Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1484
Suddenly two white forms came gliding across the waters. The face of one was that of a young girl. Golden hair clustered round the face and over the fair brow. The lips smiled with mournful sweetness. The other form seemed instinct with life. The face was that of a living, breathing girl, soulful, passionate, her arms outstretched, her eyes shining with a strange hopeful light.
Down, down, down he fell and sank through chill depths, falling slowly, falling softly. The cool waters passed; he floated through misty, shadowy space. An infinitude of silence enclosed him. Then a dim and sullen roar of waters came to his ears, borne faintly, then stronger, on a breeze that was not of earth. Anguish and despair tinged that sodden wind. Weird and terrible came a cry. Steaming, boiling, burning, rumbling chaos — a fearful rushing sullen water! Then a flash of light like a falling star sped out of the dark clouds.
Lane found himself sitting up in bed, wet and shaking. The room was dark. Some one was pounding on the door.
“Hello, Lane, are you there?” called a man’s deep voice.
“Yes. What’s wanted?” answered Lane.
The door opened wide, impelled by a powerful arm. Light from the hallway streamed in over the burly form of a man in a heavy coat. He stood in the doorway evidently trying to see.
“Sick in bed, hey?” he queried, with gruff kind voice.
“I guess I am. Who’re you?”
“I’m Joshua Iden and I’ve come to pack you out of here,” he said.
“No!” protested Lane, faintly.
“Your wife is downstairs in a taxi waiting,” went on his strange visitor.
“My wife!” whispered Lane.
“Yes. Mel Iden, my daughter. You’ve forgotten maybe, but she hasn’t. She learned to-day from Doctor Bronson how ill you were. And so she’s come to take you home.”
Mel Iden! The name seemed a part of the past. This was only another dream, thought Lane, and slowly fell back upon his bed.
“Say, aren’t you able to sit up?” queried this visitor Lane took for the spectre of a dream. He advanced into the room. He grasped Lane with firm hand. And then Lane realized this was no nightmare. He began to shake.
“Sit up?” he echoed, vaguely. “Sure I can.... You’re Mel’s father?”
“Yes,” replied the other. “Come, get out of this.... Well, you haven’t much dressing to do. And that’s good.... Steady there.”
As he rose, Lane would have fallen but for a quick move of Iden’s.
“Only shoes and coat,” said Lane, fumbling around. “They’re somewhere.”
“Here you are.... Let me help.... There. Have you an overcoat?”
“No,” replied Lane.
“Well, there’s a robe in the taxi. Come on now. I’ll come back and pack your belongings.”
He put an arm under Lane’s and led him out into the hall and down the dim stairway to the street. Under the yellow light Lane saw a cab, toward which Iden urged him. Lane knew that he moved, but he seemed not to have any feeling in his legs. The cabman put a hand back to open the door.
“Mel, here he is,” called out Iden, cheerfully.
Lane felt himself being pushed into the cab. His knees failed and he sank forward, even as he saw Mel’s face.
“Daren!” she cried, and caught him.
Then all went black.
CHAPTER XXI
LANE’S RETURN TO consciousness was an awakening into what seemed as unreal and unbelievable as any of his morbid dreams.
But he knew that his mind was clear. It did not take him a moment to realize from the feel of his body and the fact that he could not lift his hand that he had been prostrate a long time.
The room he lay in was strange to him. It had a neatness and cleanliness that spoke of a woman’s care. It had two small windows, one of which was open. Sunshine flooded in, and the twitter of swallows and hum of bees filled the air outside. Lane could scarcely believe his senses. A warm fragrance floated in. Spring! What struck Lane then most singularly was the fact of the silence. There were no city sounds. This was not the Iden home. Presently he heard soft footfalls downstairs, and a low voice, as of some one humming a tune. What then had happened?
As if in answer to his query there came from below a sound of heavy footfalls on a porch, the opening and closing of a door, a man’s cheery voice, and then steps on the stairs. The door opened and Doctor Bronson entered.
“Hello, Doc,” said Lane, in a very faint voice.
