?” came in a voice so strange, so constrained, -so distant, that she turned in wonder toward her host. He sat looking -into the fire, the ruddy glow of which concealed the death-like pallor -that during the last few minutes had been deepening in his face. - -“How did I know it?” she responded in surprise. “That is a singular -question from one who ought to be as well aware of it as I.” - -He made no reply, and she turned her head to the window and watched the -snow steadily rebuilding the bank that her host had so recently cleared -away. - -“Perhaps,” she remarked, with a slight sneer, “you asked that question -to get an argument with me, for I have heard you express romantic -and sentimental views on the subject of love. But of one thing I am -confident: I know that you have been a man of the world, and that you -understand life and human nature; and I know that while men like to -assume a sentimental attitude toward love, it is merely a pose. I -will not argue the matter with you. You know as well as I that such a -marriage would have been a fatal mistake.” - -She said this in a hard, emphatic way that indicated her desire to end -the discussion. Then she resumed her story. - -“I got into her confidence by professing sympathy with her, and adopting -her point of view,--by anticipating it, I mean, for she was too guarded -to disclose it. The poor little idiot fell into the trap. She had been -carrying her secret for months, and the burden of it was wearing her -out. You know, a nature of that kind must have sympathy, must have some -one to listen, must have a confidant. She had not dared to trust her -parents, for she knew that they would put a stop to her folly. When she -found, as she thought, that I was in full sympathy with her, she laid -her poor foolish heart completely open. And what do you think she was -going to do?” - -She turned toward her host as she asked the question, and found him -still sitting immovable and looking into the fire. He seemed not to have -heard her, for he made no answer; and his stony silence and stillness -gave her a strange sensation that might have weighed more with her -had she not been so deeply interested in her narrative, and so well -satisfied with her part in its happenings. She turned her glance again -toward the window, and resumed: - -“She had decided to run away with this vulgar--fiddler. There was but -one thing lacking,--he had not asked her; but she believed that he loved -her with all his soul, and that he was having a fight with himself to -decide whether it would be right for him to bring so scandalous a thing -upon her. She and he both realized that it would be worse than useless -for him to ask her parents for her. She said to me, ‘He fears that I -shall be unhappy in the poverty that would be my lot if we should go -away and marry. He fears that I should miss the luxuries to which I had -been accustomed. He fears that my friends will think he had married me -for my fortune. He has so many fears, and they are all for me. Yet I -know that he would cheerfully lay down his life for me. There never -was a man so unselfish, so generous, so ready to sacrifice himself for -others.’ - -“I could hardly keep from laughing while the poor child was telling me -all that rubbish. Before employing harsh measures to check her foolish -purpose, I resorted to milder ones. While continuing to be sympathetic, -I nevertheless said a great many things that would have set her thinking -if she had had any sense. I gave her to understand, as delicately -as possible (for I was careful not to rouse any resentfulness or -stubbornness in her), that her lover undoubtedly was a worthless fellow, -as persons of his class are; that he was weak in character and loose in -morals; that he was merely a sly adventurer, playing adroitly upon her -innocence and confidence, and anxious to leave his laborious life for -one of ease at her expense. I compared her station as his wife with that -as the wife of a man in her own sphere. - -“The trouble was that she cared nothing for the position that she -occupied. She honestly believed, poor idiot! that she could be as happy -poor as rich. But the great obstacle was her infatuation for the man, -and her belief that he was finer and better than the men of her own -station. She was dreamy and romantic, and that is why she idealized this -fiddling nobody. The more she told me of his gentleness, his refinement, -his unselfishness, his poetic nature, the more I saw that he lacked the -sterling qualities of manhood, the more I realized that he had made a -careful study of her weaknesses and was playing upon them with all the -unscrupulous skill of his species. She implored me to meet him, to know -him, to study him. Of course that was out of the question. She was sure, -she said, that I should come to admire and respect him as she had. I -firmly declined to see him. I have even forgotten his name.” - -There was a pause in the narration. The young man was so still that his -guest looked round at him, and found his gaze fastened upon her. She -started, for she saw that it held a veiled quality that she did not -understand, and that for a moment filled her with uneasiness. He quickly -and without a word looked again at the fire. - - - - -CHAPTER EIGHT - -THE convalescent thrust aside the momentary depression that her host’s -strange expression had given her, and proceeded. - -“At last I realized that all mild measures would be useless. I knew that -at any time something dreadful might happen, and I was determined -to save my old schoolmate from the disgrace and sorrow that she was -inviting. Without directly encouraging her to proceed as she had -started, I gave her to understand that she might always depend upon my -friendship. Then I set about the serious work that I had to do.” - -There was another long pause. - -“Well?” said her host, a little harshly and impatiently; and that change -from no his habitual gentleness gave her a passing wonder. Then she saw -that she was hurting him. She had waited for that sign. - -“I knew that it would be an easy task to match my wit with that of a -sentimental, scheming fiddler and a foolish girl. I needn’t give all -the details of the plan that I carried out. It was merely a matter -of getting an engagement for him somewhere else for a time, and of -presenting to her in his absence some evidence of his faithlessness. I -knew them both well enough to foresee that she would never let him know -what she had heard,--that she would simply send him adrift, and expect -him to make an explanation if he was innocent, and that he would be too -abashed to demand an explanation from her or make one himself. There was -no danger that he would open a way to disprove or even deny the evidence -that I produced. - -“All this, you understand, I did with the greatest delicacy. The plan -worked perfectly. They never saw each other again.” - -Wilder turned and looked her full in the face. It was the way in which -he did it that sharpened her attention, for it was a look in which she -felt, rather than saw, a command. - -“What became of them?” he quietly asked, but she felt that the question -required an answer. - -“Oh,” she replied, her air of indifference veiling her determination -to hold control of the situation, “the vagabond fiddler was never seen -again. As for Ada--but that was infinitely better than to have lived a -life of wretchedness----” - -“As for Ada?” - -“She was dead in a month,”--this with a hard and defiant manner. - -The young man rose from his chair, which he clumsily upset. In a -strangely uncertain, stumbling fashion he went to the front door, -and felt for the latch, as though blind. Then he changed his mind and -started for the rear door; but whatever purpose he had was interrupted -by his overturning a small table and sending the books and other -articles upon it clattering to the floor. Evidently startled and -confused by the noise and his own clumsiness,--though hardly more so -than the young woman, who was watching him in amazement,--he righted the -table with difficulty, and began to pick up the articles that had fallen -from it. Instead, however, of replacing them on the table, he put them -on the bed. His face was livid, his eyes were sunk alarmingly deep in -his skull, and he seemed to have become suddenly old and wrinkled. His -hands trembled, and weakness so overcame him that he sat down upon the -edge of the bed. - -This state quickly passed, and the young man looked at his guest, who -had been compelled to turn her chair laboriously to observe him; and -when he saw the perplexed and distressed look in her face--seeing -nothing of the gratification and triumph that her distress partly -obscured--he smiled faintly and came firmly to his feet. “It must have -been an attack of vertigo,” he explained, feebly. But he continued -to look at her so steadily and with so penetrating a gaze that her -uneasiness increased. Had she carried her torture of him too far? Oh, -well, it would do him good in the end! - -“And now,” he said, in a voice that steadily grew stronger and firmer, -“I will tell _you_ a story.” He was standing directly in front of her -and looking down into her face. “One day, just after a great sorrow had -fallen upon me, I was strolling along the water-front of San Francisco, -and sat down upon some lumber at the end of a pier. I had not noticed -a number of rough-looking young men sitting near me, until one of them -said, in the course of the talk that they were having, ‘Yes, but I loved -her! It was the way in which he said it that attracted my notice. I -judged from his appearance that he was a laborer, perhaps a stevedore; -but there was something in his voice that belongs to stricken men in all -the walks of life. One of his companions said, ‘Nonsense, Frank; there’s -just as good fish in the sea as ever was caught out of it.’ But Frank -shook his head and said, ‘Not for me.’ The others said nothing, and -after a little while Frank repeated, ‘Not for me.’ Did you ever hear a -man say that?” - -Wilder’s voice, which had been steadily growing louder, suddenly sank -almost to a whisper as he asked his guest that question. The wrinkles -were deepening in his face, and his glance had a sharpness of -penetration that the young woman found it hard to meet without wincing. - -“Then,” resumed Wilder, “another of his companions, seeking to show him -the folly of his grief, made some remarks about the woman that I cannot -repeat. Frank replied without anger: ‘Don’t say that, Joe: you mean -well, but don’t say it. She was the woman I loved. Every night, now, -when I put out the light to go to bed, I see her in the room; and when I -go on streets that are dark, I think she’s walking with me. I loved -that woman; and now I don’t know what to do. For she’s dead, boys, she’s -dead; and by God! they killed her.’” - -Wilder was still looking down into the face of his guest as he -concluded, and she had been looking up into his; but when, with a -trembling voice, he spoke the last sentence, her glance dropped to the -floor. After a pause he spoke again, and his voice was full, round, and -passionate. - -“They killed her, madam, as they have killed many another. How it was -that they killed the woman whose death had filled this rough man’s life -with grief and despair, I do not know. But they killed her. Some -murderous human hand shattered a scheme that the Almighty himself had -laid. I wish you could have heard him say, ‘She’s dead, boys, she’s -dead; and by God! they killed her.’ The sound of its agony would have -found the heart that was intended to do more than keep you alive with -its beating. Do you know what murder is? Do you know the difference -between the gross, stupid, brutal murder that in satisfying its coarse -lust for blood runs its thick neck into the halter, and the finer, -daintier, infinitely more cruel murder that kills with torturing -cruelty, and thus outwits the gallows? The blood-murderer is a poor -fool, dwarfed in mind and crippled in soul. Perhaps he gets his full -punishment when the law stretches his useless neck. But the murderer who -outwits the law in his killing, who murders the innocent and -unsuspecting and confiding, who makes friendship the cup from which the -poison is drunk, who employs the most damnable lies and treachery, who -calmly watches the increasing agonies of his victim as the poison slowly -does its work,--what punishment do you think can reach such a murderer -as that?” - -The young man’s voice had become loud, harsh, and threatening. Violent -emotions were stirring him. His whole slender frame seemed to have -expanded. His face was flushed, his eyes were blazing, his fingers -clutched at invisible things, his entire aspect was menacing. His guest, -awed and terrified, raised her glance to his face. - -“And by whom is such a murder done?” he cried. “It is done by one who, -coming into the world with a soul fresh and complete from the hands -of the Creator, deliberately turns aside from the way of nature and -nature’s God, crushes the attributes that form our one link with heaven -and our one hope of immortality, throttles all that might be useful in -bringing light and strength into the lives of others, and in shameless -defiance of the Almighty’s manifest will sets up false gods to worship, -sacrifices self-respect for self-love, banishes the essence of life and -clings to the dross, and wallows like swine in a mire of his own making. -The blood-murderer is infinitely better than that. He has at least a -human heart in all its savage majesty. - -“And for what is such a murder done? It proceeds from a dwarfed, -distorted soul, deliberately, consciously, intelligently