Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

A sudden hush fell upon all the people at the wharf as they came down. With her gray hair blown about in strands, her eyes fever-bright, and her breath coming quick and short, paying no heed to any one, the widow Aber glided silently among them, like an apparition. Unconscious of every thing but the ship, even then in the mouth of the harbor, she stood, her face so thin and worn, all quivering with excitement, and her pale lips moving constantly with some inarticulate sound. Once or twice she stretched out her trembling hands toward the vessel, then, gathering her shawl, held them tight against her breast, as if she would keep down the throbbing of her heart. Frail and shadowy, she seemed hardly human, as she waited, with her garments fluttering in the bitter wind, with her very soul reaching, struggling, looking out eagerly in her gray eyes.

Slowly the ship sailed up the harbor, slowly it reached the dock, and after almost two years’ wandering, the Nereid rested once more in her native waters. As the boat touched the wharf, Hannah had taken her mother’s arm, perhaps that she might hold her back, but Miriam made no effort to move. The girl could feel her trembling, trembling, but she only put up her hand unsteadily and brushed the hair away from her face.

Too well Hannah knew poor Tom would not be there, and, as through a mist, she saw the sailors swing themselves down. In the dreadful trouble that had come upon her, she had almost forgotten Luke. During all these weeks of anguish she had thought only of her mother, but this morning the strain had been too severe. She had given up the battle, and now waited stonily; she would have waited on all day, when Miriam, suddenly breaking loose from her, in a voice half stifled by a wild delight, cried,—

“O, Tommy, my boy, my only boy!”

It was Luke that stood beside her, whom she had strangely mistaken for her son. She would have fallen to the ground had he not caught her in his arms. Unable to speak for a moment, she clung to him trembling violently. Clasping her hands tight about his neck, she closed her eyes, and, with a quivering sigh, laid her head against his shoulder. Hannah, looking at Luke quickly, made a gesture that kept him silent, then Miriam, without moving, said, brokenly,—

“I have waited for you, Tommy. It was such a long, long time, but I knew you would come—”

She paused, while a slight struggle in her breath escaped, like a sob, from her lips, then went on once more still in an unsteady tone,—

“I am so glad, so glad! I am well and strong, Tommy. I feel a little tired now, but I am well and strong. You will never leave me, never leave me any more—”

There was another feeble struggle in her throat; then when she spoke again, her voice, growing fainter at every effort, seemed to come from some far-off distance, drifting in to them as from the desert spaces of an illimitable sea.

“Do not let me go. It is cold, and the wind—Hark! Listen, oh listen how sweet and soft the waters wash! Hold me close, Tommy. I am weary. Why, it is Summer! Look! see the land, the foreign land! Stay, Tommy, I am tired—so tired—”

Her head had drooped back heavily on the man’s arm, but her lips still moved, and suddenly her face lighted up with a radiant smile.

“Nearer,—come nearer—How bright the sunlight shines upon your face! Tommy, my boy—my sailor boy—”

So, on that bleak March morning when the Nereid came in, Miriam had indeed gone to meet her son, her sailor son, on that far, far off foreign shore that is girdled by the mightier ocean of eternity.

REINHART, THE GERMAN.

Poor Reinhart! He certainly was a brilliant fellow. Even the German Professors overlooked his English origin, and felt proud of him. Probably they argued that if he was born in Yorkshire, it was not his fault. And, besides, as the name showed, his family, no matter where they had since strayed, must have been, at some period of the past, true children of the Fatherland.

As far as he was concerned, he seemed to have very little attachment for his native country. Indeed, he never evinced very much of an attachment for any place or any body. We had been together the greater part of ten years. He possessed a singular influence over me. I hardly know what I would not have done for Reinhart. But he was in disposition not the least demonstrative; and whether he ever saw any attraction in me, I can not tell. I simply imagined so, because time wore away without drifting us apart.

A profound interest in metaphysics absorbed his whole being; and through this channel he had crept into the good graces of the college authorities. During his long study upon this subject, he had woven about himself all the labyrinthine meshes of the subtile German philosophy. Though only a tutor of twenty-five, the doctors of metaphysics touched their hats to him; all the students bowed before him; and I—I felt sorry for him.

Why? I can hardly tell. But he had grown thin and pale and nervous within the last year; and I could not help wishing that all Germany was as ignorant of psychology as in the days when the Suabians danced their dryad dances upon the very spot where now the great University lifted up its towers—this great University whose walls were built not of stone from the quarry, but of the labors of many lives, some of whose proudest pinnacles, reaching into a light of dazzling splendor, had been reared only by the everlasting sacrifice of reason.

A vague idea had floated into my mind, but so very terrible it was that I had never dared acknowledge its existence even to myself; nevertheless, it oppressed me constantly. Finally, it grew into such a burden that I could bear it no longer, and so made up my mind to do what little I could to relieve myself at any rate. A plan occurred to me whereby I might accomplish my chief design, which was to draw him away from this study that was consuming him; to draw him away from his myriad theories into life. But before I had said a word, while I was still meditating how it could best be done, Reinhart settled the trouble himself.