“Well, you son of a gun!” ejaculated the doctor, in delight. Then he called down the stairs. “Mel, come up here quick.”
Then came a low cry and a flying patter of light feet. Mel ran past the doctor into the room. To Lane she seemed to have grown along with the enchantments his old memories had invoked. With parted lips, eager-eyed, she flashed a look from Lane to Doctor Bronson and back again. Then she fell upon her knees by the bed.
“Do you know me?” she asked, her voice tremulous.
“Sure. You’re the wife — of a poor sick soldier — Daren Lane.”
“Oh, Doctor, he has come to,” cried Mel, in rapture.
“Fine. I’ve been expecting it every day,” said Doctor Bronson, rubbing his hands. “Now, Daren, you can listen all you want. But don’t try to talk. You’ve really been improving ever since we got you out here to the country. For a while I was worried about your mind. Lately, though, you showed signs of rationality. And now all’s O.K. In a few days we’ll have you sitting up.”
Doctor Bronson’s prophecy was more than fulfilled. From the hour of Lane’s return to consciousness, he made rapid improvement. Most of the time he slept and, upon awakening, he seemed to feel stronger. Lane had been ill often during the last eighteen months, but after this illness there was a difference, inasmuch as he began to make surprising strides toward recovery. Doctor Bronson was nonplussed, and elated. Mel seemed mute in her gratitude. Lane could have told them the reason for his improvement, but it was a secret he hid in his heart.
In less than a week he was up, walking round his little room, peering out of the windows.
Mel had told Lane the circumstances attending his illness. It had been late in February when she and her father had called for him at his lodgings. He had collapsed in the cab. They took him to the Iden home where he was severely ill during March. In April he began to improve, although he did not come to his senses. One day Mr. Iden brought Jacob Lane, an uncle of Lane’s, to see him. Lane’s uncle had been at odds with the family for many years. There had been a time when he had cared much for his nephew Daren. The visit had evidently revived the old man’s affection, for the result was that Jacob Lane offered Daren the use of a cottage and several acres of land on Sycamore River, just out of town. Joshua Iden had seen to the overhauling of the cottage; and as soon as the weather got warm, Doctor Bronson had consented to Lane’s removal to the country. And in a few days after his arrival at the cottage, Lane recovered consciousness.
“Well, this beats me,” said Lane, for the hundredth time. “Uncle Jake letting us have this farm. I thought he hated us all.”
“Daren, it was your going to war — and coming back — that you were ill and fell to so sad a plight. I think if your uncle had known, he’d have helped you.”
“Mel, I couldn’t ask anybody for help,” said Lane. “Don’t you understand that?”
“You were a stubborn fellow,” mused Mel.
“Me? Never. I’m the meekest of mortals.... Mel, I know every rock along the river here. This is just above where at flood time the Sycamore cuts across that rocky flat below, and makes a bad rapid. There’s a creek above and a big woods. I used to fish and hunt there a good deal.”
Two weeks passed by and Daren felt himself slowly but surely getting stronger. Every morning when he came down to breakfast he felt a little better, had a little more color in his pale cheeks. At first he could not eat, but as the days went by he regained an appetite which, to Mel’s delight, manifestly grew stronger. No woman could have been brighter and merrier. She laughed at the expression on his face when he saw her hands red from hot dish-water, and she would not allow him to help her. The boast she had made to him of her housekeeping abilities had not been an idle one. She prepared the meals and kept the cottage tidy, and went about other duties in a manner that showed she was thoroughly conversant with them.
The way in which she had absolutely put aside the past, her witty sallies and her innocent humor, her habit of singing while at work, the depth of her earnest conversation; in all, the sweet wholesome strength and beauty of her nature had a remarkable effect on Lane. He began to live again. It was simply impossible to be morbid in her presence. While he was with her he escaped from himself.
The day came when he felt strong enough to take a walk. He labored up the hillside toward a wood. Thereafter he went every day and walked farther every time.
