Produced by Don Lainson
EREMA; OR, MY FATHER'S SIN
By R. D. Blackmore
1877
CHAPTER I
A LOST LANDMARK
"The sins of the fathers upon the children, unto the third and fourthgeneration of them that hate me."
These are the words that have followed me always. This is the cursewhich has fallen on my life.
If I had not known my father, if I had not loved him, if I had notclosed his eyes in desert silence deeper than the silence of the grave,even if I could have buried and bewailed him duly, the common businessof this world and the universal carelessness might have led me down thegeneral track that leads to nothing.
Until my father fell and died I never dreamed that he could die. I knewthat his mind was quite made up to see me safe in my new home, and thenhimself to start again for still remoter solitudes. And when his mindwas thus made up, who had ever known him fail of it?
If ever a resolute man there was, that very man was my father. Andhe showed it now, in this the last and fatal act of his fatal life."Captain, here I leave you all," he shouted to the leader of our wagontrain, at a place where a dark, narrow gorge departed from the moilsomemountain track. "My reasons are my own; let no man trouble himselfabout them. All my baggage I leave with you. I have paid my share ofthe venture, and shall claim it at Sacramento. My little girl and I willtake this short-cut through the mountains."
"General!" answered the leader of our train, standing up on his board inamazement. "Forgive and forget, Sir; forgive and forget. What is a hotword spoken hotly? If not for your own sake, at least come back for thesake of your young daughter."
"A fair haven to you!" replied my father. He offered me his hand, andwe were out of sight of all that wearisome, drearisome, uncompanionablecompany with whom, for eight long weeks at least, we had been draggingour rough way. I had known in a moment that it must be so, for my fathernever argued. Argument, to his mind, was a very nice amusement for theweak. My spirits rose as he swung his bear-skin bag upon his shoulder,and the last sound of the laboring caravan groaned in the distance, andthe fresh air and the freedom of the mountains moved around us. It wasthe 29th of May--Oak-apple Day in England--and to my silly youth thisvast extent of snowy mountains was a nice place for a cool excursion.
Moreover, from day to day I had been in most wretched anxiety, so longas we remained with people who could not allow for us. My father, byhis calm reserve and dignity and largeness, had always, among Europeanpeople, kept himself secluded; but now in this rough life, so pent intrackless tracts, and pressed together by perpetual peril, every body'smanners had been growing free and easy. Every man had been compelled totell, as truly as he could, the story of his life thus far, to amusehis fellow-creatures--every man, I mean, of course, except my own poorfather. Some told their stories every evening, until we were quitetired--although they were never the same twice over; but my father couldnever be coaxed to say a syllable more than, "I was born, and I shalldie."
This made him very unpopular with the men, though all the women admiredit; and if any rough fellow could have seen a sign of fear, the speakerwould have been insulted. But his manner and the power of his look weresuch that, even after ardent spirits, no man saw fit to be rude to him.Nevertheless, there had always been the risk of some sad outrage.
"Erema," my father said to me, when the dust from the rear of thecaravan was lost behind a cloud of rocks, and we two stood in thewilderness alone--"do you know, my own Erema, why I bring you fromthem?"
"Father dear, how should I know? You have done it, and it must beright."
"It is not for their paltry insults. Child, you know what I think allthat. It is for you, my only child, that I am doing what now I do."
I looked up into his large, sad eyes without a word, in such a way thathe lifted me up in his arms and kissed me, as if I were a little childinstead of a maiden just fifteen. This he had never done before, andit made me a little frightened. He saw it, and spoke on the spur of thethought, though still with one arm round me.
"Perhaps you will live to be thankful, my dear, that you had a stern,cold father. So will you meet the world all the better; and, little one,you have a rough world to meet."
For a moment I was quite at a loss to account for my father's manner;but now, in looking back, it is so easy to see into things. At the timeI must have been surprised, and full of puzzled eagerness.
Not half so well can I recall the weakness, anguish, and exhaustion ofbody and spirit afterward. It may have been three days of wandering, orit may have been a week, or even more than that, for all that I can sayfor certain. Whether the time were long or short, it seemed as if itwould never end. My father believed that he knew the way to the houseof an old settler, at the western foot of the mountains, who had treatedhim kindly some years before, and with whom he meant to leave me untilhe had made arrangements elsewhere. If we had only gone straightwaythither, night-fall would have found us safe beneath that hospitableroof.
My father was vexed, as I well remember, at coming, as he thought, insight of some great landmark, and finding not a trace of it. Althoughhis will was so very strong, his temper was good about little things,and he never began to abuse all the world because he had made a mistakehimself.
"Erema," he said, "at this corner where we stand there ought to be avery large pine-tree in sight, or rather a great redwood-tree, at leasttwice as high as any tree that grows in Europe, or Africa even. From theplains it can be seen for a hundred miles or more. It stands higher upthe mountainside than any other tree of even half its size, and thatmakes it so conspicuous. My eyes must be failing me, from all thisglare; but it must be in sight. Can you see it now?"
"I see no tree of any kind whatever, but scrubby bushes and yellowtufts; and oh, father, I am so thirsty!"
"Naturally. But now look again. It stands on a ridge, the last ridgethat bars the view of all the lowland. It is a very straight tree, andregular, like a mighty column, except that on the northern side the windfrom the mountains has torn a gap in it. Are you sure that you can notsee it--a long way off, but conspicuous?"
"Father, I am sure that I can not see any tree half as large as abroomstick. Far or near, I see no tree."
"Then my eyes are better than my memory. We must cast back for a mile ortwo; but it can not make much difference."
"Through the dust and the sand?" I began to say; but a glance from himstopped my murmuring. And the next thing I can call to mind must havehappened a long time afterward.
Beyond all doubt, in this desolation, my father gave his life for mine.I did not know it at the time, nor had the faintest dream of it, beingso young and weary-worn, and obeying him by instinct. It is a fearfulthing to think of--now that I can think of it--but to save my own littleworthless life I must have drained every drop of water from his flathalf-gallon jar. The water was hot and the cork-hole sandy, and Igrumbled even while drinking it; and what must my father (who was dyingall the while for a drop, but never took one)--what must he have thoughtof me?
But he never said a word, so far as I remember; and that makes it allthe worse for me. We had strayed away into a dry, volcanic district ofthe mountains, where all the snow-rivers run out quite early; and ofnatural springs there was none forth-coming. All we had to guide us wasa little traveler's compass (whose needle stuck fast on the pivot withsand) and the glaring sun, when he came to sight behind the hot, dry,driving clouds. The clouds were very low, and flying almost in ourfaces, like vultures sweeping down on us. To me they seemed to shriekover our heads at the others rushing after them. But my father said thatthey could make no sound, and I never contradicted him.
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