made so by its -possessor. Its purpose is to destroy the one touch of beauty, sweetness, -and purity that makes us akin to the angels. It sees an exquisite -flower; that flower must be plucked, else its beauty would flourish and -its destiny be fulfilled. It finds love in its purest, noblest, most -unselfish form between two whom God had made each for the other for -the fulfilling of his own inscrutable design, and by lies and treachery -proceeds to kill one and destroy the happiness of the other. What -punishment, madam, is adequate for such a murder? The hands of the law -would be polluted by strangling a murderer so base, so cowardly, so -infinitely lower and meaner than the lowest beasts, so utterly unworthy -of the honor of the gallows-tree. There can be but one adequate -punishment, and only Omnipotence could devise a hell sufficient for it. -And the sooner this punishment comes, the sooner will the vengeance of -God be satisfied. What higher duty could rest upon a mortal standing in -awe and reverence under his Maker’s law than to set the law in force?” - -In the dismay and terror that now filled her soul the woman could not -mistake the meaning of that threat, nor the madness that would give it -force. A numbing fear, a feeling that she was sinking into a bottomless -pit, put gyves upon all her faculties. In a hopeless stupor she sat, -in speechless dread of the blow that she felt must fall. To her dazed -attention the avenger himself stood before her in all the terror of -infuriated justice free from its leash and plunging forward headlong -and irresistible to satisfy its vengeance. Never had she dreamed that a -mortal could face a thing so terrible as this man, who, having -dragged her from death, and with infinite patience, gentleness, and -unselfishness had been nursing her back to health and strength, now -stood as the judge and executioner of her naked, trembling, convicted -soul. Her eyes strained, her lips apart, she looked up, speechless and -motionless, into his face; and to her his blazing eyes and tense frame -filled all the world with vengeance, scorn, and death. - -“Woman,” he cried, “whether it be murder or justice, your death would -remove an infamous stain from the face of this fair world. If you can, -make your peace with God, for I am going to send your damned black soul -where it can do no further harm. It is with immeasurable hate, with -infinite loathing, that I am going to kill you.” - -He clutched her shoulder, and the hot iron grip of his fingers tore her -skin. He thrust his face close to hers, and she heard the grinding -of his teeth, which his parted lips showed as the fangs of a maddened -beast. - -“You viper!” he cried; “you have no right to life!” - -She saw his free hand seeking her throat. Then her energies were -unlocked. She threw back her head, and with all her might cried out,-- - -“Father! father! help me! save me!” The young man started back, clutched -his head with both hands, and looked about in a wild and frightened way. - -“What was that?” he breathlessly asked. “Did you hear? The wolves are -coming down. That was the howl of the she-wolf!” In a dazed manner he -found his way to the back door, opened it, passed out, and bolted it -behind him. - - - - -CHAPTER NINE - - -MORE extracts from the lady’s journal: - -“I can never begin an entry in my journal without having that frightful -scene come between me and these pages. Oh, it was terrible,--terrible -beyond all comprehension! I cannot believe, after thinking it over and -over during these weeks that have passed since it occurred, that it was -the fear of death that so terrified me, and, I know, made an old woman -of me. No, it could not have been that. It was the fear of going with -that awful condemnation upon me. Was it just? Was it true? - -“He seems to have recovered at last from the alarming depression that -followed his outbreak, and this gives me leisure to think, leisure to -recall many circumstances that in my blindness, my incredible blindness -and stupidity, I had overlooked. I take into account the fearful strain -under which he had suffered so long. He is a delicate, finely organized -man, and has had more to do and to bear than a dozen strong men would -have done and borne so well and patiently. - -“There was his anxiety on the score of my recovery. Then there were the -endless duties of waiting on me, of thinking of the thousands of little -things that had to be thought of and done, and that he never forgot nor -neglected. He has done my cooking, my washing,--everything that was hard -and distasteful for a man to do. Then there was his constant anxiety -on account of the snow; and it has been growing daily all through the -winter with the increasing dangers and discomforts; and besides his -anxiety was the hard physical labor--far too heavy for him--that he -has been compelled to do in order to keep our hut from being buried and -ourselves from being smothered. And, last, there has been the constant -wearing upon him of a close imprisonment with me, for whom I know he now -must have a most intense dislike. - -“I am satisfied, too, that he has anxieties concealed from me. That they -are associated with something upon which the back door opens, I have no -doubt. There are several reasons for my thinking so. I am so nearly well -now that I could get about and be helpful to him if he would only make -me a crutch, as I have often begged him to do; but he has always put -me off, saying that it was too early for a crutch, that my desire to -be useful would give me a serious setback through making me overdo, -and that the main thing for us both to consider was the return of my -strength as quickly as possible, and our escape on snow-shoes that he -would make as soon as I should be able to walk. It has all sounded very -plausible, but it seems to me that common-sense would suggest that I -take a little exercise. In spite of my having regained my flesh, I am -as weak as an infant. Knowing that he is a good physician, I doubt his -sincerity about the crutch. I believe the solemn truth is that he fears -I would try to invade his cherished secret if I were able to be about. - -“I know that he keeps the provisions in the place into which the back -door opens, and that this fact seems to give him a sufficient excuse for -going there so often,--especially as he does the cooking there; and that -is another strange circumstance. For weeks after I was first brought to -the hut he prepared the food on the broad hearth here; but after a while -he did that in the rear apartment, explaining that the odors from the -cooking were not good for me, and that it was uncomfortable for him -to cook before an open fireplace. I protested that I did not mind the -odors, and he replied that I would at least consider his comfort. - -“Another thing: He has not eaten with me for a long, long time. His -original plan was to prepare my meal, wait on me until I had finished, -and then have his own at the little table in the chimney-corner. I did -not observe for some time that he had quit eating in that way, and that -he took his meals in the rear apartment. He always speaks of it as an -‘apartment,’ and not as a room. I wonder why. I have been sitting up for -a long time now, and do not require his assistance after he has brought -me my food. It would be much pleasanter if he would sit at the little -table and eat with me. Is his dislike of me so deep that he cannot eat -with me? With all my sense, I have permitted this condition of affairs -to come about! And we both are sufferers by it. - -“It is no wonder, with all these things troubling him, that he has -changed so much since I came. He is as scrupulously neat as ever, and he -makes this poor little hut shine, but he has changed remarkably since I -came. It has been so gradual that I didn’t observe it until my blindness -was no longer sufficient to keep me from seeing it. He was slender and -evidently not strong when I came, but he has become a shadow, and his -gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes are distressing to me. When he comes in now -from fighting the snow,--for we must not be buried by it, and must -have light and air, and the top of the chimney must be kept clear,--his -weakness and exhaustion, though he tries so hard to conceal them, are -terrible to see. - -“And now a great fear has come to me. It is that at any moment he may -break down and die. I wish I had not written that, I wish I had never -thought of it. Oh, if my father would only come! What can be keeping -him? Do I not know that he loves me better than anything else in the -world? Am I not all that he has to love and cling to? I cannot, cannot, -understand it. Dr. Malbone says it is unreasonable for me to expect my -father, and that if he should make the effort to reach me now it would -be at too great a risk to his own life. He tries to assure me that my -father will be governed entirely by the advice of the people who know -the mountains, and that they will restrain him from making any such -attempt, as they would not dare to make it themselves. All that may be -true, but it is difficult for me to believe it. If I could only get a -word from him, it would give me greater strength to bear the horrors of -my situation. But why should I complain, when Dr. Malbone bears it all -so patiently, so sweetly, so cheerfully? - -“Still, that awful picture of murder comes between me and these pages -unceasingly. I think I can understand now why men sometimes kill women. -Why should men and women be so different? Why should it be impossible -for them to comprehend each other? It was Murder that I saw standing -before me--both the horrible picture of murder as he painted it, with -me as the murderess--me as the murderess!--and Murder in the flesh as he -stood ready to strangle me. Oh, the incredible ferocity of the man, the -terrible, wild savagery of him, the awful dark and nether side of -his strangely complex character! All along I had taken him for a -pusillanimous milksop, a baby, an old woman, a weak nobody; and at once -he dropped his outer shell and stood forth a Man,--terrible, savage, -brutal, overwhelming, splendid, wonderful! What is my judgment worth -after this? And I was so proud of my understanding of men! - -“Why didn’t he kill me? It was my cry that checked him; but why should -it? Was it my appeal for help that brought him to his senses? I think -so. It touched that within him which had been so keenly alert, so -unrelaxingly vigilant, ever since I had come under his care. But what -did he mean by the howl of the she-wolf? And what did he mean by saying -that the wolves had come down? Several times since that terrible scene -he has waked me in the night with groans, and with crying out in his -sleep, ‘The she-wolf?’ These things have a meaning, I know. Why does -he explain nothing? And why have I permitted an estrangement between us -that makes it impossible for me to seek his confidence? Is it too late -now? - -“Oh, the terrible moments, the interminable hours, that passed after he -had left the hut by the rear door! Every second, at first, I expected -him to return and kill me. Would he have a rifle, a revolver, a knife, -or a bludgeon, or would he come with those terrible long fingers hooked -like claws to fasten upon my throat? And yet, somehow, I felt safe; I -felt that his old watchfulness and solicitude had returned. - -“As soon as I could overcome the half-stupor into which his outburst had -thrown me I dragged myself to the rear door, intending to barricade -it against him. The effort was exceedingly painful and exhausting, and -brought me great suffering for a week afterward. But my sufferings of -mind and spirit were so much greater that I could bear those of the -flesh. When I had crawled to the door and was trying to drag a box -against it, I heard something that stopped me. I am not certain that it -was anything real. There was a loud singing in my ears from the awful -fright that I had suffered, and what I heard may have been that, made -seemingly coherent by my over-strained imagination. What I heard sounded -like the distant, smothered, awful strains of Saint-Saens’s ‘Dance of -Death’ played on the violin. But wild and terrible as it sounded, it -came as a pledge of my safety. Murder cannot come with music. - -“I drew myself away and with great effort clambered upon the bed, where -I lay a long time in complete exhaustion. Time had no meaning for me. -A dull, massive, intangible weight seemed to be crushing me, and I -longed--oh, how I longed!--for human sympathy. - -“The hut was dark when he returned. We had been very saving with the -candles, for Dr. Malbone explained that they were running low; so in -the evenings we generally had only the fire-light. There seemed to be a -generous supply of fire-wood in the rear apartment, and some of it was -a pitchy pine that gave out a fine blaze. When he returned the fire -had burned out. I felt no fear when I heard him enter. I knew by the -unsteadiness of his movements that he was weak and ill, but the first -sound of his voice as he called me anxiously was perfectly reassuring. - -“‘I am lying on the bed,’ I answered. - -“He groped to the bedside and there he knelt, and buried his face in his -hands upon the coverlet. And then--I say it merely as his due, merely -as the simple truth--he did the manliest thing that a man ever did. He -raised his head and in dignified humility said,-- - -“‘I have done the most cowardly, the most brutal thing that a man can -do. Will you forgive me? Can you forgive me? - -“I put out my hand to stop him, for it was terrible that a man should be -so humble and broken; but he took my hand in both of his and held it. - -“‘Will you? Can you? he pleaded. - -“It was the only time that his touch had been other than the cold and -perfunctory one of the physician, and--I feel no shame in writing it--it -was the first time in my life that the touch of a man’s hand had been so -comforting. For a moment his hand seemed to have been thrust through the -wall that hitherto had separated us so completely. - -“‘You were not the one to blame,’ I said. ‘I alone was the guilty one.’ - -“‘No, no!’ he protested, warmly. ‘What provocation under heaven could -excuse such conduct as mine?’ - -“‘I will forgive you,’ I said, ‘upon one condition.’ - -“‘And that-------’ - -“‘You forgive me in turn.’ - -“Very slowly, as soon as I had said that, the pressure with which he had -been holding my hand began to relax. What did that mean, and why did he -remain silent, and why did a pain come stealing into my heart? Could not -he be as generous as I? Had I overrated him, after all? - -“‘It was terrible!’ he half whispered. ‘By every obligation resting upon -a man, I should have been kind to you. You were my guest as well as my -patient. You were crippled and helpless, and unable to defend yourself. -You were a woman, looking to every man, by the right of your sex, for -comfort and protection. I was a man, owing to you, because you were -a woman, all the comfort and protection that every man owes to every -woman. All of these obligations I trampled under foot.’ - -“Why did he put that sting into our reconciliation? Had he not done it -so innocently, so unintentionally, it would not have hurt so much. I -withdrew my hand from his very slowly; he made no effort to retain it. -He did not again ask me to forgive him, and he did not offer me his -forgiveness. The breach in the wall was closed, and the barrier stood -intact and impregnable between us. - -“Presently he rose and made a fire, and prepared me something to eat; -but I had no appetite. Then he found that I had a fever, and he was much -distressed. There was just one comforting touch of sympathy when he said -to me,-- - -“‘You were sobbing all the time I was making the fire and preparing your -supper. I promise not to frighten nor distress you again.’ - -“How did he know I had been sobbing, when I had taken so much pains -to conceal it And yet I might have known that his watchfulness upon -my welfare is so keen, so unrelaxing, that nothing affecting me can be -hidden from him. - -“I was confined to bed a week, and suffered greatly both in mind and -body. I had hurt my crippled leg, and that made my physician very -anxious. During all this time it had not occurred to me, so sodden with -selfishness is my nature, that he had suffered a very serious nervous -shock from his outburst of mad passion, and that only by a mighty effort -was he holding up to put me again on the road to recovery. A realization -of the truth came when my ill turn had passed. He had hardly placed me -comfortably on a chair when a ghastly pallor made a death’s-head of his -face, and he reeled to the bed and fell fainting upon it, still having -the thoughtfulness to say, as he reeled,-- - -“‘I am--a little--tired--and sleepy. I--am perfectly--well. Have -no--uneasiness.’ - -“Except for his slight, short breathing, he lay for hours as one dead; -and then I realized more fully than ever the weight of the awful burden -that my presence has laid upon him. I know that I am killing him. O God! -is there nothing that I can do to help him, to make it easier for him? -What have I done that this horrible curse should have come upon me? - -“The most wonderful of all the strange things that I have seen and -learned in this terrible imprisonment is that his kindness toward me -has not suffered the slightest change. He is still the soul of -thoughtfulness, watchfulness, unselfishness, and yet he has denounced me -to my face as a---- - -“Another thing I have found: All the training that I have had in -cleverness goes for nothing here. He always avoids the beginning of any -conversation on subjects other than those that lie immediately near us. -It therefore requires a great effort on my part--and I think I deserve -some praise for it--to draw him into discussions of general matters. -In these discussions he never advances an opinion if he suspects that I -have an opposite one, and never opposes nor contradicts me; but I cannot -help feeling that his views are so much broader and deeper than mine, -so much wiser, so much more charitable, so much nearer to what he calls -‘the great heart of humanity,’ as to make me seem shallow and mean. Am I -really so? I try not to be. - -“With indescribable tact and delicacy, he holds me at an infinite -distance, and I have been unable to find any way to bridge the vast -gulf.... After all, why should I try? If he despises me, I cannot help -it. This miserable position in which I am placed will be at an end some -time; and when I am again free, and in my own world, I will show him the -gratitude that I feel. Will he let me?... - -“What is there so repulsive about me? Why should I be treated as a -viper? And why is it that of all the men I have known--men whom I could -handle as putty--this obscure backwoods doctor sets himself wholly apart -from me, remains utterly impregnable, shames and humiliates me with a -veiled pity, and feels not the slightest touch of the power that I -know myself to have? Is my face ugly? Are my manners crude? Is my voice -repellent? Where are my resources of womanly tact that I have used -successfully in the past? Why is it that I fail utterly to impress -him as having a single admirable trait, a single grace of appearance, -manner, or character? - -“It is hard to bear all this. I try to be brave and strong and cheerful, -as he always is; but it is human nature to resent his treatment, and it -is cruel of him to keep me in such a position. It is the first time in -my life that I have been at a disadvantage. - -“I imagine that he has suffered some great sorrow. Indeed, he said so -in his outburst. His distrust of me seems to indicate its character. He -probably gave some heartless woman his whole love, his whole soul, and -she laughed at him and cast him off. That would go hard with a man of -his kind. There can be no other explanation; and now I am the sufferer -for that woman’s sin: he thinks that all women are like her. - -“I will write this vow, so that I may turn to it often and strengthen my -purpose by reading it: - -“I will make this man like me. I will tear down the wall that he has -built between us. I will employ every resource to bring him to my feet. -I will make him appreciate me. I will make him need me. I will make him -want me. - -“That is my vow.” - -Thus end, again for the present, these extracts from the lady’s journal. - - - - -CHAPTER TEN - -THE severity of the winter did not relax. There were intervals when the -wind did not blow and the snow did not fall; but there were neither warm -winds nor sunshine to melt the snow, the depth of which grew steadily -and aggravated the impassableness of the roads. Day by day, week by -week, month by month it strengthened the bars of the prison holding the -two unhappy souls. - -With the prolonged and increasing rigors of the winter harder and harder -grew the rigors of the prison. The strength of Wilder’s spirit was -beginning to break down; and while it distressed his fair charge to see -him suffer, it warmed her heart to realize that the day of her triumph -was near,--the day when she should serve him as gently, as unselfishly, -as faithfully as he had served her. It would be sweet to have him -helpless, to have him lean upon her, need her, want her. - -Her manner had undergone a great change since the terrible scene in -which her life was threatened. Her firmness, her self-reliance, her -aggressiveness, her condescension, all had gone, and she bore herself -toward her rescuer as mother, sister, and friend. In innumerable little -ways she saved him trouble through denying herself, and did it so -tactfully that he never suspected the deception. Under the influence -of this he had at last made her a crutch, which, though rude and -uncomfortable, she declared to be a miracle of ease. She believed that -in giving it to her he expressed more confidence in her than he had felt -before. - -Its introduction into the scheme of their lives worked changes that -astonished and pleased him. In spite of his distressed protests, she -overhauled his meagre wardrobe, and with deft workmanship put every -article in perfect order. Her skill and ingenuity were employed in many -other ways, so that the cabin soon took on a look very different from -that which she had found when she came. Little touches lent an air of -grace and a sense of comfort that the place had not borne before. - -She relieved him of all the work of caring for her, except that of -cooking; this was a duty that he reserved with immovable stubbornness. -Nor could she contrive with all her wiles and persuasion to make him -have his meals with her. She formed many a theory to explain his conduct -in that particular. Finally, she settled upon this one: He preferred to -fill the rôle of a servitor; as such he must take his meals apart. But -why should he so choose? Was it because he deemed it the safer course -for them both? Was it because he wished to discipline her by placing -her above him, when by obvious right they were equals? Speculation was -useless; she was forced to accept the fact, which she did with all the -grace at her command. - -He had grown thin to emaciation. His hands were those of a skeleton -covered tightly with skin. His cheeks were greatly sunken, and the drawn -skin upon his cheek-bones was a chalky white. But his eyes were the most -haunting of his features. They seemed to be looking always for something -that could not be found, and to show a mortal dread of a catastrophe -that had given no sign of its imminence. In their impenetrable depths -she imagined that she saw all mysteries, all fears, all anxieties. - -Still, though very weak, he kept sturdily and cheerfully at his duties. -There was the snow to fight. There was the fire to be kept up, for the -cold was intense. There was the cooking to do. - -Uncomfortable as her bed was, she knew that it was luxurious in -comparison with the thinly covered floor of stones and earth upon which -he slept. In time this came to haunt her unceasingly, and she pondered -every conceivable plan to make him more comfortable. At first it was her -firm intention to make him take the bed while she slept on the floor; -but she knew that it would be useless to make the suggestion; so she -was forced to abandon the idea, dear as it was to her, and happy as its -adoption would have made her. Instead, she did what she could to make -his pallet comfortable. Her ingenuity made so great a difference that -his gratitude touched her. - -One day she discovered him in agonizing pain. The torture was so great -that it broke down his iron fortitude and drew his face awry. She was -instantly at his side, her hand on his shoulder and her face showing a -wistful anxiety. - -“What is it, my friend?” she inquired, in the gentlest voice. - -With a pitiful effort at self-mastery he declared that it was only a -trifling and transitory pain, and that it was rapidly passing. She knelt -beside him and looked anxiously into his face. Her solicitude evidently -increased his suffering, but she was determined to make the fight then -and there. - -“Tell me what it is, my friend,” she begged. - -This was the second time that she had called him “my friend.” - -“It is only rheumatism,” he said, somewhat impatiently, and making a -gentle effort to push her away. But she persisted. - -“That is not a trifling thing,” she said, “for your strength is greatly -reduced. Where is the pain?” - -“Oh, I don’t know; you are only making it harder for me!” he petulantly -exclaimed. - -A great gladness filled her heart, for she knew that he was giving way, -and that her solicitude was hastening his collapse. - -“No,” she said, “I will make you well. Where is the pain?” His face gave -the glad sign of his wavering. - -“Where is the pain?” she repeated. “It is my right to know and your duty -to tell me.” - -“In my----” he said, gasping, “in my chest.” - -She rose and went to the bed, which she prepared for him. When he saw -what her intention was he came to his feet with great effort. Before -she could divine his purpose or check him, he had gone to the rear door, -hastily opened it, and saying, “I will be back in a moment,” passed out -and closed it after him. She stood bewildered at the neatness with which -he had baffled her, and alarmed for his safety. But he had promised to -return at once, and she knew that he would if he could. To her great -relief he soon came back, bearing some biscuits and a few tins of -provisions. As he stepped within and locked the door he dropped a tin, -and before she could go to his assistance he had fallen while trying -to pick it up. She drew him to his feet, and was amazed to discover -how much stronger she was than he, and yet she had thought herself very -weak. She seated him upon the edge of the bed and began to remove his -shoes. - -“No, no!” he gasped; “you shall not do that.” - -But she kept on and succeeded, and laid him upon the bed and drew the -covers over him. - -“Now,” she said, “tell me what to give you.” - -He did so, and it gave her infinite satisfaction to have him take the -medicine from her hand. Soon his pain relaxed, and he fell into a heavy -slumber. - -While she watched him as might a mother her slumbering first-born, her -soul warmed and expanded, and her one shy regret was