The mountaineer straightened his huge form as he returned, “Dad, there ain’t nothin’ on earth or in hell could change what we think of you, and we don’t want to hear nothin’ about you that you don’t like to tell us. We ain’t a carin’ what sent you to the hills. We’re takin’ you for what you are. And there ain’t nothin’ can change that.”
“Not even if it should be the grave under the pine yonder?” asked the other in a low voice.
Old Matt looked at him in a half frightened way, as though, without knowing why, he feared what the shepherd would say next. Mr. Howitt felt the look and hesitated. He was like one on a desperate mission in the heart of an enemy’s country, feeling his way. Was the strong man’s passion really tame? Or was his fury only sleeping, waiting to destroy the one who should wake it? Who could tell?
The old scholar looked away to Dewey Bald for strength. “Mr. Matthews,” he said, “you once told me a story. It was here on this porch when I first came to you. It was a sad tale of a great crime. To-night I know the other side of that story. I’ve come to tell you.”
At the strange words, Aunt Mollie’s face turned as white as her apron. Old Matt grasped the arms of his chair, as though he would crush the wood, as he said shortly, “Go on.”
At the tone of his voice, the old shepherd’s heart sank.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY
WITH a prayer in his heart for the boy who lay dying in that strange underground chamber, the artist’s father began.
“It is the story, Mr. Matthews, of a man and his only son, the last of their family. With them will perish—has perished one of the oldest and proudest names in our country.
“From his childhood this man was taught the honored traditions of his people, and, thus trained in pride of ancestry, grew up to believe that the supreme things of life are what his kind call education, refinement, and culture. In his shallow egotism, he came to measure all life by the standards of his people.
“It was in keeping with this that the man should enter the pulpit of the church of his ancestors, and it was due very largely, no doubt, to the same ancestral influence that he became what the world calls a successful minister of the gospel. But Christianity to him was but little more than culture, and his place in the church merely an opportunity to add to the honor of his name. Soon after leaving the seminary, he married. The crowning moment of his life was when his first born—a boy—was laid in his arms. The second child was a girl; there were no more.
“For ten years before her death the wife was an invalid. The little girl, too, was never strong, and six months after they buried the mother the daughter was laid beside her.
“You, sir, can understand how the father lavished every care upon his son. The first offspring of the parents’ love, the sole survivor of his home, and the last to bear the name of a family centuries old, he was the only hope of the proud man’s ambition.
“The boy was a beautiful child, a delicate, sensitive soul in a body of uncommon physical grace and strength, and the proud father loved to think of him as the flower of long ages of culture and refinement. The minister, himself, jealously educated his son, and the two grew to be friends, sir, constant companions. This, also, you will understand—you and your boy. But with all this the young man did not follow his father in choosing his profession. He—he became an artist.”
Old Matt started from his seat. Aunt Mollie uttered an exclamation. But the shepherd, without pausing, continued: “When his schooling was completed the boy came into the Ozarks one summer to spend the season painting. The man had expected to go with his son. For months they had planned the trip together, but at last something prevented, and the father could not go—no, he could not go—” The speaker’s voice broke; the big mountaineer was breathing hard; Aunt Mollie was crying.
Presently Mr. Howitt went on. “When the young artist returned to his father, among many sketches of the mountains, he brought one painting that received instant recognition. The people stood before it in crowds when it was exhibited in the art gallery; the papers were extravagant in their praise; the artist became famous; and wealthy patrons came to his studio to sit for their portraits. The picture was of a beautiful girl, standing by a spring, holding out a dripping cup of water.”
At this a wild oath burst from the giant. Springing to his feet, he started toward the speaker. Aunt Mollie screamed, “Grant, oh Grant! Think what Dad has done for us.” The mountaineer paused.
“Mr. Matthews,” said the shepherd, in trembling tones, “for my sake, will you not hear me to the end? for my sake?”
The big man dropped back heavily into his chair. “Go on,” he said. But his voice was as the growl of a beast.
