the hollow land william morris "we find in ancient story wonders many told, of heroes in great glory, with spirit free and bold; of joyances and high-tides, of weeping and of woe, of noble reckon striving, mote ye now wonders know." niebelungen lied (see carlylefs miscellanies) struggling in the world. do you know where it is -the hollow land? i have been looking for it now so long, trying to find it again the hollow land for there i saw my love first. i wish to tell you how i found it first of all; but i am old, my memory fails me: you must wait and let me think if i perchance can tell you how it happened. yea, in my ears is a confused noise of trumpet-blasts singing over desolate moors, in my ears and eyes a clashing and clanging of horse-hoofs, a ringing and glittering of steel; drawn-back lips, set teeth, shouts, shrieks, and curses. how was it that no one of us ever found it till that day? for it is near our country: but what time have we to look for it, or any good thing; with such biting carking cares hemming us in on every side-cares about great things-mighty things: mighty things, 0 my brothers! or rather little things enough, if we only knew it. lives passed in turmoil, in making one another unhappy; in bitterest misunderstanding of our brothers' hearts, making those sad whom god has not made sad, alas, alas! what chance for any of us to find the hollow land? what time even to look for it? yet who has not dreamed of it? who, half miserable yet the while, for that he knows it is but a dream, has not felt the cool waves round his feet, the roses crowning him, and through the leaves of beech and lime the many whispering winds of the hollow land? now, my name was florian, and my house was the house of the lilies; and of that house was my father lord, and after him my eldest brother amald; and me they called florian de liliis. moreover, when my father was dead, there arose a feud between the lilies' house and red harald; and this that follows is the history of it. lady swanhilda, red harald's mother, was a widow, with one son. red harald; and when she had been in widowhood two years, being of princely blood, and besides comely and fierce. king urrayne sent to demand her in marriage. and i remember seeing the procession leaving the town, when i was quite a child; and many young knights and squires attended the lady swanhilda as pages, and amongst them, amald, my eldest brother. and as i gazed out of the window, i saw him walking by the side of her horse, dressed in white and gold very delicately; but as he went it chanced that he stumbled. now he was one of those that held a golden canopy over the lady's head, so that it now sunk into wrinkles, and the lady had to bow her head full low, and even then the gold brocade caught in one of the long slim gold flowers that were wrought round about the crown she wore. she flushed up in her rage, and her smooth face went suddenly into the carven wrinkles of a wooden water-spout, and she caught at the brocade with her left hand, and pulled it away furiously, so that the warp and woof were twisted out of their place, and many gold threads were left dangling about the crown; but swanhilda stared about when she rose, then smote my brother across the mouth with her gilded sceptre, and the red blood flowed all about his garments; yet he only turned exceeding pale, and dared say no word, though he was heir to the house of the lilies: but my small heart swelled with rage, and i vowed revenge, and, as it seems, he did too. so when swanhilda had been queen three years, she suborned many of king urrayne's knights and lords, and slew her husband as he slept, and reigned in his stead. and her son, harald, grew up to manhood, and was counted a strong knight, and well spoken of, by then i first put on my armour. then, one night, as i lay dreaming, i felt a hand laid on my face, and starting up saw arnald before me fully armed. he said, "florian, rise and arm." i did so, all but my helm, as he was. he kissed me on the forehead; his lips felt hot and dry; and when they bought torches, and i could see his face plainly, i saw he was very pale. he said: "do you remember, florian, this day sixteen years ago? it is a long time, but i shall never forget it unless this night blots out its memory." i knew what he meant, and because my heart was wicked, i rejoiced exceedingly at the thought of vengeance, so that i could not speak, but only laid my palm across his lips. "good; you have a good memory, florian. see now, i waited long and long: i said at first, i forgive her; but when the news came concerning the death of the king, and how that she was shameless, i said i will take it as a sign, if god does not punish her within certain years, that he means me to do so; and i have been watching and watching now these two years for an opportunity, and behold it is come at last; and i think god has certainly given her into our hands, for she rests this night, this very christmas eve, at a small walled town on the frontier, not two hours' gallop from this; they keep little ward there, and the night is wild: moreover, the prior of a certain house of monks, just without the walls, is my fast friend in this matter, for she has done him some great injury. in the courtyard below a hundred and fifty knights and squires, all faithful and true, are waiting for us: one moment and we shall be gone." then we both knelt down, and prayed god to give her into our hands: we put on our helms, and went down into the courtyard. it was the first time i expected to use a sharp sword in anger, and i was full of joy as the muffled thunder of our horse-hoofs rolled through the bitter winter night. in about an hour and a half we had crossed the frontier, and in half an hour more the greater part bad halted in a wood near the abbey, while i and a few others went up to the abbey gates, and knocked loudly four times with my sword-hilt, stamping on the ground meantime. a long, low whistle answered me from within, which i in my turn answered: then the wicket opened, and a monk came out, holding a lantern. he seemed yet in the prime of life, and was a tall, powerful man. he held the lantern to my face, then smiled, and said, "the banners hang low." i gave the countersign, "the crest is lopped off." "good my son," said he; "the ladders are within here. i dare not trust any of the brethren to carry them for you, though they love not the witch either, but are timorsome." "no matter," i said, "i have men here." so they entered and began to shoulder the tall ladders: the prior was very busy. "you will find them just the right length, my son, trust me for that." he seemed quite a jolly, pleasant man, i could not understand his nursing furious revenge; but his face darkened strangely whenever he happened to mention her name. as we were starting he came and stood outside the gate, and putting his lantern down that the light of it might not confuse his sight, looked earnestly into the night, then said: "the wind has fallen, the snow flakes get thinner and smaller every moment, in an hour it will be freezing hard, and will be quite clear; everything depends'upon the surprise being complete; stop a few minutes yet, my son." he went away chuckling, and returned presently with two more sturdy monks carrying something: they threw their burdens down before my feet, they consisted of all the white albs in the abbey: "there, trust an old man, who has seen more than one stricken fight in his carnal days; let the men who scale the walls put these over their arms, and they will not be seen in the least. god make your sword sharp, my son." so we departed, and when i met amald again, he said that what the prior had done was well thought of; so we agreed that i should take thirty men, an old squire of our house, well skilled in war, along with them, scale the walls as quietly as possible, and open the gates to the rest. i set off accordingly, after that with low laughing we had put the albs all over us, wrapping the ladders also in white. then we crept very warily and slowly up to the wall; the moat was frozen over, and on the ice the snow lay quite thick; we all thought that the guards must be careless enough, when they did not even take the trouble to break the ice in the moat so we listenedthere was no sound at all, the christmas midnight mass had long ago been over, it was nearly three o'clock, and the moon began to clear, there was scarce any snow falling now, only a flake or two from some low hurrying cloud or other: the wind sighed gently about the round towers there, but it was bitter cold, for it had begun to freeze again; we listened for some minutes, about a quarter of an hour i think, then at a sign from me, they raised the ladders carefully, muffled as they were at the top with swathings of wool. i mounted first, old squire hugh followed last; noiselessly we ascended, and soon stood altogether on the walls; then we carefully lowered the ladders again with long ropes; we got our swords and axes from out of the folds of our priests' raiments, and set forward, till we reached the first tower along the wall; the door was open, in the chamber at the top there was a fire slowly smouldering, nothing else; we passed through it, and began to go down the spiral staircase, i first, with my axe shortened in my hand.-"what if we were surprised there," i thought, and i longed to be out in the air again;-"what if the door were fast at the bottom." as we passed the second chamber, we heard some one within snoring loudly: i looked in quietly, and saw a big man with long black hair, that fell off his pillow and swept the ground, lying snoring, with his nose turned up and his mouth open, but he seemed so sound asleep that we did not stop to slay him. praise be! the door was open, without even a whispered word, without a pause, we went on along the streets, on the side that the drift had been on, because our garments were white, for the wind being very strong all that day, the houses on that side had caught in their cornices and carvings, and on the rough stone and wood of them, so much snow, that except here and there where the black walls grinned out, they were quite white; no man saw us as we stole along, noiselessly because of the snow, till we stood within 100 yards of the gates and their house of guard. and we stood because we heard the voice of some one singing: "queen mary's crown was gold, king joseph's crown was red, but jesus' crown was diamond that lit up all the bed mariae virginis" so they had some guards after all; this was clearly the sentinel that sang to keep the ghosts off;-now for a fight.-we drew nearer, a few yards nearer, then stopped to free ourselves from our monks' clothes. "ships sail through the heaven with red banners dress'd, carrying the planets seven to see the white breast mariae virginis" thereat he must have seen the waving of some alb or other as it shivered down to the ground, for his spear fell with a thud, and he seemed to be standing open-mouthed, thinking something about ghosts; then, plucking up heart of grace, he roared out like ten bull-calves, and dashed into the guard-house. we followed smartly, but without hurry, and came up to the door of it just as some dozen half-armed men came tumbling out under our axes: thereupon, while our men slew them, i blew a great blast upon my horn, and hugh with some others drew bolt and bar and swung the gates wide open. then the men in the guard-house understood they were taken in a trap, and began to stir with great confusion; so lest they should get quite waked and armed, i left hugh at the gates with ten men, and myself led the rest into that house. there while we slew all those that yielded not, came arnald with the others, bringing our horses with them; then all the enemy threw their arms down. and we counted our prisoners and found them over fourscore; therefore, not knowing what to do with them (for they were too many to guard, and it seemed unknightly to slay them all), we sent up some bowmen to the walls, and turning our prisoners out of gates, bid them run for their lives, which they did fast enough, not knowing our numbers, and our men sent a few flights of arrows among them that they might not be undeceived. then the one or two prisoners that we had left, told us, when we had crossed our axes over their heads, that the people of the good town would not willingly fight us, in that they hated the queen; that she was guarded at the palace by some fifty knights, and that beside, there were no others to oppose us in the town; so we set out for the palace, spear in hand. we had not gone far, before we heard some knights coming, and soon, in a turn of the long street, we saw them riding towards us; when they caught sight of us they seemed astonished, drew rein, and stood in some confusion. we did not slacken our pace for an instant, but rode right at them with a yell, to which i lent myself with all my heart. after all they did not run away, but waited for us with their spears held out; i missed the man i had marked, or hit him rather just on the top of the helm; he bent back, and the spear slipped over his head, but my horse still kept on, and i felt presently such a crash that i reeled in my saddle, and felt mad. he had lashed out at me with his sword as i came on, hitting me in the ribs (for my arm was raised), but only flatlings. i was quite wild with rage, i turned, almost fell upon him, caught him by the neck with both hands, and threw him under the horse-hoofs, sighing with fury: i heard arnald's voice close to me, "well fought, florian": and i saw his great stern face bare among the iron, for he had made a vow in remembrance of that blow always to fight unhelmed; i saw his great sword swinging, in wide gyres, and hissing as it started up, just as if it were alive and liked it. so joy filled all my soul, and i fought with my heart, till the big axe i swung felt like nothing but a little hammer in my hand, except for its bitterness: and as for the enemy, they went down like grass, so that we destroyed them utterly, for those knights would neither yield nor fly, but died as they stood, so that some fifteen of our men also died there. then at last we came to the palace, where some grooms and such like kept the gates armed, but some ran, and some we took prisoners, one of whom died for sheer terror in our hands, being stricken by no wound; for he thought we would eat him. these prisoners we questioned concerning the queen, and so entered the great hall. there arnald sat down in the throne on the dais, and laid his naked sword before him on the table: and on each side of him sat such knights as there was room for, and the others stood round about, while i took ten men, and went to look for swanhilda. i found her soon, sitting by herself in a gorgeous chamber. i almost pitied her when i saw her looking so utterly desolate and despairing; her beauty too had faded, deep lines cut through her face. but when i entered she knew who i was, and her look of intense hatred was so fiend-like, that it changed my pity into horror of her. "knight", she said "who are you, and what do you want, thus discourteously entering my chamber?" "i am florian de liliis, and i am to conduct you to judgment." she sprang up, "curse you and your whole house, you i hate worse than any -girl's face -guards! guards!" and she stamped on the ground, her veins on the forehead swelled, her eyes grew round and flamed out, as she kept crying for her guards, stamping the while, for she seemed quite mad. then at last she remembered that she was in the power of her enemies, she sat down, and lay with her face between her hands, and wept passionately. "witch," i said between my closed teeth, "will you come, or must we carry you down to the great hall?" neither would she come, but sat there, clutching at her dress and tearing her hair. then i said, "bind her, and carry her down." and they did so. i watched arnald as we came in, there was no triumph on his stern white face, but resolution enough, he had made up his mind. they placed her on a seat in the midst of the hall over against the dais. he said, "unbind her, florian." they did so, she raised her face, and glared defiance at us all, as though she would die queenly after all. then rose up arnald and said, "queen swanhilda, we judge you guilty of death, and because you are a queen and of a noble house, you shall be slain by my knightly sword, and i will even take the reproach of slaying a woman, for no other hand than mine shall deal the blow." then she said, "0 false knight, show your warrant from god, man, or devil." "this warrant from god, swanhilda," he said, holding up his sword, "listen! fifteen years ago, when i was just winning my spurs, you struck me, disgracing me before all the people; you cursed me, and mean that curse well enough. men of the house of the lilies, what sentence for that?" "death!" they said. "listen! afterwards you slew my cousin, your husband, treacherously, in the most cursed way, stabbing him in the throat, as the stars in the canopy above him looked down on the shut eyes of him. men of the house of lily, what sentence for that?" "death!" they said. "do you hear them. queen? there is warrant from man; for the devil, i do not reverence him enough to take warrant from him, but, as i look at that face of yours, i think that even he has left you." and indeed just then all her pride seemed to leave her, she fell from the chair, and wallowed on the ground moaning, she wept like a child, so that the tears lay on the oak floor; she prayed for another month of life; she came to me and kneeled, and kissed my feet, and prayed piteously, so that water ran out of her mouth. but i shuddered, and drew away; it was like hav ing an adder about one; i cou'd have pitied her had she died bravely, but for one like her to whine and whine! pah! then from the dais rang amald's voice terrible, much changed. "let there be an end of all this." and he took his sword and strode through the hall towards her; she rose from the ground and stood up, stooping a little, her head sunk between her shoulders, her black eyes turned up and gloaming, like a tigress about to spring. when he came within some six paces of her something in his eye daunted her, or perhaps the flashing of his terrible sword in the torch-light; she threw her arms up with a great shriek, and dashed screaming about the hall. amald's lip never once curled with any scorn, no line in his face changed: he said, "bring her here and bind her." but when one came up to her to lay hold on her she first of all ran at him, hitting with her head in the belly. then while he stood doubled up for want of breath, and staring with his head up, she caught his sword from the girdle, and cut him across the shoulders, and many others she wounded sorely before they took her. then arnald stood by the chair to which she was bound, and poised his sword, and there was a great silence. then he said, "men of the house of the lilies, do you justify me in this, shall she die?" straightway rang a great shout through the hall, but before it died away the sword had swept round, and therewithal was there no such thing as swanhilda left upon the earth, for in no battle-field had arnald struck truer blow. then he turned to the few servants of the palace and said, "go now, bury this accursed woman, for she is a king's daughter." then to us all, "now knights, to horse and away, that we may reach the good town by about dawn." so we mounted and rode off. what a strange christmas-day that was, for there, about nine o'clock in the morning, rode red harald into the good town to demand vengeance; he went at once to the king, and the king promised that before nightfall that very day the matter should be judged; albeit the king feared somewhat, because every third man you met in the streets had a blue cross on his shoulder, and some likeness of a lily, cut out or painted, stuck in his hat; and this blue cross and lily were the bearings of our house, called "de liliis." now we had seen red harald pass through the streets, with a white banner borne before him, to show that he came peaceably as for this time; but i know he was thinking of other things than peace. and he was called red harald first at this time, because over all his arms he wore a great scarlet cloth, that fell in heavy folds about his horse and all about him. then, as he passed our house, some one pointed it out to him, rising there with its carving and its barred marble, but stronger than many a castle on the hill-tops, and its great overhanging battlement cast a mighty shadow down the wall and across the street; and above all rose the great tower, or banner floating proudly from the top, whereon was emblazoned on a white ground a blue cross, and on a blue ground four white lilies. and now faces were gazing from all the windows, and all the battlements were thronged; so harald turned, and rising in his stirrups, shook his clenched fist at our house; natheless, as he did so, the east wind, coming down the street, caught up the corner of that scarlet cloth and drove it over his face, and therewithal disordering his long black hair, well nigh choked him, so that he bit both his hair and that cloth. so from base to cope rose a mighty shout of triumph and defiance, and he passed on. then arnald caused it to be cried, that all those who loved the good house of the lilies should go to mass that morning in saint mary's church, hard by our house. now this church belonged to us, and the abbey that served it, and always we appointed the abbot of it on condition that our trumpets should sound all together when on high masses they sing the "gloria in excelsis." it was the largest and most beautiful of all the churches in the town, and had two exceeding high towers, which you could see from far off, even when you saw not the town or any of its other towers: and in one of these towers were twelve great bells, named after the twelve apostles, one name being written on each one of them; as peter, matthew, and so on; and in the other tower was one great bell only, much larger than any of the others, and which was called mary. now this bell was never rung but when our house was in great danger, and it had this legend on it, "when mary rings the earth shakes;" and indeed from this we took our war cry, which was, "mary rings;" somewhat justifiable indeed, for the last time that mary rang, on that day before nightfall there were four thousand bodies to be buried, which bodies wore neither cross nor lily. so arnald gave me in charge to tell the abbot to cause mary to be tolled for an hour before mass that day. the abbot leaned on my shoulder as i stood within the tower and looked at the twelve monks laying their hands to the ropes. far up in the dimness i saw the wheel before it began to swing round about; then it moved a little; the twelve men bent down to the earth and a roar rose that shook the tower from base to spirevane: backwards and forwards swept the wheel, as mary now looked downwards towards earth, now looked up at the shadowy cone of the spire, shot across by bars of light from the dormers. and the thunder of mary was caught up by the wind and carried through all the country; and when the good man heard it, he said goodbye to wife and child, slung his shield behind his back, and set forward with his spear sloped over his shoulder, and many a time, as he walked toward the good town, he tightened the belt that went about his waist, that he might stride the faster, so long and furiously did mary toll. and before the great bell, mary, had ceased ringing, all the ways were full of armed men. but at each door of the church of saint mary stood a row of men armed with axes, and when any came, meaning to go into the church, the two first of these would hold their axes (whose helves were about four feet long) over his head, and would ask him, "who went over the moon last night?" then if he answered nothing or at random they would bid him turn back, which he for the more part would be ready enough to do; but some, striving to get through that row of men, were slain outright; but if he were one of those that were friends to the house of the lilies he would answer to that question, "mary and john." by the time the mass began the whole church was full, and in the nave and transept thereof were three thousand men, all of our house and all armed. but arnald and myself, and squire hugh, and some others sat under a gold-fringed canopy near the choir; and the abbot said mass, having his mitre on his head. yet, as i watched him, it seemed to me that he must have something on beneath his priest's vestments, for he looked much fatter than usual, being really a tall lithe man. now, as they sung the "kyrie," some one shouted from the other end of the church, "my lord arnld, they are slaying our people without;" for, indeed, all the square about the church was full of our people, who for the press had not been able to enter, and were standing there in no small dread of what might come to pass. then the abbot turned round from the altar, and began to fidget with the fastenings of his rich robes. and they made a lane for us up to the west door; then i put on my helm and we began to go up the nave, then suddenly the singing of the monks and all stopped. i heard a clinking and a buzz of voices in the choir. i turned, and saw that the bright noon sun was shining on the gold of the priest's vestments, as they lay on the floor, and on the mail that the priests carried. so we stopped, the choir gates swung open, and the abbot marched out at the head of his men, all fully armed, and began to strike up the psalm "exsurgat deus." when we got to the west door, there was indeed a tumult, but as yet no slaying; the square was all a-flicker with steel, and we beheld a great body of knights, at the head of them red harald and the king, standing over against us; but our people, pressed against the houses, and into the comers of the square, were, some striving to enter the doors, some beside themselves with rage, shouting out to the others to charge; withal, some were pale and some were red with the blood that had gathered to the wrathful faces of them. then said arnald to those about him, "lift me up." so they laid a great shield on two lances, and these four men carried, and thereon stood arnald, and gazed about him. now the king was unhelmed, and his white hair (for he was an old man) flowed down behind him on to his saddle; but amaid's hair was cut short, and was red. and all the bells rang. then the king said, "0 arnald of the lilies, will you settle this quarrel by the judgment of god?" and amaid thrust up his chin, and said, "yea." "how then," said the king, "and where?" "will it please you try now?" said arnald. then the king understood what he meant, and took in his hand from behind tresses of his long white hair, twisting them round his hand in his wrath, but yet said no word, till i suppose his hair put him in mind of something, and he raised it in both his hands above his head, and shouted out aloud, "0 knights, hearken to this traitor." whereat, indeed, the lances began to move ominously. but arnald spoke. "0 you king and lords, what have we to do with you? were we not free in the old time, up among the hills there? wherefore give way, and we will go to the hills again; and if any man try to stop us, his blood be on his own head; wherefore now," (and he turned) "all you house of the lily, both soldiers and monks, let us go forth together fearing nothing, for i think there is not bone enough or muscle enough in these fellows here that have a king that they should stop us withal, but only skin and fat." and truly, no man dared to stop us, and we went. failing in the world now at that time we drove cattle in red harald's land. and we took no hoof but from the lords and rich men, but of these we had a mighty drove, both oxen and sheep, and horses, and besides, even hawks and hounds, and huntsman or two to take care of them. and, about noon, we drew away from the cornlands that lay beyond the pastures, and mingled with them, and reached a wide moor, which was called "goliath's land." i scarce know why, except that it belonged neither to red harald or us, but was debatable. and the cattle began to go slowly, and our horses were tired, and the sun struck down very hot upon us, for there was no shadow, and the day was cloudless. all about the edge of the moor, except on the sidefrom which we had come was a rim of hills, not very high, but very rocky and steep, otherwise the moor itself was flat; and through these hills was one pass, guarded by our men, which pass led to the hill castle of the lilies. it was not wonderful, that of this moor many wild stories were told, being such a strange lonely place, some of them one knew, alas to be over true. in the old time, before we went to the good town, this moor had been the mustering place of our people, and our house had done deeds enough of blood and horror to turn our white lilies red, and our blue cross to a fiery one. but some of those wild tales i never believed; they had to do mostly with men losing their way without any apparent cause, (for there were plenty of landmarks,) finding some well-known spot, and then, just beyond it, a place they had never even dreamed of. "florian! fiorian!" said arnald, "for god's sake stop! as every one else is stopping to look at the hills yonder; i always thought there was a curse upon us. what does god mean by shutting us up here? look at the cattle; 0 christ, they have found it out too! see, some of them are turning to run back again towards harald's land. oh! unhappy, unhappy, from that day forward!" he leaned forward, rested his head on his horse's neck, and wept like a child. i felt so irritated with him, that i could almost have slain him then and there. was he mad? had these wild doings of ours turned his strong wise head? "are you my brother arnald, that i used to think such a grand man when i was a boy?" i said, "or are you changed too, like everybody, and everything else? what do you mean?" "look! look!" he said, grinding his teeth in agony. i raised my eyes: where was the one pass between the rim of stern rocks? nothing: the enemy behind usthat grim wall in front: what wonder that each man looked in his fellow's face for help, and found it not. yet i refused to believe that there was any troth either in the wild stories that i had heard when i was a boy, or in this story told me so clearly by my eyes now. i called out cheerily, "hugh, come here!" he came. "what do you think of this? some mere dodge on harald's part? are we cut off?" "think! sir florian? god forgive me for ever thinking at all; i have given up that long and long ago, because thirty years ago i thought this, that the house of lilies would deserve anything in the way of bad fortune that god would send them: so i gave up thinking, and took to fighting. but if you think that harald had anything to do with this, why-why-in god's name, i wish i could think so!" i felt a dull weight on my heart. had our house been the devil's servants all along? i thought we were god's servants. the day was very still, but what little wind there was, was at our backs. i watched hugh's face, not being able to answer him. he was the cleverest man at war that i have known, either before or since that day; sharper than any hound in ear and scent, clearer sighted than any eagle; he was listening now intently. i saw a slight smile cross his face; heard him mutter, "yes! i think so: verily that is better, a great deal better." then he stood up in his stirrups, and shouted, "hurrah for the lilies! mary rings!" "mary rings!" i shouted, though i did not know the reason for his exultation: my brother lifted his head, and smiled too, grimly. then as i listened i heard clearly the sound of a trumpet, and enemy's trumpet too. "after all, it was only mist, or some such thing," i said, for the pass between the hills was clear enough now. "hurrah! only mist," said amald, quite elated; "mary rings!" and we all began to think of fighting: for after all what joy is equal to that? there were five hundred of us; two hundred spears, the rest archers; and both archers and men at arms were picked men. "how many of them are we to expect?" said i. "not under a thousand, certainly, probably more, sir florian." (my brother arnald, by the way, had knighted me before we left the good town, and hugh liked to give me the handle to my name. how was it, by the way, that no one had ever made him a knight?) "let every one look to his arms and horse, and come away from these silly cows' sons!" shouted arnald. hugh said, "they will be here in an hour, fair sir." so we got clear of the cattle, and dismounted, and both ourselves took food and drink, and our horses; afterwards we tightened our saddle-girths, shook our great pots of helmets on, except amald, whose rustyred hair had been his only head-piece in battle for years and years, and stood with our spears close by our horses, leaving room for the archers to retreat between our ranks; and they got their arrows ready, and planted their stakes before a little peat moss: and there we waited, and saw their pennons at last floating high above the corn of the fertile land, then heard their many horse-hoofs ring upon the hard-parched moor, and the archers began to shoot. it had been a strange battle; we had never fought better, and yet withal it had ended in a retreat; indeed all along every man but arnald and myself, even hugh, had been trying at least to get the enemy between him and the way toward the pass; and now we were all drifting that way, the enemy trying to cut us off, but never able to stop us, because he could only throw small bodies of men in our way, whom we scattered and put to flight in their turn. i never cared less for my life than then; indeed, in spite of all my boasting and hardness of belief, i should have been happy to have died, such a strange weight of apprehension was on me; and yet i got no scratch even. i had soon put off my great helm, and was fighting in my mail-coif only: and here i swear that three knights together charged me, aiming at my bare face, yet never touched me. for, as for one, i put his lance aside with my sword, and the other two in some most wonderful manner got their spears locked in each other's armour, and so had to submit to be knocked off their horses. and we still neared the pass, and began to see distinctly the ferns that grew on the rocks, and the fair country between the rift in them, spreading out there, blue-shadowed. whereupon came a great rush of men of both sides, striking side blows at each other, spitting, cursing, and shrieking, as they tore away like a herd of wild hogs. so, being careless of lfe, as i said, i drew rein, and turning my horse, waited quietly for them. and i knotted the reins, and laid them on the horse's neck, and stroked him, that he whinnied, then got both my hands to my sword. then, as they came on, i noted hurriedly that the first man was one of arnald's men, and one of our men behind him leaned forward to prod him with his spear, but could not reach so far, till he himself was run through the eye with a spear, and throwing his arms up fell dead with a shriek. also i noted concerning this first man that the laces of his helmet were loose, and when he saw me he lifted his left hand to his head, took off his helm and cast it at me, and still tore on; the helmet flew over my head, and i sitting still there, swung out, hitting him on the neck; his head flew right off, for the mail no more held than a piece of silk. "mary rings," and my horse whinnied again, and we both of us went at it, and fairly stopped that rout, so that there was a knot of quite close and desperate fighting, wherein we had the best of that fight and slew most of them, albeit my horse was slain and my mail-coif cut through. then i bade a squire fetch me another horse, and began meanwhile to upbraid those knights for running in such a strange disorderly race, instead of standing and fighting cleverly. moreover we had drifted even in this successful fight still nearer to the pass, so that the conies who dwelt there were beginning to consider whether they should not run into their holes. but one of those knights said: "be not angry with me. sir florian, but do you think you will go to heaven?" "the saints! i hope so," i said, but one who stood near him whispered to him to hold his peace, so i cried out: "0 friend! i hold this world and all therein so cheap now, that i see not anything in it but shame which can any longer anger me; wherefore speak: out." "then, sir florian, men say that at your christening some fiend took on him the likeness of a priest and strove to baptize you in the devil's name, but god had mercy on you so that the fiend could not choose but baptize you in the name of the most holy trinity: and yet men say that you hardly believe any doctrine such as other men do, and will at the end only go to heaven round about as it were, not at all by the intercession of our lady; they say too that you can see no ghosts or other wonders, whatever happens to other christian men." i smiled. "well, friend, i scarcely call this a disadvantage, moreover what has it to do with the matter in hand?" how was this in heaven's name? we had been quite still, resting while this talk was going on, but we could hear the hawks chattering from the rocks, we were so close now. and my heart sunk within me, there was no reason why this should not be true; there was no reason why anything should not be true. "this, sir florian," said the knight again, "how would you feel inclined to fight if you thought that everything about you was mere glamour; this earth here, the rocks, the sun, the sky? i do not know where i am for certain, i do not know that it is not midnight instead of undem: i do not know if i have been fighting men or only simulacra but i think, we all think, that we have been led into some devil's trap or other, andand may god forgive me my sins! i wish i had never been born." there now! he was weeping they all wept how strange it was to see those rough, bearded men blubbering there, and snivelling till the tears ran over their armour and mingled with the blood, so that it dropped down to the earth in a dim, dull, red rain. my eyes indeed were dry, but then so was my heart; i felt far worse than weeping came to, but nevertheless i spoke cheerily. "dear friends, where are your old men's hearts gone to now? see now! this is a punishment for our sins, is it? well, for our forefathers' sins or our own? if the first, 0 brothers, be very sure that if we bear it manfully god will have something very good in store for us hereafter; but if for our sins, is it not certain that he cares for us yet, for note that he suffers the wicked to go their own ways pretty much; moreover brave men, brothers, ought to be the masters of simulacra come, is it so hard to die once for all?" still no answer came from them, they sighed heavily only. i heard the sound of more than one or two swords as they rattled back to the scabbards: nay, one knight, stripping himself of surcoat and hauberk, and drawing his dagger, looked at me with a grim smile, and said, "sir florian, do so!" then he drew the dagger across his throat and he fell back dead. they shuddered, those brave men, and crossed themselves. and i had no heart to say a word more, but mounted the horse which had been brought to me and rode away slowly for a few yards; then i became aware that there was a great silence over the whole field. so i lifted my eyes and looked, and behold no man struck at another. then from out of a band of horsemen came harald, and he was covered all over with a great scarlet cloth as before, put on over the head, and flowing all about his horse, but rent with the fight. he put off his helm and drew back his mail-coif, then took a trumpet from the hand of a herald and blew strongly. and in the midst of his blast i heard a voice call out: "0 florian! come and speak to me for the last time!" so when i turned i beheld arnald standing by himself, but near him stood hugh and ten others with drawn swords. then i wept, and so went to him weeping; and he said, "thou seest, brother, that we must die, and i think by some horrible and unheard-of death, and the house of the lilies is just dying too; and now i repent me of swanhilda's death; now i know that it was a poor cowardly piece of revenge, instead of a brave act of justice; thus has god shown us the right. "0 florian! curse me! so will it be straighter; truly thy mother when she bore thee did not think of this; rather saw thee in the tourney at this time, in her fond hopes, glittering with gold and doing knightly; or else mingling thy brown locks with the golden hair of some maiden weeping for the love of thee. god forgive me! god forgive me!" "what harm, brother?" i said, "this is only failing in the world; what if we had not failed, in a little while it would have made no difference; truly just now i felt very miserable, but now it has passed away, and i am happy." "0 brave heart!" he said, "yet we shall part just now, florian, farewell." "the road is long," i said, "farewell." then we kissed each other, and hugh and the others wept. now all this time the trumpets had been ringing, ringing, great doleful peals, then they ceased, and above all sounded red harald's voice. (so i looked round towards that pass, and when i looked i no longer doubted any of those wild tales of glamour concerning goliath's land; and for though the rocks were the same, and though the conies still stood gazing at the doors of their dwellings, though the hawks still cried out shrilly, though the fern still shook in the wind, yet beyond, oh such a land! not to be described by any because of its great beauty, lying, a great hollow land, the rocks going down on this side in precipices, then reaches and reaches of loveliest country, trees and flowers, and corn, then the hills, green and blue, and purple, till their ledges reached the white snowy mountains at last. then with all manner of strange feelings, "my heart in the midst of my body was even like melting wax.") "0 you house of the lily! you are conquered yet i will take vengeance only on a few, therefore let all those who wish to live come and pile their swords, and shields, and helms behind me in three great heaps, and swear fealty afterwards to me; yes, all but the false knights arnald and florian." we were holding each other's hands and gazing, and we saw all our knights, yea, all but squire hugh and his ten heroes, pass over the field singly, or in groups of three or four, with their heads hanging down in shame, and they cast down their notched swords and dinted, lilied shields, and brave-crested helms into three great heaps, behind red herald, then stood behind, no man speaking to his fellow, or touching him. then dolefully the great trumpets sang over the dying house of the lily, and red harald led his men forward, but slowly: on they came, spear and mail glittering in the sunlight; and i turned and looked at that good land, and a shuddering delight seized my soul. but i felt my brother's hand leave mine, and saw him turn his horse's head and ride swiftly toward the pass; that was a strange pass now. and at the edge he stopped, turned round and called out aloud, "i pray thee, harald, forgive mel now farewell all!" then the horse gave one bound forward, and we heard the poor creature's scream when he felt that he must die, and we heard afterwards (for we were near enough for that even) a clang and a crash. so i turned me about to hugh, and he understood me though i could not speak. we shouted all together, "mary rings," then laid our bridles on the necks of our horses, spurred forward, and in five minutes they were all slain, and i was down among the horse-hoofs. not slain though, not wounded. red harald smiled grimly when he saw me rise and lash out again; he and some ten others dismounted, and holding their long spears out, i went back -back, back, i saw what it meant, and sheathed my sword, and their laughter rolled all about me, and i too smiled. presently they all stopped, and i felt the last foot of turf giving under my feet; i looked down and saw the crack there widening; then in a moment i fell, and a cloud of dust and earth rolled after me; then again their mirth rose into thunder-peals of laughter. but through it all i heard red harald shout, "silence! evil dogs!" for as i fell i stretched out my arms, and caughl a tuft of yellow broom some three feet from the brow, and hung there by the hands, my feet being loose in the air. then red harald came and stood on the precipice above me, his great axe over his shoulder; and he looked down on me not ferociously, almost kindly, while the wind from the hollow land blew about his red raiment, tattered and dusty now. and i felt happy, though it pained me to hold straining by the broom, yet i said, "i will hold out to the last" it was not long, the plant itself gave way and i fell, and as i fell i fainted. i had thought when i fell that i should never wake again; but i woke at last: for a long time i was quite dizzied and could see nothing at all: horrible doubts came creeping over me; i half expected to see presently great half-formed shapes come rolling up to me to crush me; some thing fiery, not strange, too utterly horrible to be strange, but utterly vile and ugly, the sight of which would have killed me when i was upon the earth, come rolling up to torment me. in fact i doubted if i were in hell. i knew i deserved to be, but i prayed, and then it came into my mind that i could not pray if i were in hell. also there seemed to be a cool green light all about me, which was sweet. then presently i heard a glorious voice ring outclear, close to me "christ keep the hollow land through the sweet spring-tide, when the apple-blossoms bless the lowly bent hill side." thereat my eyes were slowly unsealed, and i saw the blessedest sight i have ever seen before or since: for i saw my love. she sat about five yards from me on a great grey stone that had much moss on it, one of the many scattered along the side of the stream by which i lay; she was clad in loose white raiment close to her hands and throat; her feet were bare, her hair hung loose a long way down, but some of it lay on her knees: i said "white" raiment, but long spikes of light scarlet went down from the throat, lost here and there in the shadows of the folds, and growing smaller and smaller, died before they reached her feet. i was lying with my head resting on soft moss that some one had gathered and placed under me. she, when she saw me moving and awake, came and stood over me with a gracious smile. she was so lovely and tender to look at, and so kind, yet withal no one, man or woman, had ever frightened me half so much. she was not fair in white and red, like many beautiful women are, being rather pale, but like ivory for smoothness, and her hair was quite golden, not light yellow, but dusky golden. i tried to get up on my feet, but was too weak, and sank back again. she said: "no, not just yet, do not trouble yourself or try to remember anything just at present." there withal she kneeled down, and hung over me closer. "to-morrow you may, perhaps, have something hard to do or bear, i know, but now you must be as happy as you can be, quietly happy. why did you start and turn pale when i came to you? do you not know who i am? nay, but you do, i see; and i have been waiting here so long for you; so you must have expected to see me. you cannot be frightened of me, are you?" but i could not answer a word, but all the time strange knowledge, strange feelings were filling my brain and my heart, she said: "you are tired; rest, and dream happily." so she sat by me, and sang to lull me to sleep, while i turned on my elbow, and watched the waving of her throat: and the singing of all the poets i had ever heard, and of many others too, not born till years long after i was dead, floated all about me as she sang, and i did indeed dream happily. when i awoke it was the time of the cold dawn, and the colours were gathering themselves together, whereat in fatherly approving fashion the sun sent all across the east long bars of scarlet and orange that after faded through yellow to green and blue. and she sat by me still; i think she had been sitting there and singing all the time; all through hot yesterday, for i had been sleeping day-long and night-long, all through the falling evening under moonlight and starlight the night through. and now it was dawn, and i think too that neither of us had moved at all; for the last thing i remembered before i went to sleep was the tips of her fingers brushing my cheek, as she knelt over me with downdrooping arm, and still now i felt them there. moreover she was just finishing some fainting measure that died before it had time to get painful in its passion. dear lord! how i loved her! yet did i not dare to touch her, or even speak to her. she smiled with delight when she saw i was awake again, and slid down her hand on to mine, but some shuddering dread made me draw it away again hurriedly; then i saw the smile leave her face: what would i not have given for courage to hold her body quite tight to mine? but i was so weak. she said: "have you been very happy?" "yea," i said. it was the first word i had spoken there, and my voice sounded strange. "ah!" she said, "you will talk more when you get used to the air of the hollow land. have you been thinking of your past life at all? if not, try to think of it. what thing in heaven or earth do you wish for most?" still i said no word; but she said in a wearied way: "well now, i think you will be strong enough to get to your feet and walk; take my hand and try." therewith she held it out: i strove hard to be brave enough to take it, but could not; i only turned away shuddering, sick, and grieved to the heart's core of me; then struggling hard with hand and knee and elbow, i scarce rose, and stood up totteringly; while she watched me sadly, still holding out her hand. but as i rose, in my swinging to and fro the steel sheath of my sword struck her on the hand so that the blood flowed from it, which she stood looking at for a while, then dropped it downwards, and turned to look at me, for i was going. then as i walked she followed me, so i stopped and turned and said almost fiercely: "i am going alone to look for my brother." the vehemence with which i spoke, or something else, burst some blood-vessel within my throat, and we both stood there with the blood running from us on to the grass and summer flowers. she said: "if you find him, wait with him till i come." "yea," and i turned and left her, following the course of the stream upwards, and as i went i heard her low singing that almost broke my heart for its sadness. and i went painfully because of my weakness, and because also of the great stones; and sometimes i went along a spot of earth where the river had been used to flow in flood-time, and which was now bare of everything but stones; and the sun, now risen high, poured down on everything a great flood of fierce light and scorching heat, and burnt me sorely, so that i almost fainted. but about noontide i entered a wood close by the stream, a beech-wood, intending to rest myself; the herbage was thin and scattered there, sprouting up from amid the leaf-sheaths and nuts of the beeches, which had fallen year after year on that same spot; the outside boughs swept low down, the air itself seemed green when you entered within the shadow of the branches, they over-roofed the place so with tender green, only here and there showing spots of blue. but what lay at the foot of a great beech tree but some dead knight in armour, only the helmet off? a wolf was prowling round about it, who ran away snarling when he saw me coming. so i went up to that dead knight, and fell on my knees before him, laying my head on his breast, for it was arnald. he was quite cold, but had not been dead for very long; i would not believe him dead, but went down to the stream and brought him water, tried to make him drink-what would you? he was as dead as swanhilda: neither came there any answer to my cries that afternoon but the moaning of the wood doves in the beeches. so then i sat down and took his head on my knees, and closed the eyes, and wept quietly while the sun sank lower. but a little after sunset i heard a rustle through the leaves, that was not the wind, and looking up my eyes met the pitying eyes of that maiden. something stirred rebelliously within me; i ceased weeping, and said: "it is unjust, unfair: what right had swanhilda to live? did not god give her up to us? how much better was he than ten swanhildas? and look you -see! he is dead." now this i shrieked out, being mad; and though i trembled when i saw some stormy wrath that vexed her very heart and loving lips, gathering on her face, i yet sat there looking at her and screaming, screaming, till all the place rang. but when growing hoarse and breathless i ceased; she said, with straitened brow and scornful mouth: "so! bravely done! must i then, though i am a woman, call you a liar, for saying god is unjust? you to punish her, had not god then punished her already? how many times when she woke in the dead night do you suppose she missed seeing king urrayne's pale face and hacked head lying on the pillow by her side? whether by night or day, what things but screams did she hear when the wind blew loud round about the palace corners? and did not that face too, often come before her, pale and bleeding as it was long ago, and gaze at her from unhappy eyes! poor eyesi with changed purpose in themno more hope of converting the world when that blow was once struck, truly it was very wicked-no more dreams, but only fierce struggles with the devil for very life, no more dreams but failure at last, and death, happier so in the hollow land." she grew so pitying as she gazed at his dead face that i began to weep again unreasonably, while she saw not that i was weeping, but looked only on arnald's face, but after turned on me frowning. "unjust! yes, truly unjust enough to take away life and all hope from her; you have done a base cowardly act, you and your brother here, disguise it as you may; you deserve all god's judgment you" but i turned my eyes and wet face to her, and said: "do not curse me there do not look like swanhilda: for see now, you said at first that you have been waiting long for me, give me your hand now, for i love you so." then she came and knelt by where i sat, and i caught her in my arms and she prayed to be forgiven. "0, florian! i have indeed waited long for you, and when i saw you my heart was filled with joy, but you would neither touch me nor speak to me, so that i became almost mad, forgive me, we will be so happy now. 0! do you know this is what i have been waiting for all these years; it made me glad, i know, when i was a little baby in my mother's arms to think i was born for this; and afterwards, as i grew up, i used to watch every breath of wind through the beech-boughs, every turn of the silver poplar leaves, thinking it might be you or some news of you." then i rose and drew her up with me; but she knelt again by my brother's side, and kissed him, and said: "0 brother! the hollow land is only second best of the places god has made, for heaven also is the work of his hand." afterwards we dug a deep grave among the beechroots and there we buried amald de liliis. and i have never seen him since, scarcely even in dreams; surely god has had mercy on him, for he was very leal and true and brave; he loved many men, and was kind and gentle to his friends, neither did he hate any but swanhilda. but as for us two, margaret and me, i cannot tell you concerning our happiness, such things cannot be told; only this i know, that we abode continually in the hollow land until i lost it. moreover this i can tell you. margaret was walking with me, as she often walked near the place where i had first seen her; presently we came upon a woman sitting, dressed in scarlet and gold raiment, with her head laid down on her knees; likewise we heard her sobbing. "margaret, who is she?" i said: "i knew not that any dwelt in the hollow land but us two only." she said, "i know not who she is, only sometimes; these many years, i have seen her scarlet robe flaming from far away, amid the quiet green grass: but i was never so near her as this. florian, i am afraid: let us come away." fytte the second such a horrible grey november day it was, the fog-smell all about, the fog creeping into our very bones. and i sat there, trying to recollect, at any rate something, under those fir-trees that i ought to have known so well. just think now; i had lost my best years somewhere; for i was past the prime of life, my hair and beard were scattered with white, my body was growing weaker, my memory of all things was very faint my raiment, purple and scarlet and blue once, was so stained that you could scarce call it any colour, was so tattered that it scarce covered my body, though it seemed once to have fallen in heavy folds to my feet, and still, when i rose to walk, though the miserable november mist lay in great drops upon my bare breast, yet was i obliged to wind my raiment over my arm, it dragged so (wretched, slimy, textureless thing! ) in the brown mud. on my head was a light morion, which pressed on my brow and pained me; so i put my hand up to take it ofi; but when i touched it i stood still in my walk shuddering; i nearly fell to the earth with shame and sick horror; for i laid my hand on a lump of slimy earth with worms coiled up in it i could scarce forbear from shrieking, but breathing such a prayer as i could think of, i raised my hand again and seized it firmly. worse horror stilll the rust had eaten it into holes, and i gripped my own hair as well as the rotting steel, the sharp edge of which cut into my fingers; but setting my teeth, gave a great wrench, for i knew that if i let go of it then, no power on the earth or under it could make me touch it again. god be praised! i tore it off and cast it far from me; i saw the earth, and the worms and green weeds and sunbegotten slime, whirling out from it radiatingly, as it spun round about. i was girt with a sword too, the leathern belt of which had shrunk and squeezed my waist: dead leaves had gathered in knots about the buckles of it, the gilded handle was encrusted with clay in many parts, the velvet sheath miserably worn. but, verily, when i took hold of the hilt, and pent in my hand; lo! then, i drew out my own true blade and shook it flawless from hilt to point, gleaming white in that mist. therefore it sent a thrill of joy to my heart, to know that there was one friend left me yet: i sheathed it again carefully, and undoing it from my waist, hung it about my neck. then catching up my rags in my arms, i drew them up till my legs and feet were altogether clear from them, afterwards folded my arms over my breast, gave a long leap and ran, looking downward, but not giving heed to my way. once or twice i fell over stumps of trees, and suchlike, for it was a cut-down wood that i was in, but i rose always, though bleeding and confused, and went on