that his head was -not resting on her breast. But there were duties awaiting her. She took -up the surplus ashes from the hearth. She revived the fire with the wood -that he had heaped up at the chimney-side the night before. She put snow -into a vessel to heat water. She stowed away his pallet. She prepared to -make tea as soon as the water should be hot. In the performance of these -and other minor tasks she was very happy, and for the first time since -she had entered the hut she sang softly. The work was not easy, for she -had little strength, being unused so long to exercise, and her lameness -and the crutch interfered sorely. - -One sting hurt unceasingly. She reflected that her host had decided -to take to the bed under her persuasion, and that he had brought the -provisions from the rear apartment so that she might prepare food during -his helplessness; but this was because he had not trusted her to get -the provisions herself,--had made it unnecessary for her to enter the -forbidden chamber. As well as she could she tried to be generous; she -tried to think that a man so kind, so thoughtful, so respectful, must -have the best reasons for keeping her out of that room. If so, she -had no right to expect his confidence. But why did he give her no -explanation? Why should he not trust her to that extent? This was the -sting that hurt. - -In a vague way she believed that something ought to be put on his chest -for the pain that he had suffered there. - -She had an intense desire to do something for him. She thought that -cloths saturated with liniment would be good for him. With great -caution, to avoid waking him, she opened the garments covering his -chest. He still slept heavily, for the medicine that he had taken -carried a soporific element. When she had bared his breast and seen the -frightful emaciation of his body, she quickly covered him, fell upon her -face to the floor, and sobbed. - -The day advanced, but still he slept. Her one hope now was that he would -sleep into the night, for that would require her to sleep on the pallet -before the hearth. She had another precious hope, and it was that they -would at last eat a meal together; but she would rather that he slept; -so, toward evening, she made a simple meal and ate her share alone, and -kept his ready for him against his waking. - -She marvelled that there was so much to do in so small a place, and that -the day--the sweetest, she believed, of all the days of her life--had -passed so quickly. At short intervals she would lean over him and listen -to his short, half-checked breathing; or she would gently lay her cool -hand upon his hot forehead, or hold one of his burning hands in hers, -and then press it to her cheek. It seemed surpassingly wonderful that -the strong man, strong in spirit only, should be lying now as helpless -as an infant, wholly dependent upon her. - -At times he was restless, and talked unintelligibly in his sleep; she -was instantly at his side, to soothe him with her cool, soft hand upon -his face; and when she saw that it always calmed him, she sighed from -the sweet pain that filled her breast. Once, when he seemed on the verge -of waking, she slipped her arm under his head, and gave him more of the -medicine, which he took unresistingly, and slept again. As the night -wore on, she made herself unhappy with trying to choose between sitting -at his bedside and watching, and suffering the hardship that he had -borne so long in sleeping on the pallet. While she was in the throes -of this contention, another urgent matter arose. It had been her host’s -custom to bring in a supply of wood every night. That which he had -brought the night before was now exhausted, and more was needed. How -could she get it. She knew that he had locked the back door and put -the key into a certain pocket. She knew that she could not get the wood -without the key. Procuring a supply of fuel was one precaution that he -had overlooked when he had brought in a supply of provisions. - -He was in a profound slumber. She could get the key, and thus provide -the wood for the night. But would it be right to do so? If the fire -went out the cold would be intense, and might prove fatal to him. If -she should enter the forbidden room, would that be taking an unfair -advantage of his helplessness? It was a hard problem, but in the end -her sense of duty outweighed her sense of delicacy. With the greatest -caution she slipped her hand into his pocket and secured the key. With -equal caution she went to the door and unlocked it. - -Then a great fear assailed her. What lay beyond the door? Might it not -be some danger that only her host could safely face? If so, what could -it be?... It were wise to have a candle; but search failed to discover -one. She secured a small torch from the fire, and cautiously opened the -door. - -To her surprise, no chamber was revealed, but merely a walled and roofed -passage closed at the farther end with a door. Piled within it was a -store of wood; there was nothing else. It was very awkward for the young -woman to carry the crutch, the torch, and the wood all at once; it was -necessary to relinquish the torch. She carried it back to the fireplace, -and went again to the passage, piled some wood in her free arm, and -started back. As she did so she saw her host sitting up and staring -at her in horror. This so frightened her that she dropped the wood, -screamed, and fell fainting to the floor. - -When she became conscious she found herself on the bed and her host -watching beside her. There was the old look of command in his face, the -old veil that hung between her and his confidence; and thus her glorious -day had come to an inglorious end, and her spirit was nearly crushed. -Her host had recovered in a measure,--sufficiently for him to resume -the command of his house. No questions were asked, no explanations were -given. He thanked her gratefully for her kindness to him, and thus her -brief happiness came to an end. The old round of labor, of waiting, of -hoping, of suffering, of imprisonment, was taken up again. - - - - -CHAPTER ELEVEN - -A FEW days afterward they were sitting before the fire in silence. -It had become habitual with the young woman to study every look -and movement of her host; to anticipate him in the discharge of the -household duties; to provide for him every little comfort that the -meagre resources of the hut afforded; and to observe with a strange -pleasure the steady breaking down of his will and courage. She realized -that his recent attack, though so quickly overcome, was a warning of -his approaching complete collapse; and she believed that only when that -should happen could she hope with sympathy and careful nursing to save -him. She welcomed the moroseness that was stealing over him, his growing -failure to study her every want, and his occasional lapses into a -petulant bearing toward her. It gratified her to see him gradually -loosen the iron mask that he had worn so long. Most significant of all -his symptoms were hallucinations that began to visit him. At times he -would start up in violent alarm and whisper, “Did you hear the howling -of the wolves?” At others he would start in alarm to resist an imaginary -attack upon the rear door. A touch of her hand, a gentle, firm word, -would instantly calm him, and then he would look foolish and ashamed. - -On this day, as they sat before the fire, matters took a new and strange -turn. He suddenly said,-- - -“Listen!” - -She was so deeply absorbed in watching him and so expectant of erratic -conduct from him that she gave no thought to the possibility of danger -from an external source. For dreary months she had waited in this small -prison, and no longer gave heed to any tumult without. The young man had -been lounging in hopeless langour, but now he sat upright, every nerve, -muscle, and faculty under extraordinary tension. - -“It is coming!” he cried. “I have been expecting it every day. -Come--quick, for God’s sake!” - -Saying that, he seized her by the arm, and with furious eagerness and -surprising strength dragged her to the rear door, giving her little time -to seize her crutch. He unlocked the door and threw it open, but before -he could open the door at the further end of the passage she heard a -heavy roar and felt the great mountain tremble. Wholly ignorant of the -meaning of it all, but seeing that her host was moved by an intelligent -purpose, and feeling profound confidence and comfort in the protection -that he was throwing about her, she placed herself completely under his -guidance. - -The rear door was opened, and they entered a dark, cold chamber. With -every moment the roaring increased and the trembling of the mountain was -augmented. Then came a tremendous, stupefying crash, and the cataclysm -gradually died away in silence, leaving an impenetrable, oppressive -blackness. - -The two prisoners stood in breathless silence, held tightly in each -other’s arms. The young woman asked no questions; her sense of security -and comfort in this man’s arms filled the whole want of her hour. -She felt vaguely that something more dreadful than all their past -misfortunes had befallen them; but that feeling brought no chill to the -strong warm blood that swept rhythmically through her heart. She was at -peace with her fate. If this was death, it was death for them both, it -was death with him. - -Her keen sympathy made her intensely attentive to every sign that he -gave; and thus it was that she accepted, without surprise or dismay, the -realization that he was not rallying, and that, on the contrary, he was -sinking under the nameless blow that had fallen upon them. It was not -anxiety for that, but for him, that now gave her every conscious quality -a redoubled alertness. His grasp upon her tightened, and by this she -knew that he felt the need of her, and was clinging to her. He trembled -in every member, and swayed as he stood. With little effort she bore -him to the ground, where, kneeling beside him and holding his hands, she -softly spoke,-- - -“My friend, we are together; and so long as each is the stay of the -other, we shall have strength and courage for all things. Now tell me -what I may do for you.” She knew by the pressure of his hand upon hers -that her words had found good ground. She gently pressed her advantage. -“Tell me what I may do for you. You are weak. You know how strong and -healthy and willing I am; then, imagine how much pleasure it would give -me to help you! You need a stimulant. Is there one in the cabin? Tell me -where it is, and I will bring it.” - -“You are kind,” he said, tremulously. - -“But do you know what has happened?” As he asked this question he rose -to a sitting posture, she assisting him. - -“No,” she calmly answered; “but no matter what has happened, we are -together, and thus we have strength and courage for it.” - -“Ah,” he said, hopelessly, “but this is the end! An avalanche has buried -us and the cabin is destroyed!” - -Terrible as was this declaration, it had no weakening effect upon his -companion. - -“Is that all?” she cheerily asked. “But avalanches melt away, and we -have each other. And if it come to the very worst, we shall still have -each other. Besides each other, we have life, and with life there is -always hope, there is always the duty to hope. If we abandon hope, life -itself is abandoned.” - -This worked like good wine in his veins; but she knew by the way in -which he still clung to her, seemingly fearful that she would leave him -for a moment, that a dreadful unknown thing sat upon him. She waited -patiently for him to disclose it. She knew that the shock of the -catastrophe had wholly cleared his mind, and that the old terrors which -he had concealed from her were working upon him with renewed activity. -Still he kept silence. - -“Do you know,” she presently said, “that I am glad the avalanche has -come? I understand now the dread of some terrible happening that has -been haunting you. Well, it has come, and we are still alive; and better -than that, we have each other. Think how much more dreadful it might -have been! Suppose that it had come while you were outside, and swept -you away. Suppose that it had crushed us in the cabin. But here we are, -safe and sound, and happy each in the presence of the other.... And I am -thinking of something else. The snow stopped falling long ago. Lately we -have had warm winds and some rain. This must mean, my friend, that the -worst is over. And doesn’t it mean that the rain has softened the snow -and loosened it to make this avalanche?” - -A sudden strength, a surprised gladness, were in the pressure that he -now gave her hand. - -“It is true, it is true!” he softly exclaimed. - -“Then,” she continued, “the winter has dealt its last blow, and our -liberation is at hand; for the rains that caused the avalanche will melt -the snow that it has piled upon us, and also the snow that has closed -the roads. It seems to me that the best of all possible things has -happened.” - -“I hadn’t thought of that!” he exclaimed, with a childish eagerness that -made her heart glow. - -“Besides,” she continued, “how do you know that the cabin is destroyed? -Let us go and see.” - -Her gentle strength and courage, the seeming soundness of her reasoning, -and her determination not to take a gloomy view of their state, roused -him without making him aware of his weakness. Her suggestion that the -cabin possibly had not been destroyed was a spur to his dulled and -stunned perception. - -“That is true,” he cheerfully said; “let us go and see.” - -Still clinging closely to each other, they groped in the darkness for -the door. - -“You have