With his returning strength there crept into his mind the dawning of a hope that he might get well. At first he denied it, denied even the conviction that he wished to live. But not long. The hope grew, and soon he found himself deliberately trying to build up his health. Every day he put a greater test upon himself, and as summer drew on he felt his strength gradually increasing. Against Doctor Bronson’s advice, he got an axe and set to work on the wood pile, very cautiously at first.
Every day he wielded the axe until from sheer exhaustion he could not lift it. Then he would sit on a log and pant and scorn his weakness. What a poor man it was who could not chop wood for ten minutes without getting out of breath! This pile of logs became to him a serious and meaning obstacle. Every morning he went at it doggedly. His back grew lame, his arms sore, his hands raw and blistered. But he did not give up.
Mel seemed happy to see him so occupied, and was loath to call him even when it was necessary. After lunch it was his habit to walk in the woods. Unmindful of weather, every day he climbed the hill, plunged into the woods, and tramped until late in the afternoon. Returning, he usually slept until Mel called him to dinner. Afterward they spent the evening in the little library. The past seemed buried. Lane’s curiosity as to family and friends had not reawakened.
Mel possessed a rich contralto voice which had been carefully cultivated. Every evening in the twilight, with only the flickering of the wood fire in the room, she would sit at the piano and sing. Lane would close his eyes and let the mellow voice charm his every sense. It called up his highest feelings; it lingered in his soul, thrilled along his heart and played on the chords of love and hope. It dispelled the heavy gloom that so often pressed down upon him; it vanquished the depression that was the forerunner of his old terrible black mood.
It came about that Lane spent most of his time outdoors, in the fields, along the river, on the wooded hills. The morbid brooding lost its hold on his mind, and in its place came memories, dreams, imaginations. He walked those hills with phantoms of the past and phantoms of his fancy.
The birds sang, the leaves fluttered, the wind rustled through the branches. White clouds sailed across the blue sky, a crow cawed from a hilltop, a hawk screeched from above, the roar of the river rapids came faintly upward. And Lane saw eyes gazing dreamily downward, thoughtful at a word, looking into life, trying to pierce the veil. It was all so beautiful — so terrible.
The peeping of frogs roused in Lane sensations thrilling and strange. The quick sharp notes were suggestive of cool nights, of flooded streams and marshy places. How often Lane wandered in the dusk along the shore to listen to this chorus!
At that hour twilight stole down; the dark hills rose to the pale blue sky; there was a fair star and a wisp of purple cloud; and the shadowy waters gleamed. Breaking into the trill of the frogs came the song of a lonely whippoorwill.
Lane felt a better spirit resurging. He felt the silence, the beauty, the mystery, the eternal that was there. All that was small and frail was passing from him. There came a regurgitation of physical strength — a change of blood.
The following morning while Lane was laboring over his wood pile, he thought he heard voices in the front yard, and presently Mel came around the walk accompanied by Doctor Wallace and Doctor Bronson.
“Well, Lane, glad to see you,” said Doctor Bronson, in his hearty tones. “Doctor Wallace and I are on our way to the Grange and thought we’d stop off a minute.”
“How are you, Mr. Lane? I see you’re taking work seriously,” put in Doctor Wallace, in his kindly way.
“Oh, I’m coming round all right,” replied Lane.
He stood there with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his face bronzed a little and now warm and moist from the exercise, with something proven about him, with a suggestion of a new force which made him different.
There was an unmistakable kindliness in the regard of both men and a scarcely veiled fear Lane was quick to read. Both men were afraid they would not find him as they had hoped to.
“Mel, you’ve chosen a charming location for a home,” observed Doctor Wallace.
When Mel was showing her old teacher and friend the garden and flowerbeds the practical Doctor Bronson asked Lane: “Did you chop all that wood?”
The doctor pointed to three long piles of wood, composed of short pieces regularly stacked one upon another.
“I did.”
“How long did it take you?”
“I’ve been weeks at it. That’s a long time, but you know, Doctor, I was in pretty poor condition. I had to go slow.”
“Well, you’ve done wonders. I want to tell you that. I hardly knew you. You’re still thin, but you’re gaining. I won’t say now what I think. Be careful of sudden or violent exertion. That’s all. You’ve done more than doctors can do.”
