Chapter VIII

"No chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous:
nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of
righteousness unto them that are exercised
thereby."--_Heb. 12:11_.

Rupert Ames had ridden all day, resting only at noon to permit his horse to graze. As for himself, he was not tired. The long pent-up energy had begun to escape, and it seemed that he could have ridden, or walked, or in any way worked hard for a long time without need of rest. Move, move he must. He had been dormant long enough; thinking, thinking, nothing but that for months. It would have driven him mad had he not made a change. Where was he going? No one knew; Rupert himself did not know; anywhere for a change; anywhere to get away, for a time, from the scenes and remembrances of the valley and town of Willowby.

At dark he rode into a village at the mouth of a gorge. Lights gleamed from the windows. A strong breeze came from the gorge, and the trees which lined the one stony street all leaned away from the mountain. Rupert had never been in the place before, but he had heard of Windtown. Was there a hotel? he asked a passer-by. No; but they took lodgers at Smith's, up the hill. At Smith's he, therefore, put up his horse and secured supper and bed. Until late at night he walked up and down Windtown's one street, and even climbed the cliffs above the town.

Next morning he was out early, and entered the canyon as the sun began to illumine its rocky domes and cast long shafts of light across the chasm. A summer morning ride through a canyon of the Rockies is always an inspiration, but Rupert was not conscious of it. Again, at noon, he fed his horse a bag of grain, and let him crop the scanty bunch-grass on the narrow hillside. A slice of bread from his pocket, dipped into the clear stream, was his own meal. Then, out of the canyon, and up the mountain, and over the divide he went. All that afternoon he rode over a stretch of sagebrush plain. It was nearly midnight when he stopped at a mining camp. In the morning he sold his horse for three twenty-dollar gold pieces, and with his bundle on his back, walked to the railroad station, a distance of seven miles.

"I want a ticket," said he to the man at the little glass window.

"Where to?"

"To--to--well, to Chicago."

The man looked suspiciously at Rupert, and then turned to a card hanging on the wall.

"Twenty-eight-fifty," he said.

Two of the gold pieces were shoved under the glass, and Rupert received his ticket and his change.

In the car, he secured a seat near the window that he might see the country. It was the same familiar mountains and streams all that day, but the next morning when he awoke and looked out of the car windows, a strange sight met his gaze. In every direction, as far as he could see, stretched the level prairie, over which the train sped in straight lines for miles and miles. "We must be in Kansas," he thought. "What a sight, to see so much level land."

But what was he going to do in Chicago? To see the world, to mingle in the crowd, to jostle with his fellow-beings--what else, he did not know.

Chicago! What a sight to the man of the mountains! Streets, houses, people and the continuous din and traffic of the city nearly turned his head for a time. What an ideal place in which to lose one's self. Rupert had a bundle no longer, but in his pocket just fifteen dollars and ten cents. He kept well out of the clutches of the sharpers in the city, and lived quite comfortably for a week, seeing the sights of the wonderful city. Then, when his money was getting low, he tried to get work, as he wished to remain longer. But Rupert was a farmer, and they were not in demand within the city limits. Outside the city, Rupert fell in with a body of travelers who were going West--walking, and riding on the trains when they had a chance. He joined them. Somehow, he had ceased to consider what his doings might lead to, and as for misgivings as to the company he was keeping, that did not trouble him. For many days there was more walking than riding. Rupert was not expert at swinging himself under the cars and hanging to the brakebeams, so he traveled with the more easy-going element, who slept in the haylofts at night and got what food they could from farmhouses, though Rupert hoarded his little store of money and usually paid for what he got. Then he lost all track of time. It must have been far into the summer when Rupert separated from his companions, and found himself at the base of the mountains. Here he spent his last cent for a loaf of bread.