matches, haven’t you?” she inquired. - -“Yes,” he answered, in confusion; “but we can find the door without a -light.” - -That was not so easy. For the first time, now that the terrors of the -moment had passed, the young woman was nursing a happiness that she had -not known during all the dreary weeks of their imprisonment,--except -once, in his illness, when it had been of so short duration. - -Feeling thus content, she suddenly reflected that she was at last in the -forbidden apartment, where she believed some fearful mystery was kept -concealed from her. Their voices had been long smothered in the cramped -hut. The contrast that she now found was startling; yet her thoughts -might not have reverted to the fact that she was at last in the presence -of the mystery had not Wilder’s embarrassed refusal to make a light -rekindled her interest. The first thing in that direction that she -noticed was the singular resonance of their voices, as though they were -in a place of a size just short of the echoing power. More than that, it -was cold, though not nearly so cold as the outer air; and she heard the -musical tinkle of dripping and running water. - -Wilder had evidently lost all idea of direction. In clinging to -his companion as he groped, he took great care to guard her against -stumbling and collision. His free hand (the other arm was about her -waist) was extended. With great difficulty, increased by his eagerness, -he finally found his bearings and advanced to the door. Slowly and -cautiously they pushed on through the passage, and then, to their great -relief, into the hut itself. This they found intact, but smoky and -entirely dark,--the avalanche had smothered the chimney and shut out the -light from the window. With matches they discovered that the window had -not been broken and that the outer wall of the house held none of the -pressure of the snow. In his peculiar fashion, however, Wilder began to -foresee troubles. - -“The pressure of the mass above,” he said, “will compress the snow -below, and thus give our window, and perhaps the outer wall of the cabin -itself, a pressure that they can’t bear. The hut is buried. We can -have no more fires. The worst of all is that, having no air, we must -suffocate in time.” - -“Is all that necessary, my friend?” his companion asked. “We can at -least try to clear away the snow and thus remove all those difficulties; -and there is a chance--and a good one, don’t you think?--for the snow to -melt quickly. Besides all that, we have not yet tried to dig out through -the snow.” - -“True, true, every word of it!” he cried, delightedly. “What a clear, -strong mind you have!” - -This was the first compliment that he had ever paid her, and its obvious -sincerity gave it a precious value. - -It was she that now led the attack upon their prison of snow. What -infinite satisfaction and pride it gave her to know that at last she -was the guiding spirit of the hut; with what firm but gentle tact she -overcame, one by one, his objections to her worrying or working; how she -watched his every movement, hung upon his every word, relieved him as -much as possible of the stress that burdened him, and ministered to -his comfort in all ways; with what blithe songs in her heart and cheery -words on her lips she lightened the toil of that dreadful time, need -only be mentioned here. But it was she that led, that inspired, that -achieved, and he knew it. This was the blessed light that shone for her -through it all. - -A search revealed loose and easily removed snow at one end of the -hut, against the face of the cliff. His work in the lead, digging and -tunnelling, hers in the rear, removing the snow and keeping courage in -his heart, brought them presently to the outer air. Then, for the first -time, they beheld the glorious sunshine, and like children they shouted -in glee to see it. Both walls of the canon were still heavily covered -with snow, but numerous small slides had broken it, and the rain had -softened and ploughed it. Evidently it was rapidly melting. - -Another scene held them as they stood hand in hand looking down into the -canon. The great avalanche that had overwhelmed them had been arrested -in the bottom of the canon, and had made a large lake by damming the -river. Rapidly the lake grew in size and backed up the canon. Soon at -any moment the growing mass of water must break through its dam, and -that would be a spectacle to behold. - -They could not wait for that. With incredible labor--he no longer -protesting against her full share in the work, and she heedless of her -lameness and of its serious hindrance to her efforts--they together, -hand in hand, clambered over the snow until they stood above the hut, -and cheerily began to dig it free,--a task seemingly so far beyond their -powers that something wonderful must have sustained them in assailing -it. Thus they were working in the afternoon sunshine, for the first time -boon companions, and as happy and light-hearted as children, when an -exclamation from Wilder drew her attention to the dam. It was giving way -under the pressure of water. Instantly she recognized a danger that he -had overlooked. - -“Back to the cliff!” she cried, seizing his hand and dragging him away, -“or we’ll go down with the snow.” - -They reached their tunnel and the cabin in good time; but soon afterward -the dam broke, and the swirling, thundering mass of water bore it down -the canon. This removed the support of the snow backed up between the -river and the top of the cliff, and it went plunging down into the -water, leaving the top of the hut exposed, and solving the problem of -the prison of snow. - - - - -CHAPTER TWELVE - - -ONCE again from the lady’s journal: - -“It is impossible for me to describe the hope, peace, and comradeship -that have transformed this place into a little nest, where it had been -so terrible a prison before. The sunshine outside continues, and I -know that it is but a matter of days when my father will come. It seems -unaccountable to me that anything in the world could have stayed him so -long; but Dr. Mal-bone assures me that the roads and mountains are still -utterly impassable; that the roads, besides being strewn with fallen -trees, are in places washed away, and that our one means of escape will -be afoot, on our own account. We are now talking it over all the time, -and are ready to start at the first favorable moment. My leg is nearly -well; only a slight pain after severe exertion, and a most embarrassing -weakness there, are the trouble now. But he is putting me through -excellent treatment and training to overcome all that; and he has -given me the joyous promise that we shall make the start in a week from -to-day. - -“And now I must write of some other wonderful things that have happened. -The change that has come in our mutual bearing and understanding is so -incredible that I hardly dare put it down here, lest it prove a dream. I -made a vow some time ago in this journal that I would make this man need -me and want me. That victory is won. And I know that in winning it over -him I have won it over myself. O God, how blind, how stupidly, sordidly -blind, I have been all these years! In the depths of my wretched -selfishness, in the dark caverns of my meanness, I had never dreamed of -the real human heart throbbing and aching and hoping all about me; it -has taken this strange man to drag me forth into the light. And not at -all willingly or consciously has he done so. There is a sting in that. -At times I hate him still when I think of it all. It was the silent, -intangible, undirected force radiating from him that has wrought the -change. I feel no humiliation in saying this. I say it and know it in -spite of the great distance that separates us,--the social barriers that -mean so little and do so much. It will remain with me forever, whatever -happen, to have known a man; to have known him in his strength and -weakness, in his splendid unselfishness and childish reliance; in his -simplicity and complexity; in his singleness of purpose and variety -of attributes; in his gentleness and ferocity, and, above all, in his -wonderful sense of duty. But I wish he were moved by something besides -duty. - -“There is another thing I must write, and I write it with a -consciousness of burning cheeks. At times I find him--rather, I feel -him--looking at me with a certain gentleness when I am not observing. -What does that mean? Have I learned men so badly that I can mistake its -meaning? The most convenient woman will do for the man who may prefer -another but inaccessible one. Until we came closer together since the -avalanche passed and the sunshine came, I was not a woman to him. No; I -was a Duty. But there has now come into his voice and his glance a new -quality,--stay! Remember that the weakness of women is their vanity. -Could there happen so wonderful a thing as this man’s regard for me of -the kind that a woman wants from the man whom she worships? If so, is he -too proud, too reserved, too conscious of his present obligation of duty -and protection, to make it known? Does he still fear me? Does he still -hold in his heart the frightful denunciation that he hurled at me? Does -he still loathe me as a murderess? Is my wealth a barrier? Does he lack -the courage to dare what every man must dare in order to secure the -woman he loves? - -“Loves? Why did I write that word? By what authority or right? And yet, -of all the words that the sunshine of the soul has placed upon the -tongue, that is the sweetest.... - -“Distressing things have happened since I wrote the foregoing. For a -time the stimulation of sunshine and hope, the sure prospect of _my_ -release from this prison, worked miracles with his strength, both -of body and mind; but three days ago he grew silent and moody, then -restless and anxious; by night he was down with a fever, the cause of -which I cannot understand. When I see his fleshless chest and arms, -I wonder if he has some malady that is killing him, and that he has -concealed from me. His drawn face, with the skin tight to breaking on -his cheek-bones, and his extreme emaciation, look like consumption; but -he has no other symptoms, and he declares that he is perfectly sound. -Is my presence so distressing that it alone is killing him? If so, it is -murder for me to stay longer. If I only knew! - -“Why does he conceal anything from me? What could he have to conceal -that it is not right for me to know? And yet I know that the act of -concealment could not thus be killing him,--it is the thing he is -concealing that has the terror. It would be infinitely better for us -both if he let me share it, and, as I am so much stronger than he, -I could bear it so much better; the sharing of it would lighten his -burden, and my sympathy would give him strength. Why cannot he see all -this, when it is so clear to me? I must be patient, patient, patient! -That is my watchword now. - -“As in the former case, when he was taken ill, so now he prepared for -his illness by bringing in a small, but this time utterly inadequate, -supply of provisions. Not in a single instance, down to this last -attack, has he consented to eat with me; he has always retreated through -the rear door and eaten alone. It is now getting hard for me to bear -this singular tyranny about the food. He eats with me now, because, -being helpless in bed, he cannot avoid it; but he eats so little! It -is impossible for him to gain strength in this way, and I am distressed -beyond expression. He simply declares that he cannot eat. Singularly -enough, he is always urging me of late to eat little, else I shall -bring on a long list of disorders that will prevent our escape. For that -matter, there is so little left of the store that he brought from -the rear that I am uneasy lest the supply be exhausted and he remain -stubbornly to his purpose not to trust me to get more from the place -behind the rear door. What will be the end of this dreadful situation? - -“It seems an odd inconsistency in his nature that this subject of eating -should consume so much of his wandering thoughts. In his delirium he -paints gorgeous pictures of feasts. He marvels at the splendor of Nero’s -banquets, and declares that the people with so much to eat must have -been fat and content! I hate to put this down, for it seems treasonable -to betray this touch of grossness in a nature so singularly fine. If he -thinks so much of eating, why should he be urging me to eat sparingly of -the rude things that his larder might afford, and that cost me so much -effort to eat with a good grace? It is strange how many unexpected -things we learn of others in intimate association!... - -“In glancing over these last pages I see how wretchedly I have failed -to give the least insight into our life and relations. How could I ever -have had the heart to see, much more put in writing, the slightest flaw -in so noble a character? It would seem that the sympathy born of this -new relation between us ought to touch only the best in my nature. -Shame, shame, shame on me! Do I not see his haunting glance follow me -everywhere, and resting upon me always with inexpressible gratitude? - -“He is almost completely dependent upon me now. I nurse him as I would -a child. It would be utterly inadequate to say that this fills me with -happiness as being a return of some of the kindness that he has shown -me. No, there is something besides that. The gratitude in my heart is -great,--greater than I had thought so small and mean a heart could have. -I am glad that I have it. But the joy of it all is the doing for this -man, without regard to gratitude. To do for him; to nurse him; to cheer -him; to feel that he needs me and wants me,--that is my heaven. And -although a dreadful fear haunts me that he is dying,--that in some way -that I cannot understand I am killing him,--that if he should die my -life would be empty and dark,--still, it would be infinitely sweet to -have him die in my arms, still needing me, still wanting me. Now that I -have written that,--how could I have written it?