by Zane Grey
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 today. 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 th
ey 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.
Lane took pity on him and carried him off to the garden and the river bank, where he became himself again.
They talked for a while, but neither mentioned the subject that had once drawn them together. For both of them a different life had begun.
A little while afterward Mel and Lane watched the bright figure and the slight dark one go up the hillside cityward.
“What do you know about that!” ejaculated Lane for the tenth time.
“Hush!” said Mel, and she touched his lips with a soft exquisite gesture.
At three o’clock one June afternoon Mel and Daren were lounging on a mossy bank that lined the shady side of a clear rapid-running brook. A canoe was pulled up on the grass below them. With an expression of utter content, Lane was leaning over the brook absorbed in the contemplation of a piece of thread which was tied to a crooked stick he held in his hand. He had gone back to his boyhood days. Just then the greatest happiness on earth was the outwitting of bright-sided minnows and golden flecked sunfish. Mel sat nearby with her lap full of flowers which she had gathered in the long grass and was now arranging. She was dressed in blue; a sunbonnet slipped back from her head; her glossy hair waved in the breeze. She looked as fresh as a violet.
“Well, Daren, we have spent four delightful, happy hours. How time flies! But it’s growing late and we must go,” said Mel.
“Wait a minute or two,” replied Lane. “I’ll catch this fellow. See him bite! He’s cunning. He’s taken my bait time and again, but I’ll get him. There! See him run with the line. It’s a big sunfish!”
“How do you know? You haven’t seen him.”
“I can tell by the way he bites. Ha! I’ve got him now,” cried Lane, giving a quick jerk. There was a splash and he pulled out a squirming eel.
“Ugh! The nasty thing!” cried Mel, jumping up. Lane had flung the eel back on the bank and it just missed falling into Mel’s lap. She screamed, and then when safely out of the way she laughed at the disgust in his face.
“So it was a big sunfish? My! What a disillusion! So much for a man’s boastful knowledge.”
“Well, if it isn’t a slimy old eel. There! be off with you; go back into the water,” said Lane, as he shook the eel free from the hook.
“Come, we must be starting.”
He pushed the canoe into the brook, helped Mel to a seat in the bow and shoved off. In some places the stream was only a few feet wide, but there was enough room and water for the light craft and it went skimming along. The brook turned through the woods and twisted through the meadows, sometimes lying cool and dark in the shade and again shining in the sunlight. Often Lane would have to duck his head to get under the alders and willows. Here in an overshadowed bend of the stream a heron rose lumbering from his weedy retreat and winged his slow flight away out of sight; a water wagtail, that cunning sentinel of the brooks, gave a startled tweet! tweet! and went flitting like a gray streak of light round the bend.
“Daren, please don’t be so energetic,” said Mel, nervously.
“I’m strong as a horse now. I’m—hello! What’s that?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I imagined I heard a laugh or shout.”
The stream was widening now as it neared its mouth. Lane was sending the canoe along swiftly with vigorous strokes. It passed under a water-gate, round a quick turn in the stream, where a bridge spanned it, and before Lane had a suspicion of anything unusual he was right upon a merry picnic party. There were young men and girls resting on the banks and several sitting on the bridge. Automobiles were parked back on the bank.
Lane swore under his breath. He recognized Margaret, Dick Swann and several other old-time acquaintances and friends of Mel’s.
“Who is it?” asked Mel. Her back was turned. She did not look round, though she heard voices.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Lane, calmly.
He would have given the world to spare Mel the ordeal before her, but that was impossible. He put more power into his stroke and the canoe shot ahead.
It passed under the bridge, not twenty feet from Margaret Swann. There was a strange, eager, wondering look in Margaret’s clear eyes as she recognized Mel. Then she seemed to be swallowed up by the green willows.
“That was damned annoying,” muttered Lane to himself. He could have met them all face to face without being affected, but he realized how painful this meeting must be to Mel. These were Mel’s old friends. He had caught Margaret’s glance. Old memories came surging back. His gaze returned to Mel. Her face was grave and sad; her eyes had darkened, and there was a shadow in them. His glance sought the green-lined channel ahead. The canoe cut the placid water, turned the last bend, and glided into the swift river. Soon Lane saw the little cottage shining white in the light of the setting sun.
One afternoon, as Lane was returning from the woods, he met a car coming out of the grassy road that led down to his cottage. As he was about to step aside, a gay voice hailed him. He waited. The car came on. It contained Holt Dalrymple and Bessy Bell.
“Say, don’t you dodge us,” called Holt.
“Daren Lane!” screamed Bessy.
Then the car halted, and with two strides Lane found himself face to face with the young friends he had not seen for months. Holt appeared a man now. And Bessy—no longer with bobbed hair—older, taller, changed incalculably, struck him as having fulfilled her girlish promise of character and beauty. “Well, it’s good to see you youngsters”, said Lane, as he shook hands with them.
Holt seemed trying to hide emotion. But Bessy, after that first scream, sat staring at Lane with a growing comprehending light in her purple eyes.
Suddenly she burst out. “Daren—you’re well!.… Oh, how glad I am! Holt, just look at him.”
“I’m looking, Bess. And if he’s really Daren Lane, I’ll eat him,” responded Holt.
“This is all I needed to make today the happiest day of my life,” said Bessy, with serious sweetness.
“This? Do you mean meeting me? I’m greatly flattered, Bessy,” said Lane, with a smile.
Then both a blush and a glow made her radiant.
“Daren, I’m sixteen today. Holt and I are—we’re engaged I told mother, and expected a row.
She was really pleased.… And then seeing you well again. Why, Daren, you’ve actually got color. Then Holt has been given a splendid business opportunity.… And—Oh! it’s all too good to be true.”
“Well, of all things!” cried Lane, when he had a chance to speak. “You two engaged! I—I could never tell you how glad I am.” Lane felt that he could have hugged them both. “I congratulate you with all my heart. Now Holt—Bessy, make a go of it. You’re the luckiest kids in the world.”
“Daren, we’ve both had our fling and we’ve both been hurt,” said Bessy, seriously. “And you bet we know how lucky we are—and what we owe Daren Lane for our happiness today.”
“Bessy, that means a great deal to me,” replied Lane, earnestly. “I know you’ll be happy. You have everything to live for. Just be true to yourself.”
So the moment of feeling passed.
“We went down to your place,” said Holt, “and stayed a while waiting for you.”
“Daren, I think Mel is lovely. May I not come often to see you both?” added Bessy.
“You know how pleased we’ll be.… Bessy, do you ever see my sister Lorna?” asked Lane, hesitantly.
“Yes, I see her now and then. Only the other day I met her in a store. Daren, she’s getting some sense. She has a better position now. And she said she was not going with any fellow but Harry.”
“And my mother?” Lane went on.
“She is quite well, Lorna said. And they are getting along well now. Lorna hinted that a relative—an uncle, I think, was helping them.”