Part 47 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIII

CONCLUSION

Six years pa.s.sed. It was autumn in the mountains. The air was balmy and crisp. The landscape was gloriously tinted by late wild flowers and the colors of dying leaves. A far-off peak, catching the rays of the afternoon sun, rose above the dun valley like a mound of delicate coral dropped from the cloud-mottled blue overhead.

A stranger, walking from the station at Ridgeville, was nearing the front gate of Saunders's home. He moved with a slow, thoughtful step.

He was gray, even to the whiteness of snow. His skin was clear and pink, his eyes were bright and alert. As he opened the gate he became aware of the nearness of two children playing in a vine-clad summer-house on the right of the graveled walk. The older was a handsome boy of four years; his companion was a pretty little girl of two, whom the boy held by the hand quite with the air of manly guardians.h.i.+p.

”Now, see how you have soiled your dress,” the boy said, brus.h.i.+ng the child's lap with his little hand. ”Mama wouldn't like that.”

The clicking of the gate-latch attracted the glance of the children; and they stood staring curiously at the man who, with an introductory smile, was drawing near. He bent down and shook hands with them both, first with the little girl and lastly with the boy.

”I have come to see your papa and mama,” he said. ”Are they at home? I think they are expecting me.”

”They are down in the meadow getting flowers,” the boy answered. ”They are coming right back. You can see them from here. Look, there by the spring!”

The stranger followed the direction indicated by the little hand, and his eyes took on a wistful stare as they fixed upon a couple strolling across the meadow, holding flowers and ferns in their hands. They walked quite close together, those two, and the distance seemed to enfold them with conscious tenderness.

”They are both well, I believe?” the man said to the boy, as the more timid little girl turned and toddled away.

”Yes, thank you,” the boy answered, in words which sounded stilted in one so young. ”They got your letter. I heard papa say so. You are Mr.

Mostyn, a very old friend of theirs. They said I must love you and be good while you are here, because you have no little boy yourself.”

”Yes, yes, that's true,” Mostyn answered, taking the child's hand in his. ”Now you know my name, you must tell me yours.”

”Richard,” the child said. ”I was named for your little boy that died and went up to G.o.d. Papa used to love him long, long ago in Atlanta.”

Mostyn drew the child along by the hand. The delicate throbbing of the boy's pulse thrilled him through and through. Steps sounded in the hall of the house, and John Webb, not any older in appearance than when last seen, crossed the veranda and came slowly down the steps.

”Well, well, well!” he cried. ”Here you are at last. It must be a powerful long trip from Californy. The folks didn't seem to think you'd git here till in the morning. They 'lowed you'd stop for a while in Atlanta.”

”I finished my visit there sooner than I expected.” Mostyn shook the thick damp hand warmly. ”I've been living out in the open so much of late years that Atlanta seemed stuffy and crowded; besides, my sister has moved away, and I have no blood-kin there. I wanted to get into the country as soon as I could, and this seems like home in a way.”

”That's what Dolly and Jarvis are goin' to try to make it for you,”

Webb went on. ”Lord, they have been countin' on this for a long time!

Seems like they don't talk of much else. I heard 'em say they was goin'

to try to break you of your rovin' habit. They've got your room fixed up to a gnat's heel. It is the best one in the house--plenty of air and light. That's what they are out pickin' flowers and evergreens for now.

They want it to look cheerful.”

”It is very kind of them, I am sure,” Mostyn answered, ”but I wouldn't like to be in the way very long.”

”You won't be in n.o.body's way here,” Webb declared. ”If this ain't an open house there never was one of the old-time sort before the war.

Jarvis runs the place like his pa and grandpa did. You never saw the like o' visitors in summer-time. They pile in from all directions, close an' far off. Every friend that comes anywhere nigh has to put up here. Them two live happy, I tell you, if ever a pair did. They've got 'em a fine home in Atlanta, where they spend the winter, but they both love this best. Jarvis is writin' a book about mountain flowers, an'

Dolly helps him. They travel about a lot; they take in New York nearly every year, but love to get back home where they say they can be comfortable.”