--I will write more -in all shamelessness. I want him to _say_ that he needs me and wants -me,--that he needs me and wants me to the end of his life. - -“As I have written that much, I will write the rest, else my heart will -burst. I love this man. I love him with all my heart, all my soul. I -love him for everything that he is, not for anything that he has done. -He is the one man whom the great God in His cruel wisdom and merciless -providence has sent into my life for me to love. And with my tears -wetting these pages, and my soul breathing prayers for his recovery, and -his delivery to me, I pledge and consecrate myself to him to the end -of my days, whatever may come. With every good impulse within me I will -strive to be worthy of so great a heart, so noble a love. I will try to -win his love by deserving it.... - -“An unexpected change for the better has come. Our supply of food had -fallen so low that I had about determined to take matters into my -own hands, enter the forbidden chamber, and get more provisions, when -another idea occurred to me. It was absolutely necessary that we have -more food. More important than that was the evident fact that he -would die for the need of it if it were not forthcoming. I feared the -disturbing effect of my going into the forbidden chamber, and so decided -to make a thorough search of the cabin first. Knowing his inexplicable -peculiarity on the subject of our food, I suspected that at some time -in his mental wandering he may have concealed some in the cabin. So this -morning before daylight, while he slept,--his sleeping is incredibly -light,--I cautiously made a search of the cabin, and happily found a few -nourishing things in the bottom of a box, where he had either concealed -them or left them forgotten. These I prepared for him in a most tempting -manner. I arranged my own dishes in a way to make him think I had eaten -abundantly myself, and told him so when he awoke and refused to eat, -urging me to eat what I had prepared for him. - -“When I had convinced him that I had eaten all I could, he took a -little, gingerly, from my hand. I had laid my plans well. As I fed him I -talked incessantly, telling him a story that I knew would interest him. -Before he realized what he was doing--his mind was not as alert as it -normally is--he had eaten somewhat generously. The effect was magical. -Color came to his cheeks and the quiet old sparkle to his eyes. Before -long, to my great surprise and delight, he was up, and then went out to -note the prospect for our leaving. He came back with a radiant face and -buoyant manner, and said,-- - -“‘My friend, we will start at sunrise to-morrow.’ - -“My heart gave a great bound. It was a simple matter to make our -preparations, as it was necessary that we travel as light as possible. -It is time that we were leaving, for the last of the food that he -brought from the rear is exhausted.... - -“The morning has come. And now we are about to turn our backs upon -this strange place of suffering and mystery, its suffering endured, its -mystery unsolved. And without shame do I say that I would rather walk -out thus, and face the perils that lie ahead, with this man as my -guide, my protector, my friend, than go forth in all the stateliness and -triumph that wealth could afford. - -“Farewell, dear, dear little home, my refuge, my cradle, my hope. I will -come back, and---- - -“He is calling me at the door. I must kiss this table, these chairs, -that bed, the walls. But it is with Him that I go.” Thus closed the -lady’s journal. - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTEEN - -THE two started bravely in the fine morning sunshine. There were long -and laborious miles ahead, and only a short day in which to overcome -them and their difficulties. In his heart the young man believed that -it would be impossible for them to complete the task that day, and he -dreaded the shelterless night that would overtake them. But should he -break down, the day’s work would have hardened his companion for the -rest of the journey alone. There was a chance that they would find help -on the way, for surely efforts would be making to clear the roads. The -snow had disappeared from all exposed places. - -They descended the shaly, slippery trail to the road, and here he was -gratified to see that the avalanche had cleared away the fallen tree -and the wreck of the wagon. He led the way up the canon, for in that -direction were the nearest houses. - -He found the road even worse than he had expected. Being a narrow way, -cut into the steep slope of the canon, to leave it in rounding fallen -trees and breaches left by the storm was a slow and laborious task, and -time was precious for a number of reasons. Each had a load to bear,--he -some covering against the night, and she some articles of her own. These -soon became very burdensome to both. - -On they plodded. While a heaviness appeared in his manner, her bearing -was cheerful and spirited. A sadness that he made no effort to conceal -and that she bravely hid oppressed them both. To find him sad was -sufficient to tinge her sadness with happiness. They rested at short -intervals, for the exertion soon began to tell upon them, but upon -him the more. They slaked their thirst from the river. To the woman it -seemed a spring-time stroll through flowering fields, softened by the -sweet sadness of May. To him it was a task that brought them step by -step nearer to the end, where he must deal her the crudest blow of her -life. For at the end she expected news of her father. She would hear it, -and from the one who would have been the most glad to spare her. But she -must not know yet. All her strength was needed for the task before -her. It is time to break hearts when their breaking can be no longer -deferred. - -He had been trudging ahead. He must have suspected that she observed the -labor with which he walked, the uncontrollable tendency of his knees to -give way, the reeling that now would send him against the bank, and then -upon the outer edge of the grade; for presently he asked her to walk -ahead. She complied. - -Their slow and laborious work presently made it impossible for them to -talk. They went on in silence. After they had proceeded thus for some -hours, a thing occurred that struck dismay to her soul. Her companion -suddenly became voluble. At first he was coherent, although he talked -about matters to which she was a total stranger. This showed an alarming -unconsciousness of her presence. As he talked, he became more and more -incoherent, and at times laughed inanely. Presently, with awe in his -voice, he said,-- - -“She was the woman I loved. She’s dead, boys, she’s dead; and by God! -they killed her.” - -Her spirit sank. After all that she had hoped and yearned for, there now -had come back the most terrible of the ghosts of the bitter past. After -all the seeming bridging of the chasm that had separated them, it opened -now all the wider and deeper and darker. - -“Do you know what a murderer is?” he exclaimed in a loud voice, as he -swung his arm threateningly aloft. “A she-wolf, the slyest and most -dangerous of beasts. She comes whining and fawning; she licks your hand; -she wins your trust. And then, when you have warmed her, and patched her -torn skin, and mended her broken bones, she turns upon you and tears out -your heart with her fangs.” - -Stifling, faint, barely able to stand, the young woman stood aside, and -he passed her without seeing her. - -“Yes,” he resumed in great excitement, “I must be a man,--always a -man. What! kill a woman? No, no, no! Not that. That would be terrible, -brutal, cowardly. Yes, I must be a man. She needs me; I will help her. -Is that door locked? She must never know--never know so long as she -lives. Ah, that is beautiful, wonderful, savory,--a feast for gods and -angels! Yes, I will do my duty. She needs me. She despises me. Very -good; I will do my duty. She scorns my poor food--secretly, but I know! -She is getting well. Thank God for that! She shall eat all she can. -Me? No, no. I don’t want anything. No; I don’t want a thing. I have no -appetite!” - -He burst into laughter, and the echo of it came back from the opposite -wall of the canon. - -“Oh, my love, my love!” he cried, suddenly becoming sad, “how could you -cast me off, when all had been so true and trusting between us? But I -know it was better so. It was not right for me to stand in the way.” He -paused, and his voice sank into an awed whisper as he said, “She’s dead, -boys, she’s dead; and by God! they killed her.” - -He pushed rapidly on, muttering things that she could not hear, that she -did not want to hear. Not a word of kindness for her had come from him -in his delirium, and her heart was breaking. - -“When it is all over,” he said aloud, “I will go to my old friend, and -he will nurse me back to health and strength, and I will begin the -fight again. I will be a man--always a man. I will do my duty. And the -she-wolf--no, no, no! She will not tear out my heart with her claws and -fangs. No! There is no she-wolf! I say, there is no she-wolf. No! She -is kind to me. I know it, I know it! She is gentle and thoughtful and -unselfish. She is very, very beautiful. She won’t leave me, will she? -She won’t leave me alone! But she is unmanning me! I must not let her -do that! I must be a man and do my duty. No, you must not take off my -shoes. I can do that. I have no pain--none whatever. Yes, I will be -calm. Your voice is sweet; it is music; it fills me with peace and -comfort; and your hand on my face--how soft and pleasant it is! I wish -I could tell you; but no, I must do my duty; I must be a man! I will not -listen to your voice. I will not let you touch me. That would keep me -from my duty.” - -These words raised her from despair to bliss. And so he had fought his -inclinations,--he needed her, he wanted her! - -Still he kept on. She strained every hearing faculty for his slightest -word. For what he had already said, she could bear his forgetting her -presence. Still they pushed on, he muttering and laughing; but for all -his madness, he was wise and cautious amid the dangers and hardships of -the road. No longer did he advise her, guide her, assist her, and show -her the innumerable unobtrusive attentions to which she had become -accustomed. - -At last he suddenly stopped in a stretch of good road and looked about, -bewildered. - -“Where is this?” he whispered; then aloud, “Oh, it is the trail of the -wolves! After them will come the she-wolf, and her fangs----” He dropped -his parcel and clutched his breast. “Her fangs!” he gasped. He looked -about and picked up a stick, which he swung as a club about him. “The -she-wolf is here!” he cried. - -His glance fell upon his companion, standing in awe and pity and love -before him. Instantly a fearful malignity hardened his face, and -his eyes blazed with the murder that had filled them once before. He -clutched the stick more fiercely, and glared at her with a mixture of -terror and ferocity. But she stood firm, and gently said,-- - -“My friend!” - -His face instantly softened. She stood smiling, her glance caressing, -her whole bearing bespeaking sympathy and affection. - -“My dear friend,” she said, in a voice whose sweetness sank deep within -him, “you know me!” - -A look of joyous recognition swept over his face. - -“I am so glad!” he breathlessly said. “I thought you had left me alone!” - -Saying this, he sank to the ground, smiling upon her as he fell. - -She knelt beside him, placed a soothing hand upon his cheek, and spoke -comforting words. His face showed the profound gratification that filled -him, and her soul spread its wings in the sunshine that filled the day -with its glories. - -He lay limp and helpless, but she knew that he must be going forward if -he could. She caressed him, she coaxed him, she raised him to a sitting -posture, she put her arms under his and lifted him to his feet; but his -breathing was short and distressed, his head rolled listlessly, and his -legs refused their offices. Then she realized that the last remnant of -his strength, both of body and spirit, was gone; and her heart sank to -the uttermost depths. - -“Lay me down,” he said, very gently, but clearly, and with perfect -resignation. “Lay me down, my friend, and go on alone. I am very tired, -and must sleep. Keep to the road. I don’t think it is far to the nearest -house. You are sure to find some one. Be brave and keep on.” - -She laid him down and turned away. A cruel choking had throttled her -power of speech. With tears so streaming from her eyes that she went -about her purpose half blind, she found a drier place in the road, -gathered pine-needles less soaked than the rest, made a bed for him -there, and spread upon it the blankets that he had been carrying. -When she looked again into his face he was sleeping lightly, and his -breathing betrayed great physical distress. As gently as a mother -lifting her sleeping babe, she took him up in her arms, bore him to the -bed, and with infinite care and tenderness laid him upon it. Then with -some twigs and handkerchiefs she fashioned a canopy that shielded his -head from the sun. She covered him with a free part of the blanket; but -fearing that it would prove