still; sometimes tearing madly through briars and gorse bushes, so that my blood dropped on the dead leaves as i went. i ran in this way for about an hour; then i heard a gurgling and splashing of waters; i gave a great shout and leapt strongly, with shut eyes, and the black water closed over me. when i rose again, i saw near me a boat with a man in it; but the shore was far off; i struck out toward the boat, but my clothes which i had knotted and folded about me, weighed me down terribly. the man looked at me, and began to paddle toward me with the oar he held in his left hand, having in his right a long, slender spear, barbed like a fish-hook; perhaps, i thought, it is some fishing spear; moreover his raiment was of scarlet, with upright stripes of yellow and black all over it. when my eye caught his, a smile widened his mouth as if some one had made a joke; but i was beginning to sink, and indeed my head was almost under water just as he came and stood above me, but before it went quite under, i saw his spear gleam, then felt it in my shoulder, and for the present, felt nothing else. when i woke i was on the bank of that river; the flooded waters went hurrying past me; no boat on them now; from the river the ground went up in gentle slopes till it grew a great hill, and there, on that hill-top, yes, i might forget many things, almost everything, but not that, not the old castle of my fathers up among the hills, its towers blackened now and shattered, yet still no enemy's banner waved from it. so i said i would go and die there? and at this thought i drew my sword, which yet hung about my neck, and shook it in the air till the true steel quivered, then began to pace towards the castle. i was quite naked, no rag about me; i took no heed of that only thanking god that my sword was left, and so toiled up the hill. i entered the castle soon by the outer court; i knew the way so well, that i did not lift my eyes from the groimd, but walked on over the lowered drawbridge through the unguarded gates, and stood in the great hall at lastmy father's hall as bare of everything but my sword as when i came into the world fifty years before: i had as little clothes, as little wealth, less memory and thought, i verily believe, than then. so i lifted up my eyes and gazed; no glass in the windows, no hangings on the walls; the vaulting yet held good throughout, but seemed to be going; the mortar had fallen out from between the stones, and grass and fern grew in the joints; the marble pavement was in some places gone, and water stood about in puddles, though one scarce knew how it had got there. no hangings on the wallsno; yet, strange to say, instead of them, the walls blazed from end to end with scarlet paintings, only striped across with green damp-marks in many places, some falling bodily from the wall, the plaster hanging down with the fading colour on it. in all of them, except for the shadows and the faces of the figures, there was scarce any colour but scarlet and yellow. here and there it seemed the painter, whoever it was, had tried to make his trees or his grass green, but it would not do; some ghastly thoughts must have filled his head, for all the green went presently into yellow, out-sweeping through the picture dismally. but the faces were painted to the very life, or it seemed so; there were only five of them, however, that were very marked or came much in the foreground; and four of these i knew well, though i did not then remember the names of those that had borne them. they were red harald, swanhilda, amald, and myself. the fifth i did not know; it was a woman's and very beautiful. then i saw that in some parts a small penthouse roof had been built over the paintings, to keep them from the weather. near one of these stood a man painting, clothed in red, with stripes of yellow and black: then i knew that it was the same man who had saved me from drowning by spearing me through the shoulder; so i went up to him, and saw furthermore that he was girt with a heavy sword. he turned round when he saw me coming, and asked me fiercely what i did there. i asked why he was painting in my castle. thereupon, with that same grim smile widening his mouth as heretofore, he said, "i paint god's judgments." and as he spoke, he rattled the sword in his scabbard; but i said, "well, then, you paint them very badly. listen; i know god's judgments much better than you do. see now; i will teach you god's judgments, and you shall teach me painting." while i spoke he still rattled his sword, and when i had done, shut his right eye tight, screwing his nose on one side; then said: "you have got no clothes on, and may go to the devil! what do you know about god's judgments?" "well, they are not all yellow and red, at all events; you ought to know better." he screamed out, "0 you fool! yellow and red! gold and blood, what do they make?" "well," i said; "what?" "hell!" and, coming close up to me, he struck me with his open hand in the face, so that the colour with which his hand was smeared was dabbed about my face. the blow almost threw me down; and, while i staggered, he rushed at me furiously with his sword. perhaps it was good for me that i had got no clothes on; for, being utterly unencumbered, i leapt this way and that, and avoided his fierce, eager strokes till i could collect myself somewhat; while he had a heavy scarlet cloak on that trailed on the ground, and which he often trod on, so that he stumbled. he very nearly slew me during the first few minutes, for it was not strange that, together with other matters, i should have forgotten the art of fence: but yet, as i went on, and sometimes bounded about the hall under the whizzing of his sword, as he rested sometimes, leaning on it, as the point sometimes touched my head and made my eyes start out, i remembered the old joy that i used to have, and the swy, swy, of the sharp edge, as one gazed between one's horse's ears; moreover, at last, one fierce swift stroke, just touching me below the throat, tore up the skin all down my body, and fell heavy on my thigh, so that i drew my breath in and turned white; then first, as i swung my sword round my head, our blades met, oh! to hear that tchink again! and i felt the notch my sword made in his, and swung out at him; but he guarded it and returned on me; i guarded right and left, and grew warm, and opened my mouth to shout, but knew not what to say; and our sword points fell on the floor together: then, when we had panted awhile, i wiped from my face the blood that had been dashed over it, shook my sword and cut at him, then we spun round and round in a mad waltz to the measured music of our meeting swords, and sometimes either wounded the other somewhat but not much, till i beat down his sword on to his head, that he fell grovelling, but not cut through. verily, thereupon my lips opened mightily with "mary rings." then, when he had gotten to his feet, i went at him again, he staggering back, guarding wildly; i cut at his head; he put his sword up confusedly, so i fitted both hands to my hilt, and smote him mightily under the arm: then his shriek mingled with my shout, made a strange sound together; he rolled over and over, dead, as i thought. i walked about the hall in great exultation at first, striking my sword point on the floor every now and then, till i grew faint with loss of blood; then i went to my enemy and stripped off some of his clothes to bind up my wounds withal; afterwards i found in a corner bread and wine, and i eat and drank thereof. then i went back to him, and looked, and a thought struck me, and i took some of his paints and brushes, and kneeling down, painted his face thus, with stripes of yellow and red, crossing each other at right angles; and in each of the squares so made i put a spot of black, after the manner of the painted letters in the prayer-books and romances when they are ornamented. so i stood back as painters use, folded my arms, and admired my own handiwork. yet there struck me as being something so utterly doleful in the man's white face, and the blood running all about him, and washing off the stains of paint from his face and hands, and splashed clothes, that my heart misgave me, and i hoped that he was not dead; i took some water from a vessel he had been using for his painting, and, kneeling, washed his face. was it some resemblance to my father's dead face, which i had seen when i was young, that made me pity him? i laid my hand upon his heart, and felt it beating feebly; so i lifted him up gently, and carried him towards a heap of straw that he seemed used to lie upon; there i stripped him and looked to his wounds, and used leech-craft, the memory of which god gave me for this purpose, i suppose, and within seven days i found that he would not die. afterwards, as i wandered about the castle, i came to a room in one of the upper storeys, that had still the roof on, and windows in it with painted glass, and there i found green raiment and swords and armour, and i clothed myself. so when he got well i asked him what his name was, and he me, and we both of us said, "truly i know not." then said i, "but we must call each other some name, even as men call days." "call me swerker," he said, "some priest i knew once had that name." "and me wulf," said i, "though wherefore i know not." then i tried to learn painting till i thought i should die, but at last learned it through very much pain and grief. and, as the years went on and we grew old and grey, we painted purple pictures and green ones instead of the scarlet and yellow, so that the walls looked altered, and always we painted god's judgments. and we would sit in the sunset and watch them with the golden light changing them, as we yet hoped god would change both us and our works. often too we would sit outside the walls and look at the trees and sky, and the ways of the few men and women we saw; therefrom sometimes befell adventures. once there went past a great funeral of some king going to his own country, not as he had hoped to go, but stiff and colourless, spices filling up the place of his heart. and first went by very many knights, with long bright hauberks on, that fell down before their knees as they rode, and they all had tilting-helms on with the same crest, so that their faces were quite hidden: and this crest was two hands clasped together tightly as though they were the hands of one praying forgiveness from the one he loves best; and the crest was wrought in gold. moreover, they had on over their hauberks surcoats which were half scarlet and half purple, strewn about with golden stars. also long lances, that had forked knights'-pennons, half purple and half scarlet, strewn with golden stars. and these went by with no sound but the fall of their horse-hoofs. and they went slowly, so slowly that we counted them all, five thousand five hundred and fifty-five. then went by many fair maidens whose hair was loose and yellow, and who were all clad in green raiment ungirded, and shod with golden shoes. these also we counted, being five hundred; moreover some of the outermost of them, viz., one maiden to every twenty, had long silver trumpets, which they swung out to right and left, blowing them, and their sound was very sad. then many priests, and bishops, and abbots, who wore white albs and golden copes over them; and they all sang together mournfully, "propter amnen babylonis;" and these were three hundred. after that came a great knot of the lords, who were tilting helmets and surcoats emblazoned with each one his own device; only each had in his hand a small staff two feet long whereon was a pennon of scarlet and purple. these also were three hundred. and in the midst of these was a great car hung down to the ground with purple, drawn by grey horses whose trappings were half scarlet, half purple. and on this car lay the king, whose head and hands were bare; and he had on him a surcoat, half purple and half scarlet, strewn with golden stars. and his head rested on a tilting helmet, whose crest was the hands of one praying passionately for forgiveness. but his own hands lay by his side as if he had just fallen asleep. and all about the car were little banners, half purple and half scarlet, strewn with golden stars. then the king, who counted but as one, went by also. and after him came again many maidens clad in ungirt white raiment strewn with scarlet flowers, and their hair was loose and yellow and their feet bare: and, except for the falling of their feet and the rustle of the wind through their raiment, they went past quite silently. these also were five hundred. then lastly came many young knights with long bright hauberks falling over their knees as they rode, and surcoats, half scarlet and half purple, strewn with golden stars; they bore long lances with forked pennons which were half purple, half scarlet, strewn with golden stars; their heads and their hands were bare, but they bore shields, each one of them, which were of bright steel wrought cunningly in the midst with that bearing of the two hands of one who prays for forgiveness; which was done in gold. these were but five hundred. then they all went by winding up and up the hill roads, and, when the last of them had departed out of our sight, we put down our heads and wept, and i said, "sing us one of the songs of the hollow land." then he whom i had called swerker put his hand into his bosom, and slowly drew out a long, long tress of black hair, and laid it on his knee and smoothed it, weeping on it: so then i left him there and went and armed myself, and brought armour for him. and then came back to him and threw the armour down so that it clanged, and said: "o harald, let us go!" he did not seem surprised that i called him by the right name, but rose and armed himself, and then be looked a good knight; so we set forth. and in a turn of the long road we came suddenly upon a most fair woman, clothed in scarlet, who sat and sobbed, holding her face between her bands, and her hair was very black. and when harald saw her, he stood and gazed at her for long through the bars of bis helmet, then suddenly turned, and said: "florian, i must stop here; do you go on to the hollow land. farewell." "farewell." and then i went on, never turning back, and him i never saw more. and so i went on, quite lonely, but happy, till i had reached the hollow land. into which i let myself down most carefully, by the jutting rocks and bushes and strange trailing flowers, and there lay down and fell asleep. fytte the third and i was waked by some one singing; i felt very happy; i felt young again; i had fair delicate raiment on, my sword was gone, and my armour; i tried to think where i was, and could not for my happiness; i tried to listen to the words of the song. nothing, only an old echo in my ears, only all manner of strange scenes from my wretched past life before my eyes in a dim, far-off manner: then at last, slowly, without effort, i heard what she sang. "christ keep the hollow land all the summer-tide; still we cannot understand where the waters glide; only dimly seeing them coldly slipping through many green-lipp'd cavern mouths. where the hills are blue." "then," she said, "come now and look for it, love, a hollow city in the hollow land." i kissed margaret, and we went. through the golden streets under the purple shadows of the houses we went, and the slow fanning backward and forward of the many-coloured banners cooled us: we two alone: there was no one with us. no soul will ever be able to tell what we said, how we looked. at last we came to a fair palace, cloistered off in the old time, before the city grew golden from the din and hubbub of traffic; those who dwelt there in the old ungolden times had had their own joys, their own sorrows, apart from the joys and sorrows of the multitude: so, in like manner, was it now cloistered off from the eager leaning and brotherhood of the golden dwellings: so now it had its own gaiety, its own solemnity, apart from theirs; unchanged, and changeable, were its marble walls, whatever else changed about it. we stopped before the gates and trembled, and clasped each other closer; for there among the marble leafage and tendrils that were round and under and over the archway that held the golden valves were wrought two figures of a man and woman winged and garlanded, whose raiment flashed with stars; and their faces were like faces we had seen or half seen in some dream long and long and long ago so that we trembled with awe and delight; and turned, and seeing margaret, saw that her face was that face seen or half seen long and long and long ago; and in the shining of her eyes i saw that other face, seen in that way and no other long and long and long ago my face. and then we walked together toward the golden gates, and opened them, and no man gainsaid us. and before us lay a great space of flowers. (http://mormontextsproject.org) blood atonement and the origin of plural marriage a discussion correspondence between elder joseph f. smith, jr. of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints and mr. richard g. evans, second counselor in the presidency of the "reorganized" church * * * * * "to correct misrepresentation, we adopt self representation." --john taylor. correspondence between elder joseph f. smith, (jr.,) of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, and mr. richard c. evans, second counselor (1905) in the presidency of the "reorganized" church. a conclusive refutation of the false charges persistently made by ministers of the "reorganized" church against the latter-day saints and their belief. also a supplement containing a number of affidavits and other matters bearing on the subjects. salt lake city, utah printed in u.s.a. introduction the correspondence in this pamphlet was brought about through the wilful misrepresentation of the doctrines of the latter-day saints and the unwarranted abuse of the authorities of the church by mr. richard c. evans, in an interview which appeared in the toronto (canada) _daily star_ of january 28, 1905. a copy of the interview was placed in the hands of the writer, who, on february 19th following, replied to mr. evans in an open letter which was published in the toronto star on or about the 25th of the month.[1] this open letter was answered by mr. evans in a personal letter, and on the 23rd of may, a rejoinder to his reply was sent to mr. evans at his home in london, ontario, canada. in all, four communications--including the interview--have passed between us, and all of these four communications are here reproduced _in full_. a copy of the open letter which appeared in the _star_, was also sent to mr. evans who acknowledged its receipt. nothing more was done in regard to this correspondence until august 17th and 24th, when an article containing a portion of it appeared in the _zion's ensign_, published by the "reorganized" church at independence, jackson county, missouri, under the title: "statements authenticated," in which it was made to appear that the full and complete communications were reproduced. but this, however, was not the case. in a letter from mr. evans to the editor of the _ensign_ which accompanied the above mentioned article, he said: believing that good will be accomplished by the publication of the entire matter, i herewith mail you the referred to matter. from this it would naturally be supposed that the _complete_ correspondence would be given. however i was not surprised to see that mr. evans' side of the controversy was _in full_, while a large portion of my first communication had been purposely suppressed; and that my second letter _did not appear at all_! and thus was the "_entire matter_" given to the readers of the _ensign_ that "good" might be "accomplished." (?) the parts that were purposely left out of my communication by mr. evans, were most vital to the subject and have been indicated as they appear in the body of this work by being placed in italics, excepting a few minor matters which he omitted that i have not mentioned, nevertheless matters that throw light upon the subject. one of these quotations was in relation to two articles in the first volume of the _saints' herald_ which were important, coming, as they did from the "enemy's" camp. here is the omitted part: if you believe your statement to be true, will you kindly explain the following passage in the _saints' herald_, your official organ, volume i, page 9,--it would be well for you to read the entire chapter, which is entitled "polygamy." the quotation is as follows: "the death of the prophet is one fact that has been realized, although he abhorred and repented of this iniquity (meaning "polygamy") before his death. this branch of the subject we shall leave to some of our brethren, who are qualified to explain it satisfactorily." in the same volume, page 27, what is meant by the following: "he, (joseph smith) caused the revelation on the subject (polygamy) to be burned, and when he voluntarily came to nauvoo and resigned himself into the arms of his enemies he said that he was going to carthage to die. at that time he also said that if it had not been for that accursed spiritual wife doctrine he would not have come to that." kindly read the context. there is more evidence that can be produced, but if you will explain this it may suffice. the first half of the succeeding paragraph was quoted but the second half was omitted. i quote in full with the part suppressed in italics: in the light of the knowledge i have received and the evidence at my command, i know that the prophet joseph smith made no such statement as the above, and that he did not have the revelation burned. _there is, however, value in the above statements from your "herald," for they bear witness to the origin and introduction of the principle of plural marriage and revelation concerning the same_. it is easy to perceive that mr. evans felt "that good will be accomplished by the publication of the 'entire matter'"; and for that reason he omitted this evidence which the leaders of the "reorganization" have been trying so successfully to destroy for lo these many years. the two articles in the _saints' herald_ have caused the leaders of that sect no end of trouble, and today they are in the same fix in regard to plural marriage that the first editor of that paper was when he wrote, for they cannot explain the prophet's connection with the principle "satisfactorily," and never will be able to until they acknowledge the truth. another of mr. evans' ommissions that "good" might be "accomplished" (?) is the following paragraph in reference to president brigham young: it is true that president young was elected president at kanesville; but on what grounds do you charge him with holding the office in trust for the "dead president's son?" do you not know that such a statement --contrary to the written word--was antagonistic to the teachings of president young, as recorded in the _times and seasons_, as well as since that time? will you please explain on what grounds you charge president young with being "under suspicion at the time of joseph smith's death?" am i to infer by this that you mean to convey the idea that brigham young was in any way responsible for the death of joseph smith? the prophet never had a truer friend. you know that at the time of the martyrdom brigham young was on a mission away from home. if this is the inference you wish to convey, it is not only contemptible but viciously false. it appears from the actions of many of those who fight the latter-day saints, that they fully realize their inability to successfully oppose the doctrines of the church with truth as a weapon of attack, and, therefore, resort to falsehood, vilification and abuse, attempting to blind those who are not acquainted with the facts. the doctrine of the church has survived all such onslaughts and continues to spread throughout the earth, as a witness against those who have adopted such base methods for its overthrow. it will continue to spread, bless mankind and prepare all who accept it, and follow its teachings in righteousness, for an inheritance in the kingdom of god. the reorganite ministers are generally in the front rank among those who oppose the church and resort to tactics of a doubtful character. they travel from place to place, never losing an opportunity in private, on the rostrum or through the press, to "explain the radical difference" between their organization and that of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, and in denouncing "the utah mormon and his iniquities." on such occasions they will quote garbled and isolated extracts from sermons and from writings by elders of the church, taking particular pains to cover up the context in order to prejudice the uninformed mind. in this way many a harmless, inoffensive passage has been made to do great execution in some quarters and among a certain class. nor is this all. nearly every crime that was committed within a thousand miles of utah in early days and many that were invented out of whole cloth, are brought to bear against the "dreadful mormons," the church and the gospel, that they may be stigmatized and made to appear vile and hateful before the world. so much of their time is spent in this way that they can surely have but little left in which to tell the world what they themselves believe. no reason except that of misrepresentation and jealousy can be assigned for actions of this kind. these men oppose the truth in a spirit of jealousy and to cover up their own false position, and by such an attitude prove that they are ashamed of their own faith, being conscious of its weakness. the supplement following the correspondence is composed of a number of affidavits and other testimony bearing on the subjects under discussion, which, it is hoped, will be of interest and perhaps of value to the reader. joseph f. smith, jr. salt lake city, utah, september 5, 1905. footnotes 1. as i did not receive a copy of the _toronto star_ i cannot positively say that my article appeared in full, but if it did not mr. evans is still without excuse for not considering the _entire matter_ for he received personally a duplicate copy of the article sent the _star_ which contained those portions he has failed to include in his "entire matter" in the _zion's ensign_. mr. r. c. evans' interview in the toronto, canada, "daily star," jan. 28, 1905 latter-day saint visiting toronto--mr. r. c. evans, who is promoting the growth of his church in canada, not a believer in polygamy--denounces the utah mormons. the name mormon does not please toronto's six hundred baptized latter-day saints, not to mention the fifty thousand others scattered over the globe. this fact was emphasized today, when r. c. evans, one of the three members of the presidency, explained the radical difference between the two denominations. mr. evans, who reached toronto a few days ago to spend a month here, denounces the "utah mormon and his iniquities." "we do not believe in polygamy, blood atonement, and kindred evils," he said to the _star_ last night at 142 peter street, where he is visiting, "they are an abomination to the lord. the term mormon is offensive to us, because it is associated in the public mind with the practices that i have specified. the other night, while i was holding a service here, four utah elders came to me. i referred to polygamy, and they defended it. 'we endorse it,' they told me, 'but we don't practice it.' three women were with them, and i said to one, 'do you believe in polygamy?' 'i do,' she replied, 'and i know that god will punish the united states for prohibiting it.' i understand that there are five utah elders in toronto at the present time, and in addresses here i will expose polygamy and blood atonement." born near montreal mr. evans is forty-three years old, but doesn't look his age. he is rather below medium height, strongly built, wears his black hair short, and his round, slightly olive face is clean shaven. he is animated in manner, and though his english is occasionally at fault, he speaks fluently and well. he was born at st. andrew's near montreal, but his ancestry is not confined to any one country, irish, welsh and german blood flows in his veins and his somewhat nasal voice is typically american. "i was baptized in 1876," he said, "ordained a priest in 1882, became an elder in 1884, entered the quorum of seventy in 1886, was chosen one of the twelve apostles in 1897; and in 1902, was selected one of president joseph smith's two counselors, the other being his eldest son, frederick m. smith. i was the pastor of the london, ontario, church from 1882 to 1886, and have given particular attention to canada. we occupy a rented church on the corner of sumac and st. david streets, a new church on camden street, and another at humber bay, practically three congregations in toronto." the latter-day saints and the utah mormons, according to mr. evans, are frequently confused, greatly to his regret. troubles of the sect "my president joseph smith," he explained, "is the oldest son of joseph smith, who, when a boy of fifteen, was directed to the mound wherein he found the golden plates from which he compiled the book of mormon. "he organized his church in 1830, when 25 years old, and between 1830 and 1844 his following numbered 200,000. in 1844 he was shot and killed for his anti-slavery sympathies,[1] and with him died his brother hyrum. john taylor, a toronto convert of 1838, was wounded, but recovered. joseph smith's city of nauvoo, illinois, was wrecked, and in 1847, at kanesville, iowa, brigham young was elected president, though he still professed to hold the office in trust for the dead president's eldest son, also, joseph, whom the father had consecrated as his successor.[2] brigham young reorganized[3] the church, rebaptized every member, including himself, and in 1848 (1847) he reached salt lake city. with him went the widow and children of hyrum smith, whose son joseph f., is now president of the utah church. the widow of the first president had refused to follow young, and her boy joseph was brought up in his father's footsteps, hating polygamy and other impurities. 'young joseph,' as he was called, connected himself with the saints, who had rejected brigham young, and was elected their president. he was then 28 years old. in 1872 he was called to washington, a report having reached the government that mormonism had again sprung up in illinois. he disproved the charge of polygamy and blood atonement, and demonstrated that latter-day saintism was in keeping with the law and supported by the bible. incorporation was granted, and we have prospered. upheld death "brigham young, who had been under suspicion at joseph smith's death, introduced polygamy and blood atonement at salt lake city. blood atonement meant death to anyone who left his church. brigham young's argument was that the apostate whose throat was cut from ear to ear, the favorite way, saved his soul, but his object was to keep his people under his iron heel. young was a shrewd, bad man. "i spent a day and a half with joseph f. smith at salt lake city three years ago, and he gave me a group photo of himself, his surviving five wives, and thirty-six children. his first wife was dead. she died broken-hearted and insane. personally, joseph f. smith is a genial, kindly man, but he and i differed on polygamy. i told him it was vile and wicked, always had been, and always would be. in appearance he resembles his cousin, my own president." mr. evans is married, and has two children. the three faces look at you from his watch case. he has recently returned from the northwest. his faith has several thriving churches there, he says, while the utah mormons are settled in one part of alberta. footnotes 1. mr. evans' declaration that the prophet was killed for his antislavery sympathies is rather surprising, when we consider that he was in one of the anti-slave states, and the mob at carthage was largely composed of men with very strong "anti-slavery sympathies." the fact is he and his brother hyrum were martyred for their religion of which celestial marriage, (including plural marriage) formed a part. one of the charges made against them was that of teaching "polygamy." 2. in proof that the prophet did not ordain or consecrate his son as his successor, the reader is referred to the affidavits of john w. rigdon and bathsheba w. smith. 3. as the church was never disorganized, it could not be reorganized. mr. evans has made a mistake. it was the quorum of the first presidency that was disorganized at the prophet's death and which was _reorganized_ when brigham young was elected president, and not the church. reply to r. c. evans the following letter was published in the toronto _daily star_ in answer to the false charges which appeared in mr. evans' interview. salt lake city, feb. 19, 1905. _mr. r. c. evans_, _counselor in presidency of reorganized church_. sir:--i have before me a copy of the toronto _daily star_, bearing date of january 28, last, in which there is a column on the front page, purporting to be an interview, by a representative of that paper with you, in which i desire to call your attention. in doing so i desire to be fair and dispassionate, and also candid, and i would like it if you would receive and reply to this communication in the same spirit and manner to me personally. you are reported as not being "pleased," nor toronto's six hundred baptized members, with the name "mormon." "this fact," says the _star_, "was emphasized today when r. c. evans, one of the three members of the presidency explained the radical difference between the two denominations. mr. evans * * * denounced the utah mormon and his iniquities." then you are made to say: "the term mormon is offensive to us, because it is associated in the public mind with the practices that i have specified." that is, the alleged practices of the utah "mormons," namely, "polygamy and blood atonement." did you know that "the term mormon" has always been applied to the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints? that the name attached to the church with the publication and promulgation of the book of mormon? that it was first applied by the enemies of the church as an opprobrium; but that during the lifetime of joseph smith the martyr, and ever since it has been a term accepted by the church because of popular custom, as an appellation? if, then, the name is so distasteful to you and your fellows in canada and throughout the world, although it be on the grounds you have named, why do you not discard the book of mormon, from whence the name is derived, as well as the name. is not the term _book of mormon_ as closely associated in the public mind with "polygamy and blood atonement," as is the _name_ of the book? how are you going to disassociate the book itself from the name as commonly applied to the church, since this name has been attached to the church from the beginning, and before the alleged "practices" of the "utah mormon" gained such publicity? _really, i think it would be quite proper for those holding the view which you are said to have expressed, not only to renounce the name "mormon" as applied to the church but also the book itself_.[1] you do not believe in blood atonement. is not this the more reason why you should discard the book of mormon? are you not at issue with the teachings not only of that book, but also with those of the bible on this matter? if so, why not discard the bible, and while you are about it, the book of doctrine and covenants also? both of these, as well as the book of mormon, teach the doctrine of "blood atonement," and they are all "associated in the public mind" with the alleged "practices" of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints. let us consider this subject of "blood atonement." book of mormon: mosiah 3:11.--his blood atoneth for the sins of those who have fallen by the transgression of adam. verse 15.--and understood not that the law of moses availeth nothing except it were through the atonement of his blood. verse 16.--even so the blood of christ atoneth for their sins. alma 21:9.--now aaron began to open the scriptures unto them concerning the coming of christ, and also concerning the resurrection of the dead, and that there could be no redemption for mankind, save it was through the death and suffering of christ, and the atonement of his blood. i nephi 12:10.--their garments are made white in his blood. ii nephi 9:7.--and if so, (not an infinite atonement) this flesh must have laid down to rot and to crumble to its mother earth, to rise no more. from the bible: mark 14:22-25.--and as they did eat, jesus took bread and blessed and brake it, and gave to them, and said: take, eat; this is my body. and he took the cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them: and they all drank of it. and he said unto them, this is my blood of the new testament which is shed for many. verily i say unto you, i will drink no more of the fruit of the vine, until that day that i drink it new in the kingdom of god. from the doctrine and covenants: section 45:4.--(utah edition) saying, father, behold the sufferings and death of him who did no sin, in whom thou wast well pleased; behold the blood of thy son which was shed--the blood of him whom thou gavest that thyself might be glorified. section 74:7.--but little children are holy, being sanctified through the atonement of jesus christ, and this is what the scriptures mean. section 76:39-41.--for all the rest shall be brought forth by the resurrection of the dead, through the triumph and the glory of the lamb, who was slain, who was in the bosom of the father before the worlds were made. and this is the gospel, the glad tidings which the voice out of the heavens bore record unto us. that he came into the world, even jesus, to be crucified for the world, and to bear the sins of the world, and to sanctify the world, and to cleanse it from all unrighteousness. section 29:1.--listen to the voice of jesus christ, your redeemer, the great i am, whose arm of mercy hath atoned for your sins. verse 17.--and it shall come to pass, because of the wickedness of the world, that i will take vengeance upon the wicked, for they will not repent; for the cup of mine indignation is full; for behold, my blood shall not cleanse them if they hear me not. statement of an enemy but the report says: "this doctrine was introduced by brigham young" and that it meant "death to anyone who left the church * * * that the apostate whose throat was cut from ear to ear * * * saved his soul." why you made this statement you best know; but were you not aware that it was but the repetition of the ravings of enemies of the church, without one grain of truth? did you not know that not a single individual was ever "blood atoned," as you are pleased to call it, for apostasy or any other cause? were you not aware, in repeating this false charge, that it was made by the most bitter enemies of the church before the death of the prophet joseph smith? do you know of anyone whose blood was ever shed by the command of the church, or members thereof, to "save his soul?" did you not know that you were embittering the people against the "mormon" elders, and that just such malicious charges and false insinuations have made martyrs for the church, whose blood does not "cease to come up into the ears of the lord of sabaoth?" never in the history of this people can the time be pointed to when the church ever attempted to pass judgment on, or execute an apostate as per your statement. there are men living in utah today who left the church in the earliest history of our state who feel as secure, and are just as secure and free from molestation from their former associates as you or any other man could be. efficacy of the blood of christ the latter-day saints believe in the efficacy of the blood of christ. they believe that through obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel they obtain a remission of sins; but this could not be if christ had not died for _them_. if you did believe in blood atonement, i might ask you why the blood of christ was shed? and _in whose stead was it shed_? i might ask you to explain the words of paul: "without shedding of blood is no remission." unpardonable sins are you aware that there are certain sins that man may commit for which the atoning blood of christ does not avail? do you not know, too, that this doctrine is taught in the book of mormon? and is not this further reason why you should discard the book as well as the name? is it not safe for us to rely upon the scriptures for the solution of problems of this kind? let me quote: from the book of mormon: ii nephi 9:35.--wo unto the murderer who deliberately killeth, for he shall die. alma 1:13, 14.--and thou hast shed the blood of a righteous man, yea, a man who has done much good among this people; and were we to spare thee, his blood would come upon us for vengeance. alma 42:19.--now, if there were no law given--if a man murdered he should die, would he be afraid he would die if he should murder? from the bible: genesis 9:12, 13.--and whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed; for man shall not shed the blood of man. for a commandment i give, that every man's brother shall preserve the life of man, for in mine own image have i made man. (inspired translation.) luke 11:50.--that the blood of all the prophets, which was shed from the foundation of the world, may be required of this generation. hebrews 9:22.--and almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission. hebrews 10:26-29.--for if we sin wilfully, after that we have received the knowledge of the truth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for sins. * * * * he that despised moses' law died without mercy under two or three witnesses; of how much sorer punishment, suppose ye, shall he be thought worthy, who hath trodden under foot the son of god, and hath counted the blood of the covenant, wherewith he was sanctified, an unholy thing. (i commend to you the careful reading of these two chapters:) i john 3:15.--no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him. i john 5:16.--if any man see his brother sin a sin which is not unto death, he shall ask, and he shall give him life for them that sin not unto death. there is a sin unto death: i do not say that he shall pray for it. from the doctrine and covenants: section 87:7.--that the cry of the saints, and of the blood of the saints, shall cease to come up into the ears of the lord of sabbath, from the earth, to be avenged of their enemies. section 101:80.--and for this purpose have i established the constitution of this land, by the hands of wise men, whom i raised up unto this very purpose, and redeemed the land by the shedding of blood. section 42:18, 19.--and now, behold, i speak unto the church. thou shalt not kill; and he that kills shall not have forgiveness in this world, nor in the world to come. and again, i say, thou shalt not kill; but he that killeth shall die. verse 79.--and it shall come to pass, that if any persons among you shall kill, they shall be delivered up and dealt with according to the laws of the land; for remember that he hath no forgiveness, and it shall be proved according to the laws of the land. the law of capital punishment in pursuance of, and in harmony with this scriptural doctrine, which has been the righteous law from the days of adam to the present time, the founders of utah incorporated in the laws of the territory provisions for the capital punishment of those who wilfully shed the blood of their fellow man. this law, which is now the law of the state, granted unto the condemned murderer the privilege of choosing for himself whether he die by hanging, or whether he be shot, and thus have his blood shed in harmony with the law of god; and thus atone, so far as it is in his power to atone, for the death of his victim. almost without exception the condemned party chooses the latter death. this is by the authority of the law of the land, not that of the church. this law was placed on the statutes through the efforts of the "mormon" legislators, and grants to the accused the right of jury trial. it is from this that the vile charge, which you are pleased to repeat, has been maliciously misconstrued by the enemies of the church, who prefer to believe a lie. when men accuse the church of practicing "blood atonement" on those who deny the faith, or, for that matter, on any living creature, they know that they bear false witness, and they shall stand condemned before the judgment seat of god. plural marriage since the action taken by the united states government, and also by the church, in regard to plural marriage, i shall not discuss its virtues nor answer arguments in opposition to that principle as a principle of our faith. as you, however, are reported to have said that "brigham young introduced" that doctrine "in salt lake city," i would be pleased if you would explain, as a matter of history, why sidney rigdon, before "president young introduced" the doctrine, declared that the principle of plural marriage was introduced, to his knowledge, by joseph smith the prophet, and that he, sidney rigdon, rejected that doctrine and "warned joseph smith and his family" that it would bring ruin upon them. you will find this in the _messenger and advocate_, published in june, 1846, volume 2, page 475, number 6. will you kindly explain why this same sidney rigdon practiced polygamy, which he so fervently condemns? will you kindly explain why lyman wight, james j. strang, gladden bishop, william smith, and others, none of whom had much love for president young and did not follow him, also taught and practiced polygamy _before plural marriage was "introduced by president young_." if you doubt this, i will gladly furnish you with the proof. indeed, you may find a great deal of it in the third volume of your church history. the "saints' herald" as a witness if you believe your statement to be true, will you kindly explain the following paragraph in the _saints herald_, your official organ, volume 1, page 9. it would be well for you to read the entire chapter, which is entitled "polygamy." the quotation is: "_the death of the prophet is one fact that has been realized, although he abhorred and repented of this iniquity (meaning 'polygamy,') before his death. this branch of the subject we shall leave to some of our brethren, who are qualified to explain it satisfactorily_." in the same volume, page 27, what is meant by the following? "_he (joseph smith) caused the revelation on the subject ('polygamy') to be burned, and when he voluntarily came to nauvoo and resigned himself into the arms of his enemies he said that he was going to carthage to die. at that time he also said that if it had not been for that accursed spiritual wife doctrine, he would not have come to that." kindly read the context_. _there is more evidence that can be produced, but if you will explain this it may suffice_. in the light of the knowledge i have received and the evidence at my command, i know that the prophet joseph smith made no such statement as the above, and that he did not have the revelation burned. _there is, however, value in the above statements from your "herald," for they bear witness to the origin and introduction of the principle of plural marriage, and the revelation concerning the same_.[2] the utah visit in connection with this, let me call your attention to your visit to salt lake city some three years ago. at that time you met president lorenzo snow, a man whose veracity cannot justly be questioned; you heard him bear his testimony to the effect that he was taught that principle by the prophet joseph smith, and that the prophet declared to lorenzo snow that he had married his sister, eliza r. snow. you met and conversed with lucy walker smith, and she told you that she was married to the prophet joseph smith on the first day of may, 1843, in nauvoo, elder william clayton performing the ceremony. you met catherine phillips smith, who told you she was married in august, 1843, in nauvoo, to the patriarch hyrum smith, his brother joseph the prophet officiating in that ceremony. you will remember that the first wives of both these men were living at the time. i hardly think these testimonies have passed from your memory in so brief a time. i am personally acquainted with these women, and know that they are truthful and honest--honorable women, whose testimonies should be believed. in the face of all this evidence, do you think it fair and consistent for you and your fellow believers to constantly lay at the door of president young the responsibility for the "introduction of plural marriage" and the "authorship" of the above mentioned revelation? my letter is already long, but i desire to briefly mention another item or two. president smith's denial in the interview you are made to say that while on your visit to salt lake city, you spent a day and a half with joseph f. smith; that you and he "differed on polygamy," and that you "told him it was vile and wicked, always had been, and always would be." i took occasion to ask my father if you and he had discussed polygamy at that time and if you had uttered that above expression or any other of like nature. he replied that he had no discussion with you on that subject; that you did not say one word to him in relation to polygamy, either favorable or otherwise; that your visit was a social one, and friendly, and was not occupied by the discussion of any differences which may have existed. _it is true that president young was elected president at kanesville, but on what grounds do you charge him with holding the office in trust for the "dead president's son?" do you not know that such a statement--contrary to the written word--was antagonistic to the teachings of president young, as recorded in the "times and seasons," as well as since that time_? president young the prophet's friend _will you please explain on what grounds you charge president young as being "under suspicion at the time of joseph smith's death?" am i to infer by this that you mean to convey the idea that brigham young was in any way responsible for the death of joseph smith? the prophet never had a truer friend. you know that at the time of the martyrdom brigham young was on a mission away from home. if this is the inference you wish to convey, it is not only contemptible but viciously false_.[3] with reference to my father's first wife, you say she died "broken hearted and insane." if you mean to insinuate that this condition, if true, was the result of any act whatever on the part of my father, it is also scandalously false. i have good reason to believe that she died neither broken hearted nor insane. if it were true, i would still think that you, as a professed minister of the gospel, might employ your time to better advantage than as an aspersor or a scandal-monger. respectfully, joseph f. smith, jr. footnotes 1. this sentence in italics was omitted in mr. evans' publication of the _entire matter_ in the _zion's ensign_, august 17th, 1905. 2. the quotations from the _saints' herald_ which are in italics were purposely omitted from mr. evans' "publication of the entire matter," as it appeared in the _zion's ensign_ of august 7, 1905. the reason for the suppression of this evidence is easy to discern. the authorities of the "reorganization" have tried to destroy the evidence, that it could not be circulated among their church members, therefore very few copies of this particular _herald_ can today be found. 3. these paragraphs in italics were also omitted from mr. evans' "publication of the entire matter," as it appeared in the _zion's ensign_ august 17, 1905. mr. evans' letter _mr. joseph f. smith, jr.:_ sir:--your open letter published in the toronto _star_ for february 25, is before me. you say: "i desire to be fair, dispassionate and also candid." those who read your letter will see plainly that you have mispresented the interview, my faith and the facts concerning my visit to salt lake, and that you are guilty of a labored effort to cover up the _true facts_ regarding "blood atonement," "polygamy," etc., and my faith in the book of mormon. so much for those desires. my position with regard to the book of mormon, and the name "mormon," is too well known for you to blind the people concerning it. the interview shows plainly in what sense "the term 'mormon' is offensive to us." read it again, sir: "because it is associated in the public mind with the practices that i have specified." the abominations of _brighamism_; namely, polygamy, blood atonement, adam-god,[1] and other evils that have disgraced the name throughout civilization. the true church never has adopted the name "mormon" as being the proper name of the church. the latter-day saints were sometimes called "mormons" in derision, as you admit, because they believed in the divine authenticity of the book of mormon, and some church members may have been willing to be called "mormon"; yet you "candidly (?) fairly, dispassionately" ask me, "why do you not discard the book of mormon from whence the name is derived?" now, sir, i profess to believe in the divine authenticity of the holy bible; as well call me a bible, because i believe in the bible,[2] as call me a mormon because i believe in the book of mormon. the church that i have the honor to represent is incorporated under the laws of the united states as "the reorganized church of jesus christ of latter day saints." blood atonement there is not an honest thinking person on earth who is acquainted with the faith of the church regarding the atonement of jesus christ but that will say your attempt to misrepresent my faith in this regard is diametrically opposite to your stated desire to be "fair, dispassionate and candid." you know that a prominent article in the epitome of the faith and doctrine of the _true church_ reads as follows: "we believe that through the atonement of christ, all men may be saved by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel." you know that the true church believes in the atoning blood of christ as stated in the scriptures you cite in your letter, and yet you try to make out that because we do not believe in the doctrine of blood atonement as taught by brigham young and his successors in "utah mormonism," that we do not believe in the atonement of our lord and savior jesus christ. the doctrine of the atonement of christ is far above the doctrine of blood atonement as taught by brighamism. to prove this, i submit the statements as made by brigham young and other leading members of the utah church, as found in their sermons, printed by your church: brigham young said, october 9, 1852: "what shall be done with the sheep that stink the flock so? we will take them, i was going to say, and cut off their tails two inches behind their ears; however i will use a milder term, and say cut off their ears."--journal of discourses, vol. 1:213. brigham said again, march 27, 1853: "i say, rather than that apostates should flourish here, i will unsheath my bowie knife, and conquer or die. (great commotion in the congregation and a simultaneous burst of feeling, assenting to the declaration.) now, you nasty apostates, clear out, or judgment will be put to the line and righteousness to the plummet. (voices generally, 'go it, go it.') if you say it is all right, raise your hands (all hands up). let us call upon the lord to assist us in this and every good work."--journal of discourses, vol. 1:83. echoing what brigham said, p. p. pratt said, on march 27, 1853, "my feelings are with those who have spoken, decidedly and firmly so. * * * i need not repeat their doom, it has been told here today, they have been faithfully warned. * * * it is too late in the day for _us_ to stop and inquire whether such an outcast has the truth."--journal of discourses, vol. 1, pp. 84, 86. elder orson hyde said april 9, 1853: "suppose the shepherd should discover a wolf approaching the flock, what would he be likely to do? why, we would suppose, if the wolf was within proper distance, that he would kill him at once * * * kill him on the spot. * * * it would have a tendency to place a terror on those who leave these parts, that may prove their salvation when they see the heads of thieves taken off, or shot down before the public."--journal of discourses, vol. 1:72, 73. president brigham young preached, february 8, 1857, as follows "all mankind love themselves; and let these principles be known by an individual and he would be glad to have his blood shed. that would be loving themselves even to an eternal exaltation. will you love your brothers and sisters likewise when they have committed a sin that cannot be atoned for without the shedding of blood? that is what jesus christ meant. he never told a man or woman to love their enemies in their wickedness. he never intended any such thing. "i could refer you to plenty of instances where men have been righteously slain in order to atone for their sins. i have seen scores and hundreds of people for whom there would have been a chance in the last resurrection if their lives had been taken and their blood spilled upon the ground, as a smoking incense to the almighty, but who are now angels to the devil, until our elder brother, jesus christ, raises them up, conquers death, hell and the grave.[3] i have known a great many men who have left this church, for whom there is no chance whatever for exaltation; but if their blood had been spilt it would have been better for them. the wickedness and ignorance of the nations forbid this principle being in full force, but the time will come when the law of god will be in full force. "this is loving our neighbor as ourselves; if he needs help, help him; and if he wants salvation and it is necessary to spill his blood upon the ground in order that he may be saved, spill it."--journal of discourses, vol. 4, p. 220, or deseret news, vol. 6, p. 397. president j. m. grant said, september 21, 1856: "i say there are men and women here that i would advise to go to the president immediately, and ask him to appoint a committee to attend to their case, and then let a place be selected, and let that committee shed their blood."--_deseret news_, vol. 6, p. 235. president heber c. kimball said; july 19, 1854: "it is believed in the world that our females are all common women. well, in one sense they are common--that is, they are like all other women, i suppose, but they are not unclean, for we wipe all unclean ones out of our midst; we not only wipe them from our streets, but we wipe them out of existence. and if the world wants to practice uncleanness, and bring their prostitutes here, if they do not repent and forsake their sins, we will wipe the evil out. we will not have them in this valley unless they repent, for so help me god, while i live i will lend my hand to wipe such persons out, and i know this people will."