I never was more astonished or more pleased than when he proposed the very thing I had been trying to broach, that the two of us should spend the next six months in traveling. What had suggested it to him, or what his reasons were, I never asked. Had _he_ any suspicions of this strange fancy that I would not admit to myself, and yet had been vainly striving to drive from my mind? Since then I have sometimes thought so, and sometimes thought not. To the proposition I consented eagerly, and did my best in hastening all the arrangements; therefore no time was lost before we found ourselves _en route_ for the south of Europe.

As I have said, Reinhart was not in the least demonstrative. Very likely his natural reserve had been greatly increased by his sedentary life. But I noticed, early in our trip, that he seemed laboring to throw off his abstracted manner. I felt encouraged, notwithstanding I knew it was an effort to him, and determined, not only that he should see something of the world, but, what would be of much more benefit, that he should see something of society.

In the beautiful Italian scenery my own spirits rose perceptibly. The great load which had been burdening me lessened and finally raised itself altogether, as I saw this shadow of the German University that had been resting on my companion break. But I know now I was mistaken. It was only the battalion preparing for action; the marshalling of the forces before the conflict.

It had been almost a month since we left Germany. Many of the English and American gentlemen residing in Florence had shown us not only attention but hospitality. One thing I noticed quickly that Reinhart cared almost nothing for the society of ladies. He endured it; never sought it. The most beautiful faces he would pass without any notice, or with merely an indifferent glance. I was sorry for this, because here was a channel, I had thought, wherein might be turned the current of his existence.

With this subject still uppermost in my mind, I determined one morning I would bring my sounding-line into play, if it were only on account of my own satisfaction. We were sitting upon the deep sill of the open window, smoking our cigars and enjoying the utter tranquillity of the southern day, when I asked, indifferently, as if the question had been wholly unpremeditated,—

“Reinhart, were you ever in love?”

He looked up quickly, waited a moment, as though at first he had not exactly understood, then answered,—

“No.”

Now, I knew very well he never had been; for, as I have said, the last ten years we had spent together; but at present I was bent upon the intent of discovering what probability there was that such a catastrophe could ever be brought about; so I said again,—

“Reinhart, do you think you _ever will_ be in love?”

I expected a repetition of my former answer, but, to my surprise, without any hesitation, he replied,—

“Yes.”

“Indeed!” I gasped, with my breath almost gone,—“and when may it come to pass?”

Looking up, I dropped the tone of raillery I had been using immediately, for I saw it was a serious matter to him; and overcome by astonishment, I subsided into complete silence.

The perfume of roses came in on the breeze, and a scarlet-cloaked flower-girl carrying her wares, the only person on the street, turned out of sight. A small bird, with red plumes in its wings, lighted nearly within reach, upon the tree, and broke into song, but, checking the strain almost in the first note, it flew away, settling, a mere speck, upon the northern spire of the Cathedral. Then Reinhart said, as though there had been no pause in the conversation,—

“I do not know; it may never come in this life.”

I looked at him, thoroughly puzzled, almost frightened. Then, thinking perhaps I had not heard aright, said,—“What?” But, without heeding my interrogation, he continued,—

“Perhaps it never will come in this life.”

Yes, I had heard aright. Possibly we were each talking of different things; and as a last resource, I said,—

“Perhaps _what_ will never come in this life?”

“Why, love,” he replied, making a slight gesture of impatience, as though I had been unpardonably dull.

“But,” I persisted, determined to understand, “then it will never be at all, for they neither marry nor are given in marriage in the next world.”

“No,” he repeated, “they ‘neither marry nor are given in marriage.’” He said the words over slowly but mechanically, exactly as if he might have said, or thought, the same words over a hundred times before.

That he believed in the immortality of the soul, I quite well knew, for it was the one shoot of his English education, which, springing in early boyhood, had survived, like a foreign plant, amid all the German sophisms. I did not like the strange aspect of his face, and, somewhat ill at ease, I said,—

“Then, what do you mean?” I waited a moment for the answer.

“I can hardly tell you. I have always had a theory of my own—no, not a theory, a belief. I have never undertaken to express it in language, and do not know whether I can render myself intelligible. I think every soul has somewhere in the universe an affinity—I am obliged to use the word for lack of a better one—and I believe that before complete happiness can be attained the two are merged into one. It is not marriage: that is purely earthly. These affinities may possibly meet in this life, though it is hardly probable; but in the ages to come it will occur just as certainly as there is an eternity. Mind, I do not call it marriage. It is the fusing together of two souls, a masculine and feminine, just as they combine chemicals, producing a new substance. I believe, as I said, these two souls may sometimes meet in this life; but it is a destiny that comes to few in centuries, and those few should kneel in everlasting gratitude before their Creator.”