insufficient, she removed her outer skirt -and covered him with that; these covers she tucked about him, that he -might not easily throw them off. - -He had not been roused by these attentions. She knelt beside him and -gently kissed his hands, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, and wiped -away her streaming tears as they fell upon his face. He moved slightly, -opened his eyes, looked into her face, and smiled. Very feebly he took -her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed it, smiled again, closed his -eyes, and with a sigh of weariness fell asleep. She knelt thus and -watched him for a little while, seeing him sink deeper and deeper -into slumber. Then she rose. And now may the great God give heart and -strength for the mighty task ahead! - -Not trusting herself to look back upon him, she gathered up her courage -and started. On she went, her head high, her eyes aflame, her cheeks -aglow. A suffocating, heart-aching loneliness haunted her, dogged her, -gnawed at her spirit. More than once she wavered, weak and trembling, -under the backward strain upon her heart-strings. More than once she -cried aloud, “I can’t leave him! I can’t leave him! I must go back!” And -then she would summon all her strength again, and cry, “It is for his -sake that I go! It is to save him that I leave him!” - -Thus, rended by contending agonies, she went on and on. With incredible -self-torturings she pictured the dangers to which she had left him -exposed. What had he meant by the wolves? Was there really danger from -that source? Often in his sleep in the hut, and again when his mind -would wander, he had spoken of the wolves, and always in terror; but -most dreadful of all things to him was the she-wolf. Yet during all the -time that she had been imprisoned with him in the hut there had not been -the least sign of a wolf, not the most distant howl of one. Why had this -hallucination been so persistent with him, so terrifying to him? - -The miles seemed interminable. She kept her eyes and ears strained for -signs and sounds of human life. At intervals she would call aloud with -all her might, and after hearing the echo of her voice die away in the -canon, wait breathlessly for a response that never came. With eager -haste she pushed on. Clambering over fallen trees, heading gullies that -she could not leap, wading swift rivulets with which the rapidly melting -snow was still ploughing the road, she came at length within view -of some men who were clearing the road with axes and mending it with -shovels,--the rough, strong, silent, capable men of the mountains. She -frantically waved her handkerchief and called as she went. They stopped -their work and stood gazing at her in wondering silence. They saw that -she was not of their kind; but their trained sensibilities informed them -that the great mountains had been working their terrible will upon human -helplessness, and they stood ready to put the strength of their arms and -hearts into the human struggle. - -Imperfectly clad as she was, her form and bearing suggesting a princess, -her beauty, enhanced by her joy at finding help, radiant and dazzling, -their wonder and shyness held them stolid and outwardly unresponsive, -and they silently waited for her to speak. She went straight to them, -and, looking at them one after another as she spoke, she said,-- - -“Will you help me, men? I left a man exhausted in the road some miles -down the canon. I fear he is dying. Will you go with me and help me -bring him up? Is there a doctor anywhere near? Is there a house to -which we may take him?” - -There was a moment of silence,--these men are slow, but all the surer -for that. - -One of them, a bearded, commanding man of middle age, said,-- - -“Yes, we will go and bring him up. A doctor lives up the canon. Maybe -he’s at home. The man can’t walk?” - -“No; he is lying helpless in the road.” The strong man, whom she -afterward heard the others call Samson,--one of those singular -coincidences of name and character,--turned and picked out two men. - -“You two,” he said, as quietly as though he were directing the -road-work, “cut two poles and make a litter with them and a blanket. -Go and bring the man up. You,” he said to a third, “help them make the -litter, and give a hand on the trip.” Two others he directed to prepare -the wagon, which stood a short distance up the road. Another he sent up -the road to summon the doctor. Then he turned his attention to the young -woman. Without consulting her, he made a comfortable nest of greatcoats -and blankets, and when he had so deftly and quickly finished it, he said -to her,-- - -“Come and rest here.” - -“No!” she vehemently protested; “I am going back with the men.” - -“You are not going back with the men. If you did, there would be two -for them to bring up instead of one. One is enough. Make yourself -comfortable here; you are safe.” - -The slight rebuke in this, and the quiet determination with which the -man spoke, informed her that she must lay a reasoning hand upon her -agonizing fear and impatience. She obeyed him with as good a grace as -she could find. - -Again without consulting her, he brought some hot coffee, poured it into -a tin-cup, and held it out to her. - -“Drink that,” he said. - -She drank it. He then produced some bread, which he sliced and buttered. - -“Eat that,” he said. - -She obeyed. While doing so she watched the men make the litter, and -marvelled at the skill with which they worked, and the quickness with -which the task was done, seemingly without the slightest effort or -hurry. Then in silence the three men swung down the road. - -The man named Samson, although he had not appeared to be giving any -attention to his fair guest, was in front of her the moment she had -finished the bread and butter. He carried some things in his arms, and -threw them down at her feet. - -“Take off your shoes and stockings,” he said, “and put on these socks; -they are thick and warm. Take off all your other things that are wet, -and wrap yourself up in these blankets. By the time the litter comes -your things will be dry in the sun.” - - - - -CHAPTER FOURTEEN - -THE three remaining men turned to their work of clearing the road, -headed by Samson. He had not asked her any questions; he did not even -look again her way; but presently he brought her clothes, which he had -spread and dried in the sunshine, and told her that by the time she was -dressed the litter would be there. This she found to be so. - -Coming down the road, on a powerful horse, she saw a bearded, -ruddy-faced, stocky, middle-aged man, whose business she easily guessed -from the country-doctor’s saddle-bags slung across his horse. The doctor -rode up and greeted,-- - -“Hello, Samson! Man hurt?” - -“Don’t know,” answered the foreman. - -Then, with a jerk of his thumb toward his guest, he added, “She can tell -you.” - -The doctor had not seen her. He looked around, gazed at her a moment in -astonishment, and then, with a fine courtesy singularly different from -the hearty roughness with which he had greeted the man, he raised his -hat. - -This diversion had kept the attention of the two from the quiet arrival -of the men with the litter. When the young woman saw it, she forgot the -presence of all save him lying so quiet where the men had placed him -on a bed made by Samson from coats. She ran and knelt beside him; she -kissed his cheeks; she chafed his hands; she begged him to speak, to -live for her sake. - -The strong hand of the doctor lifted her from the unconscious man -and gently put her aside. A moment’s astonished gaze into the pallid, -upturned face brought this burst from the doctor,-- - -“Adrian Wilder--dying!” He turned anxiously upon the young woman, and -demanded, “Where did you find him? What is the matter here?” - -“You mistake,” she firmly said. “He is Dr. Malbone.” - -“Dr. Malbone!” he exclaimed. “Why, I am Dr. Malbone. This man is my -friend, Adrian Wilder!” - -His look was half fierce and full of suspicion. - -Too surprised to comprehend at once the full meaning of his declaration, -she stood staring at the physician in silence. That gentleman, turning -from her, dropped on his knees and made a hurried examination of the -unconscious man. “I don’t understand this,” he said to himself. He -quickly opened Wilder’s shirt. Upon seeing the emaciation there, and -exclaiming in amazement and horror, he turned again upon the young woman -as he knelt, and demanded,-- - -“Explain this to me. Be quick, for every moment is precious. I don’t -want to make a mistake, and I must know. He has pneumonia; but there is -something behind it. Where and when did you find him?” - -In a few words she told the salient facts of the story as she believed -it,--the running away of the horses, the breaking of her leg, her -father’s departure to fetch relief, her care at the stone hut. - -“When did this accident happen to you?” the doctor asked. - -“Four months ago.” - -“And you two have lived alone at his cabin?” - -“Yes.” - -He glanced her over, and looked more puzzled than ever. - -“You are looking hearty,” he said; “how is it that my friend is in this -condition?” - -“It must have been his care of me and his worry on my account.” - -This appeared half to satisfy Dr. Mal-bone. - -“Yes,” he said, “not being a doctor, and being extremely susceptible to -the pressure of his duty toward you, he may have worn himself out.” - -With that he hastily gave the young man a stimulant, and said,-- - -“Fall to here, men, and help me revive him, else he will be dead before -we know it. Chafe his wrists and ankles. Hurry, men, but be gentle. That -is good. Slow, there, John; those horny hands of yours are strong and -rough. Samson, bring some strong coffee as quickly as God will let you. -Rub him under the blankets, men; don’t let him chill. Maybe we can -get him out of this pinch. The great thing now is to take him to my -house.... Ah, that is good work, lads! His heart is waking up a little. -That is good. That is very good.” - -Dr. Malbone straightened up, and turned to the young woman, again -fastening upon her the strange, severe, suspicious, half-threatening -look that she had already learned to dread. - -“I fear there is something unexplained here, madam, something concealed. -I am not accusing you. My friend is a strange, fine man, and for good -reasons he may have withheld something from you. But he would never hide -anything from me. Did he give you a letter for any one?” - -“He did not.” - -“Have you seen him writing?” - -“No.” - -“Martin, hand me his coat.” - -Dr. Malbone searched the pockets, and found a sealed letter addressed to -him. He tore it open and read. As he read his astonishment grew. When he -had finished, he turned a strange, pitying look upon the young woman. - -“He charges me to give you this when I shall have read it.” - -He handed her the letter, which she read. It ran thus: - -“My dear Friend,--This is written to give Miss Andros some unhappy -information that she ought to have at the earliest safe and proper -moment, and as a precaution against my breaking down before that moment -arrives. To have told her at first might have prevented her recovery. -The proper moment to tell her will have arrived when she is in safe -hands. I trust that they may be yours, and I know that you will show her -every kindness that your generous soul can yield. - -“It is this: Her father lost his life in the accident on the grade, by -the falling of a tree upon him. His body rests under the earth in the -farther end of the cave into which the rear door of my cabin opens. The -grave is marked with a board giving his name. Nailed up in a box near -the door are his personal effects. - -“Give this letter to my afflicted friend. It will convey no hint of the -profound sympathy that I feel, nor of what I suffer in thus raising my -hand to deal her so cruel a blow. - -“I can only crave her forgiveness for deceiving her both as to her -father’s death and my being a physician.” - -The eager hope, the anxiety, the absorption of her entire self in the -stricken man at her feet, fled before the crushing whirlwind of grief -that now overwhelmed her. The loss of her father was the loss of the -anchor of her life, the loss of the one sure thing upon which her soul -rested, in which she knew peace, security, sympathy, and strength. -She spoke no word, but gazed far down the canon, a picture of complete -desolation. Dr. Malbone stood beside her, looking down thoughtfully into -the face of his friend. The men, relieved from their work of bringing -back a faint glow of the flickering life on the ground, moved away -silently, with the instinctive delicacy of their kind, knowing that they -were facing a tragedy that they did not understand. - -The letter fell from the young woman’s hand as she still gazed in mute -agony down the canon. A slight swaying of her form warned Dr. Malbone -that his time for action had arrived. - -“A noble life still is left to us,” he quietly said, without looking up, -and with a certain unsteadiness in his voice; “and it appeals to us for -all that we have to give of help and strength and sympathy.” - -It was a timely word. Instantly she dragged herself out of the crushing -tumult into which she had been plunged. - -“Yes,” she said, radiant with love and towering above the wreck that -encompassed her, “the noblest of all lives is still left to us, and it -shall have all that lies in us to give.” - -“Then,” said Dr. Malbone, “time is very precious. Let us take him to my -home at once.” - -The sun had set behind the western mountains, but it still tipped the -snowy summit of Mount Shasta with a crimson glow. - -“Put the horses through,” said