“The boy loved your girl, Mr. Matthews. It was as though he had left his soul in the hills. Night and day he heard her calling. The more his work was praised, the more his friends talked of honors and planned his future, the keener was his suffering, and most of all there was the shadow that had come between him and his father, breaking the old comradeship, and causing them to shun each other; though the father never knew why. The poor boy grew morose and despondent, giving way at times to spells of the deepest depression. He tried to lose himself in his work. He fled abroad and lived alone. It seemed a blight had fallen on his soul. The world called him mad. Many times he planned to take his life, but always the hope of meeting her again stopped him.
“At last he returned to this country determined to see her at any cost, and, if possible, gain her forgiveness and his father’s consent to their marriage. He came into the hills only to find that the mother of his child had died of a broken heart.
“Then came the end. The artist disappeared, leaving a long, pitiful letter, saying that before the word reached his father, he would be dead. The most careful investigation brought nothing but convincing evidence that the unhappy boy had taken his own life. The artist knew that it would be a thousand times easier for the proud man to think his son dead than for him to know the truth, and he was right. Mr. Matthews, he was right. I cannot tell you of the man’s suffering, but he found a little comfort in the reflection that such extravagant praise of his son’s work had added to the honor of the family, for the lad’s death was held by all to be the result of a disordered mind. There was not a whisper of wrong doing. His life, they said, was without reproach, and even his sad mental condition was held to be evidence of his great genius.
“The minister was weak, sir. He knew something of the intellectual side of his religion and the history of his church, but he knew little, very little, of the God that could sustain him in such a trial. He was shamefully weak. He tried to run away from his trouble, and, because the papers had made so much of his work as a preacher, and because of his son’s fame, he gave only the first part of his name, thinking thus to get away from it all for a season.
“But God was to teach the proud man of culture and religious forms a great lesson, and to that end directed his steps. He was led here, here, sir, to your home, and you—you told him the story of his son’s crime.”
The shepherd paused. A hoarse whisper came from the giant in the chair, “You—you, Dad, your—name is—”
The other threw out his hand, as if to guard himself, and shrank back; “Hush, oh hush! I have no name but the name by which you know me. The man who bore that name is dead. In all his pride of intellect and position he died. Your prayers for vengeance were answered, sir. You—you killed him; killed him as truly as if you had plunged a knife into his heart; and—you—did—well.”
Aunt Mollie moaned.
“Is that all?” growled the mountaineer.
“All! God, no! I—I must go on. I must tell you how the man you killed staid in the hills and was born again. There was nothing else for him to do but stay in the hills. With the shame and horror of his boy’s disgrace on his heart, he could not go back—back to the city, his friends and his church—to the old life. He knew that he could not hope to deceive them. He was not skilled in hiding things. Eve
ry kind word in praise of himself, or in praise of his son, would have been keenest torture. He was a coward; he dared not go back. His secret would have driven him mad, and he would have ended it all as his son had done. His only hope for peace was to stay here; here on the very spot where the wrong was done, and to do what little he could to atone for the crime.
“At first it was terrible; the long, lonely nights with no human friend near; the weight of shame; the memories; and the lonely wind—always the wind—in the trees—her voice, Pete said, calling for him to come. God, sir, I wonder the man did not die under his punishment!
“But God is good, Mr. Matthews. God is good and merciful. Every day out on the range with the sheep, the man felt the spirit of the hills, and little by little their strength and their peace entered into his life. The minister learned here, sir, what he had not learned in all his theological studies. He learned to know God, the God of these mountains. The hills taught him, and they came at last to stand between him and the trouble from which he had fled. The nights were no longer weary and long. He was never alone. The voices in the wilderness became friendly voices, for he learned their speech, and the poor girl ceased to call in the wailing wind. Then Dr. Coughlan came, and—”
Again the shepherd stopped. He could not go on. The light was gone from the sky and he felt the blackness of the night. But against the stars he could still see the crown of the mountain where his son lay. When he had gathered strength, he continued, saying simply, “Dr. Coughlan came, and—last night we learned that my son was not dead but living.”