--_deseret news_, august 16, 1854, and _millennial star_, vol. 16, pages 738-9. the above statements speak for themselves, and these were what i read to the reporter. you ask, "do you _know_ of anyone whose blood was ever shed by the command of the church or members thereof to save his soul?" to _know_ by hearing such a command given, or seeing a murder committed, is one thing, to believe the evidence of many who have testified is another. no sir, i was never present when such a command was given, nor when murder was committed; but i have read that which leads me to believe that under brighamism, utah was for years a land of assassination and a field of blood. what of the mountain meadow massacre--the destruction of the aiken party; the dying confession of bishop j. d. lee; the hickman butcheries; the danties? alfred henry lewis, writing in _collier's weekly_ for march 26, 1904, states: "brigham young invented his destroying angels, placed himself at their head, and when a man rebelled, _he had him murdered_, if one fled the fold he was pursued and slain." the world has recently read the testimony of persons under oath, in washington, who testified concerning the endowment oaths, so i will forbear any further remarks on this subject. polygamy speaking of "plural marriage," you say, "i shall not discuss its _virtues_." surely that is kind. let civilization give ear, mr. smith calls that a virtue which wrecks the happiness of every woman who is enslaved by it, that doctrine which permits brighamites to live in what they call marriage with three sisters at one time, with mother and daughter at the same time. your father, joseph f. smith, married and is now living with _two sisters as wives_. i refer to julina lambson and edna lambson, both bearing children to him; yet you call that system a _virtue_. i have no evidence that those men you refer to, as having practiced polygamy _before young was guilty, as stated by you_. but the following evidence shows clearly that brigham young was under suspicion before joseph's death, and that he has since admitted that he had a revelation on polygamy before the church knew anything of the doctrine: in a speech of brigham young on june 21, 1874, (see _deseret news_ of july 1, 1874), we read the following statement relative to the origin of this doctrine of polygamy: while we were in england (in 1839 and 1840, i think) the lord manifested to me by vision and his spirit, things that i did not then understand. i never opened my mouth to anyone concerning them, until i returned to nauvoo; _joseph had never mentioned this; there had never been a thought of it in the church_ that i ever knew anything about at that time;--but i had this for myself and kept it for myself.--the messenger, volume 1, page 29. well, no one need blame joseph any more, brigham is the self-confessed channel through which polygamy was given to his people. i here submit the testimony of brigham young's legal wife, who left him after he was untrue to her. testimony of major thomas wanless, given to r. c. evans, his nephew, in the presence of mrs. wanless, mrs. evans and her daughter, in st. louis, missouri, september 7, 1904: i met brigham young's first and legal wife and her daughter in the winter of 1860 and 1861, at central city, colorado; she told me that joseph smith had nothing to do with polygamy; that he did not teach, practice, or in any way endorse the doctrine of polygamy, that he had nothing to do with the so-called revelation on celestial marriage; that he had but one wife. my husband, brigham young, orson pratt (she gave the name of another man whose name i have forgotten) made up the revelation on celestial marriage. before they left illinois some of them practiced polygamy. brigham young went to utah to reorganize the church and publicly introduced polygamy, or to reorganize the church on a polygamous basis. she left brigham young, finally obtained a divorce from him, and was then living with her daughter. brigham sent the daughter money according to an agreement. she told me they ought to have shot brigham young in place of joseph smith. this statement of major wanless that she was brigham's first wife is a mistake. brigham married miriam works, october 8, 1824; she died september 8, 1832. in february, 1834, he married may ann angel; she was his _legal wife_, and perhaps is the one referred to by the major. it is quite pardonable in major wanless in getting brigham's wives mixed up. we opine poor brigham was at his wit's end to keep the family record correct himself. chambers' encyclopedia, volume 8, students' edition, confirms mrs. young's statement, in part. it says, speaking of the practice of polygamy: "young, pratt and hyde are its true originators. emma, wife and widow of the prophet, stoutly denied that her husband had any wife but herself. young's revelation she declared to be a fraud." from a host of other witnesses who testify that brigham young was the man that introduced polygamy in the church, i submit the statement of another broken-hearted woman from the ranks of brigham's church. fanny stenhouse says: "polygamy was unheard of among the (english) saints in 1849." (pages 45, 47, 48) "tell it all," by fanny stenhouse. "in june 1850, i heard the first whisper of polygamy. in january, 1853, i first saw the revelation on polygamy; it was published in the _millennial star_," (page 132). "out of thirty thousand saints in england in 1853, 1776 had been excommunicated for apostasy through polygamy, the president of the conference was cut off," (page 160). when speaking regarding polygamy she says: "they know that the only source of all their revelations is the man brigham young," (page 190). "brigham has outraged decency and driven asunder the most sacred ties, by his shameless introduction of polygamy," (page 273). "there have been many apostates from the teachings of joseph smith in early days, but of all apostates, bro. brigham is the chief," (page 614). it is reported by fanny stenhouse, and many others, that joseph smith said, "if ever the church had the misfortune to be led by bro. brigham, he would lead it to hell," (page 268). why did joseph smith a short time prior to his death make the above and similar statements regarding the man brigham young? the reason is plain. he too had doubtless heard some rumors as to his conduct and secret teachings, and the evidence would seem to indicate that just before his death he made a move to bring the guilty to judgment. we will let william marks, who was president of the nauvoo stake at the time of joseph smith's death testify: "a few days after this occurrence, i met with bro. joseph, he said that he wanted to converse with me on the affairs of the church, and we retired by ourselves; i will give his words _verbatim_ for they are indelibly stamped upon my mind. he said he had desired for a long time to have a talk with me on the subject of polygamy. he said it would eventually prove the overthrow of the church, and we should soon be obliged to leave the united states, unless it could be speedily put down. he was satisfied that it was a cursed doctrine, and that there must be every exertion to put it down. he said that he would go before the congregation and proclaim against it, and i must go into the high council, and he would prefer charges against those in transgression, and i must sever them from the church unless they made ample satisfaction. there was much more said, but this was the substance. the mob commenced to gather about carthage in a few days after, therefore there was nothing done concerning it." (_saints' herald_, vol. 1, pp. 22, 23.) president marks, after joseph smith's death, made mention of the above conversation; it was soon rumored that he was about to apostatize, and that his statement was a tissue of lies." (see _saints' herald_, vol. 1, pp. 22, 23.) speaking of the revelation on polygamy, marks said, "i never heard of it during joseph's life. it was evidently gotten up by brigham young and some of the twelve, after joseph's death." (briggs' autobiography; _herald_ 1901.) now i propose to produce evidence showing that joseph smith and the church during his lifetime condemned polygamy in the strongest terms. first, i submit the testimony of thirty-one witnesses as published by the church on october the 1st, 1842. we deem this sufficient to show you where joseph and hyrum smith stood on this question of polygamy. "we, the undersigned members of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, and residents of the city of nauvoo, persons of families, do hereby certify and declare, that we know of no other rule or system of marriage than the one published from the book of covenants, and we give this certificate to show that dr. john c. bennett's secret wife system is a creature of his own make, as we know of no such society in this place, nor never did." this is signed by a number of the leading men of the church, some of the twelve apostles, some of the first presidency of the utah church, and a number of the leading men of the church. a similar document is signed by emma smith the wife of joseph smith, and a number of the leading women of the church, thirty-one witnesses in all. now i submit for your consideration a statement made by joseph smith and his brother hyrum just a few months prior to their assassination. they learned that a man up here in the state of michigan was teaching polygamy, and this is what they said about it: "as we have lately been credibly informed that a member of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, a man by the name of hyrum brown, has been teaching polygamy and other false and corrupt doctrines, in the county of lapeer, state of michigan, this is to notify him and the church in general that he has been cut off from the church for his iniquity." signed, joseph smith, hyrum smith, presidents of the church. this was given in february, 1844. joseph was killed four months after that. here he declares that polygamy is a crime, and the man was excommunicated from the church for preaching it. now i want to give you the testimony of george q. cannon, whom i met in salt lake city, as one of the presidency of the salt lake mormon church: "a prevalent idea has been that this prejudice against us owes its origin and continuation to our belief in a plurality of wives. * * * joseph and hyrum smith were slain in the carthage jail, and hundreds of persons were persecuted to death previous to the church having any knowledge of this doctrine."--_journal of discourses_, vol. 14, pages 165, 166.[4] this being true, joseph smith was not guilty of the practice of polygamy; he was killed before the people knew anything about polygamy. this is the statement of george q. cannon. let me strengthen this now by the son-in-law of brigham young, h. b. clawson: "polygamy at that time (that is at the time of joseph smith's death) was not known among those of the mormon faith. * * * the doctrine of polygamy was not promulgated until they got to salt lake; not, in fact, until some little time after they had arrived there." salt lake _herald_, february 9, 1882.[5] joseph smith was killed in 1844. they arrived in salt lake the 24th of july, 1847, and he says not until some little time after that was it introduced. the little time was the 29th of august, 1852, eight years and two months after the assassination of joseph smith. we have brigham young himself on this. he being interviewed by senator trumbull in 1869, said: "it (polygamy) was adopted by us as a _necessity_ after we came here." ah, there never was a greater truth told in all the world than that. polygamy was not an original tenet of the church, and brigham young says it was adopted as a _necessity_ after "we came here." the real facts are, brigham young, as i will show from their own evidence, and a few other elders were living vile lives secretly, and to cover up the consequences of their bad conduct, as he truthfully says in this "as a necessity"; yea, as a necessity polygamy was introduced. but who will dare to blame joseph smith for their introducing polygamy eight years after his death? i have been careful to take these clippings right from their own papers, so that they cannot say that we have changed the words or anything of that kind. here is another statement; this is found from elder ephraim jenson: "polygamy was not practiced by the mormons prior to and at the time of the execution of joseph smith, who was executed at nauvoo, illinois. * * * fourth, that only three per cent of the mormon men practiced polygamy, a proof itself that it was not essential to the creed."--_the yeoman's shield._ here is another one: "go back to the foundation of our church, april 6, 1830, there was no polygamy practiced or taught in mormon literature until five years after that band of persecuted saints reached utah." _new york herald_, january 8, 1900.[6] this is by elder whitaker, who knew who _did_ introduce this polygamy. now i might introduce dozens and dozens of witnesses to prove that joseph smith had nothing to do with it. well, who did it? here is what the apostle's wife says of it: "how then, asked the reader, did polygamy originate? it was born in the vile and lustful brain of brigham young, and was grafted on the faith to gratify his sensual bestiality."[7] (mysteries of mormonism, pp. 16, 17.) one of the mormon wives said that, and she ought to know whereof she affirms. we have learned from the above statements that polygamy was not taught or practiced by joseph smith, but was introduced into an apostate branch of the church, after his death, as is admitted by brigham young and others of his followers. having read the works of the church for over a quarter of a century. i confidently affirm that there is not a single word, in a single sermon, lecture, statement, newspaper or church publication printed during the lifetime of the prophet joseph smith wherever he, by word, has endorsed the doctrine of plurality of wives; not a single statement; and there is no salt lake mormon breathing who can produce one and prove its authenticity. but suppose you could prove that joseph smith secretly taught and practiced polygamy, that would not make it a christian doctrine. if joseph smith secretly taught, practiced, or endorsed the doctrine of polygamy, he did it contrary to all the revelations given for the government of the church in the bible, book of mormon, and doctrine and covenants; contrary to all his sermons, speeches, and public teachings; and he was a criminal before the law of his country, a base hypocrite before the god whom he openly worshiped, a despicable traitor to the woman whom he claimed to love and cherish as his wife, and was untrue to all the sacred principles of fidelity and integrity which he evinced in all his public utterances and conduct. in the face of all this, the wife and children of joseph smith, together with thousands of people who knew him in life, refuse to believe the contradictory statements of brigham young and others who are wallowing in the mire of polygamy. my visit to utah if your father denies that he and i discussed the doctrine of polygamy, all i have to say about it is, that what he states is untrue. here are a few points that may help him to remember what was said and done: when talking with joseph f. smith in salt lake city two years ago, he brought up a number of witnesses and i examined them--that is, he repeated the testimony of some who had testified. he finally said, "i can produce a living woman who will testify that joseph smith was a polygamist, and she knew it." i said, "bring her along here and let us examine her." well, i met "aunt lucy" walker kimball, to whom you refer, and we talked the matter over, and here is the one point to which i want to draw your attention, to show how these poor dupes of brigham young may be led. coming to the testimony of emma smith, i said, "you were personally acquainted with emma smith?" "yes." "what have you to say as to her integrity, as to her fidelity and honor?" the old woman looked me fair in the face and said, "emma smith was one of god's noble women--she was truth personified; and anything that emma smith may say you can bank on it until the day of your death." "well," i said, "she testifies that her husband never had any wife but her; she testifies that she never heard of that revelation on polygamy until you folks had gone to salt lake; she testifies she never saw it, and she testifies that it is an unmitigated falsehood manufactured by brigham young; that he stated that she had the revelation and burned it. now what have you to say to that?" i said. she looked me fair in the face and said, "you can afford to build on anything that emma smith has to say." "thank you," said i. it is true that she told me she was married to joseph smith may 1, 1843; but when i showed her that the so-called revelation permitting a plurality of wives was dated july 12, 1843, and referred to her former testimony as given in the _historical record_, and that given under oath in the temple lot suit, she was confounded. i felt sorry for the old lady as she sat silent and confounded. it is true that i saw a very old lady in your father's parlor, as she came slowly in for prayers. your father said, "this is catherine phillips smith. she was married to my father, hyrum smith, and she has never married since. i am not sure that the old lady heard a word. it is certain that _she did not testify to me_, but it was your father who made the statement, and at once called us to prayer, thus preventing me from speaking to the old lady. lorenzo snow did testify to me, as stated; but then and there, in the presence of joseph f. smith and george q. cannon, i showed _his testimony to be false, by his own evidence_, when given _under oath_, and _by his sister's statement signed in 1842_. at this, snow, cannon and smith were all much annoyed. so much for your father's statement, which says "you did not say one word to him in relation to polygamy." your father's first wife you seem to feel sore over the statement that your father's "first wife died broken hearted and insane"; and you add, "if you mean to insinuate that this condition, if true, was the result of any act whatever on the part of my father, it is also slanderously false." i insinuate nothing; let the public judge the facts. your father's first wife was his cousin; she refused to consent to additional wives, and when he persisted in marrying the lambson sisters, she obtained a divorce in california. julina and edna lambson were sisters and were married to joseph f. smith on the same day.[8] number of wives married to joseph f. smith since 1865: 6 number of children born to him in 38 years: 42 number of children born since plural marriage was prohibited in 1890: 13 children of julina lambson smith: 2 children of sarah richards smith: 2 children of edna lambson smith: 2 children of alice kimball smith: 3 children of mary schwartz smith: 4 estimated income available for supporting five establishments: $75,000 corporations, banks and factories of which joseph f. smith is a director: 20 the only mormon apostle who surpasses the record of president smith is m. w. merrill, with 8 wives, 45 children, and 156 grandchildren.--_collier's_ for march 26, 1894 [1904]. * * * * * while in utah i was informed that your father's first wife died broken hearted and insane. god and civilization know that a woman who loved her husband from youth up has enough to break her heart and send her insane when her husband will marry two other women, both sisters, in one day. perhaps you will be assisted to view the matter as i do, should you read the following in the book of mormon, jacob 2:6, 7. here it is stated, in consequence of polygamy, "ye have broken the hearts of your tender wives." does this make the prophet an asperser or a scandalmonger? i have answered your letter as it appeared in the toronto _star_ as fully as space would permit. respectfully, r. c. evans. toronto, ontario, march 1, 1905.[9] footnotes 1. the teachings of the latter-day saints in relation to the doctrine of the godhead are clearly set forth in elder b. h. roberts' valuable work, "mormon doctrine of deity." for the belief of the "mormon" people regarding adam and his place in the universe, attention is called especially to chapters one, five and six of that work; also to doctrine and covenants, sec. 78:15-18, sec. 107:53-57 and daniel 7:9-14. in relation to this matter i quote the following from the remarks of president anthon h. lund delivered at the general conference, october 6, 1902. "some there are who follow our elders, and after they have preached the principles of salvation, these men get up and charge that the elders do not believe in god, but that they believe in adam as their god, and they will bring up a few passages from sermons delivered by this or that man in the church to substantiate this charge. now, we are not ashamed of the glorious doctrine of eternal progression, that man may attain the position of those to whom came the word of god, that is gods. when jesus was preaching unto the jews on one occasion they stoned him, and he wanted to know if they stoned him for the good works he had been doing. oh, no, they say, 'for the good work we stone thee not; but for blasphemy; and because that thou, being a man, makest thyself god.'" he quoted the 33rd to 37th verses of the 10th chapter of the gospel of st. john, and said: "we believe that there are gods as the savior quoted. he repeated what was written in the law, and he did not say that it was wrong, but used it as an argument against them (the jews.) while, however, we believe as the scripture states, that there are more gods, to us there is but one god. we worship the god that created the heavens and the earth. we worship the same god that came to our first parents in the garden of eden. in the revelation contained in section 116 of the book of doctrine and covenants the lord speaks concerning adam-ondi-ahman, 'the place where adam shall come to visit his people, or the ancient of days shall sit, as spoken of by daniel the prophet.' in the 107th section the lord speaks of adam as michael, the prince, the archangel, and says that he shall be a prince over the nations forever. we may with perfect propriety call him prince, the ancient of days, or even god in the meaning of the words of christ, which i have just quoted. when our missionaries are met with these sophistries and with isolated extracts from sermons we say to them anything that is a tenet of our religion must come through revelation and be sustained by the church, and they need not do battle for anything outside of the works, that have been accepted by the church as a body." 2. if popular custom had designated the true believers of the bible as "bibles" as a term of distinction from other worshippers, there is no reason why a true believer should be offended even at that appellation but rather honored. mr. evans, without doubt, is not ashamed of the name "christian," yet this term, like that of "mormon" was first applied to the followers of christ in derision, "because it was associated in the public mind with the practices" of the early saints, which practices in that day were looked on as "abominations." 3. this is a misquotation, it should be: "i could refer you to plenty of instances where men have been righteously slain, in order to atone for their sins. i have seen scores and hundreds of people for whom there would have been a chance (in the last resurrection there will be) if their lives had been taken and their blood spilled on the ground as a smoking incense to the almighty, but who are now angels to the devil, until our elder brother jesus christ raises them up--conquers death, hell and the grave." in that same discourse president young declares that those who were "righteously slain" were the wicked that the "lord had to slay" in ancient israel. there is not one word in that discourse to indicate that those who were slain to "atone for their sins" were killed in utah; but to the contrary they were ancient inhabitants of the earth, viz., the antediluvians who perished in the flood, the inhabitants of sodom and gomorrah, of jericho and the cities destroyed by the israelites; the prophets of baal whom elijah slew (i kings 18:40) and a host of others of that class and the class to whom the one belonged of whom the savior said: "it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea." president young's remarks agree with those of peter when he declared that the jews who were guilty of assenting to the crucifixion of christ could not be baptized nor have their "sins blotted out" until the "times of refreshing shall come," which was at the time of the "restitution of all things."--acts 3:19-21. 4. in extreme haste here to make a point, mr. evans left in the middle of a sentence and hurried on to the next page to complete the expression he desired to convey. this is what president cannon said: "a prevalent idea has been that this prejudice against us owes its origin and continuation to our belief in a plurality of wives; but when it is recollected that the mobbings, drivings, and expulsions from cities, counties and states which we have endured, and our exodus to these mountains all took place before the revelation of that doctrine was publicly known, it will be seen at once that our belief in it has not been the cause of persecution." now, i ask, is it not plain to see why his quotation stopped in the middle of a sentence? the saints all know that president george q. cannon was always faithful to his testimony that plural marriage was introduced by the prophet joseph smith. latter-day saints generally declare that this doctrine was not _publicly_ known in the days of joseph the seer, but that it was taught by him to his trusted friends. when this fact is known the alleged quotations which follow, purported to be from h. b. clawson, ephraim jensen and "elder whitaker" lose their force. 5. this is not in the salt lake herald of february 9, 1852. 6. the following is the brooklyn _citizen's_ report of that same discourse from which mr. evans quotes his passage as given in the new york _herald_: elder whitaker said: "the people of the east have been led to believe that polygamy was alone responsible for all the troubles of the mormons, but the fact remains, that as the fight was waged against jesus christ, against his followers, and against all great men for declaring the truth, so the same spirit is manifest now; but the mormons will humbly seek those willing to accept the truths inspired of god, leaving the justice of their cause to be vindicated by honest investigation and time. the fight is directed against the doctrine of the mormon church, though polygamy has done such yeoman service in arousing public sentiment, to attain certain ends unworthy of honest men. the crusaders have kept the public mind from the real cause of the attack. from the time the church was organized in 1830-47, when the people, after many previous drivings, persecutions, mobbings and cruel mockings, were driven to utah, the cry of polygamy was never made a cause of their persecutions; indeed, that subject was not committed in writing until 1843, never published to the world until 1852, and was abandoned by the issuance of the 'manifesto' of president wilford woodruff, in 1890, since which time not one polygamous marriage has been solemnized; but those having wives at that time were never asked, and it was never expected they would abandon them, and when death brings such relations to a close, there will be no polygamy among the mormons." the brooklyn _citizen_, monday, january 8, 1900. why mr. evans accepted the brief extract from the new york _herald_ in preference to the full account in the brooklyn _citizen_ will require no comment, but it certainly does appear that elder whitaker _did_ know who introduced "polygamy." as i do not have the yeoman's _shield_ and am not in communication with elder ephraim jenson, i cannot vouch for his remarks, but feel safe in saying that if the whole report were published, his testimony would agree with that of elder whitaker as published in the brooklyn _citizen_. 7. in quoting from "the mysteries of mormonism, by an apostle's wife," mr. evans reveals the character of his "dozens and dozens of witnesses." the reader will perceive that he depends largely on the most bitter anti-"mormons" and apostates for his "evidence," but in quoting from "the mysteries of mormonism, by an apostle's wife," he certainly reaches the climax of this base testimony. this work was published in 1882, by richard k. fox, proprietor of the notorious _police gazette_. the author of these "mysteries," undoubtedly a man, assumes the title of "an apostle's wife," in order to hide his perfidy. the work is one of the vilest and most contemptible of all anti-"mormon" publications, and is most bitter in its denunciation of the prophet joseph smith. in it he is called a "lusty toper," "the worst of a bad breed," "an ignorant, brutal loafer," "immoral, false and fraudulent," and the author says, "_this_ is the man who founded what he dared to call a faith, and grafted on the united states the religion of licentiousness and bodily lust known as mormonism." an apology is perhaps due for even referring to this matter, but since mr. evans makes this work one of the chief of his "dozens and dozens of witnesses," i feel that he should be exposed. he professes to believe in the divine mission of joseph smith, and yet calls upon us to accept the wicked falsehoods of this disreputable witness, whom he declares "_ought to know whereof she affirms_." shame upon the man who draws his inspiration from such a source! 8. this whole statement is absolutely false, and there was not the least shadow of reason for uttering it. president smith's first wife did not refuse to consent to additional wives. he did not marry two sisters on the same day. in depending on the unreliable alfred henry lewis for his argument, mr. evans shows the desperate weakness of his position. it would be a hard matter to squeeze more falsehoods in the space occupied by the article of a. h. lewis, from which mr. evans quotes so faithfully. 9. this letter is dated march 1, 1905, but was not written until sometime after april 19, 1905, for on the latter date mr. evans wrote: "you may look for reply to your letter as it appeared in the toronto _star_, as soon as i have time to reply thereto." this reply was received may 5, 1905. a rejoinder to mr. r. c. evans' letter salt lake city, may 23, 1905. _mr. r. c. evans_, _counselor in presidency of reorganized church_. sir:--your reply to my open letter of february 17 was received may 5. whether i was "fair, dispassionate and also candid" in my letter, or, as you seem to think, "guilty of a labored effort to cover up the true facts regarding 'blood atonement, polygamy, etc.'" and "your faith"--which was not discussed--i am perfectly willing to leave to the judgment of "those who read" the same in the toronto _star_. so on this point we may both rest satisfied. blood atonement i will now consider your "labored effort to cover up the _true facts_ regarding blood atonement." in my letter i candidly placed the true belief and teachings of the latter-day saints in relation to this doctrine before you. this fact appears to be displeasing to you, as it overturns your conclusions and accusations against our people. if you desire to know the correct position of the church on this doctrine, i would recommend a careful study of john taylor's _meditation and atonement_ and charles w. penrose's _blood atonement_, which was published in answer to such wicked misrepresentations as i claim you have made in relation to this principle and our belief in relation thereto. there is no reason for any person to misunderstand our position, unless he desires to do so. i claim, too, that we are in a better position to teach that which we believe than is the stranger who attempts to present our case, especially if he is antagonistic or unfriendly. if you do not believe the doctrine of blood atonement as that doctrine is taught by the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, which church you are pleased to call "utah mormonism," then i say that you _do not_ believe in the atonement of our lord and savior jesus christ. to this i will refer later. you delight--as all anti-"mormons" do--in referring to statements made by president brigham young, jedediah m. grant and others during the troublous times preceding the advent of johnston's army into utah. i see, too, that like many others, you place your own _desired_ interpretation on their remarks, place them before the public in a garbled state, taking care to give the darkest interpretation possible from which the public may gather false conclusions. you take great pains to cover up the conditions prevailing which called forth such extreme and in some instances unwise remarks. conditions in some respects akin to those surrounding the saints in missouri in 1838-39 when other unwise remarks were made by members of the leading quorums of the church, but in a sense justifiable and which should be condoned under the trying circumstances that called them forth.[1] the church judged from its accepted standards writing on this subject elder b. h. roberts, in his criticism on harry leon wilson's plagarisms in his _lions of the lord_, declares the position taken by members of the church and all fair-minded men in these words: "the justice of burke's assertion has never been questioned, and without any wresting whatever it may be applied to "mormon" leaders who sometimes spoke and acted under the recollection of rank injustice perpetrated against themselves and their people; or to rebuke rising evils against which their souls revolted." even the president of the reorganized church recognized this fact in his answer to _the american baptist_, wherein he said: "whoever counseled or did evil in those times (in missouri) are responsible, personally, therefor; but the church, as such is no more responsible for it than were the early christians for peter's attempt to kill the high priest's servant when he cut off his ear with his sword. the church, as such, should be judged by its authorized doctrines and deeds, and not by the unauthorized sayings or doings of some or many of its members or ministers. it is not to be wondered at that in those times when the embryo authors and abettors of the "border ruffianism" that reigned in missouri and kansas from 1854 to 1865 had matters all their own way, that some of the saints, vexed, confused and excited, should have done many things unwisely and wrongfully, and contrary to the law of god."--_saints' herald_, 37:51. with this i heartily agree. now, when the statements were made, which you in a garbled manner both quote and misquote, there was in utah a class of individuals who spent the greater part of their time in circulating wicked and malicious reports about the saints, threatening their lives, committing crimes and attempting to make the saints their scape-goats. the officers of the law were general government officials appointed by the president of the united states, and i am sorry to say, some of these were among the chief villifiers of the people. the most damnable and bloodthirsty falsehoods were concocted and served up to the people of the united states to stir them up to anger against the "despised mormons." almost every crime that was committed within a thousand miles of salt lake city was charged to the leaders of the "mormon" people and became the foundation of a multitude of anti-"mormon" publications that still flood the world. because of these false and highly colored tales, in 1857--one year later than the time that most of the utterances were given on which you so delight to dwell--the government of the united states sent an army to suppress in utah a rebellion that never existed, and forced the saints to defend themselves. when the government found out how it had blundered it was humiliated. now, in brief, these were the conditions at the time, and is it any wonder that unwise and even harsh things were said? the wonder is that the people bore it as patiently as they did. the officers were non-"mormons," the territory was under federal control and contained many gentiles, many of whom were most bitter in their feelings and ever ready to accuse the saints of crime. the government was strong enough to enforce the law if broken. now, i ask you if you believe the horrors, as they have been pictured, could have existed under such conditions? such a state of affairs would have been a reproach and a shame to the american government. and no such state of affairs existed. the conditions at the time led jacob forney, superintendent of indian affairs in utah, to declare in 1869: i fear, and i regret to say it, that with certain parties here there is a greater anxiety to connect brigham young and other church dignitaries with every criminal offense than dilgent endeavor to punish the actual perpetrators of crime. bancroft's history of utah, p. 561. whitney's history of utah, p. 108, vol. 1. mr. forney was a gentile official and the truth of this statement can be relied upon. this being the case, brigham young and the "mormon" people could not have engaged in the crimes charged against them. in connection with this let me quote from bancroft: it is not true that mormons are not good citizens, lawabiding and patriotic. even when hunted down, and robbed and butchered by the enemies to their faith, they have not retaliated. on this score they are naturally very sore. when deprived of those sacred rights given to them in common with all american citizens, when disfranchised, their homes broken up, their families scattered, their husband and father seized, fined and imprisoned, they have not defended themselves by violence but have left their cause to god and their country.--history of utah, pp. 390-392. again, i repeat, that the presence in utah of apostates and anti-"mormons" from the beginning and "that there are men living in utah today who left the church in the earliest history of our state, who feel as secure and are just as secure and free from molestation from their former associates as you or any other man could be," proves the falseness of the malicious accusation that "utah was for years a land of assassination and a field of blood." mr. evans' false quotations "what shall be done with the sheep that stink the flock so? we will take them, i was going to say, and cut off their tails two inches behind their ears; however i will use a milder term, and say cut off their ears." your conclusion is most certainly far fetched. had you continued the quotation your attempt would have appeared even more ridiculous. the next sentence is: "but instead of doing this, we will try to cleanse them; and will wash them with soap; that will come nigh taking off the skin; we will then apply a little scotch snuff, and a little tobacco, and wash them again until we make them clean." and you try to make this appear as threatening life! it is apparent that your sense of humor has been sadly neglected. this whole passage is humorous and you make yourself ridiculous by not having discovered it. again from parley p. pratt, you quote: "my feelings are with those who have spoken, decidedly and firmly so." this from page 84. then you skip to page 86 and add: "i need not repeat their doom, it has been told here today, they have been faithfully warned." then three paragraphs off, the following: "it is too late in the day for us to stop and inquire whether such an outcast has the truth." this method of proving things reminds me of the reason why you should be hanged: and judas "went out and hanged himself." "go thou and do likewise." now let me quote some extracts from this discourse which you purposely left out. "sooner than be subjected to a repetition of these wrongs, _i for one_, would rather march out today and be shot down. these are my feelings, and have been for some time. talk about liberty of conscience! have not men liberty of conscience here? yes. the presbyterian, methodists, quakers, etc., have _here_ the liberty to worship god in their own way, and so has every man in the world. people have the privilege of apostatizing from this church and worshiping devils, snakes, toads, or geese, if they please, and only let their neighbors alone. but they have not the privilege to disturb the peace, nor to endanger life or liberty; that is the idea. if they will take that privilege, _i need not repeat their doom, it has been told here today, they have been faithfully warned_." again: "he (gladden bishop) was disfellowshiped, and received on his professions of repentance, so often, that the church at length refused to admit him any more as a member. these apostates talk of proof. have we not proved joseph smith to be a prophet, a restorer, standing at the head of this dispensation? have we not proved the priesthood which he placed upon others by the command of god? "i see no ground, then, to prove or to investigate the calling of an apostate, who has always been trying to impose upon this people. _it is too late in the day for us to stop and inquire whether such an outcast has the truth_. "we have truths already developed, unfulfilled by us--unacted upon. there are more truths poured out from the eternal fountain, already than our minds can contain, or that we have places or preparations to carry out. and yet we are called upon to prove--what? _whether an egg that was known to be rotten fifteen years ago, has really improved by reason of age_! "'_you are going to be destroyed_,' say they. '_destruction awaits this city_.' well! what if we are? we are as able to be destroyed as any people living. what care we whether we are destroyed or not? these old tabernacles will die of themselves, if left alone. "we have nothing to fear on that head, for we are as well prepared to die as to live. one thing we have heard today, and i am glad to hear it. we shall not be destroyed in the old way--as we have been heretofore. we shall have a change in the manner, at least. we shall probably be destroyed _standing, this time_, and not in a _sitting_, or _lying position_. we can die as well as others who are not as well prepared! i am glad that while we do live we shall not submit to be yoked or saddled like a dumb ass. we shall not stand still to see men, women, and children murdered, robbed, plundered, and driven any more, as in the states heretofore. nor does god require it at our hands. that is the best news we have heard today. * * * "it is the policy not to wait till you are killed, but act on the defensive while you still live. i have said enough on this subject."--pp. 86-87. the vicious malignancy of a depraved mind is made so apparent in this contrast between your garbled quotations and the whole truth, that it scarcely deserves further comment. i have quoted quite extensively in order to show the reason for these remarks of which you quote such brief and disjointed extracts. you should remember that the saints had but a short time before being driven from their homes at the cannon's mouth, and were forced to traverse a desert under the most trying circumstances to find a new abode where they could rest in peace and call their souls their own. when followed, as they were, by a miserable class that were determined to again have them driven, where heaven only knows, in their might and righteous indignation they firmly took their stand for home and liberty. i for one, say that they were justified in this course, the protection of their liberty, honor and lives. had the threats of their enemies here in utah been carried out as they boasted that they would be, and as they were carried out in missouri and illinois, then brigham young and his people would have been as thoroughly justified in unsheathing the bowie knife, to conquer or die, as were the patriots at lexington and bunker hill! home and liberty and life, with the right to worship god, are just as dear to a "mormon" as to members of any other denomination or even an apostate "mormon," and when the "mormons" are persecuted, driven and slain and forced to seek a home in the savage wilds, would any honest man blame them if they declined to move again? why is it worse for "utah mormons" to defend themselves than for "mormons" at crooked river and nauvoo? even the noble prophet joseph smith, when dragged from home and persecuted by wicked men, solemnly demurred. said he to the saints at nauvoo on the 30th day of june, 1843, after his escape from missourian assassins: "before i will be dragged away again among my enemies for trial, _i will spill the last drop of blood in my veins and will see all my enemies in hell_! to bear it any longer would be a sin, and i will not bear it any longer. shall we bear it any longer? (one universal, no! ran through all the vast assembly like a loud peal of thunder.) * * * if mobs come upon you any more here, dung your gardens with them. we don't want any excitement; but after we have done all, we will rise up washington-like and break off the hellish yoke that oppresses us, and will not be mobbed!" i have copied this from the manuscript history of the prophet joseph smith, as it was recorded at the time. i have learned also that it is corroborated by the journal of wilford woodruff of the same date--june 30th, 1843. utah not a field of blood you say, "i have read that which leads me to believe that under brighamism"--as you slurringly remark--"utah was for years a land of assassination and a field of blood," and then you ask me, "what of the mountain meadows massacre,--the destruction of the aiken party; the dying confession of bishop j. d. lee; the hickman butcheries; the danties?" well, that which you have read counts for but little when the source is considered. your case is most certainly desperate when you are forced to accept the statements of murderers. it's a strange thing that you and many of your elders accept all the blood-curdling tales from beadle, stenhouse and other apostate sources _when_ they happen to refer to brigham young and "utah mormons," and denounce the same sources when they refer to the prophet joseph smith. yet, i repeat, the same class of charges--in many respects identical--that you charge against brigham young, of murder, bloodshed, adultery, and even danties, were first made by bitter enemies of the church before the death of the prophet joseph smith, and that just such falsehoods brought about the bitterness that resulted in his death. you resort to sources that even the editor of your official paper denounces as "idle and vicious stories gathered from the awful files of terrible tales told about the mormons, by those at enmity with them."--_saints herald_ 52:2. if you desire to know the character of christ do you accept the statements of the roman guard at the sepulchre? the jew with blood-stained hands who rejoices in his death? and the anti-christian? wherein then, is your consistency in asking me to accept the testimony of those whose hands are imbrued in blood, apostates and bitter enemies of my people? very well then, i return your question. what about them? pray tell, what about the mountain meadows massacre? the aiken party? the confessions of lee? (by the way, the fact that you call him a "bishop" proves the source of your information); what about hickman and above all, the danties? when alfred henry lewis, in _collier's weekly_ of march 26, 1964, stated, "brigham young invented his destroying angels, placed himself at their head, and when a man rebelled had him murdered, if one fled the fold, he was pursued and slain," he repeated one of the most colossal falsehoods ever uttered. nor is that the only falsehood in his article you are pleased to quote. brigham young was _not_ a man of blood. the "mormon" people were _not_ guilty of the mountain meadows massacre.[2] there was no destruction of an aiken party. hickman and lee are not worth the mention; and the danties! had you not better read church history of 1838? in utah there never were destroying angels or danties, except in the imagination of bitter anti-"mormons" and i am satisfied that mr. r. c. evans knows that fact. character of the "mormons" in answer to your many charges about utah and the "mormons," i desire to refer to credible references from witnesses who understood the truth and were bold enough to express it. last winter there was a census taken of the utah penitentiary and the salt lake city and county prisons with the following result:--in salt lake city there are about 75 mormons to 25 non-mormons; in salt lake county there are about 80 mormons to 20 non-mormons; yet in the city prison there were 29 convicts, all non-mormons. in the county prison there were 6 convicts all non-mormons. the jailer stated that the county convicts for the five years past were all anti-mormons except _three_! * * * out of the 200 saloon, billiard, bowling alley and pool table keepers not over a dozen even profess to be mormons. all of the bagnios and other disreputable concerns in the territory are run and sustained by non-mormons. ninety-eight per cent of the gamblers in utah are of the same element. * * * of the 250 towns and villages in utah, over 200 have no "gaudy sepulchre of departed virtue," and these two hundred and odd towns are almost exclusively mormon in population. of the suicides committed in utah ninety odd per cent are non-mormons, and of the utah homicides and infanticides over 80 per cent are perpetrated by the 17 per cent of "outsiders."--phil robinson, in _sinners and saints_, p. 72. the logan police force is a good-tempered looking young man. there is another to help him, but if they had not something else to do they would either have to keep arresting each other, in order to pass the time, or else combine to hunt gophers and chipmunks.--_sinners and saints_, p. 142. whence have the public derived their opinions about mormonism? from _anti-mormons_ only. i have ransacked the literature of the subject, and yet i really could not tell any one where to go for an impartial book about mormonism, later in date than burton's "city of the saints," published in 1862. * * * but put burton on one side and i think i can defy any one to name another book about the mormons worthy of honest respect. from that truly _awful_ book, "the history of the saints," published by one bennet (even an anti-mormon has styled him "the greatest rascal that ever came to the west") in 1842, down to stenhouse's in 1873, there is not, to my knowledge a single gentile work before the public that is not utterly unreliable from distortion of facts. yet it is from these books--for there are no others--that the american public has acquired nearly all its ideas about the people of utah.--_sinners and saints_, p. 245. and in relation to opposing evidence, almost every book that has been put forth respecting the people of utah by one not a mormon, is full of calumny, each author apparently endeavoring to surpass his predecessor in the libertinism of abuse. most of these are written in a sensational style, and for the purpose of deriving profit by pandering to a vitiated public taste, and are wholly unreliable as to facts.--_bancroft's history of utah_, preface page 7. it is only fair to state that no gentile, even the unprejudiced, who are rare aves, however long he may live or intimately he may be connected with mormons, can expect to see anything but the superficies. * * * the mormons have been represented, and are generally believed to be, an intolerant race. i found the reverse far nearer the fact. the best proof of this is that there is hardly one anti-mormon publication, however untruthful, violent, or scandalous, which i did not find in great salt lake city.--burton's _city of the saints_, p. 203. i have not yet heard the single charge against them as a community, against their habitual purity of life, their integrity of dealing, their toleration of religious differences in opinion, their regard for the laws, or their devotion to the constitutional government under which we live, that i do not from my own observation, or the testimony of others know to be unfounded.--general thomas l. kane, u. s. a., _the mormons_, p. 83. the mormons are sober, industrious and thrifty.--bishop spaulding, of the episcopalian church, in the _forum_, march, 1887. had the mormons been a low, corrupt or shiftless people they never would or could have done what they did in utah. * * * when they controlled their own city of salt lake it contained no saloons, gambling houses or places of ill repute, and when the town had grown to be a goodly city order was kept by two constables. if by their fruits we may know them, the mormons deserve our confidence and praise.--_the brooklyn eagle_, editorial of aug. 12, 1897. i shall not arraign the mormon people as wanting in comparison with other people in religious devotion, virtue, honesty, sobriety, industry, and the graces and qualities that adorn, beautify and bless life.--caleb w. west, governor of utah (and a strong anti-mormon) in report to secretary of the interior for 1888. i know the people of the east have judged the mormons unjustly. they have many traits worthy of admiration. i know them to be honest, faithful, prayerful workers.--d. s. tuttle, bishop episcopalian church. i never met a people so free from sensualism and immorality of every kind as the mormons are. their habits of life are a thousand per cent superior to those who denounce them so bitterly.--mrs. olive n. robinson. (i recommend this to you.) i assure you there are many others of equal force but this should be sufficient to prove the scandalous effusions false that you profess to believe true. gagging at a knat i am glad you profess to believe the bible. there is one other thing which appears strange to me, that is, why you are continually denouncing brigham young and "utah mormonism," and calling utah a "land of assassination and a field of blood," because vile men without conscientious scruples have accused the people of many false and lurid tales of blood, and at the same time with sanctimonious countenance and upturned eyes you swallow the following without a gulp: "thus saith the lord of hosts. * * * now go up and smite amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass." i samuel 15:3 (i. t.) haven't you swallowed the camel and gagged at his tail? the doctrine of blood atonement just a word or two now, on the subject of blood atonement. _what is that doctrine_? unadulterated if you please, laying aside the pernicious insinuations and lying charges that have so often been made. it is simply this: through the atonement of christ all mankind may be saved, by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel. this salvation is two-fold; general,--that which comes to all men irrespective of a belief in christ--and individual,--that which man merits through his own acts through life and by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel. but man may commit certain grievous sins--according to his light and knowledge--that will place him beyond the reach of the atoning blood of christ. if then he would be saved he must make sacrifice of his own life to atone--so far as in his power lies--for that sin, for the blood of christ alone under certain circumstances will not avail. do you believe this doctrine? if not, then i do say you do not believe in the true doctrine of the atonement of christ! this is the doctrine you are pleased to call the "blood atonement of _brighamism_." this is the doctrine of christ our _redeemer_, who died for us. this is the doctrine of joseph smith, and i accept it. in whose stead did christ die? i wish your church members could be fair enough to discuss this subject on _its merits_. i again recommend you to a careful reading of the quotations in my open letter. you will find them as follows: book of mormon,--ii nephi 9:35. alma 1:13, 14, and 42:19. bible,--genesis 9:12, 13, (i. t.) luke 11:50. hebrews 9:22 and 10:26-29. i john 3:15 and 5:16. doctrine and covenants,--87:7. 101:80. 42:18, 19, 79. (utah edition.) to these i will add: "whoso killeth any person, the murderer shall be put to death by the mouth of witnesses; but one witness shall not testify against any person to cause him to die. moreover ye shall take no satisfaction for the life of a murderer, which is guilty of death; but he shall be surely put to death. so ye shall not pollute the land wherein ye are; for blood it defileth the land; and the land cannot be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein, but by the blood of him that shed it."--numbers 35:30, 31, 33. (i. t.)