When Reinhart ceased speaking, I could see that he had worked himself almost into a fever, for his eyes were bright and restless, and the blood surged in waves across his usually colorless face. With a rough hand, I had struck the chord whose undecided vibrations had, a month ago, appalled me. The great burden which had so oppressed me settled down again heavier than before. It was not so much what he had said as the expression of his face that filled me anew with anxiety. And struggling under this burden, I made a poor attempt to laugh the matter off.

“Reinhart, this is some of your German metaphysics.”

“No; though you are at liberty to call it what you please; but I have never read such a theory in any place.”

“Well, it is an absurd idea,” I retorted, “and sounds exactly like some of your humbug philosophers, who never believe in any thing but fantasies; and I would advise you to let them alone.”

This was hardly wise on my part. I should not have allowed myself to express any impatience when I saw it excited him, and only augmented what I was striving to allay. The blood rushed again over his face, but he said nothing; only, rising from his seat, he walked several times across the room.

In the silence that followed, a strain of joyful music broke suddenly upon us. It was the swell of the Cathedral organ, sounding a prelude for some wedding. But if the strain was ever finished, we did not hear it, for the next moment a crash of terrific discord drowned the music, shaking the very ground. Some object flew swiftly past my face, struck the wall and fell upon the floor. I sprang up and shut the window quickly. Half the sky was covered with a black cloud, and from the carpet at my feet I picked up a dead bird, a small bird with red plumes in its wings.

The storm passed over in less than half an hour, leaving the sky perfectly clear again; but for the remainder of the day I could not recover my spirits. Whether Reinhart suffered from a like oppression, I know not; but he seemed possessed by the very demon of unrest. He was not still a moment. He had little to say; and quite late in the evening proposed a walk. Without any remark upon the unusual hour, I acquiesced.

The night was quiet and beautiful, beautiful even for that southern clime. There was no moon, and still the sky was filled with a soft light, brighter than the trembling rays of the stars alone. I remember it because it was a peculiar luminous haze, that I had seen only in Italy, and because, though no clouds swept over the sky, and the haze never paled until lost in the crimson glow of morning, that night, to me, was the blackest night of my life, whose vision sometimes yet rises before me, even at noon-day, with appalling reality. Ah! why were the sky and stars beautiful? O, cruel sky! O, cruel stars! Was the sorrow on earth nothing to you, that you gave no warning?

We had walked perhaps two squares, when Reinhart stopped just as suddenly as if he might have come in contact with a stone wall, invisible to me. Alarmed, I said, quickly, “What is the matter? Are you ill?”

“No,” he replied, still standing motionless. Then, in a moment, without another word, he turned and began retracing his steps.

“Are you going home already?” I inquired, puzzled by his strange conduct.

“No; I am going to the Cathedral.”

We had just passed the Cathedral, when he had made no motion to enter; but now I tried in vain to dissuade him from it. I told him that there was no service at this hour; that we might as well not have left home as to go inside of any house. All to no purpose; he was just as determined as at first, until finally he turned fiercely upon me and said, with a strange emphasis in his tone,—

“I will go; I must go; I feel something within me that _compels_ me to go!”

Was this again the vibration of that terrible chord in his nature—that terrible chord that threatened to destroy forever the harmony of his life?

Powerless to turn him from his intent, together we crossed the northern portal and entered the nave. It was so dim that the heavy shadows clustered in a rayless cloud among the arches, and at the end, far off—they looked like stars in the gloom—flickered a few tapers at the altar, while higher up swung the sacred but sickly flame that had been burning for centuries. There was not a stir, not a sound. I trembled all over with a singular sensation of weakness that came upon me as I followed Reinhart, who went steadily down the long aisle to where the transepts met, then stopped as abruptly as he had stopped a few moments before in the street.

It was, as I have said, just where the transepts met. There, upon a low platform or dais, stood a bier covered by a velvet pall, whose heavy border fell in waveless folds. And upon it rested a casket with silver mountings. Beside it two tapers burned, one at the head and one at the foot; and two monks kneeled, motionless. Beyond the choir I saw the gleam of the organ-pipes, wavering, come and go. The altar lights circled about each other, and they, too, receded in infinite space; they grew dim; they vanished; they sprang again; they fled again. The great tombs loomed out and faded; the figure on an ebon crucifix, inspired with life, writhed in fearful agony, then once more became transfixed, and the weak, trembling sensation under which I had been laboring was gone.

I saw that we were standing by the dead of some noble family, for the repose of whose soul the monks were offering up their prayers. I drew a little nearer. Upon the snow-like cushions within the casket a young girl lay sleeping the last deep and solemn sleep. Or was it a vision?—one of that mystical land, whose white portals are beyond the sun; that land where there is no shadow, no stain; where there is beauty celestial, peace everlasting? No, it was all the future we ever see; it was still this side the gates of eternity; it was death.

A chaplet of flowers crowned her brow, all colorless as marble, and garlands of flowers wreathed her robe, that was purer than fleece; but her hands held no lilies, no jasmine; more sacred than these, they held a small golden crucifix, an emblem imperishable, holy. The burning tapers threw not over the face, turned slightly toward the altar, that beautiful dream-light; it was the last inscription written by the spirit, even after it had seen down the radiant vista of immortal happiness.