That night Rupert felt a fever burning within him, and in the morning he was too weak to travel. He, therefore, lay in the hay which had served him for a bed until the sun shone in upon him; then he again tried to get out, but he trembled so that he crawled back into the loft and there lay the whole day. Towards evening he was driven out by the owner of the barn. Rupert staggered along until he came to another hayloft, which he succeeded in reaching without being seen. All that night he tossed in fever and suffered from the pains which racked his body. The next day a farmer found him, and seeing his condition, brought him some food. Then on he went again. His mind was now in a daze. Sometimes the mountains, the houses, and the fences became so jumbled together that he could not distinguish one from the other. Was he losing his mind? Or was it but the fever? Was the end coming?--and far from home, too--Home?--he had no home. One place was as good as another to him. He had no distinct recollection how he got to the usual hayloft, nor how long he lay there. It was one confused mass of pains and dreams and fantastic shapes. Then the fever must have burned out, for he awoke one night with a clear brain. Then he slept again.

On awakening next morning and crawling out, he saw the sun shining on the snow-tipped peaks of the mountains. He had dreamed during the night of his mother and Virginia and Nina, and the dream had impressed him deeply. His haggard face was covered with a short beard; his clothes were dirty, and some rents were getting large. Yes, he had reached the bottom. He could go no further. He was a tramp--a dirty tramp. He had got to the end of his rope. He would reach the mountains which he still loved, and there on some cliff he would lie down and die. He would do it--would do it!

All that day he walked. He asked not for food. He wanted nothing from any man. Alone he had come into the world, alone he would leave it. His face was set and hard. Up the mountain road he went, past farmhouse and village, up, farther up, until he reached a valley that looked like one he knew, but there was no town there, nothing but a level stretch of bench-land and a stream coursing down the lower part of the valley. Groves of pines extended over the foothills up towards the peaks. Up there he would go. Under the pines his bones would lie and bleach.

He left the wagon road, and followed a trail up the side of the hill. The sun was nearing the white mountain peaks. An autumn haze hung over the valley and made the distance dim and blue. The odor from the trees greeted him, and recalled memories of the time when, full of life and hope, he had roamed his native pine-clad hills. He was nearing home, anyway. The preacher had said that dying was only going home. If there was a hereafter, it could be no worse than the present; and if death ended all, well, his bones would rest in peace in this lone place. The wolf and the coyote might devour his flesh--let them--and their night howl would be his funeral dirge.

Far up, he went into the deepest of the forest. The noise of falling waters came to him as a distant hymn. He sat on the ground to rest, before he made his last climb. Mechanically, he took from his pocket a small book, his testament--his sole remaining bit of property. He opened it, and his eyes fell on some lines which he had penciled on the margin, seemingly, years and years ago. They ran as follows:

"'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up,
Whose golden rounds are our calamities."

And the passages to which they pointed read:

"My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord, nor faint
when thou art rebuked of him; for whom the Lord loveth he
chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. If ye
receive chastenings, God dealeth with you as with sons, for what
son is he whom the father chasteneth not?"

The book dropped from the reader's trembling grasp. It was then that the Angel of Mercy said, "It is enough," and touched the young man's heart. The long pent-up spring burst forth, and Rupert sobbed like a child. By a huge gray rock sheltered by the pines, he uttered his first prayer to God. For a full hour he prayed and wept, until a peaceful spirit overpowered him, and he slept.

Rupert awoke with a changed heart, though he was weak and faint. Evening was coming on and he saw the smoke curling from the chimney of a farmhouse half a mile below. Painfully, he made his way down to it.

A young man was feeding the cows for the night, and Rupert went up to him, and said:

"Good evening, sir; have you any objection to my sleeping in your barn tonight?"

The man eyed him closely. Tramps did not often come to his out-of-the-way place.

"Do you smoke?"

"No, sir."

"Then I have no objection, though I don't like tramps around the place."

"Thank you, sir."

The man moved off, but turned again. "Have you had any supper?" he asked.

"No; but I do not care for anything to eat, thank you."

"Strange tramp, that," said the man to himself, "not to want anything to eat. Well, go into the shanty and warm yourself, anyway."

In the shanty, Rupert found an old stove glowing with a hot fire, by the side of which he seated himself. The night was chilly in that high altitude, and Rupert spread out his palms to the warmth. Inside the house, he heard the rattle of dishes and the voices of women. Then strains of songs floated out to him, and he became an intent listener. Soon from out the humming came two sweet voices, singing. Rupert sat as one spellbound, as the song seemed to melt into his soul:

"O my Father, thou that dwellest
In the high and glorious place!
When shall I regain thy presence,
And again behold thy face?
In thy holy habitation,
Did my spirit once reside;
In my first primeval childhood,
Was I nurtured near thy side.