[3] do you want a few references of where men were righteously slain to atone for their sins? what about the death of nehor? (alma 1:15) zemnariah and his followers (iii nephi 4:27-28). what about er and onan, whom the lord slew? (gen. 38:7, 10), of nadab and abihu? (lev. 10:2) and the death of achan? (joshua 7:25.) were not these righteously slain to atone for their sins? and it was of this class of cases that president young referred in his discourse you misquote (_journal of discourses_ 4:220). he tells us so, in the same discourse in the portion which you _did not quote_. it is: "now take the wicked, and i can refer you to where the lord had to slay every soul of the israelites that went out of egypt except caleb and joshua. he slew them by the hand of their enemies, by the plague and by the sword. why? because he loved them and promised abraham he would save them." polygamy in using the term "polygamy" in reference to the principle that was taught and practiced by the saints, i desire it distinctly understood that i use it in the sense of a man having more than one wife. polygamy, in the sense of plurality of husbands and of wives never was practiced in the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints in utah or elsewhere; but celestial marriage--including a plurality of wives--was introduced by the prophet joseph smith and was practiced more generally by the saints under the administration of president brigham young. you say that you have no evidence that those men, _viz_. lyman wight, james j. strang, gladden bishop, william smith and others that i mentioned to you "practiced _polygamy_" before plural marriage was "introduced" (as claimed by you) by brigham young. you said polygamy was "introduced" eight years after the prophet's death by brigham young. if so, then why did these men practice it before that time? i was satisfied that you would not exert yourself in seeking for this knowledge and tried to help you find the information. polygamy in the "factions" in a letter written by the president of the reorganized church by mr. joseph davis of wales, dated lamonia, oct. 13, 1899, i read: "nearly all the factions into which the church broke had plural marriage in some form. none in the form instituted by president young. sidney rigdon had one form practiced by but a few, and that spasmodically, as an outburst of religious fervor rather than as a settled practice. william smith had a sort of priestess lodge, in which it was alleged there was a manifestation of licentiousness. this he denied, and i never had actual proof of it. gladden bishop taught something like it, but i believe he was himself the only practioner. james j. strang had a system something like mohamet, four i think, being allowed the king. lyman wight had a system but it had no very extended range. president young's system you may know of." it is true that william smith denied that he taught "polygamy" but that he practiced plural marriage he cannot deny. jason w. briggs said he (william) did, and that is why mr. briggs left his church. plaintiff's abstract, temple lot suit, p. 395. hist. of reorg. ch. vol. 3:200 and _the messenger_, vol. 2. william entered into plural marriage in the prophet's day and his wives lived here in utah. they are precilla m. smith, sarah libby and hannah libby. one of these is still living. the third volume of your church history says of lyman wight: "lyman wight lived and died an honorable man, respected well by those who knew him best. the only thing that can be urged against his character is that about 1845 or 1846 he entered into the practice of polygamy, but we have seen no record of any teaching of his upon the subject." the fact is that lyman wight entered into that relation before the time here mentioned. affidavits in this regard can be produced but it will be unnecessary. that john e. page practiced "polygamy" i have the testimony of his wife, mrs. mary eaton of independence, who told me and others, in august 1904, that she _gave her husband_, john e. page, other wives. these men did not follow brigham young, but denounced him, yet they practiced plural marriage and did not get that doctrine from him. the testimony of a bogus wife the "testimony" you submit from president young's "legal wife" is spurious. it matters not if you did receive the "information" from your uncle. the poor man was tricked and deceived. bogus "wives" and "daughters" of president young have "worked" the public before. mary ann angel young, president young's legal wife, was not in colorado in 1860 and 1861. she never was divorced and died in this city true to her husband, his family and the faith, on the 27th day of june, 1882. (_news_, july 5, 1882.) so much for this "bogus" testimony. testimony impeached the testimony of t. b. h. and fanny stenhouse is sufficiently impeached in the _saints' herald_, vol. 52, p. 2; 20, p. 602, and _sinners and saints_, p. 245. the woman's bitterness would condemn her writings. however i will mention one statement--you make mrs. stenhouse say: "it is reported by fanny stenhouse and many others, that joseph smith said, 'if ever the church had the misfortune to be led by bro. brigham, he would lead it to hell.'" she gives this as a rumor that is "reported," so do the "many others" who are mostly from your church. oh, yes, i have heard of this before. but do you know where the report originated? it originated with the apostate and would-be assassin, robert d. foster, who threatened the prophet joseph's life in 1844, and who was one of the incorporators and advocates of the notorious _nauvoo expositor_, and one of the chief actors in bringing about the martyrdom, june 27, 1844. in a toadying letter to your president, dated february 14, 1874, he said the prophet "remarked, in the presence of mr. law, bishop knight, john p. greene, reynolds cahoon, and some others, that if ever brigham young became the leader of the church, he would lead them down to hell." marvelous growth of the church i decline to accept the statements of such a character; besides, president young did not lead the church to hell, but preserved it, and under his direction it grew, expanded, and accomplished a wonderful, even a miraculous work. in the reclamation of the arid west, the permanent establishment of prosperous communities in the desert wilds, and for their unity, strength, and industrial and temporal independence, the "mormon" people are today the marvel, if not the admiration of the thinking world. they came here with nothing but the good will of god. they began in poverty, and "having almost nothing to invest," says mr. william e. symthe in _the conquest of arid america_, "except the labor of their hands and brains, and that all they have expended in a period of fifty years for all classes of improvements--from the first shanty to the last turret of the last temple--came primarily from the soil." again he says in the same work: testimony of mr. smythe nowhere else has the common prosperity been reared upon firmer foundations. nowhere else are institutions more firmly buttressed or better capable of resisting violent economic revolutions. the thunder cloud that passed over the land in 1893, leaving a path of commercial ruin from the atlantic to the pacific, was powerless to close the door of a single mormon store, factory or bank. strong in prosperity, the co-operative industrial and commercial system stood immovable in the hour of widespread disaster. the solvency of these industries is scarcely more striking than the solvency of the farmers from whom they draw their strength. no other governor, either in the west or in the east, is able to say what the honorable heber m. wells said in assuming the chief magistracy of the new state in january, 1896, "we have in utah," said the young governor. "19,816 farms, and 17,584 of them are absolutely free from incumbrance." a higher percentage in school attendance and lower percentage of illiterates than even in the state of massachusetts, is another of utah's proud records. p. 71. the guidance of jehovah without the divine guidance and the constant watchcare of jehovah over the destinies of the "mormon" pioneers, with brigham young at their head, the west today would be but a barren wilderness. under the leadership of brigham young the "mormon" people prospered, and he left them in a better condition temporally and physically, and spiritually more united and more firmly established in the faith than they ever were before. where among the so-called "factions" can you point to one that has accomplished the hundredth part of what the followers of brigham young have accomplished? they have all practically disappeared but one--gone to their destruction. and the one that remains will dissolve and disappear as surely as the sun shines. you cannot fight the work of god and prosper. william marks the testimony of william marks--a man who was out of harmony with the prophet before the latter's death! this testimony of william marks sounds too suspicious, given as it was, when it was, and describing an alleged conversation which never could have taken place. "the reader will please notice," said david whitmer in his _address_ (p. 41), "this fact in regard to william marks' statement; and that is, the time when brother joseph told him that polygamy must be put down in the church." that time was a "few days" before the prophet's death. true, the prophet was no "fool" (_herald_ 51:74), and such a "conversation" as this related by william marks would have stamped him "foolish, irrational and a moral suicide," _because_ he could not bring a charge against others for that for which he was himself responsible. the prophet had plural wives, and had officiated in the ceremony of the sealing of plural wives to others. i have conversed with the principals in these cases, and know that they told the truth. furthermore, mr. marks' testimony condemns itself. he proves--if he proves anything at all--that the prophet was responsible for this doctrine. this thought is in harmony with the early teachings of the original elders of the reorganization, for the time was when even your elders acknowledged that the prophet received the revelation on celestial (including plural) marriage. on this point david whitmer says: as time rolled on, many of the reorganization saw that to _continue_ to acknowledge that brother joseph received the revelation would bring bitter persecution upon themselves, as the public feeling at that time was very bitter. * * * the leaders of the reorganized church, after a time, began to suppress their opinions concerning this matter. they would answer the question when asked about it "_i do not know whether joseph smith received the revelation or not_." the "saints' herald" a witness of "polygamy" now, if it is true--and i claim it is--that the leaders of the reorganized church acknowledged that the prophet received the revelation and practiced that principle, there must be some proof. turn to the first volume of the _true l.d.s. herald_ and read the editorial on pages 6 to 11. it is on polygamy. after trying to explain the reason why the prophet taught and practiced this doctrine, the editor said: and if the prophet be deceived when he hath spoken a thing, i, the lord, have deceived the prophet, and i will stretch out my hand upon him and will destroy him from the midst of my people israel. * * * we have here the facts as they have transpired and as they will continue to transpire in relation to this subject. the death of the prophet is one fact that has been realized, although he abhorred and repented of this iniquity before his death. page 9. and on page 27: he (joseph smith) caused the revelation to be burned, and when he voluntarily came to nauvoo and resigned himself into the arms of his enemies, he said that he was going to carthage to die. at that time he also said that if it had not been for that accursed spiritual wife doctrine, he would not have come to that. by his conduct at that time he proved the sincerity of his repentance, and of his profession as a prophet. if abraham[4] and jacob, by repentance, can obtain salvation and exaltation, so can joseph smith. mark you, we have the evidence of the revelation from your own side and you well remember that but _one_ could and did receive revelations. i do not accept the apology of your editor; i do not believe that the prophet had the revelation burned, or called the doctrine accursed. my faith in joseph smith is such that if he had the revelation--which your witnesses declare he did--that it was from god as much as any other revelation he received! testimony of jason briggs jason w. briggs, one of the founders of your church, in the temple lot suit, said: i heard something about a revelation on polygamy, or plural marriage, when i was in nauvoo, in 1842. i heard there was one: there was talk going on about it at that time, and continued to be; but it was not called plural marriage; it was called sealing. you ask me what i understood this sealing to be, at the time the talk was going on. what i understood it to be was sealing a woman to a man to be his wife, to be his wife hereafter, his wife in the spirit world. i was asked in my direct examination if i did not hear of the doctrine of polygamy, etc., and i answered that i talked with members with reference to sealing, and i understood that the doctrine of sealing, was for eternity; it was sealing a man's wife to him for eternity, or wives, either. record pp. 349, 431, 505. testimony of james whitehead james whitehead said: there was an ordinance in the church for sealing, as early as 1842 or 1843. they would be married according to the law of god, not only for time but for eternity as well. these men were among the founders of your church. sidney rigdon's testimony sidney rigdon, in a lengthy letter to his official paper, _the messenger and advocate_, in 1845 declared that the prophet was responsible for the plural marriage doctrine, and said: this system was introduced by the smiths some time before their death, and was the thing which put them in the power of their enemies, and was the immediate cause of their death. p. 475, vol. 2. he says he "warned joseph smith and his family," and told them that destruction would come upon them if they continued in their course. original records of plurality of wives you "confidently affirm that there is not a single word in a single sermon, lecture, statement, newspaper or church publication _printed_ during the life of joseph smith, wherein he by word has endorsed the doctrine of plurality of wives, not a single statement." whether any such statement was ever _printed_ in his lifetime or not i am not prepared to say. but i do know of such evidence being recorded during his lifetime, for i have seen it. i have copied the following from the prophet's manuscript record of oct. 5, 1843, and know it is genuine: "gave instructions to try those persons who were preaching, teaching or practicing the doctrine of plurality of wives; for according to the law, i hold the keys of this power in the last days; for there is never but one on earth at a time on whom this power and its keys are conferred; and i have constantly said no man shall have but one wife at a time unless the lord directs otherwise." there is also at the historian's office in this city, a bible, which i have before me, containing the record of the marriage of melissa lott to the prophet joseph smith, which was recorded at the time, september 20, 1843. this bible also contains the record of the sealing of cornelius p. and parmelia lott, parents of melissa, which was done by patriarch hyrum smith in the prophet's presence and with his "seal" or sanction. the president of your church has seen this record, and it matters not what he may say _now_ he _then_ acknowledged the genuineness of the record. the following is also copied from the journal of william clayton which is in the historian's office: may 1st, (1843) a.m. at the temple. at 10 married joseph to lucy walker. p.m. at prest. joseph's; he has gone out with woodsworth. this is the same william clayton who wrote the revelation at the direction and from the dictation of the prophet july 12, 1843. however, this principle was first revealed to the prophet several years before that time, as you learned in your conversation with president lorenzo snow, when you were in his office. more evidence considered right here we will consider the "evidence" you produce to show that "joseph smith and the church during his lifetime condemned polygamy in the strongest terms." the testimony of the thirty-one witnesses you "produce" was against the "secret wife system" of the vile john c. bennett who was excommunicated for betraying female virtue. this bennett system had nothing to do with the system of celestial marriage introduced by the prophet joseph smith, and was no more like the prophet's doctrine than darkness is like daylight. the certificate of these parties that you mention was given in october 1842 (t. & s. 3:939), nearly one year before the revelation on celestial marriage was recorded. at that time the law of marriage in the church was that adopted in 1835, and was binding on all who had accepted the higher law, and they were few in number.[5] the best proof that these "witnesses" did not condemn the celestial marriage doctrine of the prophet in this communication, is that out of the thirty-one, at least sixteen have testified that the prophet introduced that system. one of this number of witnesses became the prophet's wife, one performed a marriage ceremony in which the prophet was married to a plural wife, and one other was a witness to such a marriage ceremony. at least six testify that the prophet taught them the principle of plural marriage and the others, so far as i know, are not on record. that these witnesses were the dupes of brigham young cannot truthfully be said, for three of them left the church and never followed brigham young, yet they testify of these things. the action of joseph and hyrum smith, as recorded in the _times and seasons_ (5:3), wherein hyrum brown was cut off the church for preaching polygamy and other false doctrines, was just and timely. the same action would have been taken at any other period of the existence of the church. polygamy never was a doctrine of the church, and the system introduced by the prophet joseph smith was not called by that name in his day. nor was the system of the prophet the same as that of hyrum brown; and if it had been, the ruling of the prophet of october 5, 1843, would have cost brown his standing in the church, the polygamy of brown and john c. bennett was of their own make. in relation to this subject, i will quote from the _life of john taylor_, pages 223-224: the polygamy and gross sensuality charged by bennett and repeated by those ministers in france, had no resemblance to celestial or patriarchal marriage which elder taylor knew existed at nauvoo, and which he had obeyed. hence in denying the false charges of bennett, he did not deny the existence of that system of marriage that god had revealed; no more than a man would be guilty of denying the legal, genuine currency of the country by denying the genuineness and denouncing what he knew to be a mere counterfeit of it. another illustration: jesus took peter, james and john into the mountain, and there met with moses and elias, and the glory of god shone about them, and these two angels talked with jesus, and the voice of god was heard proclaiming him to be the son of god. after the glorious vision, as jesus and his companions were descending the mountain, the former said: "tell the vision to no man, until the son of man be risen from the dead." suppose one of these apostles had turned from the truth before the son of man was risen from the dead and under the influence of wicked, lying spirit, should charge that jesus and some of his favorite apostles went up into a mountain, and there met moses and elias,--or some persons pretending to represent them--together with a group of voluptuos courtesans, with whom they spent the day in licentious pleasure. if the other apostles denounced that as an infamous falsehood, would they be untruthful? no; they would not. or would they be under any obligations when denying the falsehoods of the apostate to break the commandments the lord had given them by relating just what had happened in the mountain? no; it would have been a breach of the master's strict commandment for them to do that. so with elder taylor. while he was perfectly right and truthful in denying the infamous charges repeated by his oponents, he was under no obligation and had no right to announce to the world, at that time the doctrine of celestial marriage. it was not the law of the church, or even the law of the priesthood of the church; the body thereof at the time knew little or nothing of it, though it had been revealed to the prophet and made known to some of his most trusted followers. but today, now that the revelation on celestial marriage is published to the world, if the slanderous charges contained in the writings of john c. bennett should be repeated, every elder in the church could truthfully and consistently do just what elder taylor did in france--he could deny their existence." that utah visit after receiving your letter, i requested of my father that he give me a written statement in answer to your charge that he "discussed" the doctrine of "polygamy" with you, and received the following: _joseph f. smith, jr_. dear son:--you have submitted to me some statements made by mr. r. c. evans of the reorganized church, and desire to know what i have to say about them. he says: "if your father denies that he and i discussed the doctrine of polygamy, all i have to say about it is, that what he states is untrue." perhaps i could dismiss this statement precisely in the same way he has. i could certainly do so far more truthfully. he and i did not discuss the doctrine of "polygamy" at all. it is true i did introduce him to president lorenzo snow, to aunt lucy w. smith, to aunt catherine p. smith, to heber j. grant and a few others. whatever "discussion" he had on the "doctrine of polygamy" may have been with these parties, but not with me. while in my company he was my guest by introduction from my cousin joseph smith, president of the reorganized church, and i carefully avoided any discussion with him upon any and all differences of opinion which existed between us, the discussion of which could only have resulted in ill feeling and perhaps extreme bitterness. i treated him as any gentleman should treat another, not as an antagonist but as a stranger within my gates, indeed, as my guest; and when we parted it was with mutual good feelings and interchange of kindly wishes, without the slightest breath or suspicion of unpleasantness, which must have existed had we indulged in a "discussion of the doctrine of polygamy," or any other points of difference. aunt catherine p. smith was making us a short visit at the time, and i introduced her to mr. evans as the wife of my father, hyrum smith. they had some conversation, in which i took no part, and to the best of my recollection he drew out from her the fact that she was married to hyrum smith, by joseph smith the prophet, in august 1843, in the brick office of hyrum smith, at nauvoo, in the presence of her mother, sarah godshall phillips, mrs. julia stone and her daughter hettie. mr. evans attempted to cross-question her on her statement, but she stoutly and unequivocally affirmed the truth of what she had said. mrs. lizzie wilcox, your mother and two or three other members of the family were present and heard what was said. with reference to mr. evans' alleged interview with aunt lucy w. smith at the theatre, i need only say i occupied a seat adjoining them, and heard the conversation between them, and i have not the slightest recollection of the statement he has made about that interview. the strong point which he attempts to make is the fact that lucy was married to the prophet joseph smith, on may 1, 1843, while the revelation on plural marriage was dated "july 12, 1843," and her consequent embarrassment, was far-fetched; for no one knew better than she did that the revelation was given as far back as 1834, and was first reduced to writing in 1843. and on one could have been better prepared to state that fact than aunt lucy w. smith. there could not be, therefore, any cause for embarrassment on her part on that score, and i apprehend she would have been one of the last persons to "sit silent and confused" under such an implied impeachment. that she bore testimony to the good character of aunt emma smith with reference to other matters than plural marriage is true; but not to her conduct toward that principle. aunt lucy is still living, and sound mentally and physically. she can, and no doubt will, fully clear away any sophistry and falsehood of mr. evans' statement of the alleged interview. referring to the interview with president snow, mr. evans says: "lorenzo snow did testify to me as stated. but then and there, in the presence of joseph f. smith and george q. cannon, i showed his testimony to be false by his own evidence when given under oath, and his sister's statement signed in 1842. at this, snow, cannon and smith were much annoyed. so much for your father's statement, which says 'you did not say one word to him in relation to polygamy.'" the fact is, president snow gave mr. evans, in my presence and hearing, a plain, simple narration of the instructions he received from joseph smith in regard to the doctrine of plural marriage, including almost word for word the statement he had previously made under oath, and testified that joseph informed him that his sister eliza r. snow had been sealed to him as his wife. this much and more in this line i distinctly heard and as distinctly remember, but i did not hear the alleged arraignment of president snow's testimony by mr. evans, nor did i witness or experience any "annoyance" on the part of myself or anyone present because of the said arraignment. indeed, i am prepared to affirm that mr. evans did not "then and there" in my presence and that of geo. q. cannon, nor in the presence of any one there, "show his (snow's) testimony to be false," either "by his own evidence when given under oath," or "by his sister's statement signed in 1842," or at any other time. i am here constrained to say that mr. evans was treated by president snow, as also by president george q. cannon and myself, in the most courteous and respectful manner, and so far as i observed his demeanor towards us was reciprocal and gentlemanly--and not one word was said to him by anyone nor by him to anyone in my presence that was in any degree discourteous, contentious or embarrassing. i conclude, therefore, that the foregoing statements made by mr. evans, were after thoughts uttered by him with a view to misrepresent the truth and the facts, on the lines of the bitter and relentless opposition of himself and associates to the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints in general, and the doctrine of plural marriage in particular, as revealed, taught and practiced by joseph smith himself, from whom brigham young and many others received it. on these matters they are so surcharged with animus that they will not receive, admit, or tell the truth. with reference to mr. evans' allusion to my first wife i will simply say: she was most intimately acquainted from her childhood with the young lady who became my second wife, and it was with their full knowledge and consent that i entered into plural marriage, my first wife being present as a witness when i took my second wife, and freely gave her consent thereto. our associations as a family were pleasant and harmonious. it was not until long after the second marriage that my first wife was drawn away from us, not on account of domestic troubles, but for other causes which i do not care to mention. in eight years of wedded life we had no children. she constantly complained of ill health and was as constantly under a doctor's care. she concluded to go to california for her health and before going procured a separation. this all occurred previous to 1867. on march 1, 1868 i married sarah e. richards, and january 1, 1870, i married edna lambson, from one to three years after my first wife separated from me, and had become a resident of california. she subsequently returned to utah and later went to st. louis where she died. your self-exaltation in classing yourself with jacob is most stupendous, to say the least. he was above accepting idle rumors, from such sources as those given by the writer of the article of _collier's_ which you quote, and which are false. jacob was no aspersor. aunt catherine phillips smith also declares that she did testify to you in regard to her marriage and that you questioned her quite closely. my mother declares the same for she was present at the conversation. presidents snow and cannon are not here to speak in their defense, but i am satisfied that they would bear witness to the foregoing letter. aunt lucy may testify for herself. testimony of lucy w. smith the day i received a copy of the _ensign_ containing your discourse from which you give extracts in your "reply," in relation to your "conversation" with aunt lucy w. smith, i sent her a copy of your remarks with the request that she tell me if you had correctly reported her testimony. in the course of a few days i received this: my dear boy: i very much regret not feeling able to answer your request at an earlier date. i am, however, much improved in health since coming to logan, and take pleasure in declaring to you that the infamous discourse delivered 16th feb. 1905 (the date of the _ensign_) at st. louis, missouri, by mr. evans, is a fabrication of falsehoods and misrepresentations. i confess that i was not only surprised, but shocked beyond measure. now one of the presidency of the reorganized church, just think of it! and at the time he came to salt lake city three years ago, he claimed to be one of "young joseph's apostles; came with a letter of introduction from cousin joseph to his cousin joseph f., saying that any courtesy shown him would be appreciated. accordingly, mr. evans was shown every consideration. he accepted the generous hospitality of our president and his model family. having expressed a desire to meet mrs. lucy w. kimball, who was engaged that afternoon, arrangements were made to meet at the theatre, as he had to leave next day. he asked me many questions which i answered frankly--some very offensive hearsay questions that aroused my indignation, but i bore the ordeal as a martyr should. and from this opportunity sprang the wonderful discourse of wicked falsehood and malicious misrepresentation. o, shame! where canst thou hide thy brazen face! how dare he resort to such infamy unless to satiate a morbid desire for notoriety among sensation-mongers, who seek not for light or truth! if so he only gratified the cravings of the basest and lowest caste. i cannot believe that the once highly and beloved emma who was so loyal and true to her husband in all the early trials and hardships to which he was subject, when in chains and bondage, when he was dragged from his bed, tarred and feathered, imprisoned and mocked and scoffed at, ridiculed and abused, and his life threatened by infuriated mobs and she stood by him and comforted him in all of his afflictions--i cannot believe after enduring all this for his sake, that emma smith ever denied seeing the revelation on celestial marriage after receiving it in good faith and accepting it as a command from god, _knowing_ as i do, that she taught it to eliza and emily partridge, maria and sarah lawrence, and urged them to accept it by being sealed to her husband. she treated them kindly and considerately and knew they were associated with him as his wives. she was then a happy woman, until the tempter came in human form, and she partook of the apostate spirit so rife in those days. she could not deny these facts without sinning against her husband, sinning against his wives, against the truth, and against her god! if her son insists that this denial was her last testimony he fastens a stigma on her once noble character in the estimation of her former friends and associates, who were familiar with the facts of the period referred to. this misguided son, young and without experience, was surrounded by his father's most wicked enemies who had betrayed his father, and had been instrumental in taking his life; and who, after they had accomplished this foul act, through sinister policies, determined to destroy the work his father was commanded to do, and had laid a permanent foundation on which to build up his church--the church of christ. they sought to influence his son against the teachings of his father, call him forth as a "leader" with promises of success, and good backing. poor boy was flattered and led on and on, by crafty men, until he became an unbeliever of the principles his father had taught; and i cannot but believe that through such influences his mother has been misrepresented. i am unwilling to believe otherwise. i expressed regrets to mr. evans in relation to the course taken by "young joseph" through the influence of the bitter opponents of his father. i said he had closed his eyes to anything that would cast a ray of light on the vexed question: "did my father have more [other] wives than my mother?" i answered truthfully without hesitation. afterwards he went to lehi, called on melissa lott, with whom he had been associated from early childhood and asked: "will you answer me one question, i come to you knowing you will tell me the truth, were you my father's wife?" "yes, joseph, i was." "where is your proof?" she stepped to the stand and took the family bible opened to the family record, placed it on his knee and asked: "do you recognize the handwriting?" "certainly that is your father's (cornelius p. lott's) handwriting, know it as well as my own." then read the marriage certificate of the prophet joseph and melissa lott. oliver huntington who is still living testifies that they were very intimate as boys, and when together had often talked the matter over. referring to mr. evans again. i said: "does this prove him (joseph) an honest man?" now does this cover the ground of your inquiry? i have so often been interrupted by callers, that i may not have been explicit enough. my personal testimony you already have, if not you can get it by referring to "reminiscences of latter-day saints," by l. o. littlefield, which you will find at the president's (historian's) office. does this read much like she had been correctly represented? brigham young upheld by the lord in reference to the wicked charge you make in your discourse mentioned in aunt lucy's letter, against president young of practicing gross immorality while on his mission in england in 1840 and winter of 1841, a sufficient answer will be found in the revelation of january 19, 1841, wherein the lord, by revelation through the prophet joseph smith declares: i give to you _my servant_ brigham young, to be a president over the twelve traveling council, which twelve hold the keys to open up the authority of my kingdom upon the four corners of the earth, and after that to send my word to every creature. and the revelation of july 9, 1841, given after his return from england: * * * verily thus saith the lord unto you, my servant brigham, it is no more required at your hand to leave your family as in times past, for your offering is acceptable to me. in this abusive charge against president young you are striking at jehovah, and accusing him, either of condoning such a grievous sin, or failing to discover it. such a charge as that is ridiculously absurd, i feel safe in accepting the word of the lord in preference to the ribald, indecent statements of those who speak forth the vulgar desires of their own minds. respectfully, joseph f. smith, jr. footnotes 1. i am not so blind in my admiration of the "mormon" people or so bigoted in my devotion to the "mormon" faith as to think there are no individuals in the church chargeable with fanaticism, folly, intemperate speech, and wickedness; nor am i blind to the fact that some in their over-zeal have lacked judgment; and that in times of excitement, under stress of special provocation, even "mormon" leaders have given utterances to ideas that are indefensible. but i have yet to learn that it is just in a writer of history, or of "purpose fiction," that "speak truly," to make a collection of these things and represent them as the essence of that faith against which said writer draws an indictment. "no one would measure the belief of 'christians,'" says a truly great writer, "by certain statements in the fathers, nor judge the moral principles of roman catholics by prurient quotations from the casuist; nor yet estimate lutherans by the utterances and deeds of the early successors of luther, nor calvinists by the burning of servetus. in all such cases the general standpoint of the times has to be first taken into account."--edeshiem's life and times of jesus the messiah, preface p. 8. a long time ago the great edmund burke in his defense of the rashness expressed in both speech and action of some of our patriots of the american revolution period said: "it is not fair to judge of the temper of the disposition of any man or any set of men when they are composed and at rest from their conduct or their expressions in a state of disturbance and irritation." 2. writing of the mormon meadows massacre hubert h. bancroft, in his history of utah, page 544 says: "indeed it may well be understood at the outset that this horrible crime, so often and so persistently charged upon the mormon church and its leaders, was the crime of an individual, the crime of a fanatic of the worst stamp, one who was a member of the mormon church, but of whose intentions the church knew nothing, and whose bloody acts the members of the church, high and low, regard with as much abhorrence as any out of the church. indeed, the blow fell upon the brotherhood with threefold force and damage. there was the cruelty of it, which wrung their hearts; there was the odium attending its performance in their midst; and there was the strength it lent their enemies further to malign and molest them. the mormons denounce the mountain meadows massacre, and every act connected therewith, as earnestly and as honestly as any in the outside world. this is abundantly proved, and may be accepted as a historical fact." 3. see also doctrine and covenants section 101:80, on this point. 4. a polygamist the friend of god, whose praise you sing, and the man you are _glad_ to call the father of the faithful.--_saints' herald_ 52:437. 5. those thirty-one witnesses were: s. bennett, george miller, alpheus cutler, reynolds cahoon, wilson law, wilford woodruff, newel k. whitney, albert petty, elias higbee, john taylor, ebenezer robinson, aaron johnson, emma smith, elizabeth a. whitney, sarah m. cleveland, eliza r. snow, mary c. miller, lois cutler, thirza cahoon, ann hunter, jane law, sophia marks, polly z. johnson, abagail works, catharine petty, sarah higbee, phebe woodruff, leonora taylor, sarah hillman, rosanna marks, and angeline robinson. the saints' herald on the origin of plural marriage in both replies to mr. evans, mention is made of two articles in the _saints' herald_, volume one, that were written by isaac sheen, the first editor of that paper. these references were ignored by mr. evans in his publication of a portion of the foregoing correspondence. it would occupy too much space to copy these articles in full as they are quite lengthy, but i feel that the gist of the matter should be presented in more detail than it is given in the replies. mr. sheen's argument is that the saints at nauvoo "set up their idols in their heart," and went to the prophet joseph smith and asked him to inquire of the lord and ascertain from him if it would not be proper for them to practice plural marriage. this the prophet joseph did and in answer the lord gave him the revelation on celestial marriage, granting the practice of plural marriage, and then, after giving this revelation the lord smote the prophet for his 'iniquity' in asking for the revelation, and poured out wrath and indignation upon the saints for their participation in what he calls "abominations." reference is also made to the prophecies of ezekiel, balaam and micaiah to substantiate his theory which mr. sheen admits he is unable to "satisfactorily explain." an extensive quotation from the first article follows, which will give an idea of the position in which the members of the reorganized church regard the prophet joseph smith and the culmination of his most glorious mission. statement of isaac sheen we might call your attention to many prophecies in the bible which these backsliders[1] have fulfilled by their abominations. ezekiel appears to have had a very clear manifestation of the wickedness of these men and the plan pursued by them, by which they embark into polygamy. in ezekiel 14 c. 1, 5, v, the prophet says, "then came certain elders of israel unto me, saying, son of man, these men have set up their idols in their heart and put the stumblingblock of their iniquity before their face: should i be inquired of at all by them? therefore speak unto them, and say unto them, thus saith the lord god; every man of the house of israel that setteth up his idols in his heart, and putteth the stumblingblock of his iniquity before his face, and cometh to the prophet; i the lord, will answer him that cometh according to the multitude of his idols; that i may take the house of israel in their own heart, because they are all estranged from me through their idols." we have shown you that god gave a revelation unto us in which he commanded that every man should "cleave unto his wife and none else," and that he commanded us saying, "repent and remember the book of mormon and the former commandments which i have given them, not only to say, but to do according to that which i have written," and that in that book there is much testimony against polygamy. all these instructions were sufficient for our guidance, but "men have set up their idols in their hearts, and put the stumblingblock of their iniquity before their faces." this adulterous spirit had captivated their hearts and they desired a license from god to lead away captive the fair daughters of his people, and in this state of mind they came to the prophet joseph. could the lord do anything more or less than what ezekiel hath prophesied? the lord hath declared by ezekiel what kind of an answer he would give them, therefore he answered them according to the multitude of their idols. paul had also prophesied that "for this cause god shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie; that they all might be damned who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness." both these prophecies agree. in ezekiel's prophecy the lord also says, "i will set my face against that man, and will make him a sign and a proverb, and i will cut him off from the midst of my people; and ye shall know that i am the lord. and if the prophet be deceived when he hath spoken a thing, i the lord have deceived that prophet,[2] and i will stretch out my hand upon him and i will destroy him from the midst of my people israel. and they shall bear the punishment of their iniquity; the punishment of the prophet shall be even as the punishment of him that seeketh unto him; that the house of israel may go no more astray from me, neither be polluted any more with all their transgression; but that they may be my people, and i may be their god, saith the lord god," 8c., 11 v. we have here the facts as they have transpired and as they will continue to transpire in relation to this subject. the death of the prophet is one fact that has been realized although he abhorred and repented of this iniquity before his death. this branch of the subject we shall leave to some of our brethren, who are qualified to explain it satisfactorily. those who have practiced these abominations have become "a sign and a proverb" among men in accordance with this prophecy. these are the "false teachers" prophesied of by peter, of whom he said "many shall follow their pernicious ways; by reason of whom the way of truth shall be evil spoken of. and through covetousness shall they with feigned words make merchandise of you; whose judgment now of a long time lingereth not, and their abomination slumbereth not." the reason why the lord destroyed the prophet and made those who "set up their idols in their heart," a sign and a proverb, made them bear the punishment of their iniquity is worthy of our earnest attention. we are informed that the reason why the lord would perform all these things was this, "that the house of israel may go no more astray from me, neither be polluted any more with all their transgressions; but that they may be my people, and i may be their god." here is positive evidence that this prophecy was to be fulfilled in the last days, for there has only been a small part of the house of israel (at any time since this prophecy was given) that were obedient to the lord. the time is not fully come when israel shall "go no more astray," and not "be polluted any more with all their transgressions," therefore the punishment of these men who have committed these sins must continue until that happy day shall come. but as the lord says in this prophecy, "repent and turn yourselves from your idols; and turn away your faces from your abominations, so say we, and return unto the fold from whence you have strayed." as some may yet doubt whether god would act in this way toward men who set up their idols in their heart, we will see how god dealt with balaam. in numbers 22 c. we are informed that balak, king of the moabites, sent the elders of moab and midian unto balaam with the rewards of divination in their hands to entreat him that he would curse israel, but god said unto balaam, "thou shalt not go with them; thou shalt not curse the people, for they are blessed." and balaam rose up in the morning, and said unto the princes of balak, "get you unto your land; for the lord refuseth to give me leave to go with you." and balak sent yet again princes, more, and more honorable than they. and they came to balaam and said to him, "thus sayeth balak, the son of zippor, let nothing, i pray thee, hinder thee from coming unto me: for i will promote thee unto very great honor, and i will do whatsoever thou sayest unto me; come, therefore, i pray thee, curse me this people." now although the lord had said unto balaam, "thou shalt not go with them; thou shalt not curse the people, for they are blessed," yet the great honor that was offered him, allured him, and he inquired of the lord again, and said unto the princes, "tarry ye also here this night, that i may know what the lord will say unto me more." and god came unto balaam at night, and said unto him, "if the men come to call thee, rise up and go with them: but yet the word which i shall say unto thee, that shalt thou do." and balaam rose up in the morning and saddled his ass, and went with the princes of moab. and god's anger was kindled because he went; and the angel of the lord stood in the way for an adversary against him. so we find that the lord told him not to go, but afterwards, having "set up his idol in his heart" he inquired of the lord again whether he might not go and curse israel and god's anger was kindled against him because he did so, although god had commanded him to go. this is, therefore, a parallel case with ezekiel's prophecy.[3] in i kings, 22 c. we are informed that the king of israel wanted jehoshaphat, king of judah, to go up with him to ramoth-gilead to battle, and there were four hundred prophets who said "go up, for the lord shall deliver it into the hands of the king." and jehoshaphat said, "is there not here a prophet of the lord besides, that we might inquire of him?" and the king of israel said unto jehoshapat, "there is yet one, micaiah, the son of imlah, by whom we may inquire of the lord; but i hate him, for he doth not prophesy good concerning me, but evil." and jehoshaphat said, "let not the king say so." so he was sent for. the messenger that was gone to call micaiah spake unto him, saying, "behold now the words of the prophets declare good unto the king with one mouth: let thy word, i pray thee, be like the word of one of them, and speak that which is good." and micaiah said, "as the lord liveth, what the lord saith unto me, that will i speak." we are then informed that micaiah prophesied like the false prophets,[4] and then against them. and he said, "i saw the lord sitting on his throne, and all the hosts of heaven standing by him on his right hand and on his left. and the lord said, who shall persuade ahab that he may go up and fall at ramoth-gilead? and one said on this matter, and another said on that manner. and there came forth a spirit and stood before the lord and said, i will persuade him. and the lord said unto him wherewith? and he said, i will go forth, and i will be a lying spirit in the mouth of all his prophets. and he said, thou shalt persuade him, and prevail also; go forth and do so. now therefore behold the lord hath put a lying spirit in the mouth of all these thy prophets, and the lord hath spoken evil concerning thee." this doctrine was extensively preached in the church before iniquity overthrew the church, and by this doctrine the church might have been saved, if men had not "set up their idols in their heart." footnotes 1. the prophet joseph smith, brigham young and the saints. 2. the inspired translation reads: "i the lord have not deceived that prophet." 3. mr. sheen forgets that the lord said, "thou shalt not curse the people, for they are blessed," which command balaam hearkened to. 4. the prophecy was; "go and prosper; for the lord shall deliver it into the hands of the king," v. 15. this was uttered in mockery, if not why did the king reply: "how many times shall i adjure thee that thou tell me nothing but that which is true in the name of the lord," v. 16. _then_ micaiah told the king that he should fall at ramoth-gilead, so the king acted with full knowledge of the word of the lord concerning his death when he went forth to battle. therefore the lord did not deceive ahab in this matter. introduction of celestial and plural marriage additional testimony of a few out of the multitude[1] of witnesses who were taught these principles by the prophet joseph smith, and who knew that he received the revelation known as section 132 in the book of doctrine and covenants. affidavit of president lorenzo snow in the month of april, 1843, i returned from my european mission. a few days after my arrival at nauvoo, when at president joseph smith's house, he said he wished to have some private talk with me, and requested me to walk out with him. it was toward evening. we walked a little distance and sat down on a large log that lay near the bank of the river. he there and then explained to me the doctrine of plurality of wives; he said that the lord had revealed it unto him, and commanded him to have women sealed to him as wives; that he foresaw the trouble that would follow, and sought to turn away from the commandment; that an angel from heaven then appeared before him with a drawn sword, threatening him with destruction unless he went forward and obeyed the commandment. he further said that my sister eliza r. snow had been sealed to him as his wife for time and eternity. he told me that the lord would open the way, and i should have women sealed to me as wives. this conversation was prolonged, i think one hour or more, in which he told me many important things. i solemnly declare before god and holy angels, and as i hope to come forth in the morning of the resurrection, that the above statement is true. lorenzo snow. territory of utah, box elder county. ss. personally came before me j. c. wright, clerk of the county and probate courts in and for the county and territory aforesaid, lorenzo snow, and who being duly sworn deposeth and says that the foregoing statement by him subscribed is true of his own certain knowledge. witness my hand and seal of court, at my office in brigham city, box elder county, utah territory, this 28th day of august, a.d. 1869. [seal.] j. c. wright, clerk. affidavit of lucy walker united states of america, state of utah. county of salt lake. lucy walker smith kimball, being first duly sworn, says: i was a plural wife of the prophet joseph smith, and was married for time and eternity in nauvoo, state of illinois, on the first day of may, 1843, by elder william clayton. the prophet was then living with his first wife, emma smith, and i know that she gave her consent to the marriage of at least four women to her husband as plural wives, and she was well aware that he associated and cohabited with them as wives. the names of these women are eliza and emily partridge, and maria and sarah lawrence, all of whom knew that i too was his wife. when the prophet joseph smith mentioned the principle of plural marriage to me i felt indignant, and so expressed myself to him, because my feelings and education were averse to anything of that nature. but he assured me that this doctrine had been revealed to him of the lord, and that i was entitled to receive a testimony of its divine origin for myself. he counseled me to pray to the lord, which i did, and thereupon received from him a powerful and irresistible testimony of the truthfulness and divinity of plural marriage, which testimony has abided with me ever since. on the 8th day of february, 1845, i was married for _time_ to president heber c. kimball, and bore to him nine children. and in this connection allow me to say to his everlasting credit that during the whole of my married life with him he never failed to regard me as the wife for eternity of his devoted friend, the prophet joseph smith. lucy walker smith kimball. subscribed and sworn to before me, this 17th day of december, 1902. [seal.] james jack, notary public. affidavit of catherine phillips smith united states of america, state of utah. county of salt lake. catherine phillips smith,[2] being first sworn, says: i am the daughter of thomas denner and sarah godshall phillips, and was born in philadelphia, state of pennsylvania, on the first day of august, 1819. my present residence is east jordan, salt lake county, utah. i was married to hyrum smith, brother of the prophet joseph smith, as his plural wife, and lived with him as his wife. the sealing was performed by the prophet joseph smith himself, in nauvoo, state of illinois, in august, 1843, in the brick office belonging to my husband, and occupied at the time as a dwelling by brother and sister robert and julia stone, and was witnessed by my mother, sister stone and her daughter hettie. in consequence of the strong feeling manifested at the time against plural marriage and those suspected of having entered into it, i, with my mother, moved to st. louis near the close of the year, where i was living when the prophet joseph and my husband were martyred. the purpose of this affidavit is that my testimony to the truthfulness and divinity of plural marriage may live after i shall have passed away; and in this spirit i commend it to all to whom it may come. catherine phillips smith. subscribed and sworn to before me, this 28th day of january, 1903. [seal] l. john nuttall, notary public. affidavit of almira w. johnson smith barton territory of utah, county of iron. ss. be it remembered on this first day of august a.d. 1883, personally appeared before me john w. brown a notary public in and for said county, almira w. johnson smith barton, who was by me sworn in due form of law, and upon her oath says: i am a citizen in the territory of utah, over the age of twenty-one years, and i am the daughter of ezekiel johnson and julia hills johnson his wife; that i was born at westford, in the state of vermont on the 22nd day of october a.d. 1813; that i had nine brothers who were named respectfully joel h., seth, david, benjamin f., joseph e., elmer, george w., william d., and amos; and six sisters named respectfully nancy, dulcena, julia, susan, mary and esther, all of whom, with myself, were baptized into the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints with the exception of elmer, who died in infancy. deponent further says, that in the years 1842 and 1843, i resided most of the time at macedonia, in the county of hancock, state of illinois, sometimes with my sister who was the wife of almon w. babbitt, and sometimes with my brother benjamin f. johnson. during that time the prophet joseph smith taught me the principle of celestial marriage including plurality of wives and asked me to become his wife. he first spoke to me on this subject at the house of my brother benjamin f. i also lived a portion of the time at brother joseph smith's in nauvoo, when many conversations passed between him and myself on this subject. on a certain occasion in the spring of the year 1843, the exact date of which i do not now recollect, i went from macedonia to nauvoo to visit another of my sisters, the one who was the widow of lyman r. sherman, deceased, at which time i was sealed to the prophet joseph smith. at the time this took place hyrum smith, joseph's brother, came to me and said i need not be afraid. i had been fearing and doubting about the principle and so had he, but he now knew it was true. after this time i lived with the prophet joseph as his wife, and he visited me at the home of my brother benjamin f. at macedonia. deponent further says that i had many conversations with eliza beaman who was also a wife of joseph smith, and who was present when i was sealed to him, on the subject of plurality of wives, both before and after the performance of that ceremony. and also that since the death of the prophet joseph smith i was married for time to reuben barton of nauvoo, hancock co., ill., by whom i have had five daughters, one only of whom is now living. almira w. johnson smith barton. subscribed and sworn to by the said almira w. johnson smith barton the day and year first above written. [seal.] john w. brown, notary public. affidavit of martha mcbride kimball territory of utah, county of millard. ss. be it remembered that on this eighth day of july, a.d. 1869, personally appeared before me edward partridge, probate judge in and for said county, martha mcbride kimball, who was by me sworn in due form of law, and upon her oath saith that sometime in the summer of the year 1842, at the city of nauvoo, county of hancock, state of illinois, she was married or sealed to joseph smith, president of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, by heber c. kimball, one of the twelve apostles in said church, according to the laws of the same regulating marriage. martha mcbride kimball. subscribed and sworn to by said martha mcbride kimball the day and year first above written. [seal.] edward partridge, probate judge. affidavit of melissa lott willes territory of utah, county of salt lake. ss. be it remembered that on this twentieth day of may, a.d. 1869, personally appeared before me, james jack a notary public in and for said county, melissa lott willes, who was by me sworn in due form of law, and upon her oath saith that on the twentieth day of september, a.d. 1843, at the city of nauvoo, county of hancock, state of illinois, she was married or sealed to joseph smith, president of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, by hyrum smith, presiding patriarch of said church, according to laws of the same, regulating marriage, in the presence of cornelius p. lott and parmelia lott. melissa lott willes. subscribed and sworn to by the said melissa lott willes, the day and year first above written. [seal.] james jack, notary public. lovina smith walker's testimony i, lovina walker, hereby certify that while i was living with aunt emma smith, in fulton city, fulton co., illinois, in the year 1846, that she told me that she, emma smith, was present and witnessed the marrying or sealing of eliza partridge, emily partridge, maria lawrence and sarah lawrence to her husband, joseph smith, and that she gave her consent thereto. lovina walker. we hereby witness that lovina walker made and signed the above statement on this 16th day of june, a.d. 1869, at salt lake city, s. l. county, utah territory, of her own free will and record. hyrum s. walker, sarah e. smith, joseph f. smith. affidavit of sarah a. kimball territory of utah, county of salt lake. ss. be it remembered that on this nineteenth day of june, a.d. 1869, personally appeared before me elias smith, probate judge for said county, sarah ann kimball, who was by me sworn in due form of law, and upon her oath saith that on the twenty-seventh day of july, a.d. 1842, at the city of nauvoo, county of hancock, state of illinois, she was married or sealed to joseph smith, president of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, by newell k. whitney, presiding bishop of said church, according to the laws of the same regulating marriage, in the presence of elizabeth ann whitney her mother. sarah a. kimball. subscribed and sworn to by the said sarah ann (whitney) kimball, the day and year first above written. e. smith, probate judge. affidavit of elizabeth a. whitney territory of utah, county of salt lake. ss. be it remembered that on this thirtieth day of august, a.d. 1869, personally appeared before me, james jack, a notary public in and for said county, elizabeth ann whitney, who was by me sworn in due form of law, and upon her oath saith that on the twenty-seventh day of july, a.d. 1842, at the city of nauvoo, county of hancock, state of illinois, she was present and witnessed the marrying or sealing of her daughter sarah ann whitney to the prophet joseph smith, for time and all eternity, by her husband newel k. whitney then presiding bishop of the church. e. a. whitney. subscribed and sworn to by the said elizabeth ann whitney the day and year first above written. james jack, notary public. affidavit of orson hyde springtown, sept. 15, 1869. i, orson hyde, do hereby certify and declare according to my best recollection that on the fourth day of september i was married to miss marinda n. johnson, in kirtland, ohio, in the year of our lord 1834, and in the month of february or march, 1843, i was married to miss martha r. browitt, by joseph smith, the martyred prophet, and by him she was sealed to me for time and for all eternity in nauvoo, ill., and in the month of april of the same year, 1843, i was married by the same person to mrs. mary ann price, and by him she was sealed to me for time and for all eternity, in nauvoo, ill., while the woman to whom i was first married was yet living, and gave her cordial consent to both transactions, and was personally present to witness the ceremonies. orson hyde. sworn to and subscribed to before me this the 15th day of september, 1869, at springtown, sanpete county, ut. george brough, justice of the peace. i hereby certify that the above named george brough is a justice of the peace for the precinct of springtown in the county of sanpete, ut., and that he is duly qualified in accordance with law; in testimony whereof, i hereunto set my hand and official seal of the county court of sanpete county, at my office, manti city, this sept. 16, 1869. [seal.] william t. reed, county clerk. affidavit of joseph bates noble territory of utah, county of salt lake. ss. be it remembered that on the 26th day of june, a.d. 1869, personally appeared before me, james jack, a notary public in and for said county, joseph bates noble, who was by me sworn in due form of law, and upon his oath saith, that on the fifth day of april, a.d. 1841, at the city of nauvoo, county of hancock, state of illinois, he married or sealed louisa beaman to joseph smith, president of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, according to the order of celestial marriage revealed to the said joseph smith. joseph b. noble. subscribed and sworn to by the said joseph bates noble, the day and year first above written. [seal.] james jack, notary public. affidavit of rhoda richards smith territory of utah, county of salt lake. ss. be it remembered that on this first day of may, a.d. 1869, personally appeared before me, elias smith, probate judge for said county, rhoda richards, who was by me sworn in due form of law and upon her oath saith that on the twelfth day of june a.d. 1843, at the city of nauvoo, county of hancock, state of illinois, she was married or sealed to joseph smith, president of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, by willard richards, one of the twelve apostles of said church, according to the laws of the same regulating marriage. rhoda richards. subscribed and sworn to by the said rhoda richards, the day and year above written. [seal.] elias smith, probate judge. testimony of benjamin f. johnson mesa city, arizona, 9th march, 1904. _president joseph f. smith_, _washington, d. c_. my dear brother:-in reading reports from the senate committee on the reed smoot case, i see that witnesses are subpoenaed to prove that the prophet joseph smith did not authorize or practice polygamy; and i do know that he did teach plural marriage, and that he did give to me a plural wife who is still living with me, and that i saw one of my sisters married to him. * * * and i do know that at his mansion house was living mariah and sarah lawrence and one of cornelius p. lott's daughters as his plural wives with the full knowledge of his wife, emma, of the married relations to him. at that time i was his legal business agent at macedonia or ramtis, and was familiar with his family or domestic affairs; and occupying, as i did, the family mansion often in a business way with emma, the prophet's first wife, who at no time did ever in my hearing deny the plural character of her husband's family. and now with this and much more knowledge relating to this subject, could my evidence before the senate committee be of any real value to the cause of truth? if so, although too infirm to travel alone i would willingly try to be there, if according to your counsel and wish. loyal to the truth, i am, always brother, b. f. johnson. the celestial and plural marriage revelation the following letter was written by elder william clayton who wrote the revelation known as section 132 in the book of doctrine and covenants, at the direction of the prophet joseph smith, july 12, 1843.