Ah! why offer prayers for a soul beyond the troubled sea, beyond the dread valley? O, frail humanity! Even then beside the pall, where rested the solemn silence no voice could break, stood one for whom the kneeling monks might have told a thousand _aves_.

Reinhart raised his face suddenly. Straightening himself, he extended his arm with a wild gesture, uttering a laugh that grated clear up to the dome.

“Did I not tell you?” he cried. “Did I not feel the mysterious summons that brought me to this spot? Do you see her? _It is she!_ It is her soul and mine that will abide together through all eternity.”

The startled monks rose to their feet. The great arches of the Cathedral threw back his voice in terrible groans. Quick as thought I sprang toward him, but was hurled off with the ease of a giant. He stooped for a moment and put one hand to his head, as if a sudden faintness might have swept over him; but he did not touch the casket. Then, dropping on one knee beside it, he raised his face and said softly, so softly that the last word seemed to come to us from a great distance,—

“O, beautiful soul, part of my spirit, I will not keep you waiting!”

We gathered around and raised him up. It needed no force now; and when they laid him down again, with a great throbbing in my breast, I folded his hands. He had taken his life.

O, Germany! like this fair day you lured a bird high up into your sunshine, a bird with brilliant plumes in its wings; then, before it had sung one song from the pinnacle where it rested, blackening suddenly into a storm, you killed it. Reinhart, poor Reinhart! you lured high up into the fantastic light of psychology; then before he had reared one minaret upon the temple where he climbed, you darkened suddenly into a gigantic gloom that, rising up like a storm, overwhelmed him.

Yes, better had it been for Reinhart were the Suabians still dancing their dryad dances.

SILVER ISLET.

In Lake Superior, near its northern shore, a mere speck of land, scarcely two hundred feet square, barely shows itself above the water. This is Silver Islet, and on it sinks the shaft of the richest silver mine in the world. Covering almost its entire dimensions, stand two buildings. One, a low frame house, encloses the mouth of the mine, and the other, immediately adjacent, a small wooden structure, forms the watch-tower.

Through this tower, every evening, the miners, when dismissed for the day, are compelled to pass out one by one, and submit themselves to an examination, where their clothes are thoroughly searched, that none of the precious metal may be carried away secreted upon the person. So extreme is the vigilance employed that visitors are never allowed, except by special permit, and though isolated upon the waters, the place is kept by day and night under this strict martial surveillance.

To the north, about a quarter of a mile distant, is another island, perhaps six or eight acres in extent. It is high and rocky, and in one place reaches up more than a hundred feet. Here, built upon its sloping side, is the little settlement that could count up altogether, it might be, thirty houses. Here the miners live with their families. Here, too, every thing that pertains to the business of the place carries itself on; and here it was that father had brought me to stay.

I was about eighteen years old then. I do not know how father happened to receive the position of assistant overseer at the mine. I never knew very much about father. Indeed I had hardly seen him more than half a dozen times in my life, until that day he came to take me from the farm. I could not remember my mother, who died in my infancy, and brother or sister I had none. Father was a morose, unsociable man by nature, and I think he cared but very little for me. I had been left at my uncle’s to grow up, and so, as I said, about him I knew almost nothing.

Uncle George lived on a poverty-stricken farm upon the flattest of prairies. I hardly know how I did grow up there, it was such a wretched, miserable place. Although I had never experienced any thing different, it was so forlorn an existence, that I chafed inwardly against it every hour. I possessed a kind of dumb consciousness that surely, surely I must be made for something better than this. I saw nothing of the world, nothing of humanity outside of my uncle’s family, and the two or three rough farm hands that he occasionally employed. I would rather have had the cattle, the poor half-starved cattle, for companions than these. They were none of them kind to me. I know not whether father ever paid any thing for my board; but I know I worked far harder than any hired servant. I did not rebel outwardly, but I was constantly unhappy. Was I to live on all my days in this hopeless, miserable way? Was there never to be any thing better? Looking out of the window, I thought of the great, busy world, and the far-off, unknown cities; but before my eyes there was only a dead level of the hateful yellow prairie, and above, the colorless sky stretched itself out in a gigantic, measureless blank.

From this life it was that father came, without word or warning, and took me. I know now that he only wanted me with him as a convenience, but then I was wild with delight. In my great craving for human sympathy I would have loved father with all my heart, had he given me any encouragement. I did love him for this one good deed. I knew not where he was taking me, but I was sure it could be no worse place. With an intense joy I went up and surveyed, for the last time, the miserable little room where I had vainly cried so many hot tears over my weary existence. I stayed my steps a moment beside the one window, a little window facing westward. From here I had seen the only beauty that ever came before my passionate eyes flame up with a splendor, as of gold, along the sky when the sun went down. A thousand times my yearning heart had watched the short-lived glory fade, like a mockery, into the dreary blank. From here, too, year by year, with a rank rebellion in my soul, I had looked out at the shadowless prairie that lay over all the earth, a great, glaring, uncovered, yellow blister.