Dr. Malbone to the man who drove. - -They made good speed up the grade, Dr. Malbone pondering in silence some -problem that still sorely troubled him, the young woman sitting on -the floor of the wagon and holding the hand of the unconscious man. -Presently they arrived at Dr. Malbone’s house, where his plain, homelike -wife, a competent mountain woman, quickly had the patient comfortable -in bed, while her husband went thoroughly into the treatment. His was a -mercurial spirit, the opposite of the gentle soul now seemingly passing -away under his hands. - -“I can find absolutely nothing,” he finally exclaimed, in despair, -“except simple inanition as the probable cause and a complication of -this attack, and I know that it is absurd. You must help me, madam. Tell -me how you lived.” - -Numerous sharp questions were required before he finally came upon the -trail of the truth. She had delayed saying that Wilder had not eaten -with her, and that toward the last he was niggardly with the food, -because she feared that it would sound like a reproach. The moment she -mentioned it, Dr. Mal-bone was transfigured. He sprang back from the -bedside and confronted her, menacing and formidable, as Wilder had -confronted her on that terrible day when she told him the story of her -breaking up the attachment between a musician and her friend, and the -death of the girl from a broken heart. What had she done or said that -should bring this second storm of a man’s fury upon her? - -“And you no doubt think,” cried Dr. Malbone, “that you have learned from -his letter the true reason for his keeping you out of the cave. In all -this broad world is there any human being so besotted with selfishness -as not to be able to burrow through its swinishness for the truth? Come -and look at this.” He dragged her to the bedside and showed her the body -of his patient. “Is there under heaven,” he continued, “a mental or -a spiritual eye so blinded with brutal egotism, so drunk with -self-interest, as not to read the story that this poor withered frame -writes large? Do you not understand that in those acts--over which you -no doubt whined and complained in your empty heart--he gave evidence of -a sublime sacrifice for you? Look at your own abundant flesh. You never -went hungry in the hut. You never asked yourself if he might have food -sufficient for two during the long winter. And now you see that he has -denied himself for your comfort. He is dying of starvation, because in -his splendid unselfishness he wanted you to be comfortable.” - -Dr. Malbone paused, but his eyes were still blazing upon her, and his -body trembled with the passion that stirred him. - -“One affliction has fallen upon you; may you have strength and grace to -bear it; but I say this: If ten thousand such afflictions had overtaken -you, the suffering from them would not be adequate----” - -He suddenly checked himself, and gave his wife hurried instructions for -the preparation of some nutriment. While this was preparing, he resorted -to such vigorous measures as the urgency of the case demanded. All this -quickly brought him under self-control, and he worked with the sure hand -of a skilful man battling with all his might in a desperate emergency. -The young woman had sunk into a chair, where she sat dazed, weak, -ill, and ignored, not daring to offer help, and praying dumbly for the -opening of a vast gulf to entomb her. - -The patient rallied under the physician’s treatment. Slowly, but with -palpable effect, Dr. Malbone dragged him a little way from the brink of -death. The doctor’s coat was off, but sweat streamed down his face. -His wife--silent, intelligent, and alert--gave him all the help that he -required, and neither of them looked toward the suffering woman sitting -crushed and miserable in the chair. Thus the time passed until the -intense anxiety in the physician’s face began to relax; and at last, -with a sigh, he sank wearily into a chair, remarking to his wife,-- - -“There is nothing more to do for the present. He is rallying. Give him -time. The chances are a hundred to one against him.” - -He rested his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes, while -his wife went to discharge her duties in another part of the house. -Soon he raised his head, and in his old kindly manner said to the young -woman,-- - -“I am sorry for the way in which I talked just now, and I ask you to -forgive me. You will understand my outburst and be more inclined to -forgive me when I tell you something of my poor friend’s life; for I am -certain that he has told you nothing. Has he?” - -“No,” she answered, weakly and humbly. - -“He has suffered so cruel a wrong in the past that when I see the least -approach to imposition upon his noble unselfishness it maddens me. I -ought not to have blamed you. You were not conscious of imposing upon -him. I believe that he is dying. If so, there will be no harm in my -telling you his story. If he lives, I can trust you with it. - -“I had known him in San Francisco, but I came to these mountains long -before him. It was less than two years ago that he came to me, and you -can never realize the shock that his condition gave me. After a while he -told me of his trouble as he understood it. It was this: Through giving -violin lessons to a young lady of wealth and of great loveliness of -character, he became deeply attached to her, and in return she gave -him her whole affection. She was willing and anxious to marry him, even -though she knew that her parents and friends would disown her if she -did. He hesitated, from pure unselfishness, to bring upon her any -distress that their marriage might cause. The poor fool could not -understand that she would have gladly given up everything in life for -him. He was called away to fill a lucrative engagement, and in his -absence her heart changed toward him. Soon afterward she died. When he -came to me he was broken in spirit and body, and it was my privilege -to start him aright in a chastened and nobler life. He and I built the -cabin, and there he was to pass the winter in unremitting study and -self-mastery. - -“That was the story as he told it to me and as he believed it to be. But -I saw that something was behind it that in his sweetness and generosity -he had never suspected. I myself learned the truth. By means of a few -inquiries made by letter to a friend in San Francisco, I found that an -old school-friend of the girl had made the trouble. It was a case of -malicious revenge. The girl whom my friend loved had innocently and -unconsciously received the love of a man for whom she cared nothing, as -her whole affection was with my friend. This man was very rich, and for -that and other reasons was regarded as a prize. It appears that before -losing his heart to this loveliest of girls he had been devoted to her -old school-friend, a beautiful and dashing belle, who expected to marry -him. When she found that she had lost him, she planned revenge. She was -utterly without heart or principle. So she traded on her old -school-mate’s confidence in her, and used that friendship to separate -the lovers with lies and cunning. She succeeded. The girl died of a -broken heart, and my friend’s life was ruined.” - -A look of unutterable horror settled upon the young woman’s face, and -she sat upright and rigid, staring helplessly at him. - -“I never told him what I had learned,” resumed the physician. “It might -have broken his heart, and he had suffered enough. I did not want him -to know that malice, revenge, and murder had played their part in his -story.” - -The young woman’s face bore so singular an expression that the physician -marvelled. She was white, and deep and unaccustomed lines marred her -beauty. - -“He knows the whole truth,” she said, quietly, and with a strange -hardness. “He knows that I am the woman who brought about their -separation. He learned it from me long ago in his cabin.” What Dr. -Malbone might have done under the spur of the horror and amazement -that filled him was checked by a violent fit of coughing with which his -patient had been seized. His physician’s training instantly sent him to -the bedside. - -“Help me here!” he cried, as he raised the sufferer. - -The young woman staggered to the bed. Dr. Malbone shot a malevolent -glance at her, but she did not heed it. He raised his hand to thrust her -back, but she grasped it, and quietly and firmly said,-- - -“I am going to help you.” - -He yielded, and told her what to do, and she did it. - -The cough was checked, and the sufferer was laid back upon the pillow. -His eyes were open, and he looked from one of the watchers to the other -as they stood on opposite sides of the bed. At first he was puzzled, and -then a bright look of recognition lighted up his face. He smiled as he -extended a feeble hand to each. - -“You are safe,” he faintly said to the young woman. “I am glad. Dr. -Mal-bone will be kind to you.” To the physician he said, his voice -tremulous with affection, “My dear old friend, always true, always -kind.” - -He wanted to say more, but Dr. Mal-bone checked him and gave him -something to strengthen him. He took it, shaking his head and smiling -sadly. Presently, as his eyes grew brighter, Dr. Malbone said,-- - -“You may speak now, Adrian, if you wish.” - -The young woman had knelt, and, taking the sufferer’s hand in both of -hers, bowed her head over it as she pressed it to her lips. - -“Look at me,” he said to her. - -She raised her head, and they looked long and silently at each other. He -seemed troubled and anxious. - -“My poor friend,” he said, “you have not yet learned. Dr. Malbone--a -letter--my pocket.” - -“I have read the letter, my friend,” she hastened to say. “I know all -about my father, and I know how thoughtful and kind you were not to tell -me.” - -“Then you forgive me?” he begged. - -“Forgive you, my friend? Yes, a thousand times; but how can you -forgive----” - -She buried her face in his pillow; her arm stole round him, and she drew -him against her breast. - -“I did that long ago,” he replied. - -“My noble, generous friend!” she said. “But can you understand what you -have been to me, what you have done for me, what you are to me? Can you -believe that you have made a true woman of me? Am I still the she-wolf, -my friend?” - -A supreme agony moved her in this appeal. He feebly tried to check -her with his hand, but she nestled her cheek close against his and -pleaded,-- - -“Do you understand that you have made me worthy of every kind regard -that so noble a man could have for a woman? Can you believe, friend of -my life, that you have made me such a woman as would be perfect in your -eyes?” - -He made no reply, and, still holding him in her arms, she raised her -head to look into his face. He was regarding her with a strange and -distant wistfulness, and there shone in his eyes a pale, far light that -stretched through infinite space. A faint smile played upon his lips, -the feeble pressure of his hand closed upon hers. - -“You will not leave me, will you?” she pleaded. “You will come back to -health, my friend. You will teach me, you will guide me. The world will -be bright and beautiful, for all our suffering has been borne. We belong -each to the other, my friend, in friendship, trust, and sympathy.” - -Still he smiled as he looked into her face; and as he smiled, and she -saw the strange, far light that shone from so inconceivable a distance -in the awful depths of his eyes, her eager heart found a bridge of glass -spanning the gulf between them. Then he sighed deeply, and his eyes -rolled upward. She sprang from the bed to her feet. - -“Dr. Malbone!” she cried, in a suppressed voice, “quick! he has -fainted!” - -The physician, who had stepped a little way apart, came forward and -looked down into the still face of his friend. Then he glanced up at the -young woman, who was trembling with eager impatience. - -“There is nothing to do,” sadly replied Dr. Malbone; then he passed -round the bed, took the young woman gently by the arm, and, in a kind -voice, said, “Come with me.” - -She went with him, wondering, and looking over her shoulder toward the -bed. He led her into an adjoining room, closed the door, and placed a -chair for her. - -“No, Dr. Malbone!” she protested. “How can I, when he needs us both so -much? Hurry back to him; I will stay here if you wish.” - -“No,” replied the physician; “my place is here.” - -A look of desperate eagerness settled in her face, and she was listening -intently for a sound from the other room. The physician regarded -her pityingly, as she stood trembling in an agony of impatience and -apprehension. Unable to control herself longer, she seized him by the -arm, and cried,-- - -“Dr. Malbone, you know best, but I can’t bear to leave him! Do you know -that I fear he will die? He is all the world to me, and I can’t bear to -let him go. Do you understand that? I want him to live. I want to show -him what a good woman’s trust and love can be. I want to give my whole -life to his happiness. I want to atone for all the evil and suffering -that I have brought upon him. I want him to know that he has found peace -and a refuge at last. Dr. Malbone, go and save him!” - -Dr. Malbone took her hands in his, and said,-- - -“Will you try to understand what I am going to say?” - -“Yes, yes!” she answered. - -“Then command all the strength of your soul.” - -“Dr. Malbone!” she gasped, peering into his eyes, her face blanching. - -With pity and tenderness the physician said,-- - -“Our friend is dead; he died in your arms.” - - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Man: His Mark, by W. C. 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