The Vision of Elijah Berl Part 37

Her hand in Ralph's, she heard the story of Elijah's life redeemed in death. Tears welled from her eyes and fell silently down her cheeks.

Ralph was drawing her nearer; his arm was around her.

"I know all now, Helen." He would have said more but she checked him gently.

"No; you do not know all. I must tell you. I must." She was trying to free herself.

"I want you to tell me just one thing."

"I must. Then--" her eyes met his bravely.

He laid his fingers gently on her lips.

"I know what you would tell me, but I do not care to hear. I will not listen, Helen. Don't you believe that I know myself, that I know you?"

She hid her face in her hands.

"Ralph."

"Stop!" Ralph's voice was strong and commanding. "Every word you speak condemns me."

Slowly the hands dropped from the face that was now raised to his. The great, dark eyes were deep with questioning hope. The lips trembled with a smile that a breath would fan into life.

"I must obey my master."

Ralph's face was close to hers. His voice was low and strong.

"Then tell me that you love me."

"I love you. With all my heart and soul and strength, I love you."

Gently she put him aside.

"Let me go now, Ralph. I must be with Amy."

CHAPTER THIRTY

A woman was standing beside an iron gate all but hidden in a riotous growth of blossoming vines that opened upon a gra.s.s-grown mound.

"To the memory of Elijah Berl."

"He shall make the desert blossom as the rose"--was graven on the bronze plate.

Far below her, and on either side, instead of the bare, brown hillsides of a few, short years ago, grew rank on rank, leaves of glossy green, flecked with tawny gold. Here and there, red-tiled houses, their walls all but covered with climbing roses, stood at the head of marshalled groves. Shining lines moved out and in, where the waters of the Sangre de Cristo sank into the red earth and sprang upwards in fruit and flower. The air was resonant with happy bird notes that trilled from tree to tree as the tiny musicians with swelling throats poured out the happiness that their little bodies could not contain.

There was no longer the old-time harshness of the desert air, the sky was bluer, the sunlight softer. There was nothing that whispered of death, save the bronze tablet; even this spoke not so much of death as of triumph over it.

By the side of the grave stood a woman clad in somber black. Her robes were out of harmony with the inscription, the blossoming landscape; out of harmony with the soft, patient eyes, the rounded, tinted cheeks, the fluffy ma.s.ses of tawny hair. Not a line, not a wrinkle, not a gray thread told that the heart of Amy Berl was lying with her husband beneath the guarding bronze.

A tall, earnest faced boy was coming down the path, trying to preserve a dignified walk that was yet pulled into abrupt steps by a dancing, laughing girl who tugged at his outstretched arm.

"Mama," she cried, "Uncle Sid is waiting for you."

Amy slowly turned her eyes to the child, as if with an effort, then moved up the path. The boy was by his mother's side, walking evenly with her. The girl was dancing and skipping, now before them, now behind, dragging her mother to admire a new-blown rose, then starting off in vain chase of a rainbow-tinted lizard that skittered up a tree trunk, and, having reached a safe height, turned calmly and curiously towards its pursuer, and with palpitating throat and lazily blinking eyes, composed itself to rest.

Where the path opened out to the palm-bordered drive-way, the child abandoned her companions and, with a merry shout, clambered into the carriage with Uncle Sid. Before he was aware of her purpose, she had clutched the lines from his fingers and had snapped the drowsy horses into action. Uncle Sid regained his balance with difficulty.

"You pesky little jack-rabbit, you!" he growled. "Anybody'd know who your father was, with his eyes shut!"

Uncle Sid brought the horses to a halt and turned to Amy.

"You don't know of no orphan asylum nor no reform school, do you, where a respectable, steady-minded old sea captain could end his days in peace? Because if you do, I'm goin' to apply at once, if it takes me out of California. I'm gettin' used up. If Ralph jr. ain't got the colic an's a howlin' over it, he's cheerful, which is worse, an' when he does get to sleep, then Ralph an' Helen tackles the job right where he left off."

"You know you're always welcome here, Uncle Sid." Amy smiled at the old face that seemed to get no older in spite of his complaints.

"Yes," growled Uncle Sid, "to get yanked around by this bundle of electricity. The only thing that's restsome here, is that boy. Ain't you got no dance in your shanks?" Uncle Sid flicked his whip threateningly at the boy, who skipped aside smiling. "That's right. You keep it up till you've skipped the whole kit an' kerboodle into this wagon, an'

I'll take the lot o' you to Palm Wells. That's what I'm here for."

They drove over a winding, palm-bordered road, through spicy orange groves, through ragged-barked, spindling groups of eucalyptus, and drew up before the doors of the Palm Wells cottage.

Ralph and Helen came out to meet their guests. Perhaps Ralph would have chosen to be more dignified in the welcoming of his friends, but a wriggling, crowing ma.s.s of pink and white prevented him.

"There he is!" groaned Uncle Sid. "There he is! The most wonderful thing in the whole world, exceptin' sixty hundred millions more just like him.

He can't talk Latin nor Greek, nor anythin' but "googoo," when he's happy, an' "yow" when his feelin's are troublin' him, an' he don't know any better'n to play horse with his daddy's transit when he finds it lyin' round loose, just like any other good-for-nuthin' baby."

Published by LITTLE, BROWN, & CO.

MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN

_A Spell-binding Creation_

By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of "Anna the Adventuress," etc.

Deals with an intrigue of international moment--the fomenting of a war between Great Britain and Germany and the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy in France as a consequence. Intensely readable for the dramatic force with which the story is told, the absolute originality of the underlying creative thought, and the strength of all the men and women who fill the pages.--_Pittsburg Times._

Not for long has so good a story of the kind been published, and the book is the more commendable because the literary quality of its construction has not been slighted.--_Chicago Record-Herald._