So it was with nothing but glad emotion that I stood upon the spot consciously for the last time. I had a keen, absorbing love of the beautiful, a hunger insatiable, that unfed was sapping my life. This wretched existence had almost killed me; but for the change I believe that my longing spirit, like my mother’s in the far past, would have broken its wings. Now there was an avenue of escape suddenly opened up before me—of escape from the dreadful monotony, from the intolerable agony of everlasting sameness that, by day and night, recurring forever, had made up the tiresome years as they passed. My whole being was turned to my father with one inspiration of gratitude.

Had I known any thing of Pythagoras then, almost I could have believed in the transmigration of souls, or that my spirit had passed into some different body, so utterly strange and new I felt at Silver Islet. Here father had rented a little house that stood apart from the rest, upon the very highest point. The whole settlement was grouped within the least possible compass, and considerable of the island, small as it was, still remained in its original condition. There were no trees immediately about our house, but to the right, and running thinly all the way down on the other side to the water, a few straggling pines clung, with their rope-like roots, to the rocks. It was no trouble to me to keep house for only one. I got the breakfast and supper, and every morning put up a dinner for father, which he took with him to the mine. So all day I was left wholly to myself.

As I said, so strange and new I felt it seemed to me for a while as if I had lost my own identity. Here, for the first time in my life, there lay before my eyes a vast expanse of glittering waves—the mighty mystery of far-reaching waters! Rolling, moving, changing, remaining for endless ages, attracting, terrifying—only the mightier mystery of eternity can fathom the hidden secret of this unceasing problem. A hush fell upon my fluttering spirits, a hush of profound awe before this symbol, this vision of the unknown infinite. At last the cry of my soul for food was silenced, the dreadful hunger of my heart, that through all my life I could not allay, was pacified.

At dawn I saw the timid light creep up along the east and wait and brighten, until it set an emblazoned standard in the sky, and below, far out, covered with the pomp of the rising sun, the distant billows clashed their blood-red shields. At noon, I saw the mid-day radiance, falling through the air in torrents of splendor, float far and near, changing into gorgeous mosaics upon the sea. At night I saw the long line of mighty cliffs upon the silent Canadian shore reach out their giant shadow through the dusk of evening that, slowly, softly, gathered into a twilight sweeter than the luminous haze of a dream.

I had no one to care for me, no friend, no lover, but I needed none now. I was happy, happy as in a new and glorious world. I forgot the dreadful prairie, dry and parched—the vast, staring, level of land that for so many years had oppressed me by its terrible, never ending monotony. I even forgot the thousand times I had longed and longed to see a great city, to live among its busy throng.

It was November, and presently the wind, keen and cold, swept down, like the wind from the Arctic zone. Mad, pitiless, the boundless waters piled themselves in towering billows. They leaped and menaced. They broke over Silver Islet with a frightful roar and drenched it with their freezing spray. They danced about it in savage fury. They beat against it continually, and the howling gale, swift and strong, dashed the foam in blinding sheets. Already the long, fierce winter of the North was rapidly setting in.

Great layers of ice formed and broke, and ground up and formed again, until December, still and frigid, locked us within the impenetrable barriers of a vast, frozen sea. To the east, to the west, to the south, an illimitable wilderness of snow, the mighty Superior for miles lay wrapped in a silence profound as the grave. To the north, shrouded in their eternal solitude, cold, white and spectral, the cliffs upon the long Canadian shore held up their stony battlement, sheeted in ice, as in a pall. Utterly devoid of warmth, the sunlight blazed with a brilliance indescribable through an atmosphere that, clearer than crystal, glittered as with the scintillations of feldspar. But the nights—the nights swinging in their long winter arc, were illuminated by a glory more gorgeous than the unreal splendor wrought in the loom of dreams. The stars, myriads upon myriads, studded the whole heaven with drops of intense light, and the planets, magnified through the vast laboratory of the air, showed great balls of molten silver against a vault of jet. Sometimes when the night was at its blackest, suddenly there shot up, flaming from the white battlements of the Canadian shore, a thousand lances. Like the parade of an army, like the marshalling of far-reaching cohorts, the mighty processions swept the semicircle of the sky. They rose and fell. They wavered like the spears of troops in battle. Then the vast battalions, closing together, ran up in a towering shaft to the zenith. A river of ice-cold fire, it divided the heaven. It overflowed and spread out in a sea of gorgeous color that receded, wave upon wave, until it burned, a deep blue flame upon the frozen crown of the Canadian cliffs. I have watched this aurora in its changeful mood a hundred times. I have watched the illimitable fields of snow beneath, while the reflected light played upon them in weird rays, far out to the remote horizon.

