The Hills of Refuge Part 19

He all but reached out his hands toward her in a strange, bold impulse to take her into his arms, but checked himself and stood aghast as he contemplated the catastrophe which might have followed such an unwarranted act. Had he subconsciously leaped back to the free period before his downfall, or, as a regenerated man, had he for an instant felt himself to be on her level? Ah no, it was the kinship again--the kinship of suffering souls.

"I'm sure of it," he repeated. "If I thought otherwise I'd see no good in life at all. Men deserve punishment for the wrong they do, but gentle girls like you must not suffer for the mistakes of men. It will pa.s.s over--your cloud will blow away."

"Oh, oh!" and she put her hands to her dry eyes while her shoulders shook. "I hope--you make me hope a little, somehow--that what you say may be true. You comfort me more than everybody else put together. It is your way, your voice, your look. You are a good, kind man, Mr. Brown.

How strange that you came just when you did! I'll try to be braver. I'll try to stop thinking that every approaching person on the road is coming to tell me the worst."

"That is right," he said.

"And would you pray--would you continue to pray?" she asked, with the timid simplicity of a child groping in the dark.

Their eyes met steadily. "I don't know how to advise you as to that," he said, after a pause full of thought. "I must confess that I am not religious. I used to pray, as a child, but I don't now."

"Well, I shall keep it up," she said, quietly. "There are moments when it seems to help. I prayed to be allowed to sleep this morning, and I did. You see, I need the strength. If I go to pieces all may be lost, for my father can do nothing."

She turned back to the house. The rain had ceased, though the clouds were still thick and lowering. The forge blazed again; the anvil rang as he pounded the yielding steel into shape. He had forgotten himself and his past; the new existence was buoying him up again. Nothing mattered but the woes which had come to Mary Rowland and the necessity of his shouldering them--fighting them.

When the bell rang for lunch he went into the house. He found Mary in the dining-room, packing some food into a basket.

"It is for the boys," she explained. "I am glad it is clearing up, for I must take it to them."

"You?" he cried, in surprise.

"Yes," she made answer, simply. "Father and I are the only ones who know where the boys are. Father is in town now to wait for news and to attend to some business with Mr. Frazier at the bank. Father would not want me to go, but some one must."

"Might I not go in your place?" he asked, and he actually held his breath while he waited for her reply.

"You don't know the way," she said. "It is hard even for me to find."

He looked at the heavy basket. "But you can't carry that by yourself.

May I not carry it for you?"

She glanced at him gratefully. "Would you really care to go?" she inquired. "It is a long walk, and difficult even in dry weather."

"Please!" he said. "You ought not to go alone."

"Thank you; but first get your dinner. I don't want any. I have only just eaten my breakfast."

When they started out, half an hour later, the clouds had lifted somewhat, though they were still full of rain. They went through the barn-yard, climbed over the rail fence, and entered the near-by thicket, which stretched on into the sloping woodland of the mountains. The wet weeds and gra.s.s were already dampening her shoes, and, noting it, he paused suddenly.

"You really ought not to expose yourself this way," he protested. "Your feet will be soaked in a very short time."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "Nothing matters, Mr. Brown, but the fate that hangs over my brothers. I think I could wade in water up to my knees for days at a time and not be conscious of discomfort. It isn't one's body that feels the greatest pain, it is the mind, the soul, the memory. The pain comes from the futility of hoping. Life is a tragedy, isn't it?"

"Yes and no," he answered, smiling into her expectant, upturned face, the beauty of which had deepened under her gloom. "I have thought so at times, but there were always rifts in my clouds. There will be in yours."

"How sweet and n.o.ble of you!" she said, tremulously, in her emotion.

Suddenly he saw that she was studying his face closely, feature by feature. Then she continued, as one rendering a verdict: "Yes, you have suffered. I see the traces of it. It lurks in the tone of your voice; it shows itself in your sympathy for me."