Again that growl like the growl of a wild beast came from the mountaineer. Silently Mr. Howitt prayed. “Go on,” came the command in hoarse tones.
In halting, broken words, the shepherd faltered through the rest of his story as he told how, while using the cabin under the cliff as a studio, the artist had discovered the passage to the old Dewey cave; how, since his supposed death, he had spent the summers at the scene of his former happiness; how he had met his son roaming the hills at night, and had been able to have the boy with him much of the time; how he had been wounded the night Jim Lane was killed; and finally how Pete had led them to his bedside.
“He is dying yonder. Dr. Coughlan is with him—and Pete—Pete is there, too. I—I came for you. He is calling for you. I came to tell you. All that a man may suffer here, he has suffered, sir. Your prayer has been doubly answered, Mr. Matthews. Both father and son are dead. The name—the old name is perished from the face of the earth. For Christ’s dear sake, forgive my boy, and let him go. For my sake, sir, I—I can bear no more.”
Who but He that looketh upon the heart of man could know the battle that was fought in the soul of that giant of the hills? He uttered no sound. He sat in his seat as if made of stone; save once, when he walked to the end of the porch to stand with clenched hands and passion shaken frame, facing the dark clump of pines on the hill.
Slowly the moon climbed over the ridge and lighted the scene. The mountaineer returned to his chair. All at once he raised his head, and, leaning forward, looked long and earnestly at the old shepherd, where he sat crouching like a convict awaiting sentence.
From down the mill road came voices and the sound of horses’ feet. Old Matt started, turning his head a moment to listen. The horses stopped at the lower gate.
“The children,” said Aunt Mollie softly. “The children. Grant, Oh, Grant! Sammy and our boy.”
Then the shepherd felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and a voice, that had in it something new and strange, said, “Dad,—my brother,—Daniel, I—I ain’t got no education, an’ I—don’t know rightly how to say it—but, Daniel, what these hills have been to you, you—you have been to me. It’s sure God’s way, Daniel. Let’s—let’s go to the boy.”
THE WAY OF THE LOWER TRAIL
“FIX—the—light, as it was—please? That’s—it. Thank you, Doctor. How beautiful she is—how beautiful!” He seemed to gather strength, and looked carefully into the face of each member of the little group about the bed; the shepherd, Old Matt, Aunt Mollie, Pete, and the physician. Then he turned his eyes back to the painting. To the watchers, the girl in the picture, holding her brimming cup, seemed to smile back again.
“I loved her—I loved—her. She was my natural mate—my other self. I belonged to her—she to me. I—I can’t tell you of that summer—when we were together—alone in the hills—the beautiful hills—away from the sham and the ugliness of the world that men have made. The beauty and inspiration of it all I put into my pictures, and I knew because of that they were good—I knew they would win a place for me—and—they did. Most of all—I put it there,” (He pointed to the painting on the wall) “and the crowd saw it and felt it, and did not know what it was. But I knew—I knew—all the time, I knew. Oh!—if that short summer could have been lengthened—into years, what might I not have done? Oh, God! That men—can be—so blind—so blind!”
For a time he lay exhausted, his face still turned toward the picture, but with eyes closed as though he dreamed. Then suddenly, he started up again, raising himself on his elbows, his eyes opened wide, and on his face a look of wondering gladness. They drew near.
“Do—do—you—hear? She is calling—she is calling again. Yes—sweetheart—yes, dear. I—I am—com—”
Then, Old Matt and Aunt Mollie led the shepherd from the room.
And this way runs the trail that follows the lower level, where those who travel, as they go, look always over their shoulders with eyes of dread, and the gloomy shadows gather long before the day is done.
POOR PETE
THEY buried the artist in the cave as he had directed, close under the wall on the ledge above the cañon, with no stone or mark of any sort to fix the place. The old mine which he had discovered was reached by one of the side passages far below in the depth of the mountain. The grave would never be disturbed.