During the Winter, unused to the severe climate, I rarely left the house. So far as was possible, I held myself aloof from the people, the people, that, as I said, were only the rough families of miners. Ignorant and uneducated, painfully ignorant and uneducated I was myself, still I could not associate with such as these. I did not grow tired, but yet I was glad when the long, frozen months had passed by. As the late Spring opened, Winter even then did not yield its supremacy without a fierce contest, but in the contest—the savage storms from the north—the ice broke. The huge cakes, drifting about, slowly, gradually, wore themselves away, and the wind dropped its javelins of frost.

Late it was in June before the last vestige was gone of the bitter cold that had held us in its frigid clasp for more than two-thirds of a year. Then there opened for me an unfailing source of enjoyment. I learned to row, and father allowed me to buy a small boat. It was almost the only favor I ever asked of him, and how much have I to be thankful for that he did not deny me! Though slight of figure, my muscles were strong, and after awhile, with constant practice, I could row twenty miles in a day without exhaustion, and every day now, and all the day, I spent my time upon the water.

The Summer, beautiful to me beyond description, was like a perpetual Spring. In my little boat, alone, I explored the shore far and near. I rowed to the very ledges of those cliffs that I had watched all Winter long lifting themselves, like a huge, jagged spine, against the sky. A thousand, sometimes twelve hundred feet, they reached up, gray and naked, a sheer, barren wall of rock from the water. With the cold waves forever at their feet, gloomy, silent, they stood in their drear majesty, and the chilly fog wrapped them round with the folds of its clammy garb. Only in the most beautiful weather did this fog lift from about them its clinging skirts, and slowly the damp mists trailed themselves off in long white plumes of down. At such times, floating idly in my skiff, I felt oppressed by the vast burden of their dreadful silence. I believe there is no greater solitude than that which sometimes at noon, when sea and sky are unwrinkled by wave or cloud, sits upon this mighty shore of desolate, desert rock. Yet here, where this profound silence broods, upon these tawny bastions of stone, occasionally fierce thunder storms play, and the waters in wild tumult dash against their base with a noise like the roar of heavy artillery.

So the weeks slipped by, and it was in the early part of October that first I saw a change had come over father. As I have said, he was by nature a reserved, unsociable, even morose man. He was never communicative, and to me sometimes spoke hardly two dozen words in a day. I had grown used to this, and felt that I had nothing to complain about, as he laid no restrictions upon me in any respect. But now I could not help noticing a decided alteration, both in his looks and manner. Constitutionally a thin man, his face appeared thinner to me than ever. So exceedingly pale and worn was he, that I do not know that I had ever seen a more haggard countenance. His eyes, which were very light in color and deep-set in his head, had an unnatural brightness, a strange expression I can hardly describe, a peculiar, watching wakefulness. His manner was restless and uneasy in the extreme, and he spoke even less frequently than usual. He staid out much later than had been his ordinary habit, often not coming home until early in the morning; and several times I heard him with a slow step walk back and forth, back and forth, over the floor of his room all night.

As I have said, I knew nothing of his duties, nor did I know any thing of the miners. When first I noticed the change upon father, I thought he was over fatigued perhaps, then I became alarmed lest he was ill. Little as he cared for me, he was the only human being on earth upon whom I had the slightest claim, and I would have done any thing for him. I could not bear to see him look so badly. He had never manifested any thing towards me but utter indifference, and so strangely reserved was he that I, in my great dread that he might be harsh some time, had hardly ever volunteered a single sentence to him. I was troubled, and did not know what to do. That night at supper I said, gently,—

“Father, do you feel well?”

At first he did not appear to hear, and I repeated my question, then he turned his pale eyes upon me suddenly with a quick, startled look in them that frightened me,—

“What?”

“I asked if you felt well,” I said again, embarrassed by his strange manner. “You look so badly lately I thought maybe there was something the matter.”

He did not speak at all for a moment, but sat there staring at me wildly. Catching his breath slightly, he looked all round the room and brought his eyes, his pale eyes, with an angry gleam in them now, back to my face, then said, fiercely,—

“See here, don’t you meddle in my matters! I am able to take care of myself.”

“Oh, father, I only thought—”

“Do you hear me?” he said, savagely. “Mind your own business. There is nothing the matter with me. If you can’t do any thing better than interfere in my affairs, you can go back. See that you don’t do it again, or—”

He broke off abruptly, and I, my heart throbbing as if it might break, got up and went into my own room. I had not interfered in his affairs. I had done nothing wrong, said nothing to call up such an outburst of passion, and his dreadful anger had terrified me. I went to the window to try and calm myself. I put up the sash and leaned out.

The twilight had almost dissolved itself in night, a night so soft and gentle that the very waters, wooed from their troubled toil, ceased their long complaint and slept. The pine trees, slim and black, whispered to each other in their mysterious language with peaceful cadence, telling, perhaps, of the time when they would shed their countless needles. In the west, shining like a harvest sickle, hung the yellow crescent of the new October moon. Trying to still the throbbing in my veins, I watched it grow and change and deepen as it sank, until above the water it poised, a great Moorish sword of blood-red fire, and a long line of vermilion light ran out upon the quiet sea. Then suddenly it was blotted in darkness.