"For a wise and glorious purpose
Thou hast placed me here on earth,
And withheld the recollection
Of my former friends and birth;
Yet ofttimes a secret something
Whispered, You're a stranger here;
And I felt that I had wandered
From a more exalted sphere.

"I had learned to call thee Father,
Through thy Spirit from on high;
But until the Key of Knowledge
Was restored, I knew not why.
In the heavens are parents single?
No; the thought makes reason stare.
Truth is reason; truth eternal
Tells me I've a mother there.

"When I leave this frail existence,
When I lay this mortal by,
Father, mother, may I meet you
In your royal courts on high?
Then, at length, when I've completed
All you sent me forth to do,
With your mutual approbation
Let me come and dwell with you."

The door opened, and a young woman came out with a small tin pail in her hand. At sight of Rupert she gave a startled cry and backed to the door. Just then the young farmer passed through the shanty and explained that it was only a "traveler" warming himself. The young woman looked steadily at Rupert. The fire shone out from the open door of the stove, and the light danced on the rough board walls, throwing a halo of red around the girl.

"What a sweet picture," instantly thought Rupert.

Then she slowly advanced again, and, instead of pouring the contents of the pail into a larger dish as was her errand, she placed it on the table by Rupert, and said, smilingly:

"Vil you have a drink of varm milk?"

"Thank you, thank you."

Then she went back.

Warm milk! What could be more delicious? Rupert sipped the sweet fluid. How it invigorated him and surcharged him with new life. And given by such hands, with such a smile! It was a glimpse of past glories.

In the morning Rupert was asked if he wanted a job.

"Yes," was the answer.

"Can you work on a farm?"

"I've been a farmer all my life," was the reply. "I'm not a tramp, as you understand that term."

"Well, stay around today and I'll see what I can do. I want some help, but I cannot pay high wages."

"Never mind the wages," said Rupert, "we'll agree on that after a while."

The young farmer saw that he had no common tramp to deal with, although he looked rough and travel-stained.

"I have been sick for the past few days," explained Rupert, "and if you can trust me, I should like to rest up a bit before I go to work. I'm too weak to do you much good yet."

"That'll be all right," was the answer. "I see you need something to eat this morning, even if you weren't hungry last night. Come with me to the house."

So Rupert Ames remained with the farmer and did the chores around the house until he became stronger, when he helped with the harder work. He was treated kindly by them all, and it was not long before he mingled freely with the family.

During this time Rupert realized that his right senses, as he called them, were coming back to him, and every night he thanked God in vocal prayer for his deliverance from a dark pit which seemed to have yawned before him.

The Jansons were newcomers in the West, and had much to learn about farming. Mr. Janson was a Swede who had been in the country twenty years. His wife and her cousin were from Norway, the former having been in the country long enough to become Americanized; it was two years only since the latter had emigrated from her native land, so she spoke English with a foreign accent. Her name was Signe Dahl (first name pronounced in two syllables, Sig-ne). She attracted Rupert's attention from the first. She had a complexion of pink and white, blue eyes, soft, light hair; but it was not her peculiar beauty alone that attracted him. There was something else about her, an atmosphere of peace and assurance which Rupert could feel in her presence. Naturally, she was reticent at first, but on learning to know Rupert, which she seemed to do intuitively, she talked freely with him, and even seemed pleased with his company.

Two weeks went by, and Rupert proffered to remain with Mr. Janson and help him with his harvesting. The latter gladly accepted the offer, for he had by this time learned that Rupert Ames could give him many practical lessons in farming.

The song that Rupert heard that first evening continually rang in his ears. He remembered some of the words, and, as he thought of them, strange ideas came to him. One evening they were all sitting around the fire in the living room. Rupert had been telling them some of his history, and when the conversation lagged, he asked the two cousins to sing that song about "O my Father." They readily consented.