For two weeks longer, Dr. Coughlan staid with his friend; out on the hills with him all day, helping to cook their meals at the ranch, or sitting on the porch at the Matthews place when the day was gone. When the time finally came that he must go, the little physician said, as he grasped the shepherd’s hand, “You’re doing just right, Daniel; just right. Always did; always did. Blast it all! I would stay, too, but what would Sarah and the girls do? I’ll come again next spring, Daniel, sure, sure, if I’m alive. Don’t worry, no one will ever know. Blast it all! I don’t like to leave you, Daniel. Don’t like it at all. But you are right, right, Daniel.”
The old scholar stood in the doorway of his cabin to watch the wagon as it disappeared in the forest. He heard it rattle across the creek bottom below the ruined cabin under the bluff. He waited until from away up on Compton Ridge the sound of wheels came to him on the breeze that slipped down the mountain side. Still he waited, listening, listening, until there were only the voices of the forest and the bleating of the sheep in the corral. Slipping a book in his pocket, and taking a luncheon for himself and Pete he opened the corral gate and followed his flock to the hills.
All that summer Pete was the shepherd’s constant companion. At first he seemed not to understand. Frequently he would start off suddenly for the cave, only to return after a time, with that look of trouble upon his delicate face. Mr. Howitt tried to help the boy, and he appeared gradually to realize in part. Once he startled his old friend by saying quietly, “When are you goin’, Dad?”
“Going where? Where does Pete think Dad is going?”
The boy was lying on his back on the grassy hillside watching the clouds. He pointed upward, “There, where he went; up there in the white hills. Pete knows.”
The other looked long at the lad before answering quietly, “Dad does not know when he will go. But he is ready any time, now.”
“Pete says better not wait long, Dad; ‘cause Pete he’s a goin’ an’ course when he goes I’ve got to go ‘long. Do you reckon Dad can see Pete when he is up there in them white hills? Some folks used to laugh at Pete when he told abo
ut the white hills, the flower things, the sky things, an’ the moonlight things that play in the mists. An’ once a fellow called Pete a fool, an’ Young Matt he whipped him awful. But folks wasn’t really to blame, ‘cause they couldn’t see ‘em. That’s what he said. An’ he knew, ‘cause he could see ‘em too. But Aunt Mollie, an’ Uncle Matt, an’ you all, they don’t never laugh. They just say, ‘Pete knows.’ But they couldn’t see the flower things, or the tree things neither. Only he could see.”
The summer passed, and, when the blue gray haze took on the purple touch and all the woods and hills were dressed with cloth of gold, Pete went from the world in which he had never really belonged, nor had been at home. Mr. Howitt, writing to Dr. Coughlan of the boy’s death, said:
“Here and there among men, there are those who pause in the hurried rush to listen to the call of a life that is more real. How often have we seen them, David, jostled and ridiculed by their fellows, pushed aside and forgotten, as incompetent or unworthy. He who sees and hears too much is cursed for a dreamer, a fanatic, or a fool, by the mad mob, who, having eyes, see not, ears and hear not, and refuse to understand.
“We build temples and churches, but will not worship in them; we hire spiritual advisers, but refuse to heed them; we buy bibles, but will not read them; believing in God, we do not fear Him; acknowledging Christ, we neither follow nor obey Him. Only when we can no longer strive in the battle for earthly honors or material wealth, do we turn to the unseen but more enduring things of life; and, with ears deafened by the din of selfish war and cruel violence, and eyes blinded by the glare of passing pomp and folly, we strive to hear and see the things we have so long refused to consider.
“Pete knew a world unseen by us, and we, therefore, fancied ourselves wiser than he. The wind in the pines, the rustle of the leaves, the murmur of the brook, the growl of the thunder, and the voices of the night were all understood and answered by him. The flowers, the trees, the rocks, the hills, the clouds were to him, not lifeless things, but living friends, who laughed and wept with him as he was gay or sorrowful.
The Shepard of the Hills Page 21