[3] salt lake city, nov, 11, 1871. _madison m. scott, esq_. dear sir: your letter of 23rd of june last, was received by due course of mail, but owing to my being so very closely confined with public duties, which has almost destroyed my health, i have not answered your letter so promptly as is my practice. my health is yet very poor, but i have resigned the office which was bearing so heavy upon me, and am in hopes to regain my usual sound health. now, in regard to the subject matter of your letter, it appears to me that the principal topic is what is commonly called polygamy, but which i prefer to call celestial marriage. as to young joseph saying that the church here have apostatized; that _we_ have introduced polygamy, denying bitterly that his father ever had a revelation on the subject, that is all mere bosh! i _believe_ he knows better, and i have often felt sorry to learn that the sons of the prophet should spend their time in contending against a pure and holy principle which their father's blood was shed to establish. they will have a heavy atonement to make when they meet their father in the next world. they are in the hands of god, and my respect for their father will not permit me to say much about the wicked course of his sons. _now, i say to you, as i am ready to testify to all the world, and on which testimony i am most willing to meet all the latter-day saints and all apostates, in time and through all eternity, i did write the revelations on celestial marriage given through the prophet joseph smith, on the 12th of july, 1843_. when the revelation was written there was no one present except the prophet joseph, his brother hyrum and myself. it was written in the small office upstairs in the rear of the brick store which stood on the banks of the mississippi river. it took some three hours to write it. joseph dictated sentence by sentence, and i wrote it as he dictated. after the whole was written joseph requested me to read it slowly and carefully, which i did, and he then pronounced it correct. the same night a copy was taken by bishop whitney, which copy is now here (in the historian's office) and which i know and testify is correct. the original was destroyed by emma smith. i again testify that the revelation on polygamy was given through the prophet joseph on the 12th july, 1843; and that the prophet joseph both taught and practiced polygamy i do positively know, and bear testimony to the fact. in april, 1843, he sealed to me my second wife, my first wife being then living. by my said second wife i had two sons born in nauvoo. the first died; the second is here now, and is married. i had the honor to seal one woman[4] to joseph under his direction. i could name ten or a dozen of his wives who are now living in this territory, so that for any man to tell me that joseph did not teach polygamy, he is losing his time, for i know better. it is not hearsay, nor opinion with me, for i positively know of what i speak, and i testify to the truth, and shall be willing to meet all opponents on the subject through all eternity. as to the church here having apostatized that is all a mere matter of assertion, destitute of truth. president young and his associates are, and have been doing everything they can to carry out the plans and instructions of the prophet joseph, and so eternity will prove to the condemnation and confusion of all their enemies. any one who says to the contrary does not know joseph nor the mission the lord gave him to fulfill. * * * truly yours, william clayton. affidavit of howard coray territory of utah, county of salt lake. ss. as many false statements have been made in relation to the authorship of the revelation on celestial marriage, i deem it but justice to all lovers of truth for me to express what i know concerning this very important matter. on the 22nd day of july, a.d. 1843, hyrum smith, the martyred patriarch, came in a carriage to my house in nauvoo; he invited me and my wife to take a ride with him; accordingly, as soon as we could make ourselves ready, we got into his carriage and he set off in the direction of carthage. having gone a short distance, he observed to us that his brother joseph smith, the prophet, had received a revelation on marriage, that was not for the public yet, which he would rehearse to us, as he had taken pains to commit it to memory. he then commenced rehearsing the revelation on celestial marriage not stopping till he had gone quite through with the matter. after which he reviewed that part pertaining to plurality of wives, dwelling at some length upon the same, in order that we might clearly understand the principle. and on the same day (july 22, 1843,) he sealed my wife, formerly martha jane knowlton, to me; and when i heard the revelation on celestial marriage read on the stand in salt lake city, in 1852, i recognized it as the same as that repeated to me by brother hyrum smith. not long after this i was present when brother david fullmer and wife were sealed by brother hyrum smith, the martyred patriarch, according to the law of celestial marriage. and, besides the foregoing, there was quite enough came within the compass of my observation to have fully satisfied my mind that plural marriage was practiced in the city of nauvoo. howard coray. subscribed and sworn to before me, this 18th day of june, a.d. 1882. [seal.] james jack, notary public. affidavit of david fullmer[5] territory of utah, county of salt lake. ss. be it remembered that on this fifteenth day of june, a.d. 1869, personally appeared before me, james jack, a notary public in and for said county, david fullmer, who was by me sworn in due form of law, and upon his oath saith, that on or about the 12th day of august, a.d. 1843, while in meeting with the high council [he being a member thereof] in hyrum smith's brick office, in the city of nauvoo, county of hancock, state of illinois, dunbar wilson made inquiry in relation to the subject of plurality of wives, as there were rumors about respecting it, and he was satisfied there was something in those rumors, and he wanted to know what it was. upon which hyrum smith stepped across the road to his residence, and soon returned bringing with him a copy of the revelation on celestial marriage given to joseph smith july 12, 1843, and read the same to the high council, and bore testimony to its truth. the said david fullmer further saith that, to the best of his memory and belief, the following named persons were present: william marks, austin a. cowles, samuel bent, george w. harris, dunbar wilson, william huntington, levi jackman, aaron johnson, thomas grover, david fullmer, phineas richards, james allred and leonard soby. and the said david fullmer further saith that william marks, austin a. cowles and leonard soby were the only persons present who did not receive the testimony of hyrum smith, and that all the others did receive it from the teachings and testimony of the said hyrum smith; and further, that the copy of said revelation on celestial marriage published in the _deseret news_ extra of september 14, a.d., 1852, is a true copy of the same. david fullmer. subscribed and sworn to by the said david fullmer the day and year first above written. [seal.] james jack, notary public. affidavit of leonard soby[6] be it remembered that on the 23rd day of march, in the year 1886, before, joshua w. roberts, notary public for the city of beverly, county of burlington, state of new jersey, leonard soby, of said city, county and state, was by me duly sworn, and upon his oath saith: that on or about the 12th day of august, 1843, i was a resident of nauvoo, hancock county, state of illinois, and being a member of the high council of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints, was present at a meeting of said council at the time herein above stated; thomas grover, alpheus cutler, david fullmer, william huntington and others; when elder hyrum smith, after certain explanations, read the revelation on celestial marriage. i have read and examined carefully said revelation, since published in the book of doctrine and covenants of said church, and say to the best of my knowledge and belief it is the same, word for word, as the revelation then read by hyrum smith. the deponent says further, that the revelation did not originate with brigham young, as some persons have falsely stated, but was received by the prophet joseph smith, and read in the high council by his authority as a revelation to the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints. when read to this deponent and said high council, i believed it was a revelation from jesus christ, and i believe so now. leonard soby. subscribed and sworn to by the said leonard soby the day and year first above written. joshua w. roberts, notary public. witnessed by: james h. hart, samuel harrison. affidavit of john w. rigdon state of utah, county of salt lake. ss. john w. rigdon, being duly sworn, says: i am the son of sidney rigdon, deceased. was born at mentor, in the state of ohio, in the year 1830, and am now over seventy-five years of age. my father, sidney rigdon, joined the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints that year, and was in 1833 ordained to be joseph smith's first counselor which position he held up to the time joseph the prophet was killed, at carthage jail, in 1844. that joseph smith and sidney rigdon moved from kirtland, with their families, to the state of missouri, during the winter of 1837, but rigdon did not reach far west, in the state of missouri, until the last of april, 1838. that during the troubles in missouri, in the year 1838, joseph smith, hyrum smith, his brother, sidney rigdon, lyman wight and others, whose names i do not now remember were arrested and imprisoned in liberty jail, about forty miles from the village of far west, in caldwell county, missouri, where they all remained incarcerated for several months. that while said joseph smith, hyrum smith, sidney rigdon, lyman wight and others were prisoners in said liberty jail, as aforesaid i, with my mother, wife of sidney rigdon, emma smith, wife of said joseph smith, and joseph smith, son of joseph and emma smith, went to see the said prisoners during the latter part of the winter of 1838. we all went together in the same carriage and came home together. we stayed at liberty jail with the prisoners three days and then left for home. the story that is being told by some of the members of the reorganized church, at lamoni, that young joseph smith, now president of the said reorganized church, was ordained by his father, joseph smith, to be the leader of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints after his father's death, is not true, for i know that no such ordination took place while we were at liberty jail; that if any such ordination had taken place i most certainly should have known it and remembered it, as i was with young joseph, the prophet's son, all the time we were there. if joseph smith had ordained his son joseph to be the leader of the church at his death, he would have done so in a manner that there could have been no doubt about it. both of his counselors were then in prison with him, namely, sidney rigdon and hyrum smith, and it would have been in order for the prophet to have called upon them to assist him in such an ordination had it taken place, and a record of the same made in the church books, so that all members of the church might have known that such an ordination had taken place. but nothing of the kind appears in the church books. my father and mother lived a good many years after the incarceration at liberty jail, and i, who lived near my father, never heard my father or my mother mention that such an ordination ever took place in liberty jail; and as i know myself that no such ordination took place in liberty jail, and inasmuch as it is not claimed that an ordination of this character was bestowed at any other place, therefore i deny it as an untruth and a story gotten up by the reorganized church for effect. besides all this, if joseph smith, the president of the reorganized church was ordained while in liberty jail, why did he, sixteen years after his father's death, receive an ordination under the hands of william marks, william w. blair, and zenas h. gurley? would it not seem that one ordination (and that too, said to have been by his own father, the president of the church) should have been sufficient? but further wm. marks, wm. w. blair and zenas h. gurley had all been excommunicated from the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints (excepting william w. blair, who never belonged to it) before they "ordained" young joseph to be president of the reorganized church, and therefore they did not have the authority to ordain him. the whole story of his being ordained by anyone having authority to do so is too preposterous to be entertained for a single moment, and should be rejected by all who hear such a story mentioned. as to the truth of the doctrine of polygamy being introduced by the prophet joseph smith, deponent further says: joseph smith was absolute so far as spiritual figures were concerned, and no man would have dared to introduce the doctrine of polygamy or any other new doctrine into the "mormon" church at the city of nauvoo during the years 1843 and 1844, or at any other place or time, without first obtaining joseph smith's consent. if anyone had dared to have done such a thing he would have been brought before the high council and tried, and if proven against him, he would have been excommunicated from the church, and that would have ended polygamy forever, and would also have ended the man who had dared to introduce such a doctrine without the consent of the prophet joseph. and deponent further says: joseph the prophet, at the city of nauvoo, illinois, some time in the latter part of the year 1843, or the first part of the year 1844, made a proposition to my sister, nancy rigdon, to become his wife. it happened in this way: nancy had gone to church, meeting being held in a grove near the temple lot on which the "mormons" were then erecting a temple, an old lady friend who lived alone invited her to go home with her, which nancy did. when they got to the house and had taken their bonnets off, the old lady began to talk to her about the new doctrine of polygamy which was then being taught, telling nancy, during the conversation, that it was a surprise to her when she first heard it, but that she had since come to believe it to be true. while they were talking joseph smith the prophet came into the house, and joined them, and the old lady immediately left the room. it was then that joseph made the proposal of marriage to my sister. nancy flatly refused him, saying if she ever got married she would marry a single man or none at all, and thereupon took her bonnet and went home, leaving joseph at the old lady's house. nancy told father and mother of it. the story got out and it became the talk of the town that joseph had made a proposition to nancy rigdon to become his wife, and that she refused him. a few days after the occurrence joseph smith came to my father's house and talked the matter over with the family, my sister, mrs. athalia robinson also being present, who is now alive. the feelings manifested by our family on this occasion were anything but brotherly or sisterly, more especially on the part of nancy, as she felt that she had been insulted. a day or two later joseph smith returned to my father's house, when matters were satisfactorily adjusted between them, and there the matter ended. after that joseph smith sent my father to pittsburgh, pa., to take charge of a little church that was there, and ebenezer robinson, who was then the church printer, or at least had been such, as he was the printer of the paper in kirtland, ohio, and a printer by trade, was to go with him to print a paper there, and nine days before joseph smith was shot at carthage we started, reaching pittsburgh the day before he was killed. deponent further says: i have in my possession a paper called the _nauvoo expositor_, bearing date, nauvoo, illinois, friday, june 7th, 1844, which said paper's printing plant was destroyed by the city council at nauvoo a night or two after that issue. there never was but one issue of this paper. joseph smith the prophet was then mayor of the city of nauvoo. in the afternoon of the day on which the printing plant was destroyed, henry phelps, a son of w. w. phelps, came down main street selling this paper, the _nauvoo expositor_, and everyone who could raise five cents bought a copy. in that paper the three following affidavits appeared, which i reproduce herewith. affidavits i hereby certify that hyrum smith did (in his office) read to me a certain written document which he said was a revelation from god. he said that he was with joseph when it was received. he afterwards gave me the document to read and i took it to my house and read it and showed it to my wife and returned it the next day. the revelation (so called) authorized certain men to have more wives than one at a time in this world and in the world to come. it said this was the law, and commanded joseph to enter into the law. and also that he should administer to others. several other items were in the revelation, supporting the above doctrines. wm. law. state of illinois, hancock county. i, robert d. foster, certify that the above certificate was sworn to before me as true in substance, this fourth day of may, a.d. 1844. robert d. foster, j. p. i certify that i read the revelation referred to in the above affidavit of my husband. it sustained in strong terms the doctrine of more wives than one at a time in this world and in the next. it authorized some to have to the number of ten, and set forth that those women who would not allow their husbands to have more wives than one should be under condemnation before god. jane law. sworn and subscribed before me this 4th day of may, a.d. 1844. robert d. foster, j. p. to all whom it may concern: forasmuch as the public mind hath been much agitated by a course of procedure in the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints by a number of persons declaring against certain doctrines and practices therein (among whom i am one) it is but meet that i should give my reasons at least in part as a cause that hath led me to declare myself. in the latter part of the summer of 1843, the patriarch hyrum smith did in the high council, of which i was a member, introduce what he said was a revelation given through the prophet, that the said hyrum smith did essay to read the said revelation in the said council; that according to his reading there was contained the following doctrines: 1st. the sealing up of persons to eternal life, against all sins save that of shedding innocent blood or of consenting thereto; 2nd. the doctrine of plurality of wives or marrying virgins; that david and solomon had many wives, yet in this they sinned not, save in the matter of uriah. this revelation with others, evidence that the aforesaid heresies were taught and practiced in the church, determined me to leave the office of first counselor to the president of the church at nauvoo, inasmuch as i dared not teach or administer such laws. and further deponent saith not. austin cowles. state of illinois, hancock county. to all whom it may concern: i hereby certify that the above certificate was sworn and subscribed before me, this fourth day of may, 1844. robert d. foster, j. p. john w. rigdon. sworn to before me this 28th day of july, 1905. [seal.] james jack, notary public. statement of orange l. wight the following confirmation of john w. rigdon's affidavit is copied from the _deseret news_ of saturday, august 12, 1905: bunkerville, lincoln county, nev., august 4, 1905:--seeing the testimony of j. w. rigdon in the semi-weekly _news_ of july 31, and being much interested in the subject, and knowing that there lived in this place a man that was quite familiar with the early scenes of church history, especially those in and about far west, missouri, and having heard him say that he had many times visited his father and the prophet joseph, while they were incarcerated in liberty jail, i went and interviewed orange l. wight (eldest son of former apostle lyman wight), who is now 82 years old and resides with his daughter, sister harriet m. earl. brother wight is quite feeble in body, but his mind seems to be as bright as ever. i found brother wight in his usual good humor, and seemed quite willing to talk, in fact, was pleased to do so. "elder wight," said i, "are you willing to make a statement for publication in regard to what you know about joseph smith, son of the prophet joseph, being ordained while in liberty jail to lead the church?" "certainly i am." "then," said i, "just write me out a brief statement covering those points, and i will give it in your own words." following is brother wight's statement: "in regard to the statement of john w. rigdon, i endorse it in every point. brother john w. rigdon speaks of being in liberty prison when the prophet joseph smith, sidney rigdon, hyrum smith, lyman wight, and others were there (the others were caleb baldwin and alexander mcrae). i also visited the prisoners at or about the same time, and slept with them many times at different periods, and i cannot recollect of ever hearing the subject of an ordination mentioned. "my father, lyman wight, nor my mother, never alluded to it during their lifetime in my presence; so i take it for granted that joseph, the son of the prophet joseph smith, was not ordained to fill the place of his father, in the liberty jail. i was born in the state of new york, november 29, 1823, hence am about seven years older than brother john w. rigdon. and if an ordination of young joseph had occurred in the prison, i would likely have heard it, and would certainly recollect it. "previous to this, while i was several years younger, the twelve apostles were organized and commissioned to assist in leading and governing the church. i can recollect every detail distinctly. my acquaintance with the prophet was from the year 1830 to his martyrdom, and i can truly say he was a prophet of god, and was appointed to the divine mission to organize the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints in this last dispensation. "as to the prophet's believing and practicing polygamy, i have as near a certain knowledge of the fact, i may say, as any man living. i was well acquainted with most or all of his wives, and talked with them on the subject, at the same time my wife also talked with them. "if there is anything further that is necessary for me to communicate in regard to my recollection, i will willingly do so. "respectfully, "orange l. wight." further talk with brother wight brought out the following facts: he was baptized into the church in the spring of 1832; was with the church through all their troubles in the state of missouri. brother wight filled a thirteen months' mission in the state of virginia in company with jedediah m. grant and others; was in nauvoo at the time the prophet was captured at dixon, ill., and was one of those who went up the illinois river on the steamer "maid of iowa," to assist in rescuing the prophet. joseph i. earl. affidavit of bathsheba w. smith state of utah, county of salt lake. ss. bathsheba w. smith, being first duly sworn on oath, deposes and says: i was a resident of nauvoo, state of illinois, from 1840 to 1846. i was married to george a. smith july 25, 1841, elder don carlos smith performing the ceremony. near the close of the year 1843, or in the beginning of the year 1844, i received the ordinance of anointing in a room in sister emma smith's house in nauvoo, and the same day, in company with my husband, i received my endowment in the upper room over the prophet joseph smith's store. the endowments were given under the direction of the prophet joseph smith, who afterwards gave us lectures or instructions in regard to the endowment ceremonies. there has been no change, to my certain knowledge, in these ceremonies. they are the same today as they were then. a short time after i received my anointing, i was sealed to my husband, george a. smith, for time and eternity, by president brigham young, in the latter's house, according to the plan taught, to my knowledge, by the prophet joseph smith. when i was married in 1841, i was married for time, and not for eternity. at the time i was anointed in sister emma smith's house, she (emma smith) said in my presence, to me and to others who were present upon that occasion, "your husbands are going to take more wives, and unless you consent to it, you must put your foot down and keep it there." much more was said in regard to plural marriage at that time by sister emma smith, who seemed opposed to the principle. in the year 1840, at a meeting held in nauvoo, at which i was present, i heard the prophet joseph smith say that the ancient order would be restored as it was in the days of abraham. in the year 1844, a short time before the death of the prophet joseph smith, it was my privilege to attend a regular prayer circle in the upper room over the prophet's store. there were present at this meeting most of the twelve apostles, their wives, and a number of other prominent brethren and their wives. on that occasion the prophet arose and spoke at great length, and during his remarks i heard him say that he had conferred on the heads of the twelve apostles all the keys and powers pertaining to the priesthood, and that upon the heads of the twelve apostles the burden of the kingdom rested, and that they would have to carry it. it has been, and is, necessary for me to make this statement, as contrary reports have been circulated as coming from me. any statements purporting to come from me that have been made, or that may be made by any party or parties, in opposition or conflicting with this sworn statement, are false, as i have never, to my knowledge, deviated one iota from this statement. bathsheba w. smith. signed in the presence of joseph f. smith, jr., b. morris young. subscribed and sworn to before me this 19th day of november, 1903. [seal.] martin s. lindsay, notary public. footnotes 1. one hundred or more affidavits in relation to the introduction of celestial and plural marriage are on file in the historian's office, salt lake city, and are the expressions of eye and ear witnesses, who know that the prophet joseph smith introduced and taught celestial and plural marriage. most of these witnesses are members of the church, but some of them are not, and have not been connected with the church from before the martyrdom of the prophet and patriarch. it would be impracticable and even unnecessary to produce all this evidence here. a portion should suffice, in order that the truth regarding the introduction of these principles should be established; for, in this case as in all others, the testimony of two or three reliable witnesses should establish the truth of these things. celestial marriage, which is marriage for eternity, should not be confused with plurality of wives, as is often done by those not acquainted with these teachings. 2. some time during the month of september four members of the reorganized church called on catherine phillips smith at her home in east jordan, with the object in view of having her deny her testimony regarding her marriage to the patriarch hyrum smith, which she resolutely refused to do. in a statement given on september 24th, two days before her death, she said: "they tried to get me to tell a lie and deny that i was married to the patriarch hyrum smith; but i would not do it. i never have lied and will not now; my affidavit is true. they asked me if my mother knew of my marriage, and i told them that the patriarch asked my mother if she was willing for him to marry her daughter, and she said he could ask the daughter, and she could do as she pleased. i told them that the prophet joseph sealed me to the patriarch hyrum smith as his wife for time and all eternity, and they tried to get me to deny it, and i would not do it, for it is true. i told them the truth. they annoyed me very much, and i finally told them to leave my house and never enter it again." 3. this, however, was not the time this principle was first made known to the prophet joseph smith, for as early as 1831 the lord revealed the principle of celestial and plural marriage to him and he taught it to others. 4. see affidavit of lucy walker smith. 5. similar affidavits by most of the members of this high council at nauvoo are also on file. 6. leonard soby was at first opposed to this revelation, and shortly after the martyrdom he left the church. when this statement was given he was not a member of the church. the reorganized church--some facts regarding its origin the ministers of the "reorganized" church, or the "new organization," as it was first called,[1] declare that the church at the death of the prophet joseph and patriarch hyrum smith, was badly divided, its members scattered to the four winds, and that the church was rejected with its dead. they also claim that the "reorganization" is composed of the faithful who did "not bow the knee to baal," but remained true to the "original faith" as revealed and practiced by the prophet joseph smith. in the words of their president: "the individuals who kept this covenant (the new and everlasting covenant) were accepted of him and were not rejected, nor their standing before god put in jeopardy by the departure of others from the faith. whatever the office in the priesthood each held, under the ordinations ordered by the call of god and vote of the church, would remain valid. they could as elders, priests, etc., pursue the duties of warning, expounding, and inviting all to come to christ, and by command of god could build up the church from any single branch, which, like themselves, had not bowed the knee to baal, or departed from the faith of the church as found in the standard works of the body at the death of joseph and hyrum smith."[2] it is strongly implied in this quotation from the writings of the president of the "reorganization" that all those who followed president brigham young and the twelve apostles, lost their priesthood and standing before the lord, and that the founders of the "new organization" and their followers were the only ones who remained true and steadfast to the truth. the evidence in this regard is against them. the truth is that the founders of the "reorganized" church were the ones who followed every will-o-the-wisp, bowed the knee to baal and departed from the faith, while the twelve and the saints on the other hand, pursued an even course and were steadfast under all trials and difficulties even to the end. it is not true that the church was broken, scattered and rejected following the martyrdom and that the "reorganization" is a portion of the original church. their organization did not come into existence until some sixteen years after the death of the prophet and patriarch and was an outgrowth of the movement under james j. strang. there was a movement on foot to divide the church, following the assassination of the prophet and patriarch, but its range was not as extensive as has generally been supposed. the chief actors in this movement were sidney rigdon, james j. strang and william smith, each of whom aspired to lead the church. mr. rigdon based his claim to the presidency on the fact that he had been the first counselor to the prophet joseph smith, and therefore by right should be the "guardian" of the church. his claim was in conflict with the position of the church and the teachings of the prophet. he laid his case before the conference of the church august 8, 1844, and his claim was rejected by the saints almost unanimously. at the same conference the twelve apostles were sustained as the presiding quorum of the church. mr. strang's claim to the presidency was based on his statement that the prophet had appointed him as his successor by letter, a few days before the martyrdom. william smith claimed the right of presidency by virtue of being the brother of the prophet. each of these men gathered around him a few followers, principally of that class of restless, erratic individuals, who never remain contented very long in any one place or under any circumstances; but none of them gathered many followers. their organizations barely existed for a few years and then disappeared; the fragments becoming the nucleus of the "reorganization." the movement which resulted in the bringing forth of the "reorganized" church, was of more recent date and was due principally to the efforts of two men, viz., jason w. briggs and zenas h. gurley. mr. briggs was born june 25, 1821, at pompey, oneida county, new york. he joined the church june 6, 1841, and members of the "reorganization" declare that he was ordained an elder in 1842. his home was in beloit, wisconsin, from 1842 to 1854. after the death of the prophet, mr. briggs sustained the twelve apostles and the church and was apparently true to them until the exodus in 1846. at that time he lost heart, turned from the church in its darkest hour and sought the favor of the world. some time subsequent to this he joined the movement under james j. strang. in strang's organization he did missionary work, received honors and organized a branch. in 1850 he renounced mr. strang and joined with william smith, in the latter organization he was "ordained" an "apostle." he soon tired of william smith, and in 1851 joined with zenas h. gurley who was at that time a follower of james j. strang. these two men then organized a church of their own which afterwards was known as the "reorganized" church. in 1886 jason w. briggs withdrew from this organization of his own begetting, declaring that it was not the church of christ. zenas h. gurley was just as unstable as mr. briggs. he was born at bridgewater, new york, may 29, 1801, joined the church in april, 1838, and moved to far west, from whence he was driven with the saints in the expulsion of 1838-39. after this expulsion he settled in nauvoo, where, in 1844, he was ordained a seventy,[3] under the direction of president joseph young, and on the 6th day of april, 1845, he was ordained senior president of the twenty-first quorum of seventy. he sustained the twelve and followed their teachings and remained with the church until february, 1846, (the month of the exodus) when he also left the church and shortly afterwards joined with james j. strang. mr. gurley was endowed in the nauvoo temple with his wife january 6, 1846, and of that event the record of seventies states under date of january 10, 1846: president zenas h. gurley arose and said that the presidents of the quorum (21st) had received their endowment. he observed that it was remarkable for the unusual outpouring of the holy spirit.--page 29. again speaking of the authorities of the church he said: he remembered forcibly the sayings of the first presidents of seventy, that we should so live that no charge can be brought against us. a few years ago the men in high standing in this church were as little as we are. they obtained their exaltation by patient submission to right, and minding their own business.--page 29. on january 25th, 1846, he said: the saints who have passed through the trials of the church were generally rooted and grounded in love and have a witness in their own hearts or they would not have remained.--page 33. within a very few days of this time zenas h. gurley deserted the church because he was unable to face the trials and hardships the saints were forced to undergo. the "mormon" people were journeying in a strange land, the prospects before them were dark and some of the members became faint-hearted and were unable to endure to the end. of this number jason w. briggs and zenas h. gurley were two who turned back and sought refuge in the apostate organization of james j. strang. indeed it required a strong heart and a firm-rooted faith for men and women to give up all earthly comforts and undertake a journey of that kind. death stared the saints in the face, they were poorly clothed, without shelter, save their ragged tents that would not shed the rain, and almost destitute of food; yet with the exception of the few who sought the "flesh-pots of egypt," they patiently and determinedly pursued their way until crowned with the victory. the opinion of the world at that time was that the exodus meant the end of "mormonism," and that the latter-day saints had gone to their destruction; for without the necessary means to support life, and isolated as they were from the rest of civilization, they must surely perish in the barren and distant west. such, too, would doubtless have been the case had not the protecting hand of jehovah guided them. is it any wonder under such trying conditions that the hearts of those weak in the faith should fail them? in 1849 mr. gurley filled a mission for mr. strang and made a number of converts to that faith. in 1850 he organized the "yellowstone branch," for the strangite church. in 1852 he rejected the claim of mr. strang and joined with mr. jason w. briggs, and these two men united their respective strangite branches, those of yellowstone and beloit, and organized themselves into a new religious movement known today as the "reorganized" church. in 1853, the leaders of this movement called a number of men to the ministry, "ordained" seven "apostles" and began a proselyting movement. for several years they tried to get "young joseph," the son of the prophet joseph smith, who had never affiliated with the saints since the exodus from nauvoo, to join them and become their president. in this they failed, but were diligent and finally, through their continued efforts and the persuasion of his mother, he accepted that position in 1860, was "ordained" president of their church by william marks, zenas h. gurley, and william w. blair, and has continued in that position ever since. mr. gurley remained with this movement till his death, but his family, together with jason w. briggs, voluntarily withdrew in 1886. in 1852, when jason w. briggs and zenas h. gurley combined their strangite forces the membership was about one hundred souls, most of whom were converts made for mr. strang. in 1860, when "young joseph" assumed the leadership, the membership was three hundred souls, most of whom were converts that had never belonged to the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints. of the members of the church who were in fellowship in 1844-46, the "reorganization" has received no more, and likely less than one thousand converts, which fact shows that the apostasy was not so great in 1844-46, as has been pictured. these statements are based on the testimony of original members of the "reorganization," as they testified before the u. s. court of appeals for the western district of missouri, in 1894, in the temple lot suit, which was for the possession of property in the hands of the "church of christ" or "hedrickites." before that court mr. william w. blair, who for many years was a member of the presidency of the "reorganization" and who was one of its oldest members, testified that "one thousand was probably too high an estimate for the members of the original church, that had joined the reorganized church." he could "approximately say" that one thousand had joined the "reorganized church, and possibly that estimate was too large." record pp. 180, 181. william marks, whose testimony is referred to by mr. evans, was also one of those who joined the "reorganization" in an early day. at the time of the martyrdom he was president of the nauvoo stake, but was disfellowshipped for transgression at the october conference, 1844, and finally excommunicated. afterwards he joined the organization under james j. strang. in that organization he became a "bishop," was a member of the "high council," and later a member of the "first presidency." after the death of james j. strang, he joined the organization of charles b. thompson, another apostate. this is the same william marks who "ordained" joseph smith, of lamoni, president of the "reorganization." in that ordination he was assisted by zenas h. gurley and william w. blair. mr. blair never belonged to the church. it is almost needless to add that these men held no divine authority and could not bestow the priesthood and officiate in the ordinances of the gospel, and, therefore, the pretentions of the "reorganized" church are fraudulent. judged by its history, doctrines and the unstable character of its founders it is proved to be a counterfeit and nothing more. considering the conditions under which the "reorganization" came into existence, and the fact that in the beginning the original one hundred members came from the strangite church, and that during the existence of that organization from its foundation to 1894, not more than one thousand members of the "original church" (i.e. the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints as it stood in 1844) had joined it, we are not to be blamed if we declare that that church is not the successor, a faction or a portion of the "original church" founded by joseph smith the prophet through the command of god, april 6, 1830. and after following the history of its founders and pointing out their instability and the manner in which they followed after false leaders, receiving "ordinations" and honors under their hands, we can most emphatically declare that they were not the faithful who did "not bow the knee to baal," and who kept the "everlasting covenant." footnotes 1. _saints' herald_, vol. one. 2. see article in _era_, vol. 7, no. 11, entitled, "the church rejected--when?" 3. the "reorganized" church history states that z. h. gurley was ordained a seventy in far west in 1838. this is an error, they have no original record of such an ordination. the original records of the seventies in the historian's office, salt lake city, give his ordination as stated here. http://bencrowder.net/books/mtp. volunteers: stephen bruington, benjamin bytheway, hilton campbell, michael cleverly, stephen cranney, ben crowder, tom deforest, cameron dixon, eric heaps, jason hills, tod robbins. an examination into and an elucidation of the great principle of the mediation and atonement of our lord and savior jesus christ. by president john taylor. "wherefore the fruit of thy loins shall write, and the fruit of the loins of judah shall write; and that which shall be written by the fruit of thy loins, and also that which shall be written by the fruit of the loins of judah, shall grow together unto the confounding of false doctrines, and laying down of contentions."--gen., 1, 31, inspired translation. "for i command all men, both in the east and in the west, and in the north and in the south, and in the islands of the sea, that they shall write the words which i speak unto them: for out of the books which shall be written, i will judge the world, every man according to their works, according that which is written. for behold, i shall speak unto the jews, and they shall write it; and i shall also speak unto the nephites, and they shall write it; and i shall also speak unto the other tribes of the house of israel, which i have led away, and they shall write it; and i shall also speak unto all nations of the earth, and they shall write it. and it shall come to pass that the jews shall have the words of the nephites, and the nephites shall have the words of the jews; and the nephites and the jews shall have the words of the lost tribes of israel; and the lost tribes of israel shall have the words of the nephites and the jews. and it shall come to pass that my people which are of the house of israel, shall be gathered home unto the lands of their possessions; and my word also shall be gathered in one."--2 nephi, xxix, 11-14. salt lake city, utah. deseret news company, printers and publishers, 1882. contents. chapter i. introductory--christ's testimony with regard to his sufferings- christ came to do the will of his father--the testimony of the father at his baptism and transfiguration. chapter ii. the testimony of jesus the spirit of prophecy--the declarations of the ancient servants of god--extracts from the writings and testimonies of moses, job, david, isaiah, zechariah, micah and hosea, to be found in the old testament, with remarks. chapter iii. extracts from the new testament, touching the personal history of the lord jesus christ and the doctrine of the atonement--remarks on the "times of refreshing"--results accruing to the redeemer through his death on the cross, etc. chapter iv. extracts from the pearl of great price and inspired translation of genesis--record of moses regarding adam, enoch, noah, abraham and joseph, and of their faith in the coming of the savior. chapter v. the book of mormon and the atonement--extracts from the books of ether, nephi, mosiah, alma, helaman and mormon. chapter vi. extracts from the book of doctrine and covenants--christ's testimony of himself, of his power and calling, etc.--testimony of joseph smith and sidney rigdon--record of john the baptist--extract from a sermon by president brigham young. chapter vii. introduction to the historical portion of this treatise--the dealings of god with adam, cain and abel--the institution of sacrifice--the symbolism of this rite--the words of the angel to adam--lucifer--his rebellion in heaven--his conflict with michael for the body of moses--he tempts christ--he is cast into a lake of fire and brimstone. chapter viii. seth--his sacrifice accepted--rebellion in the heavens--the gathering of the patriarchs in the valley of adam-ondi-ahman- sacrifices offered there. chapter ix. enoch, his life and translation--references to him by paul and jude--copious extracts from his prophecy--the prophet joseph smith on enoch and the doctrine of translation--the office of translated saints--enoch's future work--translation and resurrection--christ the creator--summary of the results of enoch's faith in the saving blood of christ. chapter x. noah--his sacrifice--god's covenant with him--melchizedek--his priesthood--its powers--instances thereof recorded in the bible, in the book of mormon and in latter-days--all power of the priesthood the result of faith in christ, and impossible without the atonement--the power of the priesthood the power of god--the glory of god in the immortality of man--christ the word, the creator. chapter xi. abraham's record concerning the creation--the council in heaven--the father's plan, the son's acceptance, satan's rebellion--the agency of man--suggestions regarding satan's plan to save all mankind. chapter xii. abraham, isaac and jacob--sacrifices offered by them--abraham and the gospel covenant--extracts from the book of abraham and the writings of paul. chapter xiii. sacrifices in the days of moses--the institution of the passover and the exodus--the symbolism of the paschal lamb--the covenant of the atonement between christ and his father--the redeemed--tokens of covenants--the rainbow--the name of jesus the only name--the levites. chapter xiv. history of sacrifices and the law of moses among the nephites- references to the books of nephi, jacob, mosiah and alma--the testimony of jesus regarding the law of moses. chapter xv. the offering of sacrifice in the times of the restitution of all things--teachings of the prophet joseph smith thereon--the sons of levi--malachi's prophecy--the dispensation of the fulness of times. chapter xvi. brief retrospect of the history of sacrifice and its symbolism--the passover and the lord's supper--christ's relation to both these ordinances--the last supper. chapter xvii. the atonement and the resurrection--adam and christ--why a law was given unto adam--the results of disobedience to that law--testimony of our first parents--"adam fell that man might be"--the fall a necessary portion of the plan of salvation--god's plan a merciful plan--the plan of lucifer--man's free agency--the chain complete. chapter xviii. christ as the son of god--a comparison between his position, glory, etc., and those of other sons of god--his recognition by the father--christ called the very eternal father. chapter xix. man as man--his excellency and his limitations--salvation and eternal progression impossible without the atonement--in christ _only_ can all be made alive. chapter xx. christ to be subject to man--his descent below all things--man's condition had there been no atonement--the sons of god--man's inability to save himself--christ's glory before the world was- necessity for an infinite atonement--the father and son have life in themselves. chapter xxi. the relation of the atonement to little children--jesus assumes the responsibility of man's transgression, and bears the weight of his sins and sufferings--the inferior creatures and sacrifice--the terrors and agonies of christ's passion and death--the tribulations, earthquakes, etc., when he gave up the ghost--universal nature trembles--the prophecies of zenos and enoch--the testimony of the centurion--heirship, and the descent of blessings and curses. chapter xxii. the operations of the priesthood in the heavens and upon the earth, in time and eternity--the heirs of the celestial kingdom--those who die without law--the judges of the earth--priests and kings--christ the king of kings--condition of patriarch joseph smith, apostle david patten and others--moses and elias--the visits of angels and their testimonies--peter, james and john--the angel in the book of revelation. chapter xxiii. the laws of god unchangeable, universal and eternal--examples and definitions--evolutionists--kingdoms and light--christ the creator, etc.--deviations from general laws--every kingdom has a law given. chapter xxiv. the results of the atonement--the debt paid--justice and mercy- extracts from the teachings of alma and others. chapter xxv. the resurrection--the universality of the atonement--the promises to those who overcome--the gospel--its first principles--faith, repentance, baptism and the gift of the holy ghost--its antiquity--it is preached in various dispensations, from adam until the present--the final triumph of the saints. the mediation and atonement of our lord and savior jesus christ. chapter i. introductory--christ's testimony with regard to his sufferings- christ came to do the will of his father--the testimony of the father at his baptism and transfiguration. in the last chapter of st. luke's gospel is to be found a deeply interesting account of several events that took place on the day that the redeemer was resurrected. amongst other incidents, he relates that on that day two of the disciples took a melancholy journey from jerusalem to the neighboring village of emmaus. whilst they walked, the sadness of their hearts found expression on their tongues, and they mournfully rehearsed to each other the story of the crucifixion of their master. by and by, they were joined by an apparent stranger, who, though none other than the resurrected savior, was not recognized by them. in answer to his inquiries, they repeated the sad history of the days just passed, and expressed the disappointment that his death had brought, for they trusted that it had been he who should have redeemed israel. then jesus said unto them, "o fools, and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken! ought not christ to have suffered these things, and to enter into his glory? and beginning at moses, and all the prophets, he expounded unto them in all the scriptures the things concerning himself."--luke, xxiv, 25-27. when they reached emmaus, with characteristic eastern hospitality, they constrained the stranger to abide with them. he consented, and as they sat at meat he took bread, and blessed it, brake and gave unto them. then their eyes were opened and they knew him, and he vanished out of their sight. "and they rose up the same hour, and returned to jerusalem, and found the eleven gathered together and them that were with them, saying, the lord is risen indeed, and hath appeared to simon. and they told what things were done in the way, and how he was known of them in breaking of bread. and as they thus spake, jesus himself stood in the midst of them, and saith unto them, peace be unto you." after the savior had convinced the disciples then present of his identity, and had partaken of some broiled fish and an honey comb, he said unto them, "these are the words which i spake unto you, while i was yet with you, that all things must be fulfilled which were written in the law of moses, and in the prophets, and in the psalms, concerning me. then opened he their understanding, that they might understand the scriptures, and said unto them, thus it is written, and thus it behooved christ to suffer, and to rise from the dead the third day: and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in his name among all nations, beginning at jerusalem. and ye are witnesses of these things." one great and very striking statement is here made by the lord himself, to the effect that it behooved christ to suffer, and the question at once presents itself before us, why did it behoove him? or why was it necessary that he should suffer? for it would seem from his language, through his sufferings, death, atonement and resurrection, "that repentance and remission of sins" could be preached among all nations, and that consequently if he had not atoned for the sins of the world, repentance and remission of sins could not have been preached to the nations. a very important principle is here enunciated, one in which the interests of the whole human family throughout all the world are involved. that principle is the offering up of the son of god, as a sacrifice, an atonement and a propitiation for our sins. jesus said, he came not to do his will, but the will of his father, who sent him. he came, as we are told, to take away sin by the sacrifice of himself; and not only did he come, but he came in accordance with certain preconceived ideas that had been entertained and testified of by prophets and men of god in all preceding ages, or from the days of adam to the days of john the baptist, the latter being his precursor or forerunner, who indeed, when he saw him coming, made the declaration, behold the lamb of god, who taketh away the sin of the world. at his baptism the spirit of god bore witness to this testimony and descended upon jesus in the form of a dove, or, rather, the form of a dove was the sign of the holy spirit; whilst a voice was heard from heaven proclaiming: "this is my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased." this manifestation of god's acknowledgment of his beloved son was spoken of by personal witnesses who bore record to the facts. matthew testifies: "then cometh jesus from galilee to jordan unto john, to be baptized of him. but john forbade him, saying, i have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me? and jesus answering said unto him, suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness. then he suffered him. and jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water: and lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the spirit of god descending like a dove, and lighting upon him: and lo, a voice from heaven, saying, this is my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased."--matthew, iii, 13-17. whilst mark relates, "and it came to pass in those days, that jesus came from nazareth of galilee, and was baptized of john in jordan. and straightway coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens opened, and the spirit like a dove descending upon him. and there came a voice from heaven, saying, thou art my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased."--mark, i, 9-11. and john, in his gospel, states that john the baptist bare record, saying, "i saw the spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it abode upon him. and i knew him not: but he that sent me to baptize with water, the same said unto me, upon whom thou shalt see the spirit descending and remaining on him, the same is he which baptizeth with the holy ghost. and i saw and bare record, that this is the son of god."--john, i, 32-34. we have this great truth of the open recognition of jesus, by his father, as his beloved son, again enunciated when the three apostles, peter, james and john, were on the mount, and jesus was transfigured before them. it is declared that "a bright cloud overshadowed them: and behold, a voice out of the cloud, which said, this is my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased; hear ye him."--matthew, xvii, 5. the son, thus openly acknowledged, came not to earth to do his own will, but the will of his father. the will of the father appears to have been that the son should suffer, for he, himself, prayed: "o my father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless, not as i will, but as thou wilt." (matthew, xxvi, 39.) or, as the new translation by the prophet joseph smith has it, "o my father, if this cup may not pass away from me except i drink it, thy will be done." the father did not let it pass from him; he therefore drank it, and finally, on the cross he said, "it is finished," and bowed his head and gave up the ghost. in regard to this jesus himself testifies. first to the nephites: "behold, i am jesus christ, whom the prophets testified shall come into the world; and behold, i am the light and life of the world; and i have drunk out of that bitter cup which the father hath given me, and have glorified the father in taking upon me the sins of the world, in the which i have suffered the will of the father in all things from the beginning."--iii nephi, xi, 10, 11. and again, in this dispensation, he bears witness: "for behold, i, god, have suffered these things for all, that they might not suffer if they would repent, but if they would not repent, they must suffer even as i, which suffering caused myself, even god, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore, and to suffer both body and spirit: and would that i might not drink the bitter cup and shrink, nevertheless, glory be to the father, and i partook and finished my preparations unto the children of men."--doc. and cov., xix, 16-19, page 118. the saying of our savior, to which we have already alluded, "thus it is written and thus it behooved christ to suffer," is a very important one, and it would seem to be necessary, in the consideration of our subject, for us to obtain, from the writings of the servants of god that we have, an understanding what these statements were; how extensively they were corroborated by the sacred records; and what is said with regard to the necessity of christ's sufferings thus referred to: and, furthermore, we may notice the reason why they should be thus necessary. in making this examination, we will first quote from the writings of the old and new testaments, and, although we are informed by later revelations that "many parts which are plain and most precious" have been taken away therefrom, yet there is a large amount of testimony left in this valuable and sacred record, which plainly exhibits that the principle of the atonement was fully understood by the prophets in former ages. chapter ii. the testimony of jesus the spirit of prophecy--the declarations of the ancient servants of god--extracts from the writings and testimonies of moses, job, david, isaiah, zechariah, micah and hosea, to be found in the old testament, with remarks. in the chapter of luke's gospel, to which we have already referred, speaking of jesus, it is written, "beginning with moses and all the prophets, he expounded unto them in all the scriptures the things concerning himself." if this be taken in the fullest sense, and we know of no reason why it should not thus be received, there is a great principle developed, which is, that not only moses, but all the prophets, testified concerning the coming redeemer. as elsewhere stated, this must have been the case, for we are told that "the testimony of jesus is the spirit of prophecy;" and this being admitted, how could they have the spirit of prophecy, or be prophets without having the testimony of jesus? and we are told further that the prophets sought "what manner of time the spirit of christ which was in them did signify, when it testified beforehand the sufferings of christ, and the glory that should follow."--1 peter, i, 11. these scriptures evidently show that the testimony of jesus was the very principle, essence and power of the spirit of prophecy whereby they were inspired. we find a great many statements corroborative of these facts in those portions of the writings and prophecies of the ancient servants of god, that have been handed down to us in the old testament, and from these testimonies we select a few to show how various and how detailed have been the inspired utterances regarding the life and death of the messiah. "the lord thy god will raise up unto thee a prophet from the midst of thee, of thy brethren, like unto me, [moses,] unto him ye shall hearken. * * * and the lord said unto me, they have well spoken that which they have spoken. i will raise them up a prophet from among their brethren, like unto thee, and will put my words in his mouth; and he shall speak unto them all that i shall command him. and it shall come to pass, that whosoever will not hearken unto my words which he shall speak in my name, i will require it of him."--deut., xviii, 15, 17-19. "for i know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall i see god: whom i shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another; though my reins be consumed within me."--job, xix, 25-27. "why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing? the kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the lord and against his anointed, saying, let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us. he that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh: the lord shall have them in derision. then shall he speak unto them in his wrath, and vex them in his sore displeasure. yet have i set my king upon my holy hill of zion. i will declare the decree: the lord hath said unto me, thou art my son; this day have i begotten thee. ask of me, and i shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession. thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel. be wise now therefore, o ye kings: be instructed, ye judges of the earth. serve the lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling. kiss the son, lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but a little. blessed are all they that put their trust in him."--psalm ii, 1-12. while the first portion of the above psalm refers to the anointed of the lord, and matters that would take place at his first appearing, still many of the things, therein mentioned, have not yet transpired. the same may be said of the following passages from zechariah, which speak of his being pierced and of his rejection by the jews as a thing accomplished, when at that time these events had not taken place. but it does prove that his people would reject and pierce him, and that afterwards when he should come as their deliverer (like joseph, whom his brethren sold, appeared as their deliverer in egypt), they should look upon him whom they had pierced. "and i will pour upon the house of david, and upon the inhabitants of jerusalem, the spirit of grace and of supplications: and they shall look upon me whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for him, as one mourneth for his only son, and shall be in bitterness for him, as one that is in bitterness for his first born."--zech., xii, 10. "and one shall say unto him, what are these wounds in thy hands? then he shall answer, those with which i was wounded in the house of my friends."--zech., xiii, 6. "for unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called wonderful, counsellor, the mighty god, the everlasting father, the prince of peace. of the increase of his government and peace there shall be no end, upon the throne of david, and upon his kingdom, to order it, and to establish it with judgment and with justice from henceforth even forever. the zeal of the lord of hosts will perform this."--isaiah, ix, 6, 7. "therefore, the lord himself shall give you a sign; behold, a virgin shall conceive, and beat a son, and shall call his name immanuel."--isaiah, vii, 14. "the lord said unto my lord, sit thou at my right hand, until i make thine enemies thy footstool. the lord shall send the rod of thy strength out of zion; rule thou in the midst of thine enemies. thy people shall be willing in the day of thy power, in the beauties of holiness from the womb of the morning: thou hast the dew of thy youth. the lord hath sworn and will not repent, thou art a priest forever after the order of melchizedek."--psalm cx, 1-4. "thou lovest righteousness, and hatest wickedness: therefore god, thy god, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows."--psalm xlv, 7. "and the redeemer shall come to zion, and unto them that turn from transgression in jacob, saith the lord."--isaiah, lix, 20. "behold my servant, whom i uphold; mine elect, in whom my soul delighteth; i have put my spirit upon him: he shall bring forth judgment to the gentiles. he shall not cry, nor lift up, nor cause his voice to be heard in the street. a bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench: he shall bring forth judgment unto truth. he shall not fail nor be discouraged, till he have set judgment in the earth: and the isles shall wait for his law. thus saith god the lord, he that created the heavens and stretched them out; he that spread forth the earth, and that which cometh out of it; he that giveth breath unto the people upon it, and spirit to them that walk therein: i the lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the gentiles; to open the blind eyes, to bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison house. i am the lord; that is my name: and my glory will i not give to another, neither my praise to graven images. behold, the former things are come to pass, and new things do i declare: before they spring forth i tell you of them."--isaiah, xlii, 1-9. "who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the lord revealed? for he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him. he is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not. surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of god, and afflicted. but he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed. all we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all. he was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth: he is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth. he was taken from prison and from judgment: and who shall declare his generation? for he was cut off out of the land of the living: for the transgression of my people was he stricken. and he made his grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death; because he had done no violence, neither was any deceit in his mouth. yet it pleased the lord to bruise him; he hath put him to grief: when thou shalt make his soul an offering for sin, he shall see his seed, he shall prolong his days, and the pleasure of the lord shall prosper in his hand. he shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied: by his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many; for he shall bear their iniquities. therefore will i divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto death: and he was numbered with the transgressors; and he bare the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors."--isaiah, liii, 1-12. "rejoice greatly, o daughter of zion; shout, o daughter of jerusalem: behold, thy king cometh unto thee: he is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass."--zech., ix, 9. "and i said unto them, if ye think good, give me my price; and if not, forbear. so they weighed for my price thirty pieces of silver." --zech., xi, 12. "when israel was a child, then i loved him, and called my son out of egypt."--hosea, xi, 1. regarding which prophecy matthew writes, "when he arose he took the young child [jesus] and his mother by night, and departed into egypt: and was there until the death of herod: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the lord by the prophet, saying, out of egypt have i called my son."--matthew, ii, 14, 15. "thus saith the lord; a voice was heard in ramah, lamentation, and bitter weeping; rachel weeping for her children, refused to be comforted for her children, because they were not."--jeremiah, xxxi, 15. the same evangelist refers also to the fulfilment of this prophecy: "then herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children that were in bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently inquired of the wise men. then was fulfilled that which was spoken by jeremy the prophet, saying, in ramah was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not."--matthew, ii, 16-18. "but thou, bethlehem ephratah, though thou be little among the thousands of judah, yet out of thee shall he come forth unto me that is to be ruler in israel; whose goings forth have been from of old, from everlasting."--micah, v, 2. "therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoiceth: my flesh also shall rest in hope. for thou wilt not leave my soul in hell; neither wilt thou suffer thine holy one to see corruption."--psalm xvi, 9, 10. this expression of the psalmist evidently refers to the resurrection of the son of god. it is so quoted by paul in his sermon at antioch: "and we declare unto you glad tidings, how that the promise which was made unto the fathers, god hath fulfilled the same unto us their children, in that he hath raised up jesus again; as it is also written in the second psalm, thou art my son, this day have i begotten thee. and as concerning that he raised him up from the dead, now no more to return to corruption, he said on this wise, i will give you the sure mercies of david. wherefore he saith also in another psalm, thou shalt not suffer thine holy one to see corruption. for david, after he had served his own generation by the will of god, fell on sleep, and was laid unto his fathers, and saw corruption. but he, whom god raised again, saw no corruption."--acts, xiii, 32-37. "the spirit of the lord god is upon me; because the lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound; to proclaim the acceptable year of the lord, and the day of vengeance of our god; to comfort all that' mourn; to appoint unto them that mourn in zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the lord, that he might be glorified."--isaiah, lxi, 1-3. this prophecy is referred to in the following incident in the life of jesus, narrated by luke: "and he came to nazareth, where he had been brought up: and, as his custom was, he went into the synagogue on the sabbath day, and stood up for to read. and there was delivered unto him the book of the prophet esaias. and when he had opened the book, he found the place where it was written, the spirit of the lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised, to preach the acceptable year of the lord. and he closed the book, and he gave it again to the minister, and sat down. and the eyes of all them that were in the synagogue were fastened on him. and he began to say unto them, this day is this scripture fulfilled in your ears."--luke, iv, 16-21. "lift up your heads, o ye gates; and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors; and the king of glory shall come in. who is this king of glory? the lord strong and mighty, the lord mighty in battle. lift up your heads, o ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the king of glory shall come in. who is this king of glory? the lord of hosts, he is the king of glory, selah."--psalm xxiv, 7-10. the above is made much more plain in the inspired version, where it appears as follows: "lift up your heads, o ye generations of jacob; and be ye lifted up; and the lord strong and mighty, the lord mighty in battle, who is the king of glory, shall establish you for ever. and he will roll away the heavens, and will come down to redeem his people, to make you an everlasting name, to establish you upon his everlasting rock. lift up your heads, o ye generations of jacob; lift up your heads, ye everlasting generations, and the lord of hosts, the king of kings, even the king of glory, shall come unto you; and shall redeem his people, and shall establish them in righteousness. selah." chapter iii. extracts from the new testament, touching the personal history of the lord jesus christ and the doctrine of the atonement--remarks on the "times of refreshing"--results accruing to the redeemer through his death on the cross, etc. from the new testament we will first introduce some texts with regard to the birth of the savior, followed by testimonies of the lord jesus with regard to himself, and afterwards give extracts from the teachings and epistles of his disciples, etc. "now the birth of jesus christ was on this wise: when as his mother mary was espoused to joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the holy ghost. then joseph her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a public example, was minded to put her away privily. but while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, joseph, thou son of david, fear not to take unto thee mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the holy ghost. and she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name jesus: for he shall save his people from their sins. now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the lord by the prophet, saying, behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name emmanuel, which being interpreted is, god with us."--matthew, i, 18-23. "and in the sixth month the angel gabriel was sent from god unto a city of galilee, named nazareth, to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was joseph, of the house of david; and the virgin's name was mary. and the angel came in unto her, and said, hail, thou that art highly favored, the lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women. and when she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her mind what manner of salutation this should be. and the angel said unto her, fear not, mary: for thou hast found favor with god. and behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name jesus. he shall be great, and shall be called the son of the highest; and the lord god shall give unto him the throne of his father david. and he shall reign over the house of jacob forever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end. then said mary unto the angel, how shall this be, seeing i know not a man? and the angel answered and said unto her, the holy ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee, shall be called the son of god. and behold thy cousin elisabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age; and this is the sixth month with her who was called barren: for with god nothing shall be impossible. and mary said, behold the handmaid of the lord, be it unto me according to thy word. and the angel departed from her. and mary arose in those days, and went into the hill-country with haste, into a city of juda, and entered into the house of zacharias, and saluted elisabeth. and it came to pass, that when elisabeth heard the salutation of mary, the babe leaped in her womb: and elisabeth was filled with the holy ghost. and she spake out with a loud voice and said, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. and whence is this to me, that the mother of my lord should come to me? for lo, as soon as the voice of thy salutation sounded in mine ears, the babe leaped in my womb for joy. and blessed is she that believed: for there shall be a performance of those things which were told her from the lord. and mary said, my soul doth magnify the lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in god my savior. for he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden: for behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed. for he that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is his name. and his mercy is on them that fear him, from generation to generation. he hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. he hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree. he hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he hath sent empty away. he hath holpen his servant israel, in remembrance of his mercy; as he spake to our fathers, to abraham, and to his seed, forever."--luke, i, 26-55. "and it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from cesar augustus, that all the world should be taxed. (and this taxing was first made when cyrenius was governor of syria.) and all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. and joseph also went up from galilee, out of the city of nazareth, into judea, unto the city of david, which is called bethlehem (because he was of the house and lineage of david), to be taxed with mary his espoused wife, being great with child. and so it was, that while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. and she brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling-clothes, and laid him in a manger: because there was no room for them in the inn. and there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. and lo, the angel of the lord came upon them, and the glory of the lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. and the angel said unto them, fear not: for behold, i bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. for unto you is born this day, in the city of david, a savior, which is christ the lord. and this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a manger. and suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising god, and saying, glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. and it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, let us now go even unto bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the lord hath made known unto us."--luke, ii, 1-15. "when jesus came into the coasts of cesarea philippi, he asked his disciples, saying, whom do men say that i, the son of man, am? and they said, some say that thou art john the baptist: some, elias: and others, jeremias, or one of the prophets. he saith unto them, but whom say ye that. i am? and simon peter answered and said, thou art the christ, the son of the living god. and jesus answered and said unto him, blessed art thou, simon bar-jona; for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my father which is in heaven. * * * then charged he his disciples that they should tell no man that he was jesus the christ."--matt., xvi, 13-17, 20. of this same conversation mark records: "and jesus went out, and his disciples, into the towns of cesarea philippi: and by the way he asked his disciples, saying unto them, whom do men say that i am? and they answered, john the baptist: but some say, elias; and others, one of the prophets. and he saith unto them, but whom say ye that i am? and peter answereth and saith unto him, thou art the christ. and he charged them that they should tell no man of him. and he began to teach them, that the son of man must suffer many things, and be rejected of the elders, and of the chief priests, and scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. and he spake that saying openly."--mark, viii, 27-32. whilst luke testifies, "and it came to pass, as he was alone praying, his disciples were with him; and he asked them, saying, whom say the people that i am? they answering, said, john the baptist; but some say, elias; and others say, that one of the old prophets is risen again. he said unto them, but whom say ye that i am? peter answering, said, the christ of god. and he straitly charged them, and commanded them to tell no man that thing, saying, the son of man must suffer many things, and be rejected of the elders, and chief priests, and scribes, and be slain, and be raised the third day."--luke, ix, 18-22. "for god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. for god sent not his son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved."--john, iii, 16, 17. "and he said unto them, ye are from beneath; i am from above: ye are of this world; i am not of this world. i said therefore unto you, that ye shall die in your sins: for if ye believe not that i am he, ye shall die in your sins. then said they unto him, who art thou? and jesus saith unto them, even the same that i said unto you from the beginning. i have many things to say, and to judge of you: but he that sent me, is true; and i speak to the world those things which i have heard of him. they understood not that he spake to them of the father. then said jesus unto them, when ye have lifted up the son of man, then shall ye know that i am he, and that i do nothing of myself; but as my father hath taught me i speak these things. and he that sent me is with me: the father hath not left me alone; for i do always those things that please him."--john, viii, 23-29. "then answered jesus, and said unto them, verily, verily, i say unto you, the son can do nothing of himself, but what he seeth the father do; for what things soever he doeth, these also doeth the son likewise. for the father loveth the son, and sheweth him all things that himself doeth: and he will shew him greater works than these, that ye may marvel. for as the father raiseth up the dead, and quickeneth them; even so the son quickeneth whom he will. for the father judgeth no man; but hath committed all judgment unto the son: that all men should honor the son, even as they honor the father. he that honoreth not the son, honoreth not the father which hath sent him. * * * but i have greater witness than that of john: for the works which the father hath given me to finish, the same works that i do, bear witness of me, that the father hath sent me. and the father himself which hath sent me, hath borne witness of me. ye have neither heard his voice at any time, nor seen his shape. and ye have not his word abiding in you: for whom he hath sent, him ye believe not. search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me."--john, v, 19-23, 36-39. "jesus heard that they had cast him out: and when he had found him, he said unto him, dost thou believe on the son of god? he answered and said, who is he, lord, that i might believe on him? and jesus said unto him, thou hast both seen him, and it is he that talketh with thee. and he said, lord, i believe. and he worshipped him. and jesus said, for judgment i am come into this world; that they which see not might see, and that they which see, might be made blind."--john, ix, 35-39. "i am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine. as the father knoweth me, even so know i the father: and i lay down my life for the sheep. and other sheep i have, which are not of this fold: them also i must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd. * * * my sheep hear my voice, and i know them, and they follow me: and i give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand. my father, which gave them me, is greater than all; and none is able to pluck them out of my father's hand. i and my father are one."--john, x, 14-16, 27-30. "and while they abode in galilee, jesus said unto them, the son of man shall be betrayed into the hands of men: and they shall kill him, and the third day he shall be raised again. and they were exceeding sorry."--matt., xvii, 22, 23. of this same prophecy mark relates: "and they departed thence, and passed through galilee; and he would not that any man should know it. for he taught his disciples, and said unto them, the son of man is delivered into the hands of men, and they shall kill him; and after that he is killed, he shall rise the third day. but they understood not that saying, and were afraid to ask him."--mark, ix, 30-32. and luke states, "and they were all amazed at the mighty power of god. but while they wondered every one at all things which jesus did, he said unto his disciples, let these sayings sink down into your ears: for the son of man shall be delivered into the hands of men. but they understood not this saying, and it was hid from them, that they perceived it not, and they feared to ask him of that saying."--luke, ix, 43-45. "and as they were eating, jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, take, eat; this is my body. and he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying; drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many, for the remission of sins."--matt., xxvi, 26-28. "and as they did eat, jesus took bread, and blessed, and brake it, and gave to them, and said, take, eat: this is my body. and he took the cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them: and they all drank of it. and he said unto them, this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many." mark, xiv, 22-24. "and he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, this is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me. likewise also the cup after supper, saying, this cup is the new testament in my blood, which is shed for you."--luke, xxii, 19, 20. "for the son of man shall come in the glory of his father, with his angels; and then he shall reward every man according to his works."--matt., xvi, 27. "take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones: for i say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my father which is in heaven. for the son of man is come to save that which was lost."--matt., xviii, 10, 11. "then the eleven disciples went away into galilee, into a mountain where jesus had appointed them. and when they saw him they worshipped him: but some doubted. and jesus came and spake unto them, saying, all power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. go ye therefore and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost; teaching them to observe all things whatsoever i have commanded you: and lo, i am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. amen."--matt., xxviii, 16-20. "then said jesus unto the twelve, will ye also go away? then simon peter answered him, lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life. and we believe, and are sure that thou art that christ, the son of the living god."--john, vi, 67-69. "him, being delivered by the determinate counsel and foreknowledge of god, ye have taken and by wicked hands have crucified and slain: whom god hath raised up, having loosed the pains of death: because it was not possible that he should be holden of it."--acts, ii, 23, 24. "this jesus hath god raised up, whereof we all are witnesses. therefore being by the right hand of god exalted, and having received of the father the promise of the holy ghost, he hath shed forth this, which ye now see and hear. for david is not ascended into the heavens, but he saith himself, the lord said unto my lord, sit thou on my right hand, until i make thy foes thy footstool. therefore let all the house of israel know assuredly, that god hath made that same jesus whom ye have crucified, both lord and christ.--acts, ii, 32-36. "and now, brethren, i wot that through ignorance ye did it, as did also your rulers. but those things which god before had shewed by the mouth of all his prophets, that christ should suffer, he hath so fulfilled. repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out, when the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the lord; and he shall send jesus christ, which before was preached unto you; whom the heavens must receive, until the times of restitution of all things, which god hath spoken by the mouth of all his holy prophets, since the world began. for moses truly said unto the fathers, a prophet shall the lord your god raise up unto you, of your brethren, like unto me; him shall ye hear in all things, whatsoever he shall say unto you. and it shall come to pass, that every soul which will not hear that prophet, shall be destroyed from among the people. yea, and all the prophets from samuel, and those that follow after, as many as have spoken, have likewise foretold of these days."--acts, iii, 17-24. does it not seem from this that these men, having committed the infamous act of crucifying jesus, or consenting to his death, although they may have done it ignorantly, could not at that time, even by repentance and conversion, be placed in a state of salvation, but that they would have to wait until jesus christ should come again before their sins could be blotted out; when jesus christ should be sent, who before was preached unto them and whom they had crucified? is not this the same condition that the antediluvians were in, when once the long suffering of god waited in the days of noah, when they were cast into prison and remained there until the time when jesus went and preached to those spirits in prison? in their day they rejected the offers of mercy through the atonement of jesus christ, as the jews did in their time; but afterwards they had the same gospel preached to them by jesus, and those jews who had participated in those deeds, or who had consented thereto, to whom the apostle then spake, even if they then repented, would have to wait for forgiveness and salvation until jesus should come again. furthermore, the jews who will live in the times of the restitution in the last days, after the testimony of the gospel shall have gone to the gentiles through this same atonement, and the introduction of the gospel, will again have it preached to them on the earth, and will, through him, the elias, or restorer, be gathered again to their own land. "be it known unto you all, and to all the people of israel, that by the name of jesus christ of nazareth, whom ye crucified, whom god raised from the dead, even by him doth this man stand here before you whole. this is the stone, which was set at naught of you builders, which is become the head of the corner. neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved."--acts, iv, 10-12. "but he (stephen), being full of the holy ghost, looked up steadfastly into heaven, and saw the glory of god, and jesus standing on the right hand of god, and said, behold, i see the heavens opened, and the son of man standing on the right hand of god."--acts, vii, 55, 56. "the place of the scripture which he read was this, he was led as a sheep to the slaughter, and like a lamb dumb before his shearer, so opened he not his mouth: in his humiliation his judgment was taken away: and who shall declare his generation? for his life is taken from the earth."--acts, viii, 32, 33. "take heed therefore unto yourselves, and to all the flock over the which the holy ghost hath made you overseers, to feed the church of god, which he hath purchased with his own blood."--acts, xx, 28. "the next day john seeth jesus coming unto him, and saith, behold the lamb of god, which taketh away the sin of the world! "--john, i, 29. "for all have sinned, and come short of the glory of god; being justified freely by his grace, through the redemption that is in christ jesus: whom god hath set forth to be a propitiation, through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of god."--rom., iii, 23-25. "but for us also, to whom it shall be imputed, if we believe on him that raised up jesus our lord from the dead, who was delivered for our offences, and was raised again for our justification."--rom., iv, 24, 25. "but god commendeth his love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, christ died for us. much more then, being now justified by his blood, we shall be saved from wrath through him. for if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to god by the death of his son; much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life. and not only so, but we also joy in god, through our lord jesus christ, by whom we have now received the atonement. wherefore as by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and so death passed upon all men, for that all have sinned."--rom., v, 8-12. "for i delivered unto you first of all that which i also received, how that christ died for our sins according to the scriptures. and that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the scriptures: and that he was seen of cephas, then of the twelve: after that, he was seen of above five hundred brethren at once; of whom the greater part remain unto this present, but some are fallen asleep. after that, he was seen of james; then of all the apostles. and last of all he was seen of me also, as of one born out of due time. for i am the least of the apostles, that am not meet to be called an apostle, because i persecuted the church of god."--1 cor., xv, 3-9. "to the praise of the glory of his grace, wherein he hath made us accepted in the beloved: in whom we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace."--ephesians, i, 6, 7. "giving thanks unto the father, which hath made us meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light: who hath delivered us from the power of darkness, and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear son: in whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins: who is the image of the invisible god, the first-born of every creature. * * * and he is the head of the body, the church: who is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead; that in all things he might have the pre-eminence. for it pleased the father that in him should all fulness dwell; and, having made peace through the blood of his cross, by him to reconcile all things unto himself; by him, i say, whether they be things in earth, or things in heaven."--col., i, 12-15, 18-20. from the above passage we learn that our redemption is obtained through the blood of jesus; that he is in the image of god; again, that he is "the firstborn of every creature;" also that he is "the first-born from the dead;" and furthermore, that he stands preeminent as the representative of god in the interests of humanity pertaining to this world, or the world which is to come, and that he is the head of the church, the grand medium through which all blessings flow to the human family. "beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after christ. for in him dwelleth all the fulness of the godhead bodily. and ye are complete in him, which is the head of all principality and power."--col., ii, 8-10. "for there is one god, and one mediator between god and men, the man christ jesus; who gave himself a ransom for all, to be testified in due time."--1 tim., ii, 5, 6. "for unto which of the angels said he at any time, thou art my son, this day have i begotten thee? and again, i will be to him a father, and he shall be to me a son? and again, when he bringeth in the first-begotten into the world, he saith, and let all the angels of god worship him."--heb., i, 5, 6. "thou hast put all things in subjection under his feet. for in that he put all in subjection under him, he left nothing that is not put under him. but now we see not yet all things put under him: but we see jesus, who was made a little lower than the angels for the suffering of death, crowned with glory and honor; that he by the grace of god should taste death for every man. for it became him, for whom are all things, and by whom are all things, in bringing many sons unto glory, to make the captain of their salvation perfect through sufferings." --heb., ii, 8-10. here we have something said of the results accruing to the redeemer himself, through his sufferings and death. he stands next to the father, "and is on the right hand of god; angels and authorities and powers being made subject unto him." (1 peter, iii, 22.) or as he elsewhere says of himself, "all power is given unto me, in heaven and in earth." and again, it is written that he "forever sat down on the right hand of god; from henceforth expecting till his enemies be made his footstool;" and "that at the name of jesus every knee shall bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth; and that every tongue should confess that jesus christ is lord, to the glory of god the father." (philippians, ii, 10, 11.) "for such an high priest became us, who is holy, harmless, undefiled, separate from sinners, and made higher than the heavens; who needeth not daily, as those high priests, to offer up sacrifice, first for his own sins, and then for the people's: for this he did once, when he offered up himself. for the law maketh men high priests which have infirmity; but the word of the oath, which was since the law, maketh the son, who is consecrated forevermore."--heb., vii, 26-28. there is something peculiar pertaining to the expression here used, "forevermore," which manifestly exhibits an eternal principle. we find the same expression (as elsewhere alluded to) in the pearl of great price. to adam it was said, "thou shalt do all that thou doest, in the name of the son. and thou shalt repent, and call upon god, in the name of the son forevermore." the same principle continued both on the asiatic and on this continent; and was recognized by all men of god holding the melchisedec priesthood, and will be recognized throughout all time until the final consummation of all things, when every knee shall bow, and every tongue confess that jesus is the christ, to the glory of god, the father. "neither by the blood of goats and calves, but by his own blood, he entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us. for if the blood of bulls and of goats, and the ashes of an heifer sprinkling the unclean, sanctifieth to the purifying of the flesh: how much more shall the blood of christ, who through the eternal spirit offered himself without spot to god, purge your conscience from dead works to serve the living god? * * * and almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission."--heb., ix, 12-14, 22. "by the which will we are sanctified through the offering of the body of jesus christ once for all. and every priest standeth daily ministering and offering oftentimes the same sacrifices, which can never take away sins: but this man, after he had offered one sacrifice for sins, forever sat down on the right hand of god: from henceforth expecting till his enemies be made his footstool. for by one offering he hath perfected forever them that are sanctified."--heb., x, 10-14. or, as the thirteenth and fourteenth verses are rendered in the inspired translation: "but this man, after he had offered one sacrifice for sins for ever, sat down on the right hand of god; from henceforth to reign until his enemies be made his footstool." "elect according to the foreknowledge of god the father, through sanctification of the spirit, unto obedience and sprinkling of the blood of jesus christ: grace unto you, and peace, be multiplied. * * * forasmuch as ye know that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things as silver and gold, from your vain conversation received by tradition from your fathers; but with the precious blood of christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot: who verily was foreordained before the foundation of the world, but was manifest in these last times for you."--1 peter, i, 2, 18-20. "for christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to god, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the spirit: by which also he went and preached unto the spirits in prison; which sometime were disobedient, when once the long-suffering of god waited in the days of noah, while the ark was a preparing, wherein few, that is, eight souls, were saved by water. the like figure whereunto, even baptism, doth also now save us, (not the putting away of the filth of the flesh, but the answer of a good conscience toward god,) by the resurrection of jesus christ: who is gone into heaven, and is on the right hand of god; angels, and authorities, and powers, being made subject unto him."--1 peter, iii, 18-22. "this then is the message which we have heard of him, and declare unto you, that god is light and in him is no darkness at all. if we say that we have fellowship with him, and walk in darkness, we lie, and do not the truth;' but if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of jesus christ his son cleanseth us from all sin."--1 john, i, 5-7. "and if any man sin, we have an advocate with the father, jesus christ the righteous: and he is the propitiation for our sins: and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world."--1 john, ii, 1, 2. or as it is written in the inspired translation, "but if any man sin _and repent_, we have an advocate," etc. "and from jesus christ, who is the faithful witness, and the first-begotten of the dead, and the prince of the kings of the earth. unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood."--rev., i, 5. "these things, saith the amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of the creation of god."--rev., iii, 14. "and when he had taken the book, the four beasts, and four and twenty elders fell down before the lamb, having every one of them harps, and golden vials full of odors, which are the prayers of saints. and they sung a new song, saying, thou art worthy to take the book, and to open the seals thereof; for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to god by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation; and hast made us unto our god kings and priests: and we shall reign on the earth."--rev., v, 8-10. thus it would seem that the redeemed of the lord from all nations and peoples are indebted to the lord jesus christ, through his atonement, for the position that they will occupy in the state of exaltation here referred to; and if they are exalted to be kings and priests unto god, it is through the ordinances which he has appointed for the accomplishment of this object, as the wise will understand. as regards the book mentioned in the above passage, an explanation thereof will be found in the key to the revelation of john.--doc. and cov., sec. lxxvii, page 277. (latest edition.) "and it was given unto him [the dragon] to make war with the saints, and to overcome them; and power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations. and all that dwell upon the earth shall worship him, whose names are not written in the book of life of the lamb slain from the foundation of the world."--rev., xiii, 7, 8. chapter iv. extracts from the pearl of great price and inspired translation of genesis--record of moses regarding adam, enoch, noah, abraham and joseph, and of their faith in the coming of the savior. we shall now introduce some extracts from the pearl of great price and the inspired translation of the book of genesis, which replace some of those parts, "plain and most precious," which are said to have been taken from the version of the holy scriptures known as king james' or the authorized version. these extracts are taken from the revelations and writings of the prophet joseph smith. "and god spake unto moses, saying, behold, i am the lord god almighty, and endless is my name; for i am without beginning of days or end of years; and is not this endless? and, behold, thou art my son; wherefore look, and i will show thee the workmanship of mine hands, but not all; for my works are without end, and also my words; for they never cease; wherefore, no man can behold all my works, except he behold all my glory; and no man can behold all my glory, and afterwards remain in the 'flesh on the earth. and i have a work for thee, moses, my son; and thou art in the similitude of mine only begotten; and my only begotten is and shall be the savior, for he is full of grace and truth; but there is no god beside me, and all things are present with me, for i know them all."--pearl of great price. "and in that day the holy ghost fell upon adam, which beareth record of the father and the son, saying, i am the only begotten of the father from the beginning, henceforth and for ever, that as thou hast fallen thou mayest be redeemed; and all mankind, even as many as will."--ibid. "but god hath made known unto our fathers that all men must repent. and he called upon our father adam by his own voice, saying, i am god: i made the world, and men before they were in the flesh. and he also said unto him, if thou wilt turn unto me, and hearken unto my voice, and believe, and repent of all thy transgressions, and be baptized, even in water, in the name of mine only begotten son, who is full of grace and truth, which is jesus christ, the only name which shall be given under heaven, whereby salvation shall come unto the children of men, ye shall receive the gift of the holy ghost, asking all things in his name, and whatsoever ye shall ask, it shall be given you. and our father adam spake unto the lord, and said, why is it that men must repent and be baptized in water? and the lord said unto adam, behold, i have forgiven thee thy transgression in the garden of eden. hence came the saying abroad among the people, that the son of god hath atoned for original guilt, wherein the sins of the parents cannot be answered upon the heads of the children, for they are whole from the foundation of the world."--ibid. "wherefore teach it unto your children, that all men, everywhere, must repent, or they can in no wise inherit the kingdom of god, for no unclean thing can dwell there, or dwell in his presence; for, in the language of adam, man of holiness is his name; and the name of his only begotten, is the son of man, even jesus christ, a righteous judge who shall come in the meridian of time. therefore i give unto you a commandment, to teach these things freely unto your children, saying, that by reason of transgression cometh the fall, which fall bringeth death, and inasmuch as ye were born into the world by water, and blood, and the spirit, which i have made, and so became of dust a living soul, even so ye must be born again into the kingdom of heaven, of water, and of the spirit, and be cleansed by blood, even the blood of mine only begotten; that ye might be sanctified from all sin, and enjoy the words of eternal life in this world, and eternal life in the world to come, even immortal glory: for by the water ye keep the commandment; by the spirit ye are justified, and by the blood ye are sanctified; therefore it is given to abide in you; the record of heaven; the comforter; the peaceable things of immortal glory; the truth of all things; that which quickeneth all things, which maketh alive all things; that which knoweth all things, and hath all power, according to wisdom, mercy, truth, justice, and judgment. and now, behold, i say unto you, this is the plan of salvation unto all men, through the blood of mine only begotten, who shall come in the meridian of time."--ibid. "and he gave unto me [enoch] a commandment that i should baptize in the name of the father, and of the son, who is full of grace and truth, and the holy ghost, which beareth record of the' father and the son."--ibid. "and behold, enoch saw the day of the coming of the son of man, even in the flesh; and his soul rejoiced, saying, the righteous is lifted up, and the lamb is slain from the foundation of the world; and through faith i am in the bosom of the father, and behold, zion is with me!"--ibid. "and great tribulations shall be among the children of men, but my people will i preserve; and righteousness will i send down out of heaven; and truth will i send forth out of the earth, to bear testimony of mine only begotten; his resurrection from the dead; yea, and also the resurrection of all men."--ibid. "and it came to pass that noah continued his preaching unto the people, saying, hearken, and give heed unto my words; believe and repent of your sins, and be baptized in the name of jesus christ, the son of god, even as our fathers did, and ye shall receive the holy ghost, that ye may have all things made manifest; and if ye do not this, the floods will come in upon you."--ibid. "and if thou shalt die, yet thou shalt possess it [the land of canaan], for the day cometh, that the son of man shall live; but how can he live, if he be not dead? he must first be quickened. and it came to pass that abram looked forth and saw the days of the son of man, and was glad, and his soul found rest, and he believed in the lord; and the lord counted it unto him for righteousness."--inspired translation, gen., xv, 11, 12. "the sceptre shall not depart from judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet, until shiloh come: and unto him shall the gathering of the people be."--gen., xlix, 10. "the lord hath visited me [joseph], and i have obtained a promise of the lord, that out of the fruit of my loins the lord will raise up a righteous branch out of my loins; and unto thee, whom my father jacob hath named israel, a prophet; (not the messiah who is called shiloh;) and this prophet shall deliver my people out of egypt in the days of thy bondage. and it shall come to pass that they shall be scattered again; and a branch shall be broken off, and shall be carried into a far country; nevertheless, they shall be remembered in the covenants of the lord, when the messiah cometh; for he shall be made manifest unto them in the latter days, in the spirit of power, and shall bring them out of darkness into light; out of hidden darkness, and out of captivity unto freedom."--inspired translation, gen., 1, 24, 25. chapter v. the book of mormon and the atonement--extracts from the books of ether, nephi, mosiah, alma, helaman and mormon. we next quote from the book of mormon, making our selections in chronological order; first from the book of ether, and afterwards from the records of the nephites. "and when he had said these words, behold, the lord showed himself unto him [the brother of jared], and said, because thou knowest these things, ye are redeemed from the fall; therefore ye are brought back into my presence; therefore i show myself unto you. behold, i am he who was prepared from the foundation of the world to redeem my people. behold, i am jesus christ. i am the father and the son. in me shall all mankind have light, and that eternally, even they who shall believe on my name; and they shall become my sons and my daughters."--ether, iii, 13, 14. "and then cometh the new jerusalem; and blessed are they who dwell therein, for it is they whose garments are white through the blood of the lamb; and they are they who are numbered among the remnant of the seed of joseph, who were of the house of israel. and then also cometh the jerusalem of old; and the inhabitants thereof, blessed are they, for they have been washed in the blood of the lamb; and they are they who were scattered and gathered in from the four quarters of the earth, and from the north countries, and are partakers of the fulfilling of the covenant which god made with their father abraham."--ether, xiii, 10, 11. "yea, even six hundred years from the time that my father left jerusalem, a prophet would the lord god raise up among the jews; even a messiah; or, in other words, a savior of the world. and he also spake concerning the prophets, how great a number had testified of these things, concerning this messiah, of whom he had spoken, or this redeemer of the world. wherefore all mankind were in a lost and in a fallen state, and ever would be, save they should rely on this redeemer. and he spake also concerning a prophet who should come before the messiah to prepare the way of the lord; yea, even he should go forth and cry in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the lord, and make his paths straight; for there standeth one among you whom ye know not; and he is mightier than i, whose shoe's latchet i am not worthy to unloose. and much spake my father concerning this thing. and my father said he should baptize in bethabary, beyond jordan; and he also said he should baptize with water: even that he should baptize the messiah with water. and after he had baptized the messiah with water, he should behold and bear record, that he had baptized the lamb of god, who should take away the sins of the world."--1 nephi, x, 4-10. "and it came to pass that the angel spake unto me again, saying, look! and i looked and beheld the lamb of god, that he was taken by the people; yea, the son of the everlasting god was judged of the world; and i saw and bear record. and i, nephi, saw that he was lifted up upon the cross, and slain for the sins of the world."--1 nephi, xi, 32, 33. "he doeth not anything, save it be for the benefit of the world; for he loveth the world, even that he layeth down his own life, that he may draw all men unto him. wherefore he commandeth none that they shall not partake of his salvation."--2 nephi, xxvi, 24. "yea, i know that ye know, that in the body he shall show himself unto those at jerusalem, from whence we came; for it is expedient that it should be among them; for it behoveth the great creator that he suffereth himself to become subject unto man in the flesh, and die for all men, that all men might become subject unto him. for as death hath passed upon all men, to fulfil the merciful plan of the great creator, there must needs be a power of resurrection, and the resurrection must needs come unto man by reason of the fall; and the fall came by reason of transgression; and because man became fallen, they were cut off from the presence of the lord."