Part 29 (1/2)

”It was for the poor in Ireland she wrote, and she let me read it. It was a sweet letter, asking forgiveness for her willfulness, yet saying she must even do the same thing again if it were to do over again. She pleaded only for the starving in the name of Christ. She asked only if a little of that portion which should be hers might be sent her, and that because he was her only brother and twin, and like part of her very self--she turned it so lovingly--I never could tell you with what skill--but she had the way--yes. But what did it bring?

”He was a canny, canny Scot, although brought up in America. Only for the times when his mother would take him back to Aberdeen with my Katherine for long visits, he never saw Scotland, but what's in the blood holds fast through life. He was a canny Scot. It takes a time for letters to go and come, and in those days longer than now, when in two weeks one may reach the other side. The reply came as speedily as those days would admit, and it was carefully considered. Ah, Peter was a clever man to bring about his own way. Never a word did he say about forgiveness. It was as if no breach had ever been, but one thing I noticed that she thought must be only an omission, because of the more important things that crowded it out. It was that never once did he mention me any more than if I had never existed. He said he would send her a certain sum of money--and it was a generous one, that is but just to admit--if when she received it she would take another sum, which he would also send, and return to them. He said his home was hers forever if she wished, and that he loved her, and had never had other feeling for her than love. Upon this letter came a long time of pleading with me--and I was ever soft--with her. She won her way.

”'We will both go, Larry, dear,' she said. 'I know he forgot to say you might come, too. If he loves me as he says, he would not break my heart by leaving you out.'

”'He sends only enough for one--for you,' I said.

”'Yes, but he thinks you have enough to come by yourself. He thinks you would not accept it--and would not insult you by sending more.'

”'He insults me by sending enough for you, dear. If I have it for me, I have it for you--most of all for you, or I'm no true man. If I have none for you--then we have none.'

”'Larry, for love of me, let me go--for the gulf between my twin brother and me will never be pa.s.sed until I go to him.' And this was true enough. 'I will make them love you. Hester loves you now. She will help me.' Hester was the sweet wife of her brother. So she clung to me, and her hands touched me and caressed me--lad, I feel them now.

I put her on the boat, and the money he sent relieved the suffering around me, and I gave thanks with a sore heart. It was for them, our own peasantry, and for her, I parted with her then, but as soon as I could I sold my little holding near my grandfather's house to an Englishman who had long wanted it, and when it was parted with, I took the money and delayed not a day to follow her.

”I wrote to her, telling her when and where to meet me in the little town of Leauvite, and it was on the bluff over the river. I went to a home I knew there--where they thought well of me--I think. In the evening I walked up the long path, and there under the oak trees at the top where we had been used to sit, I waited. She came to me, walking in the golden light. It was spring. The whip-poor-wills called and replied to each other from the woods. A mourning dove spoke to its mate among the thick trees, low and sad, but it is only their way. I was glad, and so were they.

”I held her in my arms, and the river sang to us. She told me all over again the love in her heart for me, as she used to tell it. Lad! There is only one theme in the world that is worth telling. There is only one song in the universe that is worth singing, and when your heart has once sung it aright, you will never sing another. The air was soft and sweet around us, and we stayed until a town clock struck twelve; then I took her back, and, as she was not strong, part of the way I carried her in my arms. I left her at her brother's door, and she went into the shadows there, and I was left outside,--all but my heart. She had been home so short a time--her brother was not yet reconciled, but she said she knew he would be. For me, I vowed I would make money enough to give her a home that would shame him for the poverty of his own--his, which he thought the finest in the town.”

For a long time there was silence, and Larry Kildene sat with his head drooped on his breast. At last he took up the thread where he had left it. ”Two days later I stood in the heavy parlor of that house,--I stood there with their old portraits looking down on me, and my heart was filled with ice--ice and fire. I took what they placed in my arms, and it was--my--little son, but it might have been a stone. It weighed like lead in my arms, that ached with its weight. Might I see her? No.