Without revealing his new-found pa.s.sion for her, which surged within him like a raging torrent, there was nothing he could say. Presently they came to a brook several yards in width and he could see no means of crossing it. She was disturbed for a moment, but to her surprise he stepped into the shallow water, took the basket to the other side and, wet to his knees, came wading back to her.

"You must let me carry you across," he said, smiling.

"No, I'm too heavy." She shook her head.

"I could carry one of you under each arm," he jested. "Come!" He held out his hands. She hesitated. A touch of pink colored her cheeks, and then she came into his arms.

"There," he directed, as he lifted her up, "put your arm around my neck and lean toward me. Don't be afraid. That's right. I must be steady, you know, for there are round stones under my feet, and if I slipped we'd both go down."

Reaching the other side, he put her down and took up the basket. His heart was beating like a trip-hammer. The flush was still on Mary's face.

"You carried me as if I were a baby," she said. "How very strong you are! I could feel the muscles of your arms like knotted ropes. What an odd mixture you are!"

"In what way?" he asked, as they moved on side by side.

"I hardly know," she answered. "Well, for one thing, you seem out of place as a common workman in the fields. You have the manner, the way of--" She broke off, and the flush in her cheeks deepened.

"I've been several things," he admitted, with a sigh. "I ought to know something of life, for I've had many experiences."

"I was in your room this morning," she said. "It is a desolate place for a man of your temperament. I must fix it up. The attic is full of old things--curtains, pictures, and even books. You must be lonely at times.

I noticed a photograph on your bureau in a frame. It was that of a child, a beautiful little girl. She was so refined-looking, and so daintily dressed. She resembled you, about the eyes and brow."

Charles stared fixedly. He looked confused. "Yes, I think we do look alike," he finally replied. Probably she expected him to say more, but how was it possible to explain?

"I think I understand," she said, almost in an undertone, as she strode on ahead of him. "I now know why you look homesick at times. You must miss her."

He saw that she did not fathom the truth about the child, but he was not prepared for an adequate explanation and so he remained silent. However, the girl was making deductions.

"It must be," she thought, as she forged her way through the damp bushes still ahead of him. "It is his child. His wife must be living and they are separated, or he would speak of her. Poor fellow!"

CHAPTER IX

For four miles they walked over very uneven, rocky ground. Deeper and deeper they went into the mountains. There were hills to climb in places where there was no sign of path or road; there were yawning gulches to cross; dank, stream-filled canons filled with dead and leaning trees to pa.s.s through. He felt that she was leading him aright, for her step was firm and her progress rapid and sure. Now and then she would look at the western sky where the presence of the sun was indicated by a somewhat brighter spot than the rest of the dun expanse.

"We really must hurry," she kept saying, "for we'll be overtaken by night on our return if we don't get to them pretty soon."

"Have you a landmark to guide you?" he asked.

"Yes, there to the left. Do you see that mountain peak? Well, their hiding-place--it is a little cave they know about--is in the thick jungle at the foot of it, on this side. We can't go all the way in. It would be impossible. I shall get nearer and whistle for them to come out. They know my whistle. They taught me how to do it when I was little. It is like this," and she clasped her hands together tightly, leaving an orifice between the thumbs into which she blew her breath sharply. A keen whistle was produced. "There is no mistaking it," she continued. "They would know it anywhere. Every pair of hands makes a different sound."

Half an hour later they were on the edge of the dense jungle of which she had spoken. A veritable riot of dank undergrowth was ma.s.sed beneath giant trees and around green, moss-grown boulders. The greater part of it was a miasmatic swamp, the boggy soil of which could not be walked upon with safety even in dry weather. Mary paused on a spot where the ground was firm and folded her hands. "Be still and listen," she said.

"If they are there, they will answer. They will know that I'd not whistle if it were not safe."

The flutelike note rose on the still air; it was echoed from a near-by cliff and died down. No sound followed. Mary looked perplexed, worried.

She whistled again. This time a distant whistle caught up the echo. It was a coa.r.s.er tone than hers but produced in the same way.