The figure of a man obstructed my range of vision.

Instantly the dreadful throbbing in my heart leaped up again. I drew back noiselessly from the window. The man, only a few feet distant—I could almost have put out my hand and touched him—stopped, hesitated irresolutely for a moment, turned about as if to see that no one watched him, then with stealthy step went across the open space and began to climb, catching from tree to tree, down the precipitous rocks towards the lake. Once or twice I heard a stone loosen from beneath his feet, and presently I heard the plash of oars in the water, then it died out, and straining my ears I could detect no sound but the quiet, mysterious whisperings of the pines. I laid my head upon the window-sill sick and faint. The figure of the man I had seen was father.

Too well I knew now that he was neither tired, nor ill. Why should he have crept down so stealthily over these wild, almost perpendicular rocks to the lake? Why not have gone by the ordinary path through the settlement? Ah, why? Something was wrong—but what? I turned cold and dizzy. I would not, I _dared_ not think.

I tried vainly to sleep that night. Haunted by a thousand forebodings, I could not even close my eyes, and it was almost day-break when I heard father come in quietly and go to his room.

I never referred again to his ill looks, nor did he, but somehow I could not help thinking that from this time he watched me a little suspiciously. I felt hurt that he imagined I would play the spy upon his actions. Whatever he might do, whatever he might say, he was still my father, and I could not give him up. It was dreadful, those days that followed. It seemed like living upon the verge of a precipice, or that some unseen calamity hung above my head ready to fall at any moment and crush me.

One evening, just after I had lighted the lamp and put it on the supper table, I went, as was my usual habit, to draw down the blinds. Father had not yet come home. As I crossed his room I saw through the window a man standing close beside it on the outside, so close that I could not have seen him more distinctly had he been within reach of my touch. His arms were folded across his chest, and his head dropped a little in the attitude of one waiting. His figure was large and thick-set, almost that of a giant. As I looked he took off his cap and passed his hand over his short-cut, bristly hair, and in the action I saw his face,—a coarse, heavy, brutish face, that made me shudder. I noticed that the window sash was down and bolted, and I did not go near to touch the blind. I went back with an uneasy feeling into the dining-room.

A few moments afterward father came in. He took up the light hurriedly, saying some thing about wanting it for a moment, and carried it into his room and shut the door. I heard him walking about in there, opening and closing drawers, and after a little I thought I heard a sound as if he were raising the window-sash gently. Then he came out. He looked at me sharply for a moment, and remarked that he had been hunting for a key. Strange! He was not in the habit of accounting for his actions. After he got up from the table he did not leave the house again, but went to bed almost immediately.

In the morning when I put up his dinner and handed it to him as usual, he said,—

“You need not get any supper for me to-night. I have office work to do at the mine and will not be back.”

I was surprised. He had frequently not come home to the evening meal, but never before had he thought it worth his while to give me notice. I stood looking after him as he went out of the gate, when suddenly an idea flashed into my head that made my heart sink in my breast like a stone. I do not know why it should have come to me then so suddenly, with such strong conviction. Quickly I turned and ran into father’s room. I looked about. I opened the drawers. Yes—the most of his clothing was gone! It was as I thought. He did not mean to come back at all—Deserted! The dreadful word choked up my throat. I knew nothing of father’s actions, I knew not what he had done, but I would gladly have gone with him, have stood disgrace with him even, if that were necessary. I am sure I can not tell why I clung to him with such desperation. Though I was ignorant and inexperienced, I was also young and strong, and I was not afraid I would fail to make my living alone in the world. But kneeling upon the floor I laid my head upon the foot of the bedstead, and heavy, suffocating sobs came to my lips. Probably I would never see him again, and if he did not love me, at least, except that one time, he had not been harsh to me, and he was my father.

At first I thought I would follow him; I would go to the mine and see if he might not still be there. Then I knew that to make inquiries about him would probably only increase the danger that threatened, whatever that danger might be, and though it was justice pursuing him for some crime, I would have shielded him still. I was powerless. I could do nothing to recall him; I could do nothing but wait. Wandering about with only the one thought in my mind, after awhile the house became positively intolerable. I must do something at least to keep myself employed, or I should absolutely go wild. My head ached unbearably, and I had a compressed feeling across my chest.

I took my heavy, scarlet cloak and threw it over my arm. I do not know why I should have taken this one, for I wore it generally only in the bitter cold of midwinter. With a strange feeling of dread when any one looked at me, I went down hurriedly through the settlement to the wharf. I got into my boat and pushed off. On the water I could breathe better.

I rowed, rowed, rowed, steadily, steadily, taking note of nothing. My only relief lay in violent exercise. How many miles up the shore I went I do not know, but it was farther than I had ever reached before, and when I drew in my oars to rest, like a mighty conflagration, the red embers of the sun-set’s fire were dying down along the sky.