--2 nephi, ix, 5, 6. "wherefore, i know that thou art redeemed because of the righteousness of thy redeemer; for thou hast beheld, that in the fulness of time he cometh to bring salvation unto men. and thou hast beheld in thy youth his glory; wherefore thou art blessed even as they unto whom he shall minister in the flesh; for the spirit is the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever. and the way is prepared from the fall of man, and salvation is free. and men are instructed sufficiently, that they know good from evil. and the law is given unto men. and by the law, no flesh is justified; or, by the law, men are cut off. yea, by the temporal law, they were cut off; and also, by the spiritual law they perish from that which is good, and become miserable for ever. wherefore, redemption cometh in and through the holy messiah; for he is full of grace and truth. behold, he offereth himself a sacrifice for sin, to answer the ends of the law, unto all those who have a broken heart and a contrite spirit; and unto none else can the ends of the law be answered. wherefore, how great the importance to make these things known unto the inhabitants of the earth, that they may know that there is no flesh that can dwell in the presence of god, save it be through the merits, and mercy, and grace of the holy messiah, who layeth down his life according to the flesh, and taketh it again by the power of the spirit, that he may bring to pass the resurrection of the dead, being the first that should rise. wherefore he is the first fruits unto god, inasmuch as he shall make intercession for all the children of men; and they that believe in him shall be saved. and because of the intercession for all, all men come unto god; wherefore, they stand in the presence of him, to be judged of him according to the truth and holiness which is in him. wherefore, the ends of the law which the holy one hath given, unto the inflicting of the punishment which is affixed, which punishment that is affixed is in opposition to that of the happiness which is affixed, to answer the ends of the atonement; for it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things. if not so, my first-born in the wilderness, righteousness could not be brought to pass; neither wickedness; neither holiness nor misery; neither good nor bad. wherefore, all things must needs be a compound in one; wherefore, if it should be one body, it must needs remain as dead, having no life, neither death, nor corruption nor incorruption, happiness nor misery, neither sense nor insensibility. wherefore, it must needs have been created for a thing of naught; wherefore, there would have been no purpose in the end of its creation. wherefore, this thing must needs destroy the wisdom of god, and his eternal purposes; and also, the power, and the mercy, and the justice of god. and if ye shall say there is no law, ye shall also say there is no sin. if ye shall say there is no sin, ye shall also say there is no righteousness. and if there be no righteousness, there be no happiness. and if there be no righteousness nor happiness, there be no punishment nor misery. and if these things are not, there is no god. and if there is no god, we are not, neither the earth; for there could have been no creation of things, neither to act nor to be acted upon; wherefore, all things must have vanished away. and now, my sons, i speak unto you these things, for your profit and learning; for there is a god, and he hath created all things, both the heavens and the earth, and all things that in them is; both things to act, and things to be acted upon. and to bring about his eternal purposes in the end of man, after he had created our first parents, and the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air, and in fine, all things which are created, it must needs be that there was an opposition; even the forbidden fruit in opposition to the tree of life: the one being sweet and the other bitter; wherefore, the lord god gave unto man that he should act for himself. wherefore, man could not act for himself, save it should be that he was enticed by the one or the other. and i, lehi, according to the things which i have read, must needs suppose, that an angel of god, according to that which is written, had fallen from heaven: wherefore, he became a devil, having sought that which was evil before god. and because he had fallen from heaven, and had become miserable for ever, he sought also the misery of all mankind. wherefore, he said unto eve, yea, even that old serpent, who is the devil, who is the father of all lies; wherefore he said, partake of the forbidden fruit, and ye shall not die, but ye shall be as god, knowing good and evil. and after adam and eve had partaken of the forbidden fruit, they were driven out of the garden of eden, to till the earth. and they have brought forth children; yea, even the family of all the earth. and the days of the children of men were prolonged, according to the will of god, that they might repent while in the flesh; wherefore, their state became a state of probation, and their time was lengthened, according to the commandments which the lord god gave unto the children of men. for he gave commandment that all men must repent; for he shewed unto all men that they were lost, because of the transgression of their parents.--2 nephi, ii, 3-21. "and now, my brethren, i have spoken plain, that ye cannot err; and as the lord god liveth that brought israel up out of the land of egypt, and gave unto moses power that he should heal the nations, after they had been bitten by the poisonous serpents, if they would cast their eyes unto the serpent which he did raise up before them, and also gave him power that he should smite the rock, and the water should come forth; yea, behold i say unto you, that as these things are true, and as the lord god liveth, there is none other name given under heaven, save it be this jesus christ of whom i have spoken, whereby man can be saved. wherefore, for this cause hath the lord god promised unto me that these things which i write, shall be kept and preserved, and handed down unto my seed, from generation to generation, that the promise may be fulfilled unto joseph, that his seed should never perish as long as the earth should stand. wherefore, these things shall go from generation to generation as long as the earth shall stand; and they shall go according to the will and pleasure of god; and the nations who shall possess them shall be judged of them according to the words which are written; for we labor diligently to write, to persuade our children, and also our brethren, to believe in christ, and to be reconciled to god; for we know that it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do. and notwithstanding we believe in christ, we keep the law of moses, and look forward with steadfastness unto christ, until the law shall be fulfilled; for, for this end was the law given; wherefore, the law hath become dead unto us, and we are made alive in christ, because of our faith; yet we keep the law because of the commandments; and we talk of christ, we rejoice in christ, we preach of christ, we prophesy of christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins. wherefore, we speak concerning the law, that our children may know the deadness of the law; and they, by knowing the deadness of the law, may look forward unto that life which is in christ, and know for what end the law was given. and after the law is fulfilled in christ, that they need not harden their hearts against him, when the law ought to be done away."--2 nephi, xxv, 20-27. the reference, in the above quotation, to the serpent which moses raised up before the children of israel in the wilderness, directly confirms the statement of our savior: "and as moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the son of man be lifted up; that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life."--john, iii, 14, 15. we now return to our extracts from the book of mormon. king benjamin teaches: "for behold, the time cometh, and is not far distant, that with power, the lord omnipotent, who reigneth, who was and is from all eternity to all eternity, shall come down from heaven, among the children of men, and shall dwell in a tabernacle of clay, and shall go forth amongst men, working mighty miracles, such as healing the sick, raising the dead, causing the lame to walk, the blind to receive their sight, and the deaf to hear, and curing all manner of diseases; and he shall cast out devils, or the evil spirits which dwell in the hearts of the children of men. and lo, he shall suffer temptations, and pain of body, hunger, thirst, and fatigue, even more than man can suffer, except it be unto death: for behold, blood cometh from every pore, so great shall be his anguish for the wickedness and the abominations of his people. and he shall be called jesus christ, the son of god, the father of heaven and earth, the creator of all things, from the beginning; and his mother shall be called mary. and lo, he cometh unto his own, that salvation might come unto the children of men, even through faith on his name; and even after all this, they shall consider him a man, and say that he hath a devil, and shall scourge him, and shall crucify him. and he shall rise the third day from the dead; and behold, he standeth to judge the world; and behold, all these things are done, that a righteous judgment might come upon the children of men. for behold, and also his blood atoneth for the sins of those who have fallen by the transgression of adam, who have died, not knowing the will of god concerning them, or who have ignorantly sinned. but wo, wo unto him who knoweth that he rebelleth against god; for salvation cometh to none such, except it be through repentance and faith on the lord jesus christ. and the lord god hath sent his holy prophets among all the children of men, to declare these things to every kindred, nation, and tongue, that thereby whosoever should believe that christ should come, the same might receive remission of their sins, and rejoice with exceeding great joy, even as though he had already come among them. yet the lord god saw that his people were a stiffnecked people, and he appointed unto them a law, even the law of moses. and many signs, and wonders, and types, and shadows shewed he unto them, concerning his coming; and also holy prophets spake unto them concerning his coming; and yet they hardened their hearts, and understood not that the law of moses availeth nothing, except it were through the atonement of his blood. and even if it were possible that little children could sin, they could not be saved: but i say unto you they are blessed; for behold, as in adam, or by nature they fall, even so the blood of christ atoneth for their sins. and moreover, i say unto you, that there shall be no other name given, nor any other way nor means whereby salvation can come unto the children of men, only in and through the name of christ, the lord omnipotent. for behold he judgeth, and his judgment is just; and the infant perisheth not that dieth in his infancy; but men drink damnation to their own souls, except they humble themselves and become as little children, and believe that salvation was, and is, and is to come, in and through the atoning blood of christ, the lord omnipotent; for the natural man is an enemy to god, and has been from the fall of adam, and will be, for ever and ever; but if he yields to the enticings of the holy spirit, and putteth off the natural man, and becometh a saint, through the atonement of christ the lord, and becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father. and moreover, i say unto you, that the time shall come, when the knowledge of a savior shall spread throughout every nation, kindred, tongue, and people. and behold, when that time cometh, none shall be found blameless before god, except it be little children only through repentance and faith on the name of the lord god omnipotent."--mosiah, iii, 5-21. "and now, it came to pass that when king benjamin had made an end of speaking the words which had been delivered unto him by the angel of the lord, that he cast his eyes round about on the multitude, and behold they had fallen to the earth, for the fear of the lord had come upon them; and they had viewed themselves in their own carnal state, even less than the dust of the earth. and they all cried aloud with one voice, saying, o have mercy, and apply the atoning blood of christ, that we may receive forgiveness of our sins, and our hearts may be purified; for we believe in jesus christ, the son of god, who created heaven and earth, and all things; who shall come down among the children of men. and it came to pass that after they had spoken these words, the spirit of the lord came upon them, and they were filled with joy, having received a remission of their sins, and having peace of conscience, because of the exceeding faith which they had in jesus christ who should come, according to the words which king benjamin had spoken unto them. and king benjamin again opened his mouth, and began to speak unto them, saying, my friends and my brethren, my kindred and my people, i would again call your attention, that ye may hear and understand the remainder of my words which i shall speak unto you; for behold, if the knowledge of the goodness of god at this time has awakened you to a sense of your nothingness, and your worthless and fallen state; i say unto you, if ye have come to a knowledge of the goodness of god, and his matchless power, and his wisdom, and his patience, and his long suffering towards the children of men, and also, the atonement which has been prepared from the foundation of the world, that thereby salvation might come to him that should put his trust in the lord, and should be diligent in keeping his commandments, and continue in the faith even unto the end of his life; i mean the life of the mortal body; i say that this is the man who receiveth salvation, through the atonement which was prepared from the foundation of the world for all mankind, which ever were since the fall of adam, or who are, or whoever shall be, even unto the end of the world; and this is the means whereby salvation cometh. and there is none other salvation, save this which hath been spoken of; neither are there any conditions whereby man can be saved, except the conditions which i have told you."--mosiah, iv, 1-8. "and now abinadi said unto them, i would that ye should understand that god himself shall come down among the children of men, and shall redeem his people; and because he dwelleth in flesh, he shall be called the son of god: and having subjected the flesh to the will of the father, being the father and the son; the father, because he was conceived by the power of god; and the son, because of the flesh, thus becoming the father and son: and they are one god, yea, the very eternal father of heaven and of earth; and thus the flesh becoming subject to the spirit, or the son to the father, being one god, suffereth temptation, and yieldeth not to the temptation, but suffereth himself to be mocked, and scourged, and cast out, and disowned by his people. and after all this, after working many mighty miracles among the children of men, he shall be led, yea, even as isaiah said, as a sheep before the shearer is dumb, so he opened not his mouth; yea, even so he shall be led, crucified, and slain, the flesh becoming subject even unto death, the will of the son being swallowed up in the will of the father; and thus god breaketh the bands of death, having gained the victory over death; giving the son power to make intercession for the children of men: having ascended into heaven; having the bowels of mercy; being filled with compassion towards the children of men; standing betwixt them and justice; having broken the bands of death, taken upon himself their iniquity and their transgressions: having redeemed them, and satisfied the demands of justice."--mosiah, xv, 1-9. "and now it came to pass that after abinadi had spoken these words, he stretched forth his hand and said, the time shall come when all shall see the salvation of the lord; when every nation, kindred, tongue and people shall see eye to eye, and shall confess before god that his judgments are just; and then shall the wicked be cast out, and they shall have cause to howl, and weep, and wail, and gnash their teeth; and this because they would not hearken unto the voice of the lord; therefore the lord redeemeth them not, for they are carnal and devilish, and the devil has power over them; yea, even that old serpent that did beguile our first parents, which was the cause of their fall: which was the cause of all mankind becoming carnal, sensual, devilish, knowing evil from good; subjecting themselves to the devil. thus all mankind were lost; and behold, they would have been endlessly lost, were it not that god redeemed his people from their lost and fallen state. but remember, that he that persists in his own carnal nature, and goes on in the ways of sin and rebellion against god, remaineth in his fallen state, and the devil hath all power over him. therefore he is as though there was no redemption made; being an enemy to god; and also is the devil an enemy of god. and now if christ had not come into the world, speaking of things to come, as though they had already come, there could have been no redemption. and if christ had not risen from the dead, or have broken the bands of death, that the grave should have no victory, and that death should have no sting, there could have been no resurrection. but there is a resurrection, therefore the grave hath no victory, and the sting of death is swallowed up in christ: he is the light and the life of the world; yea, a light that is endless, that can never be darkened; yea, and also a life which is endless, that there can be no more death. even this mortal shall put on immortality, and this corruption shall put on incorruption, and shall be brought to stand before the bar of god, to be judged of him according to their works, whether they be good or whether they be evil. if they be good, to the resurrection of endless life and happiness, and if they be evil, to the resurrection of endless damnation; being delivered up to the devil, who hath subjected them, which is damnation; having gone according to their own carnal wills and desires; having never called upon the lord while the arms of mercy were extended towards them; for the arms of mercy were extended towards them; and they would not; they being warned of their iniquities, and yet they would not depart from them; and they were commanded to repent, and yet they would not repent. and now had ye not ought to tremble and repent of your sins, and remember only in and through christ ye can be saved? therefore, if ye teach the law of moses, also teach that it is a shadow of those things which are to come; teach them that redemption cometh through christ the lord, who is the very eternal father. amen."--mosiah, xvi, 1-15. "but behold, the spirit hath said this much unto me, saying: cry unto this people, saying, repent ye, and prepare the way of the lord, and walk in his paths, which are straight: for behold, the kingdom of heaven is at hand, and the son of god cometh upon the face of the earth. and behold, he shall be born of mary, at jerusalem, which is the land of our forefathers, she being a virgin, a precious and chosen vessel, who shall be overshadowed, and conceive by the power of the holy ghost, and bring forth a son, yea, even the son of god; and he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions, and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith, he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people; and he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people: and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities. now the spirit knoweth all things; nevertheless, the son of god suffereth according to the flesh, that he might take upon him the sins of his people, that he might blot out their transgressions, according to the power of his deliverance; and now behold, this is the testimony which is in me."--alma, vii, 9-13. "now zeezrom said unto the people, see that ye remember these things; for he said there is but one god; yet he saith that the son of god shall come, but he shall not save his people, as though he had authority to command god. now amulek saith again unto him, behold, thou hast lied, for thou sayest that i spake as though i had authority to command god, because i said he shall not save his people in their sins. and i say unto you again, that he cannot save them in their sins; for i cannot deny his word, and he hath said that no unclean thing can inherit the kingdom of heaven; therefore, how can ye be saved, except ye inherit the kingdom of heaven? therefore, ye cannot be saved in your sins. now zeezrom saith again unto him, is the son of god the very eternal father? and amulek said unto him, yea, he is the very eternal father of heaven and of earth, and all things which in them is; he is the beginning and the end, the first and the last; and he shall come into the world to redeem his people; and he shall take upon him the transgressions of those who believe on his name; and these are they that shall have eternal life, and salvation cometh to none else; therefore, the wicked remain as though there had been no redemption made, except it be the loosing of the bands of death; for behold, the day cometh that all shall rise from the dead and stand before god, and be judged according to their works. now, there is a death which is called a temporal death: and the death of christ shall loose the bands of this temporal death, that all shall be raised from this temporal death; the spirit and the body shall be re-united again in its perfect form; both limb and joint shall be restored to its proper frame, even as we now are at this time; and we shall be brought to stand before god, knowing even as we know now, and have a bright recollection of all our guilt. now this restoration shall come to all, both old and young, both bond and free, both male and female, both the wicked and the righteous; and even there shall not so much as a hair of their heads be lost; but all things shall be restored to its perfect frame, as it is now, or in the body, and shall be brought and be arraigned before the bar of christ the son, and god the father, and the holy spirit, which is one eternal god, to be judged according to their works, whether they be good or whether they be evil."--alma, xi, 35-44. "now i say unto you, that ye must repent, and be born again: for the spirit saith, if ye are not born again, ye cannot inherit the kingdom of heaven; therefore come and be baptized unto repentance, that ye may be washed from your sins, that ye may have faith on the lamb of god, who taketh away the sins of the world, who is mighty to save and to cleanse from all unrighteousness."--alma, vii, 14. "and the angel said unto me, look! and i looked, and beheld three generations pass away in righteousness; and their garments were white, even like unto the lamb of god. and the angel said unto me, these are made white in the blood of the lamb, because of their faith in him."--1 nephi, xii, 11. "therefore they were called after this holy order, and were sanctified, and their garments were washed white through the blood of the lamb."--alma, xiii, 11. "and this i know, because the lord hath said, he dwelleth not in unholy temples, but in the hearts of the righteous doth he dwell; yea, and he has also said, that the righteous shall sit down in his kingdom, to go no more out: but their garments should be made white, through the blood of the lamb."--alma, xxxiv, 36. "o then, ye unbelieving, turn ye unto the lord: cry mightily unto the father in the name of jesus, that perhaps ye may be found spotless, pure, fair and white, having been cleansed by the blood of the lamb, at that great and last day."--mormon, ix, 6. "behold, i give unto you a sign; for five years more cometh, and behold, then cometh the son of god to redeem all those who shall believe on his name."--helaman, xiv, 2. "for behold, he must surely die, that salvation may come; yea, it behoveth him, and becometh expedient that he dieth, to bring to pass the resurrection of the dead, that thereby men may be brought into the presence of the lord; yea, behold this death bringeth to pass the resurrection, and redeemeth all mankind from the first death--that spiritual death; for all mankind by the fall of adam, being cut off from the presence of the lord, are considered as dead, both as to things temporal and things spiritual. but behold, the resurrection of christ redeemeth mankind, yea, even all mankind, and bringeth them back into the presence of the lord."--helaman, xiv, 15-17. "arise and come forth unto me, that ye may thrust your hands into my side, and also that ye may feel the print of the nails in my hands, and in my feet, that ye may know that i am the god of israel, and the god of the whole earth, and have been slain for the sins of the world."--3 nephi, xi, 14. "behold, he created adam, and by adam came the fall of man. and because of the fall of man, came jesus christ, even the father and the son; and because of jesus christ came the redemption of man. and because of the redemption of man, which came by jesus christ, they are brought back into the presence of the lord; yea, this is wherein all men are redeemed, because the death of christ bringeth to pass the resurrection, which bringeth to pass a redemption from an endless sleep, from which sleep all men shall be awoke by the power of god when the trump shall sound; and they shall come forth, both small and great, and all shall stand before his bar, being redeemed and loosed from this eternal band of death, which death is a temporal death; and then cometh the judgment of the holy one upon them, and then cometh the time that he that is filthy shall be filthy still; and he that is righteous shall be righteous still; he that is happy shall be happy still; and he that is unhappy shall be unhappy still."--mormon, ix, 12-14. chapter vi. extracts from the book of doctrine and covenants--christ's testimony of himself, of his power and calling, etc.--testimony of joseph smith and sidney rigdon--record of john the baptist--extract from a sermon by president brigham young. we now turn to the book of doctrine and covenants: "behold, i am jesus christ, the son of god. i am the same that came unto my own, and my own received me not. i am the light which shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not."--sec. vi, 21, p. 91. "behold, i am jesus christ, the son of the living god, who created the heavens and the earth; a light which cannot be hid in darkness."--sec. xiv, 9, p. 109. "remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of god; for, behold, the lord your redeemer suffered death in the flesh; wherefore, he suffered the pain of all men, that all men might repent and come unto him. and he hath risen again from the dead, that he might bring all men unto him, on conditions of repentance." sec. xviii, 10-12, p. 114. "i am alpha and omega, christ the lord; yea, even i am he, the beginning and the end, the redeemer of the world. i, having accomplished and finished the will of him whose i am, even the father, concerning me--having done this that i might subdue all things unto myself."--sec. xix, 1, 2, p. 117. "i am jesus christ; i came by the will of the father, and i do his will."--sec. xix, 24, p. 119. "for, behold, i will bless all those who labor in my vineyard with a mighty blessing, and they shall believe on his words, which are given him through me by the comforter, which manifesteth that jesus was crucified by sinful men for the sins of the world, yea, for the remission of sins unto the contrite heart."--sec. xxi, 9, p. 131. "listen to the voice of jesus christ, your redeemer, the great i am, whose arm of mercy hath atoned for your sins."--sec. xxix, 1, p. 142. "be faithful unto the end, and lo, i am with you. these words are not of man, nor of men, but of me, even jesus christ, your redeemer, by the will of the father. amen."--sec. xxxi, 13, p. 151. "my son orson, hearken and hear and behold what i, the lord god, shall say unto you, even jesus christ your redeemer; the light and the life of the world; a light which shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not; who so loved the world that he gave his own life, that as many as would believe might become the sons of god: wherefore you are my son."--sec. xxxiv, 1-3, pp. 153-4. "listen to the voice of the lord your god, even alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, whose course is one eternal round, the same to-day as yesterday, and forever. i am jesus christ, the son of god, who was crucified for the sins of the world, even as many as will believe on my name, that they may become the sons of god, even one in me as i am in the father, as the father is one in me, that we may be one."--sec. xxxv, 1, 2, p. 155. "thus saith the lord your god, even jesus christ, the great i am, alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, the same which looked upon the wide expanse of eternity, and all the seraphic hosts of heaven, before the world was made: the same which knoweth all things, for all things are present before mine eyes: i am the same which spake, and the world was made, and all things came by me: i am the same which have taken the zion of enoch into mine own bosom; and verily. i say, even as many as have believed in my name, for i am christ, and in mine own name, by the virtue of the blood which i have spilt, have i pleaded before the father for them; but behold, the residue of the wicked have i kept in chains of darkness until the judgment of the great day; which shall come at the end of the earth."--sec. xxxviii, 1--5, pp. 159, 160. "hearken and listen to the voice of him who is from all eternity to all eternity, the great i am, even jesus christ, the light and the life of the world; a light which shineth in darkness and the darkness comprehendeth it not: the same which came in the meridian of time unto my own, and my own received me not."--sec. xxxix, 1-3, p. 164. listen to him who is the advocate with the father, who is pleading your cause before him, saying, father, behold the sufferings and death of him who did no sin, in whom thou wast well pleased; behold the blood of thy son which was shed--the blood of him whom thou gavest that thyself might be glorified; wherefore, father, spare these my brethren that believe on my name, that they may come unto me and have everlasting life."--sec. xlv, 3-5, p. 183. "to some it is given by the holy ghost to know that jesus christ is the son of god, and that he was crucified for the sins of the world; to others it is given to believe on their words, that they also might have eternal life if they continue faithful."--sec. xlvi, 13, 14, p. 192. "hear o ye heavens, and give ear o earth, and rejoice ye inhabitants thereof, for the lord is god, and beside him there is no savior: great is his wisdom, and marvellous are his ways, and the extent of his doings none can find out; his purposes fail not, neither are there any who can stay his hand; from eternity to eternity he is the same, and his years never fail."--sec. lxxvi, 1-4, p. 265. "by the power of the spirit our eyes were opened and our understandings were enlightened, so as to see and understand the things of god--even those things which were from the beginning before the world was, which were ordained of the father, through his only begotten son, who was in the bosom of the father, even from the beginning, of whom we bear record, and the record which we bear is the fulness of the gospel of jesus christ, who is the son, whom we saw and with whom we conversed in heavenly vision."--sec. lxxvi, 12-14, p. 266. "and while we meditated upon these things, the lord touched the eyes of our understandings and they were opened, and the glory of the lord shone round about; and we beheld the glory of the son, on the right hand of the father, and received of his fulness; and saw the holy angels and they who are sanctified before his throne, worshiping god, and the lamb, who worship him for ever and ever. and now, after the many testimonies which have been given of him, this is the testimony last of all, which we give of him, that he lives; for we saw him, even on the right hand of god, and we heard the voice bearing record that he is the only begotten of the father--that by him and through him, and of him the worlds are and were created, and the inhabitants thereof are begotten sons and daughters unto god."--sec. lxxvi, 19-24, p. 266, 267. "that he came into the world, even jesus, to be crucified for the world, and to bear the sins of the world, and to sanctify the world, and to cleanse it from all unrighteousness; that through him all might be saved whom the father had put into his power and made by him, who glorifies the father, and saves all the works of his hands, except those sons of perdition, who deny the son after the father has revealed him."--sec. lxxvi, 41-43, p. 268-9. "these are they whose names are written in heaven, where god and christ are the judge of all. these are they who are just men made perfect through jesus the mediator of the new covenant, who wrought out this perfect atonement through the shedding of his own blood."--sec. lxxvi, 68, 69, p. 271. "verily, thus saith the lord, it shall come to pass that every soul who forsaketh their sins and cometh unto me, and calleth on my name, and obeyeth my voice, and keepeth my commandments, shall see my face and know that i am, and that i am the true light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world; and that i am in the father, and the father in me, and the father and i are one: the father because he gave me of his fulness, and the son because i was in the world and made flesh my tabernacle, and dwelt among the sons of men. i was in the world and received of my father, and the works of him were plainly manifest; and john saw and bore record of the fulness of my glory, and the fulness of john's record is hereafter to be revealed. * * * and i, john, saw that he received not of the fulness at the first, but received grace for grace: and he received not of the fulness at first, but continued from grace to grace, until he received a fulness; and thus he was called the son of god, because he received not of the fulness at the first. and i, john, bear record, and lo, the heavens were opened, and the holy ghost descended upon him in the form of a dove, and sat upon him, and there came a voice out of heaven saying, this is my beloved son. and i, john, bear record that he received a fulness of the glory of the father; and he received all power, both in heaven and on earth, and the glory of the father was with him, for he dwelt in him."--sec. xciii, 1-6, 12-17, pp. 328-9. "but, behold, i say unto you, that little children are redeemed from the foundation of the world through mine only begotten."--sec. xxix, 46, p. 147. "every spirit of man was innocent in the beginning, and god having redeemed man from the fall, men became again in their infant state, innocent before god." sec. xciii, 38, p. 331. "and then shall the lord set his foot upon this mount, and it shall cleave in twain, and the earth shall tremble and reel to and fro, and the heavens also shall shake, and the lord shall utter his voice, and all the ends of the earth shall hear it; and the nations of the earth shall mourn, and they that have laughed shall see their folly, and calamity shall cover the mocker, and the scorner shall be consumed, and they that have watched for iniquity shall be hewn down and cast into the fire. and then shall the jews look upon me and say, what are these wounds in thine hands and in thy feet? then shall they know that i am the lord; for i will say unto them, these wounds are the wounds with which i was wounded in the house of my friends. i am he who was lifted up. i am jesus that was crucified. i am the son of god. and then shall they weep because of their iniquities; then shall they lament because they persecuted their king. and then shall the heathen nations be redeemed, and they that knew no law shall have part in the first resurrection; and it shall be tolerable for them; and satan shall be bound that he shall have no place in the hearts of the children of men."--sec. xlv, 48-55, p. 187-8. from a discourse by president brigham young, august 8, 1852: "christ is the author of this gospel, of this earth, of men and women, of all the posterity of adam and eve, and of every living creature that lives upon the face of the earth, that flies in the heavens, that swims in the waters, or dwells in the field. christ is the author of salvation to all this creation, to all things pertaining to this terrestrial globe we occupy." chapter vii. introduction to the historical portion of this treatise--the dealings of god with adam, cain and abel--the institution of sacrifice--the symbolism of this rite--the words of the angel to adam--lucifer--his rebellion in heaven--his conflict with michael for the body of moses--he tempts christ--he is cast into a lake of fire and brimstone. having thus gathered in one numerous testimonies from the writings of the ancient inspired servants of god who dwelt on either hemisphere, and joined therewith extracts from the revelations of the present dispensation, with regard to the fore-ordination, mission, lifework and death of the only begotten son, we shall now proceed to trace, from the sacred volumes, the revelation of our savior, and the prophecy of his advent from the earliest ages of recorded history, until he fulfilled in himself all, even all that, as offering, sacrifice, sacrament, vision or prophetic word, had foreshadowed his appearing, or typified the mystery of his all-atoning blood. we shall commence this portion of our subject by showing that sacrifices have been offered from the very earliest times, and that when performed under divine instruction, they prefigured and typified the sacrifice of the son of god, and that it was with this view these sacrifices were offered up. it is recorded in the fourth chapter of the book of genesis that, "adam knew eve, his wife; and she conceived, and bare cain, and said, i have gotten a man from the lord. and she again bare his brother abel: and abel was a keeper of sheep, but cain was a tiller of the ground. and in process of time it came to pass, that cain brought of the fruit of 'the ground an offering unto the lord. and abel, he also brought of the firstings of his flock, and of the fat thereof. and the lord had respect unto abel, and to his offering: but unto cain, and to his offering, he had not respect."--genesis, iv, 1-5. as these sayings found in king james' translation of the bible are very limited, and somewhat obscure, we will here refer, as a starting point on this subject, to the account given of these events in the pearl of great price, which is a selection from the revelations, translations and narrations of joseph smith, the prophet, seer and revelator of the church of jesus christ of latter-day saints. for in that translation it is stated that adam, previous to these acts of abel and cain, offered up a sacrifice by the direct command of god. it is there written that the lord gave unto adam and eve "commandments, that they should worship the lord their god; and should offer the firstlings of their flocks for an offering unto the lord. and adam was obedient unto the commandments of the lord. and after many days, an angel of the lord appeared unto adam, saying, why dost thou offer sacrifices unto the lord? and adam said unto him, i know not, save the lord commanded me. and then the angel spake, saying, this thing is a similitude of the sacrifice of the only begotten of the father, which is full of grace and truth; wherefore thou shalt do all that thou doest in the name of the son. and thou shalt repent, and call upon god, in the name of the son, for evermore." we are further informed that "adam and eve blessed the name of god; and they made all things known unto their sons and their daughters." from the above it would seem that adam, until instructed by the angel, did not know the reasons for the offering up of sacrifices, nor the object that the lord had in view in requiring this offering at his hands; for, being asked by the angel why he performed this rite, he said, "i know not, save the lord commanded me;" and the object of the visit of this holy being to adam evidently was to show him why he was called to offer a sacrifice to the lord, as, on adam expressing his ignorance of the intent of this offering, the angel stated very explicitly that this thing was "a similitude of the sacrifice of the only begotten of the father." we have here given a reason why adam offered up this sacrifice. we may hereafter explain why it was necessary that the sacrifice of the son of god should be made. these sacrifices, which were similitudes of the sacrifice of the only begotten, were continued from that time until, as is stated in the scriptures, jesus came to offer "his own body once for all."--heb., x, 10. we will now return to the sacrifices offered by cain and abel, and give the statement in relation thereto contained in the pearl of great price. it is as follows: "and cain loved satan more than god. and satan commanded him, saying, make an offering unto the lord. and in process of time it came to pass, that cain brought of the fruits of the ground an offering unto the lord. and abel, he also brought, of the firstlings of his flock, and of the fat thereof; and the lord had respect unto abel, and to his offering; but unto cain, and to his offering, he had not respect. now satan knew this, and it pleased him. and cain was very wroth and his countenance fell. and the lord said unto cain, why art thou wroth? why is thy countenance fallen? if thou doest well, thou shalt be accepted, and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door, and satan desireth to have thee, and except thou shalt hearken unto my commandments, i will deliver thee up, and it shall be unto thee according to his desire; and thou shalt rule over him, for from this time forth thou shalt be the father of his lies. thou shalt be called perdition, for thou wast also before the world, and it shall be said in time to come, that these abominations were had from cain, for he rejected the greater counsel, which was had from god; and this is a cursing which i will put upon thee, except thou repent. and cain was wroth, and listened not any more to the voice of the lord, neither to abel his brother, who walked in holiness before the lord." from the above it would appear that satan, or lucifer, was "also before the world," and that the term "also" refers to another personage, and that personage was the messiah, the christ, the well beloved son, who, we are told, was the lamb slain from before the foundation of the world; and it is obvious that lucifer, who is elsewhere called the son of the morning, had an important role to play upon the earth as well as the messiah, and that he occupied a very prominent position before the world was, and still occupies that position in opposition to his heavenly father, to the son of god, and to the interests of humanity; which opposition will continue, we are informed, until he shall not only be bound, but cast into the bottomless pit; as stated by the apostle john in the book of revelations: "and i saw an angel come down from heaven, having the key of the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand. and he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the devil, and satan, and bound him a thousand years, and cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand years should be fulfilled; and after that he must be loosed a little season."--rev., xx, 1-3. and a little further on we read that after the thousand years have passed, "satan shall be loosed out of his prison," and shall go out to deceive the nations and gather them to battle against the saints, when fire from heaven will devour them. "and the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever."--rev., xx, 10. the operations of satan in opposition to the designs and purposes of god are frequently noticed in holy writ. reference has already been made to his control over cain and the results thereof, and unfortunately for them, cain was not the only one in that early age of the world's history over whom satan gained the mastery. for he went abroad amongst the inhabitants of the earth, saying, "i am also a son of god; * * * and they loved satan more than god. and men began, from that time forth, to be carnal, sensual, and devilish." and so they continued increasing in wickedness, until "all flesh had corrupted its way upon the earth," and the waters of the flood had to accomplish the work which the preaching of noah could not effect. in later years we hear of satan contending with the archangel, michael, for the body of moses. jude writes: "yet michael, the archangel, when contending with the devil, he disputed about the body of moses, durst not bring against him a railing accusation, but said, the lord rebuke thee." this is again exhibited in the part he took in tempting the savior, after his baptism and recognition by his heavenly father. of this event it is written: "then was jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil. and when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterward an hungered. and when the tempter came to him, he said, if thou be the son of god, command that these stones be made bread. but he answered and said, it is written, man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of god. then the devil taketh him up into the holy city, and setteth him on a pinnacle of the temple. and saith unto him, if thou be the son of god, cast thyself down, for it is written, he shall give his angels charge concerning thee, and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone. jesus said unto him, it is written again, thou shalt not tempt the lord thy god. again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and showeth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; and saith unto him, all these things will i give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me. then saith jesus unto him, get thee hence, satan: for it is written, thou shalt worship the lord thy god, and him only shalt thou serve. then the devil leaveth him; and behold, angels came and ministered unto him."--matt., iv, 1-11. or to give the words of the inspired translation: "then jesus was led up of the spirit into the wilderness, to be with god. and when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, and had communed with god, he was afterwards an hungered, and was left to be tempted of the devil. and when the tempter came to him, he said, if thou be the son of god, command that these stones be made bread. but jesus answered and said, it is written, man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of god." "then jesus was taken up into the holy city, and the spirit setteth him on the pinnacle of the temple. then the devil came unto him and said, if thou be the son of god, cast thyself down, for it is written, he shall give his angels charge concerning thee, and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone. jesus said unto him, it is written again, thou shalt not tempt the lord thy god." "and again, jesus was in the spirit, and it taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them. and the devil came unto him again, and said, all these things will i give unto thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me. then said jesus unto him, get thee hence, satan; for it is written, thou shalt worship the lord thy god, and him only shalt thou serve. then the devil leaveth him." again, john in the revelations, when referring to the latter days, exclaims, "wo to the inhabitants of the earth, and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth he hath but a short time." [rev., xii, 12.] and by and by the same writer tells us, in a passage already quoted, that satan's time is finished, and he is bound and cast into the bottomless pit. chapter viii. seth--his sacrifice accepted--rebellion in the heavens--the gathering of the patriarchs in the valley of adam-ondi-ahman- sacrifices offered there. the next eminent personage that appears is seth. concerning him, it is said in the old testament: "and adam knew his wife again, and she bare a son, and called his name seth: for god, said she, hath appointed me another seed instead of abel, whom cain slew."--gen., iv, 25. there is a principle developed here pertaining to the economy of god with the human family. abel held a representative position, as also did cain, and that position, it would seem, associated abel with what may be denominated the chosen seed. cain slew abel; but (that, the purposes relating to the perpetuation of that seed might stand, and the plan of god not be frustrated by the adversary, he gave to adam seth, who inherited the priesthood and promises of his martyred brother; in this substantiating a principle that paul refers to, when he writes, "that the purpose of god, according to election, might stand, not of works, but of him that calleth." [rom., ix, 11.] yet, although seth was one of the leading characters spoken of in the scripture, and one to whom and through whom the promises were made, and who actually stood in the place of or represented his brother, abel, yet there is nothing said in the ordinary translation pertaining to his offering sacrifices; we therefore again refer to the pearl of great price. it is there stated that "adam glorified the name of god, for he said, god hath appointed me another seed instead of abel, whom cain slew. and god revealed himself unto seth, and he rebelled not, but offered an acceptable sacrifice like unto his brother abel." seth, we are here told, rebelled not, but offered an acceptable sacrifice, thus carrying out the same idea of the atonement of the only begotten. in this connection we must remember that there had been a rebellion in heaven, and many of the angels, they "which kept not their first estate," [jude, 6,] were cast out. lucifer was the leader of these rebellious ones who were then cast down to the earth. he had rebelled against god, his father, and it would seem, from revelations that we shall hereafter draw attention to, that his rebellion had its origin in his rejection of the counsel given to him by his father pertaining to the salvation and exaltation of mankind. when man was placed upon the earth, lucifer, or satan, still manifested the same animus and spirit; and through his influence he operated upon cain, for cain listened to his wiles, and being controlled by him, he also rebelled against his father and his god. thus the rebellion in the heavens was transmitted to a rebellion on the earth, and all who became subject to this influence placed themselves in a state of enmity and antagonism to god, and one of the first results exhibited was covetousness and murder, even the murder by cain of his brother abel. thus we find the first man slain (abel) was one holding the holy priesthood, and the same vindictive spirit manifested against the servants of god of all later ages, gave the martyr stephen good reason to ask his persecutors, "which of the prophets have not your fathers persecuted? and they have slain them which showed before of the coming of the just one; of whom ye have been now the betrayers and murderers."--acts, vii, 52. although there is nothing said in the book of genesis in relation to sacrifices offered up by enos, who was the son of seth, nor by his descendants, canaan, mahalaleel, jared, enoch and methuselah, all of whom held the high priesthood, and were consequently prophets of the lord, yet it is quite reasonable to suppose that they, being of the promised seed through whom the messiah was to come, did offer up sacrifices as commemorative of that great promised event. further, in relation to this subject, we are informed in the book of doctrine and covenants [section 107, par. 53-57, p. 389,] that "three years previous to the death of adam, he called seth, enos, cainan, mahalaleel, jared-enoch and methuselah [the persons mentioned above,] who were all high priests, with the residue of his posterity who were righteous, into the valley of adam-ondi-ahman, and there bestowed upon them his last blessing. and the lord appeared unto them, and they rose up and blessed adam, and called him michael, the prince, the archangel. and the lord administered comfort unto adam, and said unto him, i have set thee to be at the head--a multitude of nations shall come of thee, and thou art a prince over them for ever. and adam stood up in the midst of the congregation, and notwithstanding he was bowed down with age, being full of the holy ghost, predicted whatsoever should befall his posterity unto the latest generation. these things were all written in the book of enoch, and are to be testified of in due time." although, in the above, there is nothing directly said about the offering of sacrifices, yet, as this was a usual ceremony, and it belonged to the priesthood and to the promised seed to offer sacrifices, it would be reasonable to suppose that adam did then and there officiate in that rite; indeed, it was stated by the prophet joseph smith, in our hearing, while standing on an elevated piece of ground or plateau near adam-ondi-ahman[a] (davis co., missouri,), where there were a number of rocks piled together, that the valley before us was the valley of adam-ondi-ahman; or in other words, the valley where god talked with adam, and where he gathered his righteous posterity, as recorded in the above revelation, and that this pile of stones was an altar built by him when he offered up sacrifices, as we understand, on that occasion. if adam then offered up sacrifices in the presence of these prominent men, he being the president of these high priests, he would officiate for them as well as for himself; while it is quite reasonable to believe that they assisted in the offerings made upon that altar. regarding this the saints sing: [footnote a: "revelation to joseph, the seer, given near wight's ferry, at a place called spring hill, davis county, missouri, may 19th, 1838, wherein spring hill is named by the lord, adam-ondi-ahman, because, said he, it is the place where adam shall come to visit his people, or the ancient of days shall sit, as spoken of by daniel the prophet."--doc. and cov. sec. 116, p. 415.] this earth was once a garden place, with all her glories common, and men did live a holy race, and worship jesus face to face, in adam-ondi-ahman. we read that enoch walk'd with god, above the power of mammon, while zion spread herself abroad, and saints and angels sung aloud, in adam-ondi-ahman. her land was good and greatly blest, beyond old israel's canaan; her fame was known from east to west, her peace was great, and pure the rest of adam-ondi-ahman. hosannah to such days to come- the savior's second coming, when all the earth in glorious bloom, affords the saints a holy home, like adam-ondi-ahman. chapter ix. enoch, his life and translation--references to him by paul and jude--copious extracts from his prophecy--the prophet joseph smith on enoch and the doctrine of translation--the office of translated saints--enoch's future work--translation and resurrection--christ the creator--summary of the results of enoch's faith in the saving blood of christ. we next come to enoch, who presents a very important figure among the antediluvians, and of whom there are some very marvelous things related. the bible record of him is as follows: "and jared lived an hundred, sixty and two years, and he begat enoch. * * * and enoch lived sixty and five years, and begat methuselah: and enoch walked with god after he begat methuselah three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters; and all the days of enoch were three hundred, sixty and five years; and enoch walked with god, and he was not; for god took him."--gen., v, 18, 21-24. this is certainly a very meagre history of so great a personage, and to supply the deficiency we must have recourse to other testimonies: one important fact, however, is here stated, that "he walked with god;" another is, that "god took him." there was evidently a book written by this patriarch, which is called the book of enoch, for jude says: "and enoch also, the seventh from adam, prophesied of these, saying, behold, the lord cometh with ten thousand of his saints, to execute judgment upon all, and to convince all that are ungodly among them of all their ungodly deeds which they have ungodly committed, and of all their hard speeches which ungodly sinners have spoken against him."--jude, i, 14, 15. from the above it would seem that not only had enoch written a book, but that jude had access to it; or if not had had a communication or revelation from enoch, as referred to by joseph smith, hereafter, for we discover that he had a knowledge of the son of god, the messiah. it is true, the only begotten, as he is spoken of elsewhere, is not here mentioned, but only the lord is referred to; yet the circumstances connected therewith are indicative of it being that personage; for paul expresses the same sentiment in regard to the second coming of the messiah, and says: "and to you, who are troubled, rest with us, when the lord jesus shall be revealed from heaven with his mighty angels, in flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not god, and that obey not the gospel of our lord jesus christ: who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the lord, and from the glory of his power; when he shall come to be glorified in his saints, and to be admired in all them that believe (because our testimony among you was believed) in that day."--2 thes., i, 7-10. moreover, jesus himself makes the following remarks concerning the same subject: "when the son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats."--matt., xxv, 31, 32. thus showing that it was the same personage that was referred to by enoch. paul, in his epistle to the hebrews, writes: "by faith enoch was translated, that he should not see death; and was not found, because god had translated him; for before his translation he had this testimony, that he pleased god."