CHAPTER XXII
“MEL, COME HERE,” called Lane from the back porch, “who the deuce are those people coming down the hill?”
Mel shaded her eyes from the glare of the bright morning sun. “The lady is Miss Hill, my old schoolteacher. I’d know her as far as I could see her. Look how she carries her left arm. This is Saturday, for she has neither a lunch basket nor a prayer book in that outstretched hand. If you see Miss Hill without either you can be certain it’s Saturday. As to the gentleman — Daren, can it possibly be Colonel Pepper?”
“That’s the Colonel, sure as you’re alive,” declared Lane, with alacrity. “They must be coming here. Where else could they be making for? But Mel, for them to be together! Why, the Colonel’s an old sport, and she — Mel — you know Miss Hill!”
Whereupon Mel acquainted Daren with the circumstances of a romance between Miss Hill and the gallant Colonel.
“Well — of all things!” gasped Lane, and straightway became speechless.
“You’re right, Daren; they are coming in. Isn’t that nice of them? Now, don’t you dare show I told you anything. Miss Hill is so easily embarrassed. She’s the most sensitive woman I ever knew.”
Lane recovered in time to go through the cottage to the front porch and to hear Miss Hill greet Mel affectionately, and announce with the tone of a society woman that she had encountered Colonel Pepper on the way and had brought him along. Lane had met the little schoolteacher, but did not remember her as she appeared now, for she was no longer plain, and there was life and color in her face. And as for embarrassment, not a trace of it was evident in her bearing. According to Mel, the mere sight of man, much less of one of such repute as Colonel Pepper, would once have been sufficient to reduce Miss Hill to a trembling shadow.
But the Colonel! None of his courage manifested an appearance now. To Lane’s hearty welcome he mumbled some incoherent reply and mopped his moist red face. He was wonderfully and gorgeously arrayed in a new suit of light check, patent leather shoes, a tie almost as bright as his complexion, and he had a carnation in his buttonhole. This last proof of the Colonel’s mental condition was such an overwhelming shock to Lane that all he could do for a moment was stare. The Colonel saw the stare and it rendered him helpless.
Miss Hill came to the rescue with pleasant chat and most interesting news to the exiles. She had intended coming out to the cottage for ever so long, but the weather and one thing or another falling on a Saturday, had prevented until to-day. How pretty the little home! Did not the Colonel agree with her that it was so sweet, so cosy, and picturesquely situated? Did they have chickens? What pleasure to have chickens, and flowers, too! Of course they had heard about Mr. Harry White and the widow, about the dissension in Doctor Wallace’s church. And Margaret Maynard was far from well, and Helen Wrapp had gone back home to her mother, and Bessy Bell had grown into a tall ravishingly beautiful girl and had distracted her mother by refusing a millionaire, and seemed very much in love with young Dalrymple.
“And I’ve the worst class of girls I ever had,” went on Miss Hill. “The one I had last year was a class of angels compared to what I have now. I reproved one girl whose mother wrote me that as long as Middleville had preachers like Doctor Wallace and teachers like myself there wasn’t much chance of a girl being good. So I’m going to give up teaching.”
The little schoolmistress straightened up in her chair and looked severe. Colonel Pepper shifted uneasily, bent his glance for the hundredth time on his shiny shoes and once more had recourse to his huge handkerchief and heated brow.
“Well, Colonel, it seems good to see you once more,” put in Lane. “Tell me about yourself. How do you pass the time?”
“Same old story, Daren, same old way, a game of billiards now and then, and a little game of cards. But I’m more lonely than I used to be.”
“Why, you never were lonely!” exclaimed Lane.
“Oh, yes indeed I was, always,” protested the Colonel.
“A little game of cards,” mused Lane. “How well I remember! You used to have some pretty big games, too.”
“Er — yes — you see — once in a while, very seldom, just for fun,” he replied.
“How about your old weakness? Hope you’ve conquered that,” went on Lane, mercilessly.
The Colonel was thrown into utter confusion. And when Miss Hill turned terrible eyes upon him, poor Pepper looked as if he wanted to sink through the porch.