In this region of the lake, from a quarter to two miles from shore, at wide intervals isolated rocks rise up out of the water, or mere points of land covered with a thick growth of underbrush show themselves, so small they look from a distance like a floating fleck of green that the waves could drift about at pleasure. The gulls rest upon them undisturbed by man or beast. Lonely, a thousand times more lonely, these islands make it seem than a clear, open stretch of water. A few of them, perhaps, are fifteen or twenty feet in extent. On a dark night it would have been dangerous to row here.

I felt weak and tired. The lake stretched itself out, quiet and peaceful as a painted ocean. Not a ripple disturbed the tranquil surface that mirrored the sky like a glass. I drew my cloak over me and lay down in my boat. I cared not when I got back, the later the better, for I still clung to a forlorn hope, that perhaps in the morning father would return. I was not afraid, for the moon had reached its full and would be up even as the last halo of the departing day was fading from the west. Out of the water I saw it come. An enormous globe of maroon fire, it sat upon the horizon and stained the lake with its magenta rays. Fatigued and exhausted, I think I must have slept, for when next I looked, bright and yellow, it was swung high up in the sky, shedding through the air a splendor like pearl.

I felt glad I had brought my cloak, for it was cold, very cold, and I would have been almost numb without it. I knew by the position of the moon that it must be somewhere near eleven o’clock. I sat up, shivered a little, drew my wrap closer about me and reached out one hand for the oars—when suddenly, midway in the action, I held it suspended, motionless! Sometimes there is nothing so startling as the sound of a human voice. I heard two men talking. For an instant I was paralyzed. My boat lay close beside one of these little knolls of land I have described. I could have put out my arm and touched the rank sword-grass that grew along its border. I did catch hold of it and noiselessly drew my skiff nearer, into a kind of curve, so that, though I was on the bright side, the overhanging brambles threw me into shadow, and another skiff, passing by, would hardly have detected me, when instantly I found that the men were not on the water. A cold terror crept over me. They were distant scarcely three yards. I could not see them, but I could almost feel the underbrush crackling beneath their feet. They evidently, though, had no knowledge of my presence, and I, not daring to stir, fairly held my breath. They seemed to be removing something from the ground and transferring it to their boat which, as I supposed, lay upon the other side. I could hear them lift and carry, what, I did not know. It sounded sometimes like stones falling with a partially muffled thud when they put them down. One of the men in a rough voice said, with a loud, harsh laugh, evidently resting for a moment,—

“This repays for lots o’ trouble! That was a neat slip we gave ’em all to-night. By —— I’m glad to be quit o’ the place! Its ——”

“Be quiet can’t you!”

My heart, at a single bound, leaped into my mouth. In these few words, spoken low and stern, I instantly recognized the voice. It was father’s. The other man did not reply, but muttered a half intelligible curse. They were both in the boat now, for I heard the plash of their oars. Presently father said, in a sharp, quick tone,—

“Take care! Sit down, sit down I tell you!”

Again the man muttered something between his shut teeth. The next moment they came round into the light and passed me, pulling hard. Then I recognized the thick-set, burly figure that I had seen last night. He was in the stern of the boat, and I saw his face again, the same repulsive face, but with a sullen scowl upon the brutish features.

They were heavily loaded and rowed slowly. They had got well past me when I heard father say something; what, I did not understand; but the man, dropping his oars, turned his head and replied, savagely,—

“Look’e yer! You’ve did nothin’ but boss, an’ boss, an’ I’m tired o’ it! This yer’s as much mine as yourn, and by —— I’d jes as lief make it all mine!”

Quick as the movement of a cat he changed his position, facing round to father. Quicker still, he stooped and caught up something in his hand that by the glint of the moonlight explained their heavy load, and all the mystery which had been hanging over father’s actions. It was a rough, jagged piece of silver ore. He raised his powerful arm and struck father with it on the head. He struck him two or three times. I screamed. There was a dreadful struggle, and at the same second that I saw the gleam of father’s pistol I heard its report. The man raised up his huge figure for an instant, wavered, and fell back heavily with a cry like a wounded tiger. The boat, without capsizing, tilted beneath the shock, filled with water, and went down like a stone.

I absolutely do not know how I pushed out from my hiding-place, but with two or three swift strokes I was on the spot. For an instant there was most frightful silence. I can see the waves widening their circle yet. Then, right at my boat’s head, father came to the surface. I was made strong by the energy of desperation.

With a wild, straining reach I leaned over and caught him by the arm, and with the other hand I rowed backward towards the knoll. I would have capsized and gone down rather than have let go my grasp. I was within a skiff’s length of the little island when just at my side I saw the huge form of the miner come up. He struggled and made one mighty effort to catch hold of my boat. No more terrible can the faces of the damned look than this face that glared up at me from the water. It has haunted me waking and sleeping. God forgive me, I could do nothing else! I struck him with the flat side of my oar. Evidently weakened by loss of blood, exhausted and nearly gone, he fell back and sank almost instantly from sight.