Was she gone? Yes. I laid the weight on the pillow held out to me for it, and turned away. Then Hester came and laid her hand on my arm, but my flesh was numb. I could not feel her touch.

”'Give him to me, Larry,' she was saying. 'I will love him like my own, and he will be a brother to my little son.' And I gave him into her arms, although I knew even then that he would be brought up to know nothing of his father, as if I had never lived. I gave him into her arms because he had no mother and his father's heart had gone out of him. I gave him into her arms, because I felt it was all I could do to let his mother have the comfort of knowing that he was not adrift with me--if they do know where she is. For her sake most of all and for the lad's sake I left him there.

”Then I knocked about the world a while, and back in Ireland I could not stay, for the haunting thought of her. I could bide nowhere. Then the thought took me that I would get money and take my boy back. A longing for him grew in my heart, and it was all the thought I had, but until I had money I would not return. I went to find a mine of gold. Men were flying West to become rich through the finding of mines of gold, and I joined them. I tried to reach a spot that has since been named Higgins' Camp, for there it was rumored that gold was to be found in plenty, and missed it. I came here, and here I stayed.”

Now the big man rose to his feet, and looked down on the younger one.

He looked kindly. Then, as if seized and shaken by a torrent of impulses which he was trying to hold in check, he spoke tremulously and in suppressed tones.

”I longed for my son, but I tell you this, because there is a strange thing which grasps a man's soul when he finds gold--as I found it. I came to love it for its own sake. I lived here and stored it up--until I am rich--you may not find many men so rich. I could go back and buy that bank that was Peter Craigmile's pride--” His voice rose, but he again suppressed it. ”I could buy that pitiful little bank a hundred times over. And she--is--gone. I tried to keep her and the remembrance of her in my mind above the gold, but it was like a lunacy upon me. At the last--until I found you there on the verge of death--the gold was always first in my mind, and the triumph of having it. I came to glory in it, and I worked day after day, and often in the night by torches, and all I gathered I hid, and when I was too weary to work, I sat and handled it and felt it fall through my fingers.

”A woman in England--Miss Evans, by name, only she writes under the name of a man, George Eliot--has written a tale of a poor weaver who came to love his little horde of gold as if it were alive and human.

It's a strong tale, that. A good one. Well, I came to understand what the poor little weaver felt. Summer and winter, day and night, week days and Sundays--and I was brought up to keep the Sunday like a Christian should--all were the same to me, just one long period for the getting together of gold. After a time I even forgot what I wanted the gold for in the first place, and thought only of getting it, more and more and more.

”This is a confession, lad. I tremble to think what would have been on my soul had I done what I first thought of doing when that horse of yours called me. He was calling for you--no doubt, but the call came from heaven itself for me, and the temptation came. It was, to stay where I was and know nothing. I might have done that, too, if it were not for the selfish reasons that flashed through my mind, even as the temptation seized it. It was that there might be those below who were climbing to my home--to find me out and take from me my gold. I knew there were prospectors all over, seeking for what I had found, and how could I dare stay in my cabin and be traced by a stray horse wandering to my door? Three coldblooded, selfish murders would now be resting on my soul. It's no use for a man to shut his eyes and say 'I didn't know.' It's his business to know. When you speak of the 'Curse of Cain,' think what I might be bearing now, and remember, if a man repents of his act, there's mercy for him. So I was taught, and so I believe.

”When I looked in your face, lying there in my bunk, then I knew that mercy had been shown me, and for this, here is the thing I mean to do.

It is to show my gold and the mine from which it came to you--”

”No, no! I can't bear it. I must not know.” Harry King threw up his hands as if in fright and rose, trembling in every limb.

”Man, what ails you?”

”Don't. Don't put temptation in my way that I may not be strong enough to resist.”

”I say, what ails you? It's a good thing, rightly used. It may help you to a way out of your trouble. If I never return--I will, mind you,--but we never know--if not, my life will surely not have been spent for naught. You, now, are all I have on earth besides the gold.

It was to have been my son's, and it is yours. It might as well have been left in the heart of the mountain, else.”