"A most beautiful song," said Rupert at its close; "and so strange. It seems to bring me back for an instant to some former existence, if that were possible. What does it mean:

'In thy holy habitation,
Did my spirit once reside;
In my first primeval childhood
Was I nurtured near thy side.'

"What does it mean?"

"Signe, you explain it," said Mr. Janson. "You know, you're a better preacher than I am."

Signe made no excuses, but went to the little bookshelf and took from it two books, her English and her Norwegian Bibles. She read for the most part from the English now, but she always had the more familiar one at hand to explain any doubtful passage.

"I vill do wat I can, Mr. Ames. I cannot read English good, so you must do de reading." She opened the book and pointed to the fourth verse of the thirty-eighth chapter of the book of Job. Rupert read:

"Where wast thou when I laid the foundation of the earth?
declare, if thou hast understanding. * * * When the morning
stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?"

"Yes," said the reader, "that is a great question, indeed. Where was Job? Why, he was not yet born."

"Who are de sons of God?" asked Signe.

"I suppose we--all of us, in a sense."

"Of course; and ve all shouted for joy when God He laid de foundation of de earth; so, ve must have been der, and known someting about it."

"Yes, but how could we? We were not yet born."

"No; not in dis world; but ve lived as spiritual children of our Fader in heaven."

"I don't know about that," remarked Rupert, doubtfully.

"Of course you don't. Dat's why I tell you."

They all smiled at that. Signe again turned the leaves of her Bible. "Read here," said she.

This time it was the first chapter of St. John. He read the first fourteen verses.

"Dat vil do; now read here." She returned to the sixth chapter, sixty-second verse, and he read:

"What and if ye see the Son of man ascend up to where He was before."

She turned to another. It was the twenty-eighth verse of chapter sixteen:

"I came forth from the Father, and am come into the world: again,
I leave the world and go to the Father."

Still she made him read one more, the fifth verse of the seventeenth chapter:

"And now, O Father, glorify thou me with thine own self with the
glory which I had with thee before the world was."

"Now, vat does it all mean, Mr. Ames?"

"I see your point, Miss Dahl. Christ certainly existed as an intelligent being before He came to this earth--yes, even before the world was."

"Certainly; our Savior vas himself as ve. He vas born, He had a body as ve, and He also had a spirit. God is de Fader of His spirit and it existed long ago, as you said. Christ is our Elder Broder. Ve are of de same family. If He existed before de vorld, why not ve? Dat's right, isn't it?"

"But couldn't Christ have been the only one who had a pre-existence? I believe something is said in your book about the Savior being the only begotten of the Father."

"Yes, in de flesh; dat is true, but God is de Fader of all spirits who have come to dis world to take a body. I can find you many passages to prove it."

"Well, I have never thought of these things before, but it must be true if the Bible means what it says. That's a grand principle, Mr. Janson."

"It certainly is, Mr. Ames. Many people object to it; but I cannot see, if we are to exist in a spiritual state after we leave this body, why we could not have existed before we entered it--but Signe, here, is the preacher. Her only trouble is with the w's and th's. She can't get them right yet."

Signe smiled. "No, Mr. Ames, I'm no preacher. It's all so plain to me. De Bible says ve have a Fader in heaven, and I believe it. I also believe ve have 'a moder der,' as de song says. I can't prove it from de book, but I just use my reason on dat."

It was a new experience for Rupert to hear a fair lady expound such doctrine. The whole thing charmed him, both the speaker and that which was spoken. A new light seemed to dawn upon him. What if this life was but a school, anyway, into which eternal souls were being sent to be proved, to be taught.

"Have you any other quotations on the subject?

"Oh, yes; it is full," said she. "When you get time read Heb. 12:9, Jer. 1:4-5, Eph. 1:3-5 and John 9:1-3. I do not remember more now."

Rupert took them down, and read them that night before he went to bed. And each day he saw a new horizon; and the sweet-faced Norwegian was not the least factor in this continued change of mental vision. "God bless her," he said to himself, "God has sent her to me for a purpose;" and he began to add to his prayers that he might so live that he would be worthy of the blessings which, seemingly, were coming his way.