--heb., xi, 5. these declarations are very strongly corroborated by the following extracts from a revelation given to the prophet joseph smith, relating to the prophecy of enoch, and published in the pearl of great price: "and from that time forth enoch began to prophesy, saying unto the people, that, as i was journeying, and stood in the place mahujah, and cried unto the lord, there came a voice out of heaven, saying, turn ye, and get ye upon the mount simeon. and it came to pass that i turned and went up on the mount; and as i stood upon the mount, i beheld the heavens open, and i was clothed upon with glory, and i saw the lord; and he stood before my face, and he talked with me, even as a man talketh one with another, face to face; and he said unto me, look, and i will show unto thee the world for the space of many generations. * * * and the lord said unto me, go forth to this people and say unto them, repent, lest i come out and smite them with a curse, and they die. and he gave unto me a commandment that i should baptize in the name of the father, and of the son, who is full of grace and truth, and the holy ghost, which beareth record of the father and the son. and it came to pass that enoch continued to call upon all the people, save it were the people of cainan, to repent; and so great was the faith of enoch, that he led the people of god, and their enemies came to battle against them; and he spake the word of the lord, and the earth trembled, and the mountains fled, even according to his command; and the rivers of water were turned out of their course; and the roar of the lions was heard out of the wilderness; and all nations feared greatly. * * * and there went forth a curse upon all the people who fought against god; and from that time forth there were wars and bloodshed among them; but the lord came and dwelt with his people, and they dwelt in righteousness. and the fear of the lord was upon all nations, so great was the glory of the lord, which was upon his people. * * * and it came to pass that enoch talked with the lord; and he said unto the lord, surely, zion shall dwell in safety for ever. but the lord said unto enoch, zion have i blessed, but the residue of the people have i cursed. and it came to pass that the lord showed unto enoch all the inhabitants of the earth; and he beheld, and lo, zion, in process of time, was taken up into heaven! and the lord said unto enoch, behold mine abode for ever." the prophet joseph smith, when speaking of enoch and his people and the doctrine of translation, said; "if cain had fulfilled the law of righteousness as did enoch, he would have walked with god all the days of his life, and never failed of a blessing. gen., v, 22: 'and enoch walked with god after he begat methuselah three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters; and all the days of enoch were three hundred and sixty-five years; and enoch walked with god and he was not, for god took him.' now this enoch god reserved unto himself, that he should not die at that time, and appointed unto him a ministry unto terrestrial bodies, of whom there has been but little revealed. he is reserved also unto the presidency of a dispensation, and more shall be said of him and terrestrial bodies in another treatise. he is a ministering angel, to minister to those who shall be heirs of salvation, and appeared unto jude as abel did unto paul: therefore jude spoke of him, 14th and 15th verses: 'and enoch, the seventh from adam, revealed these sayings: behold, the lord cometh with ten thousand of his saints.' "paul was also acquainted with this character, and received instructions from him: heb., xi, 5: 'by faith enoch was translated, that he should not see death, and was not found, because god had translated him; for before his translation he had this testimony, that he pleased god; but without faith it is impossible to please him, for he that cometh to god must believe that he is, and that he is a revealer to those who diligently seek him.' "now the doctrine of translation is a power which belongs to this priesthood. there are many things which belong to the powers of the priesthood and the keys thereof, that have been kept hid from before the foundation of the world; they are hid from the wise and prudent, to be revealed in the last times. "many may have supposed that the doctrine of translation was a doctrine whereby men were taken immediately into the presence of god, and into an eternal fulness, but this is a mistaken idea. their place of habitation is that of the terrestrial order, and a place prepared for such characters he held in reserve to be ministering angels unto many planets, and who as yet have not entered into so great a fulness as those who are resurrected from the dead. see heb., xi, part of 35th verse, 'others were tortured, not accepting deliverance, that they might obtain a better resurrection.' "now it is evident that there was a better resurrection, or else god would not have revealed it unto paul. wherein then can it be said a better resurrection? this distinction is made between the doctrine of the actual resurrection and translation: translation obtains deliverance from the tortures and sufferings of the body, but their existence will prolong as to the labors and toils of the ministry, before they can enter into so great a rest and glory. "on the other hand, those who were tortured, not accepting deliverance, received an _immediate_ rest from their labors. see revelations, xiv, 13: 'and i heard a voice from heaven, saying, blessed are the dead who die in the lord, for from henceforth they do rest from their labors and their works do follow them.' "they rest from their labors for a long time, and yet their work is held in reserve for them, that they are permitted to do the same works after they receive a resurrection for their bodies."--history of joseph smith, deseret news, vol. iv, no. 30. "he [president joseph smith] explained the difference between an angel and a ministering spirit; the one a resurrected or translated body, with its spirit, ministering to embodied spirits; the other a disembodied spirit, visiting or ministering to disembodied spirits. jesus christ became a ministering spirit (while his body was lying in the sepulchre) to the spirits in prison, to fulfil an important part of his mission, without which he could not have perfected his work, nor entered into his rest. after his resurrection he appeared as an angel to his disciples, &c. translated bodies cannot enter into rest until they have undergone a change equivalent to death. translated bodies are designed for future missions. "the angel that appeared to john on the isle of patmos was a translated or resurrected body. jesus christ went in body, after his resurrection, to minister to translated and resurrected bodies. there has been a chain of authority and power from adam down to the present time."--history of joseph smith, deseret news, vol. v, no. 11. it would appear that the translated residents of enoch's city are under the direction of jesus, who is the creator of worlds; and that he, holding the keys of the government of other worlds, could, in his administrations to them, select the translated people of enoch's zion, if he thought proper, to perform a mission to these various planets, and as death had not passed upon them, they could be prepared by him and made use of through the medium of the holy priesthood to act as ambassadors, teachers, or messengers to those worlds over which jesus holds the authority. we read in the times and seasons: "truly jesus christ created the worlds, and is lord of lords, and, as the psalmist said, 'judges among the gods.' then moses might have said with propriety, he is the 'living god,' and christ, speaking of the flesh, could say, i am the son of man; and peter, enlightened by the holy ghost, thou art the son of the living god, meaning our father in heaven, and who, with jesus christ his first begotten son, and the holy ghost, are one in power, one in dominion, and one in glory, constituting the first presidency of this system and this eternity. but they are as much three distinct persons as the sun, moon and earth are three different bodies. "and again, the 'twelve kingdoms,' which are under the above-mentioned presidency of the father, son and holy ghost, are governed by the same rules, and destined to the same honor. [book doc. and cov., page 135, par. 13.[a]] for, 'behold, i will liken these kingdoms unto a man having a field, and he sent forth his servants into the field, to dig in the field; and he said unto the first, go ye and labor in the field, and in the first hour i will come unto you, and ye shall behold the joy of my countenance: and he said unto the second, go ye also into the field, and in the second hour i will visit you with the joy of my countenance; and also unto the third, saying, i will visit you; and unto the fourth, and so on unto the twelfth.'" [footnote a: page 310, new edition.] it is further stated in this section: "therefore, unto this parable will i liken all these kingdoms, and the inhabitants thereof; every kingdom in its hour, and in its time, and in its season; even according to the decree which god hath made."--verse 61. that is, each kingdom, or planet, and the inhabitants thereof, were blessed with the visits and presence of their creator, in their several times and seasons. it is recorded that to jesus has been given all power in heaven and in earth, and from the foregoing quotations he evidently had power which he used to commission the citizens of the zion of enoch to go to other worlds on missions. in. an extract from the teachings of the prophet joseph (elsewhere inserted) it is written: "elijah was the last prophet that held the keys of this priesthood, and who will, before the last dispensation, restore the authority and deliver the keys of this priesthood, in order that all the ordinances may be attended to in righteousness. it is true that the savior had authority and power to bestow this blessing; but the sons of levi were too prejudiced." here jesus paid deference to the priesthood, who held keys relating to the ministration of its powers and blessings, but it is not unreasonable to suppose, when other worlds are concerned, over whom also he holds the keys of salvation, that these considerations would not necessarily interpose, and that he would send or commission members of the translated priesthood of enoch's zion amongst terrestrial worlds whithersoever it pleased him, in the interests of the peoples thus situated. we now resume our extracts from the prophecy of enoch; "and enoch beheld angels descending out of heaven, bearing testimony of the father and of the son; and the holy ghost fell on many, and they were caught up by the power of heaven into zion. * * * "and it came to pass that enoch looked; and from noah, he beheld all the families of the earth; and he cried unto the lord, saying, when shall the day of the lord come? when shall the blood of the righteous be shed, that all they that mourn may be sanctified, and have eternal life? and the lord said, it shall be in the meridian of time, in the days of wickedness and vengeance. and behold, enoch saw the day of the coming of the son of man, even in the flesh; and his soul rejoiced, saying, the righteous is lifted up, and the lamb is slain from the foundation of the world; and through faith i am in the bosom of the father, and behold, zion is with me! * * * "enoch continued his cry unto the lord, saying, i ask thee, o lord, in the name of thine only begotten, even jesus christ, that thou wilt have mercy upon noah and his seed, that the earth might never more be covered by the floods? and the lord could not withhold; and he covenanted with enoch, and sware unto him with an oath, that he would stay the floods; that he would call upon the children of noah; and he sent forth an unalterable decree, that a remnant of his seed should always be found among all nations, while the earth should stand; and the lord said, blessed is he through whose seed messiah shall come; for he saith, i am messiah, the king of zion, the rock of heaven, which is broad as eternity; and whoso cometh in at the gate and climbeth up by me, shall never fall. * * * "and the lord said unto enoch, look; and he looked and beheld the son of man lifted up on the cross, after the manner of men; and he heard a loud voice; and the heavens were veiled; and all the creations of god mourned; and the earth groaned; and the rocks were rent; and the saints arose, and were crowned at the right hand of the son of man, with crowns of glory; and as many of the spirits as were in prison came forth, and stood on the right hand of god; and the remainder were reserved in chains of darkness until the judgment of the great day. * * * "and it came to pass that enoch saw the day of the coming of the son of man, in the last days, to dwell on the earth in righteousness for the space of a thousand years. * * * "and the lord showed enoch all things, even unto the end of the world; and he saw the day of the righteous, the hour of their redemption, and received a fulness of joy; and all the days of zion, in the days of enoch, were three hundred and sixty-five years; and enoch and all his people walked with god, and he dwelt in the midst of zion; and it came to pass that zion was not, for god received it up into his own bosom; and from thence went forth the saying, zion is fled." from the foregoing extracts we learn amongst other truths, all based upon enoch's faith in the atoning blood of the lamb slain from before the foundation of the world, the following: that enoch was clothed with glory and saw the lord, who talked with him as one man talks with another, even face to face. that the lord commanded enoch to preach repentance; and to baptize in the name of the father, and the son, which is full of grace and truth, and the holy spirit, which bears record of the father and the son. that so great was the faith of enoch that he led the people of god, overthrew their enemies, and at his word the earth trembled, whilst the mountains, rivers and seas obeyed his command. that through this faith enoch saw the days of the coming of the son of man in the flesh, and by it he obtained a covenant from the lord that after noah's day he would never again cover the earth by a flood, and obtained an unalterable decree that a remnant of his seed should always be found among all nations while the earth should stand. that the lord showed enoch the world and its future history for the space of many generations, even unto the end of the world. that so great was the faith and righteousness of enoch and his people, that the lord came down and dwelt with them, and in process of time enoch's city, zion, was taken up into heaven, and many, through the testimony of the father and the son, were afterwards caught up by the powers of heaven into zion. and, further, that while enoch, through the favor of the almighty, not only had a mission to preach the gospel and to gather the people, but that he was also empowered to have the people that he had thus gathered, and taught and instructed in the laws of life, and the city in which they dwelt, translated and taken into the bosom of the father, there to be preserved until the latter times, while the threatened calamities should overtake the world. but he also further obtained a promise that the future peopling of the earth should come through his seed; thus making him one of the great agencies to administer salvation in the heavens and upon the earth. chapter x. noah--his sacrifice--god's covenant with him--melchizedek--his priesthood--its powers--instances thereof recorded in the bible, in the book of mormon and in latter-days--all power of the priesthood the result of faith in christ and impossible without the atonement--the power of the priesthood the power of god--the glory of god in the immortality of man--christ the word, the creator. after the waters of the flood had subsided, we are told, noah and his family came forth out of the ark: "and noah builded an altar unto the lord, and took of every clean beast and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar. and the lord smelled a sweet savour; and the lord said in his heart, i will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake; for the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth; neither will i again smite any more every thing living, as i have done. while the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not cease."--gen., viii, 20-22. the details of this act are given us somewhat differently in the inspired translation: it is there written: "and noah builded an altar unto the lord, and took of every clean beast, and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar; and gave thanks unto the lord, and rejoiced in his heart. and the lord spake unto noah, and he blessed him. and noah smelt a sweet savour, and he said in his heart, i will call on the name of the lord, that he will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake, for the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth; and that he will not smite any more every thing living, as he hath done, while the earth remaineth; and that seed time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night may not cease with man." thus, we discover that the first act after the destruction of the world by a flood was a recognition of the great expiatory principle of the atonement, which was to be made by the only begotten son of god, as revealed by the angel to adam. and as god recognized adam's and abel's offerings, so he also recognized that of noah: and as a result, the patriarch obtained great promises, in which the people of all ages, then to come, would be interested. for "god spake unto noah, and to his sons with him, saying, and i, behold, i will establish my covenant with you, which i made unto your father enoch, concerning your seed after you. and it shall come to pass, that every living creature that is with you, of the fowl, and of the cattle, and of the beast of the earth that is with you, which shall go out of the ark, shall not altogether perish: neither shall all flesh be cut off any more by the waters of a flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth. and i will establish my covenant with you, which i made unto enoch, concerning the remnants of your posterity. and god made a covenant with noah, and said, this shall be the token of the covenant i make between me and you, and for every living creature with you, for perpetual generations, i will set my bow in the cloud; and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth. and it shall come to pass, when i bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud; and i will remember my covenant, which i have made between me and you, for every living creature of all flesh. and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh. and the bow shall be in the cloud; and i will look upon it, that i may remember the everlasting covenant, which i made unto thy father enoch; that, when men should keep all my commandments, zion should again come on the earth, the city of enoch, which i have caught up unto myself. and this is mine everlasting covenant, that when thy posterity shall embrace the truth, and look upward, then shall zion look downward, and all the heavens shall shake with gladness, and the earth shall tremble with joy; and the general assembly of the church of the first-born shall come down out of heaven and possess the earth, and shall have place until the end come. and this is mine everlasting covenant, which i made with thy father enoch. and the bow shall be in the cloud, and i will establish my covenant unto thee, which i have made between me and thee, for every living creature of all flesh that shall be upon the earth."--inspired translation, gen., ix, 15-24. we will now turn to melchizedek, of whom it is written in king james' translation: "and melchizedek, king of salem, brought forth bread and wine: and he was the priest of the most high god. and he blessed him, and said, blessed be abram of the most high god, possessor of heaven and earth: and blessed be the most high god, which hath delivered thine enemies into thy hand. and he gave him tithes of all."--gen., xiv, 18-20. this passage is given with greater completeness in the inspired translation, where it appears as follows: "and melchizedek, king of salem, brought forth bread and wine; and he brake bread and blessed it; and he blessed the wine, he being the priest of the most high god; and he gave to abram, and he blessed him, and said, blessed abram, thou art a man of the most high god, possessor of heaven and of earth; and blessed is the name of the most high god, which hath delivered thine enemies into thine hand. and abram gave him tithes of all he had taken." in this action of melchizedek, in administering the bread and wine, by virtue of his priestly office, is there not a representation of the body and blood of our lord and savior jesus christ, as also indicated by the messiah himself when he partook of the passover with his disciples? for melchizedek was a great high priest, of the same order and like priesthood as was held by the son of god. so great, indeed, that "before his day it was called the holy priesthood, after the order of the son of god; but out of respect or reverence to the name of the supreme being, to avoid the too frequent repetition of his name, they, the church, in ancient days, called that priesthood after melchizedek, or the melchizedek priesthood."--doc. and cov., sec. 107, par. 3, 4, p. 383. paul, also, in reasoning on this subject in his epistle to the hebrews, chapter vii, writes: "for this melchizedek, king of salem, priest of the most high god, who met abraham returning from the slaughter of the kings, and blessed him; to whom also abraham gave a tenth part of all; first being by interpretation king of righteousness, and after that also king of salem, which is, king of peace; without father, without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days, nor end of life; but made like unto the son of god; abideth a priest continually. now consider how great this man was, unto whom even the patriarch abraham gave the tenth of the spoils. and verily they that are of the sons of levi, who receive the office of the priesthood, have a commandment to take tithes of the people according to the law, that is, of their brethren, though they come out of the loins of abraham: but he whose descent is not counted from them received tithes of abraham, and blessed him that had the promises. and without all contradiction the less is blessed of the better." to make the matter still plainer we transcribe the third verse from the inspired translation: "for this melchizedek was ordained a priest after the order of the son of god, which order was without father, without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of, days nor end of life. and all those who are ordained unto this priesthood are made like unto the son of god, abiding a priest continually." in genesis, inspired translation, chapter xiv, it is also stated regarding melchizedek: "thus, having been approved of god, he was ordained an high priest after the order of the covenant which god made with enoch, it being after the order of the son of god; which order came, not by man, nor the will of man; neither by father, nor mother; neither by beginning of days, nor end of years; but of god. and it was delivered unto men by the calling of his own voice, according to his own will, unto as many as believed on his name. for god having sworn unto enoch and unto his seed with an oath by himself, that every one being ordained after this order and calling should have power, by faith, to break mountains, to divide the seas, to dry up waters, to turn them out of their course, to put at defiance the armies of nations, to divide the earth, to break every band, to stand in the presence of god; to do all things according to his will, according to his command, subdue principalities and powers; and this by the will of the son of god, which was from before the foundation of the world. and men having this faith, coming up unto this order of god, were translated and taken up into heaven. and now, melchizedek was a priest of this order; therefore he obtained peace in salem, and was called the prince of peace, and his people wrought righteousness, and obtained heaven, and sought for the city of enoch which god had before taken; separating it from the earth, having reserved it unto the latter-days, or the end of the world, and hath said, and sworn with an oath, that the heavens and the earth should come together; and the sons of god should be tried so as by fire. and this melchizedek, having thus established righteousness, was called the king of heaven by his people, or, in other words, the king of peace." from the above it would seem that this people possessed the power of translation, and that they "obtained heaven, and sought for the city of enoch which god had before taken," or which was before translated. the principle of power also over the varied creations of god, above spoken of, pertaining to the holy priesthood after the order of the son of god, has, by faith, been manifested to the world in the lives and actions of numbers of the servants of the most high. the power of enoch, wherein he caused the earth to tremble, whilst mountains fled at his command, and rivers were turned out of their course, has already been referred to. by this power, exercised in mighty faith, melchizedek stopped the mouths of lions and quenched the violence of fire;[a] by it the waters of the red sea were divided by moses, and the children of israel passed through dry shod;[b] by it elijah[c] and elisha[d] smote the waters of the jordan and crossed on dry land; by it daniel escaped the ferocity of the lions,[e] and the three hebrew children were delivered from the fiery furnace.[f] [footnote a: inspired trans. gen., xiv, 26.] [footnote b: exodus, xiv, 21.] [footnote c: 2 kings, ii, 7, 8.] [footnote d: 2 kings, ii, 14.] [footnote e: daniel, vi, 16-23.] [footnote f: daniel, iii, 19-27.] by this same power in the messianic dispensation the apostles were delivered from bonds and imprisonment; by it paul shook off the viper that had fastened upon his hand;[a] by it philip[b] was caught away by the spirit of the lord after he had baptized the ethiopian eunuch; by it john was preserved when he was cast into a cauldron of boiling oil, that it did not hurt him; by it the dead were raised, the lepers cleansed, the sick healed, devils cast out, and other mighty works performed by jesus and his disciples; and by it christ broke the bands of death and became the resurrection and the life, the first fruits of them that slept, the conqueror of death, the savior of the world and redeemer of mankind. [footnote a: acts, xxviii, 3-6.] [footnote b: acts, viii, 39.] again, on this continent, one of the nephite prophets, jacob, the son of lehi, records: "we truly can command in the name of jesus, and the very trees obey us, or the mountains, or the waves of the sea." (jacob, iv, 6.) by faith the brother of jared, who held this power, said unto the mountain zerin, remove; and it was removed;[a] by it alma and amulek caused the walls of the prison in ammonihah to tumble to the ground;[b] by it nephi and lehi wrought the surpassing change upon the lamanites that they were baptized with fire and the holy ghost;[c] by it amnion and his brethren wrought so great a miracle in the conversion of the lamanites;[d] and by it also the disciples of jesus who tarried amongst the nephites showed forth the power spoken of in the following passage: [footnote a: ether, xii, 30] [footnote b: alma, xiv, 26-29.] [footnote c: helaman, v, 43-49.] [footnote d: alma, xvii-xxvii.] "therefore they did exercise power and authority over the disciples of jesus who did tarry with them, and they did cast them into prison: but by the power of the word of god, which was in them, the prisons were rent in twain, and they went forth doing mighty miracles among them. nevertheless, and notwithstanding all these miracles, the people did harden their hearts, and did seek to kill them, even as the jews at jerusalem sought to kill jesus, according to his word; and they did cast them into furnaces of fire, and they came forth receiving no harm; and they also cast them into dens of wild beasts, and they did play with the wild beasts even as a child with a lamb; and they did come forth from among them, receiving no harm."--4 nephi, i, 30-33. this same power has also been abundantly manifested in these latter days in the midst of the saints of god, in deliverances from evil, in escapes from enemies, in the quelling of mobs, in the stilling of the angry waves of the sea, in the healing of the sick, in the casting out of unclean spirits, and in many other miraculous manifestations of the power and goodness of god, and of the authority with which he has invested his servants who are endowed and clothed upon with the priesthood, which is endless and after the order of the son of god. thus, through the atonement of jesus, and the salvation and redemption brought about by that atonement these wonderful manifestations and deliverances have been accomplished by faith in god; and the priesthood being after the order of the son of god, and proceeding from him, through the atonement, those who held this priesthood possessed, according to their faith, the above mentioned powers; and without that atonement this power never could have existed, for men without that sacrifice could not have been brought into that relationship to god, by which they would have the right, the power and authority to act in his name, or to be his representatives to fallen humanity. in fact, the power manifested by the priesthood is simply the power of god, for he is the head of the priesthood, with jesus as our president and great high priest; and it is upon this principle that all the works of god have been accomplished, whether on the earth or in the heavens; and any manifestation of power through the priesthood on the earth is simply a delegated power from the priesthood in the heavens, and the more the priesthood on the earth becomes assimilated with and subject to the priesthood in the heavens the more of this power shall we possess. hence paul, in speaking on this subject, says: "through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of god, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear."--heb., xi, 3. the work of god and the glory of god is to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man; as it is written: "for this is my work and my glory, to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man." (pearl of great price.) the creation of man and the multiplication of man was one thing, the immortality and eternal life of man and his exaltation is another thing; and in the organization of the world, and in the calculations of the almighty pertaining to this immortality and eternal life, it would seem that it was decreed that the only begotten son was provided for the purpose of accomplishing this object; and hence christ was the lamb slain, according to the eternal purposes of god, before the foundation of the world. in relation to the creation of the worlds, as above referred to by paul, john, in the commencement of his gospel, somewhat after the manner of a preface or introduction, writes: "in the beginning was the word, and the word was with god, and the word was god. the same was in the beginning with god. all things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made. in him was life; and the life was the light of men. and the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not." (john, i, 1-5.) or to give the passage, in the wording of the inspired translation: "in the beginning was the gospel preached through the son. and the gospel was the word, and the word was with the son, and the son was with god, and the son was of god. the same was in the beginning with god. all things were made by him; and without him was not anything made which was made. in him was the gospel, and the gospel was the life, and the life was the light of men; and the light shineth in the world, and the world perceiveth it not." from the testimony of john, as given in the book of doctrine and covenants, we also extract the following: "and he bore record, saying, i saw his glory that he was in the beginning before the world was; therefore in the beginning the word was, for he was the word, even the messenger of salvation, the light and the redeemer of the world; the spirit of truth, who came into the world, because the world was made by him, and in him was the life of men and the light of men. the worlds were made by him: men were made by him: all things were made by him, and through him, and of him. and i, john, bear record that i beheld his glory, as the glory of the only begotten of the father, full of grace and truth, even the spirit of truth, which came and dwelt in the flesh, and dwelt among us."--sec. xciii, 7-11, p. 329. paul, likewise, in his epistles, more than once directs attention to this great truth. in writing to the colossians he says: "for by him were all things created, that are in heaven, and that are in earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers: all things were created by him, and for him: and he is before all things, and by him all things consist."--col., i, 16, 17. and to the hebrews he writes, that god "hath in these last days spoken unto us by his son, whom he hath appointed heir of all things, by whom also he made the worlds; who being the brightness of his glory, and the express image of his person, and upholding all things by the word of his power, when he had by himself purged our sins, sat down on the right hand of the majesty on high."--heb., i, 2, 3. god revealed these things unto moses; but his words in relation thereto are among the precious things that have been taken from the scriptures by the iniquity of man; amongst those restored to us by modern revelation are the following words of god to that patriarch with regard to the creation: "and by the word of my power have i created them, which is mine only begotten son, who is full of grace and truth. and worlds without number have i created; and i also created them for mine own purpose; and by the son i created them, which is mine only begotten. and the first man of all men have i called adam, which is many. but only an account of this earth, and the inhabitants thereof, give i unto you. for behold, there are many worlds which have passed away by the word of my power. and there are many also which now stand, and numberless are they unto man, but all things are numbered unto me, for they are mine and i know them."--pearl of great price. chapter xi. abraham's record concerning the creation--the council in heaven--the father's plan, the son's acceptance, satan's rebellion--the agency of man--suggestions regarding satan's plan to save all mankind. the lord also revealed to abraham many great and glorious principles and truths relating to the creation. we extract the following from the fragment of the writings of that patriarch, which has been graciously restored to us by the lord in these days: "and the gods prepared the earth to bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle and creeping things, and beasts of the earth after their kind; and it was so, as they had said. and the gods organized the earth to bring forth the beasts after their kind, the cattle after their kind, and everything that creepeth upon the earth after their kind; and the gods saw they would obey. and the gods took counsel among themselves and said, let us go down and form man in our image, after our likeness; and we will give them dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. so the gods went down to organize man in their own image, in the image of the gods to form they him, male and female, to form they them; and the gods said, we will bless them. and the gods said, we will cause them to be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it, and to have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth. and the gods said, behold, we will give them every herb bearing seed that shall come upon the face of all the earth, and every tree which shall have fruit upon it, yea, the fruit of the tree yielding seed to them we will give it; it shall be for their meat; and to every beast of the earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to every thing that creepeth upon the earth, behold, we will give them life, and also we will give to them every green herb for meat, and all these things shall be thus organized. and the gods said, we will do every thing that we have said, and organize them; and behold, they shall be very obedient. and it came to pass that it was from evening until morning they called night; and it came to pass that it was from morning until evening that they called day; and they numbered the sixth time. "and thus we will finish the heavens and the earth, and all the hosts of them. and the gods said among themselves, on the seventh time we will end our work which we have counseled; and we will rest on the seventh time from all our work which we have counseled. and the gods concluded upon the seventh time, because that on the seventh time they would rest from all their works which they (the gods) counseled among themselves to form, and sanctified it. and thus were their decisions at the time that they counseled among themselves to form the heavens and the earth. "and the gods came down and formed these the generations of the heavens and of the earth, when they were formed in the day that the gods formed the earth and the heavens, according to all that which they had said concerning every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew; for the gods had not caused it to rain upon the earth when they counseled to do them, and had not formed a man to till the ground; but there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground. and the gods formed man from the dust of the ground, and took his spirit (that is, the man's spirit,) and put it into him, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul." although this matter of the council or conference is not so fully exhibited in the old testament scriptures as in this revelation to abraham, yet it is definitely stated in the book of genesis that god said, "let _us_ make man in _our_ image, after _our_ likeness;" and again, after adam had taken of the forbidden fruit the lord said, "behold, the man has become as one of us;" and the inference is direct that in all that related to the work of the creation of the world, there was a consultation; and though god spake as it is recorded in the bible, yet it is evident he counseled with others. the scriptures tell us there are "gods many and lords many. but to us there is but one god, the father." (1 cor., viii, 5.) and for this reason, though there were others engaged in the creation of the worlds, it is given to us in the bible in the shape that it is; for the fulness of these truths is only revealed to highly favored persons for certain reasons known to god; as we are told in the scriptures: "the secret of the lord is with them that fear him; and he will show them his covenant."--psalms, xxv, 14. it is consistent to believe that at this council in the heavens the plan that should be adopted in relation to the sons of god who were then spirits, and had not yet obtained tabernacles, was duly considered. for, in view of the creation of the world and the placing of men upon it, whereby it would be possible for them to obtain tabernacles, and in those tabernacles obey laws of life, and with them again be exalted among the gods, we are told, that at that time, "the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of god shouted for joy." the question then arose, how, and upon what principle, should the salvation, exaltation and eternal glory of god's sons be brought about? it is evident that at that council certain plans had been proposed and discussed, and that after a full discussion of those principles, and the declaration of the father's will pertaining to his design, lucifer came before the father, with a plan of his own, saying, "behold i, send me, i will be thy son, and i will redeem all mankind, that one soul shall not be lost, and surely i will do it; wherefore, give me thine honor." but jesus, on hearing this statement made by lucifer, said, "father, thy will be done, and the glory be thine forever." from these remarks made by the well beloved son, we should naturally infer that in the discussion of this subject the father had made known his will and developed his plan and design pertaining to these matters, and all that his well beloved son wanted to do was to carry out the will of his father, as it would appear had been before expressed. he also wished the glory to be given to his father, who, as god the father, and the originator and designer of the plan, had a right to all the honor and glory. but lucifer wanted to introduce a plan contrary to the will of his father, and then wanted his honor, and said: "i will save every soul of man, wherefore give me thine honor." he wanted to go contrary to the will of his father, and presumptuously sought to deprive man of his free agency, thus making him a serf, and placing him in a position in which it was impossible for him to obtain that exaltation which god designed should be man's, through obedience to the law which he had suggested; and again, lucifer wanted the honor and power of his father, to enable him to carry out principles which were contrary to the father's wish. and further, in regard to agency; if man had not had his agency, or if he had been deprived of his agency, he could not have been tempted of the devil, or of any other power; for if the will of god prevailed, and was carried out without man's action or agency, it would have been impossible for him to have done anything wrong, for he would have been deprived of the power of doing that wrong. this was the position that satan desired to place, not only the spirits in the heavens, but also mankind upon the earth. and satan said, "surely i will save every one of them, wherefore, give me thine honor." but god's plan was different from this, and, as stated above, had been decided upon in the councils of heaven; and the father had made a decree as to how these things should be done; and that both the inhabitants of heaven and the inhabitants of earth should have their free agency. it was against this that lucifer rebelled; and he could not have rebelled against a plan or commandment that had not been given; for rebellion signifies a violation of law, command, or authority; and he was cast out of heaven because of this rebellion. this rebellion could not have existed without a free agency; for without a free agency they would all have been compelled to do the will of the father. but having the free agency, they used it; and lucifer and a third part of the angels were cast out because they rebelled and used this agency in opposition to their heavenly father. and not only because they rebelled, but because, as stated, "they sought to destroy the agency of man;" and their agency would have been used in opposition to the interests, happiness and eternal exaltation of mankind, which were proposed to be accomplished through the atonement and redemption provided by jesus christ. in accordance with this we find the following statements in the revelations given to the prophet joseph smith: "behold, the devil was before adam, for he rebelled against me, saying, give me thine honor, which is my power: and also a third part of the hosts of heaven turned he away from me because of their agency; and they were thrust down, and thus came the devil and his angels. and, behold, there is a place prepared for them from the beginning, which place is hell: and it must needs be that the devil should tempt the children of men, or they could not be agents unto themselves, for if they never should have bitter, they could not know the sweet."--doc. and cov., xxix, 36-39, p. 146. and again; "and this we saw also, and bear record, that an angel of god who was in authority in the presence of god, who rebelled against the only begotten son, whom the father loved, and who was in the bosom of the father--was thrust down from the presence of god and the son, and was called perdition, for the heavens wept over him--he was lucifer, a son of the morning. and we beheld, and lo, he is fallen! is fallen! even a son of the morning. and while we were yet in the spirit, the lord commanded us that we should write the vision, for we beheld satan, that old serpent--even the devil--who rebelled against god, and sought to take the kingdom of our god and his christ." doc. and cov., lxxvi, 25-28, p. 267. the father accepted the offer of his well beloved son, and proceeded to carry out the decision of the council, and, as we are informed in the bible (inspired translation), god said to his only begotten, "let us make man in our image, after our likeness, and it was so." there are other questions mixed up with this rebellion besides those above referred to, and those questions are directly connected with the atonement. in the event of man having his free will and being subject to the power of temptation, the weakness of the flesh, the allurements of the world, and the powers of darkness, it was known that he must necessarily fall, and being fallen, it would be impossible for him to redeem himself, and that, according to an eternal law of justice, it would require an infinite, expiatory atonement to redeem man, to save him from the effects and ruin of the fall, and to place him in a condition where he could again be reinstated in the favor of god, according to the eternal laws of justice and mercy; and find his way back to the presence of the father. satan (it is possible) being opposed to the will of his father, wished to avoid the responsibilities of this position, and rather than assume the consequences of the acceptance of the plan of the father, he would deprive man of his free agency, and render it impossible for him to obtain that exaltation which god designed. it would further seem probable that he refused to take the position of redeemer, and assume all the consequences associated therewith, but he did propose, as stated before, to take another plan and deprive man of his agency, and he probably intended to make men atone for their own acts by an act of coercion, and the shedding of their own blood as an atonement for their sins; therefore, he says, "i will redeem all mankind, that one soul shall not be lost; and surely i will do it; wherefore, give me thine honor." his plan, however, was rejected as contrary to the counsel of god, his father. the well beloved son then addressed the father, and instead of proposing to carry out any plan of his own, knowing what his father's will was, said, "thy will be done;" 'i will carry out thy plans and thy designs, and, as man will fall, i will offer myself as an atonement according to thy will, o god. neither do i wish the honor, but thine be the glory;'" and a covenant was entered into between him and his father, in which he agreed to atone for the sins of the world; and he thus, as stated, became the lamb slain from before the foundation of the world. in this connection it is related by abraham: "and there stood one among them that was like unto god, and he said unto those who were with him, we will go down, for there is space there, and we will take of these materials, and we will make an earth whereon these may dwell; and we will prove them herewith, to see if they will do all things whatsoever the lord their god shall command them; and they who keep their first estate, shall be added upon; and they who keep not their first estate, shall not have glory in the same kingdom with those who keep their first estate; and they who keep their second estate, shall have glory added upon their heads for ever and ever." and hence, as jesus himself said, "thus it is written and thus it behooved christ to suffer, and to rise from the dead the third day; and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in his name among all nations, beginning at jerusalem." we will now give in full the quotation from the pearl of great price with regard to the above matter, and also add a short recapitulation. "and i, the lord god, spake unto moses, saying, that satan, whom thou hast commanded in the name of mine only begotten, is the same which was from the beginning, and he came before me, saying, behold i, send me, i will be thy son, and i will redeem all mankind, that one soul shall not be lost, and surely i will do it; wherefore give me thine honor. but, behold, my beloved son, which was my beloved and chosen from the beginning, said unto me, father, thy will be done, and the glory be thine for ever. wherefore, because that satan rebelled against me, and sought to destroy the agency of man, which i, the lord god, had given him, and also, that i should give unto him mine own power, by the power of mine only begotten i caused that he should be cast down, and he became satan, yea, even the devil, the father of all lies, to deceive, and to blind men, and to lead them captive at his will, even as many as would not hearken unto my voice." from the above we gather: first, that the proposition of lucifer was an act of rebellion "against me"--god. second, that god had already decreed that man should have his free agency, and this agency had been given to him by the lord, as it is said, "which i, the lord god, had given him." third, that lucifer coveted and asked for a power which was the prerogative of the almighty and alone belonged to god; and which he called "mine own power." fourth, that for this rebellion lucifer was cast out and became satan. fifth, that the power by which he was cast out, was by a certain power or priesthood which had been conferred by god on his only begotten; for he said, "by the power of mine only begotten i caused that he should be cast down." sixth, that being cast down and becoming satan, "even the devil, the father of lies," his office was to deceive and to blind men; as it is stated, "to deceive, and to blind men, and to lead them captive at his will even as many as would not hearken unto my voice." chapter xii. abraham, isaac and jacob--sacrifices offered by them--abraham and the gospel covenant--extracts from the book of abraham and the writings of paul. we will now return to abraham, who is denominated the father of the faithful, and who, as we have before seen, was a contemporary of melchizedek. the testimony in the bible is direct and explicit that abraham fulfilled the law requiring the offering of sacrifices, and furthermore was in possession of the principles of the gospel and understood the saving value of the atonement. in the historical narrative of the book of genesis, we have numerous testimonies that abraham offered up sacrifices, in connection with his worship of the almighty. for instance, it is written: "and abram passed through the land unto the place of sichem, unto the plain of moreh. and the canaanite was then in the land. and the lord appeared unto abram, and said, unto thy seed will i give this land; and there builded he an altar unto the lord, who appeared unto him. and he removed from thence unto a mountain on the east of beth-el, and pitched his tent, having beth-el on the west, and hai on the east: and there he builded an altar unto the lord, and called upon the name of the lord."--gen., xii, 6-8. in the next chapter we are told that abraham "went on his journeys from the south even to beth-el, unto the place where his tent had been at the beginning, between beth-el and hai; unto the place of the altar, which he had made there at the first: and there abram called on the name of the lord."--gen., xiii, 3, 4. and afterwards he removed his "tent, and came and dwelt in the plain of mamre, which is in hebron, and built there an altar unto the lord."--gen., xiii, 18. the book of abraham gives some further details on these matters. the patriarch therein states: "now i, abraham, built an altar in the land of jershon, and made an offering unto the lord, and prayed that the famine might be turned away from my father's house, that they might not perish; and then we passed from jershon through the land, unto the place of sechem. it was situated in the plains of moreh, and we had already come into the borders of the land of the canaanites, and i offered sacrifice there in the plains of moreh, and called on the lord devoutly, because we had already come into the land of this idolatrous nation. and the lord appeared unto me in answer to my prayers, and said unto me, unto thy seed will i give this land. and i, abraham, arose from the place of the altar which i had built unto the lord, and removed from thence unto a mountain on the east of bethel, and pitched my tent there, bethel on the west, and hai on the east: and there i built another altar unto the lord, and called again upon the name of the lord."--pearl of great price. although full details are not given of the mode of sacrifice in those ancient times, nor of all the creatures that were acceptable unto the lord, in the performance of this rite, yet the narrative of the contemplated sacrifice of isaac by his father is indicative of the principle being well understood. we are told that the young man said: "my father: and he said, here am i, my son. and he said, behold the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for a burnt-offering? and abraham said, my son, god will provide himself a lamb for a burnt-offering."--gen., xxii, 7, 8. it is evident from other scriptures that abraham offered up these sacrifices in token of the great expiatory sacrifice of the son of god. indeed the redeemer himself told the jews, "your father abraham rejoiced to see my day: and he saw it, and was glad."--john, viii, 56. in confirmation of this statement we read in the inspired translation of the book of genesis that the lord said to abraham, in relation to his possession of the land of canaan, "though thou wast dead, yet am i not able to give it thee? and if thou shalt die, yet thou shalt possess it, for the day cometh that the son of man shall live; but how can he live if he be not dead? he must first be quickened. and it came to pass, that abram looked forth and saw the days of the son of man, and was glad, and his soul found rest, and he believed in the lord; and the lord counted it unto him for righteousness." again, paul, in writing to the galatians, states: "and the scripture, foreseeing that god would justify the heathen through faith, preached before the gospel unto abraham, saying, in thee shall all nations be blessed. so then they which be of faith are blessed with faithful abraham."--gal., iii, 8, 9. this promise is corroborated by the statements of peter to the jews: "ye are the children of the prophets, and of the covenant which god made with our fathers, saying unto abraham, and in thy seed shall all the kindreds of the earth be blessed. unto you first, god, having raised up his son jesus, sent him to bless you, in turning away every one of you from his iniquities."--acts, iii, 25, 26. the record of this covenant is to be found in the book of genesis, as follows: "now the lord had said unto abram, get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father's house, unto a land that i will show thee; and i will make of thee a great nation; and i will bless thee, and make thy name great; and i will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee, and in thee shall all families of the earth be blessed."--gen., xii, 1-3.[a] [footnote a: see also genesis, xviii, 18; xxii, 18.] it will be noticed in the above quotation from the book of genesis, that no reference is made to the preaching of the gospel to abraham in connection with these great promises as spoken of by paul. this deficiency is supplied by the book of abraham, wherein the covenant between god and his faithful servant is given at greater length in that covenant we find the following: "my name is jehovah, and i will make of thee a great nation and i will bless thee above measure, and make thy name great among all nations, and thou shalt be a blessing unto thy seed after thee, that in their hands they shall bear this ministry and priesthood unto all nations, and i will bless them through thy name; for as many as receive this gospel shall he called after thy name, and shall be accounted thy seed, and shall rise up and bless thee, as their father; and i will bless them that bless thee, and curse them that curse thee; and in thee (that is, in thy priesthood) and in thy seed, (that is, thy priesthood,) for i give unto thee a promise that this right shall continue in thee, and in thy seed after thee, (that is to say, the literal seed, or the seed of the body,) shall all the families of the earth be blessed, even with the blessings of the gospel, which are the blessings of salvation, even of life eternal." of the personal history of isaac we have but a very meagre account in the bible; however, sufficient is said to inform us that he, like his father, offered up sacrifices, that his offering was acceptable to god, and that he renewed with him the covenant previously made with abraham. of isaac it is written: "and he went up from thence to beer-sheba. and the lord appeared unto him the same night, and said, i am the god of abraham thy father: fear not, for i am with thee, and will bless thee, and multiply thy seed for my servant abraham's sake. and he builded an altar there, and called upon the name of the lord."--gen., xxvi, 23-25. jacob followed in the footsteps of his father. he worshipped the true and living god, and had the blessings of his fathers confirmed on him. regarding sacrifices we are informed that, after his sudden departure from laban and their later somewhat stormy interview, "jacob offered sacrifice upon the mount" (gen., xxxi, 52); and again, shortly after, by command of the lord, he journeyed to bethel, "and he built there an altar and called the place el-beth-el," or the house of god.--gen., xxxv, 7. chapter xiii. sacrifices in the days of moses--the institution of the passover and the exodus--the symbolism of the paschal lamb--the covenant of the atonement between christ and his father--the redeemed--tokens of covenants--the rainbow--the name of jesus the only name--the levites. in regard to the offering of sacrifices, it is very evident that in the days of moses the children of israel were quite familiar with this rite, as also were the egyptians. for one great request which moses and aaron made of pharaoh, king of egypt, was, "let us go, we pray thee, three days' journey into the desert, and sacrifice unto the lord our god;" and as a reason why they should thus go into the wilderness it was urged by them, when the egyptian monarch said, "go ye, sacrifice to your god in the land," that "it is not meet so to do; for we shall sacrifice the abomination of the egyptians to the lord our god: lo, shall we sacrifice the abomination of the egyptians before their eyes, and will they not stone us? we will go three days' journey into the wilderness, and sacrifice to the lord our god, as he shall command us."--ex., viii, 26, 27. it is further stated, that after a time, when all other judgments had failed to bring about the desired effect with pharaoh, that "moses said, thus saith the lord, about midnight will i go out into the midst of egypt: and all the first-born in the land of egypt shall die, from the first-born of pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the first-born of the maid-servant that is behind the mill; and all the first-born of beasts. and there shall be a great cry throughout all the land of egypt, such as there was none like it, nor shall be like it any more. but against any of the children of israel shall not a dog move his tongue, against man or beast: that ye may know how that the lord doth put a difference between the egyptians and israel."--ex., xi, 4-7. the next chapter gives the history of the fulfilment of this threatened judgment and the results that flowed therefrom. it is recorded: "and the lord spake unto moses and aaron in the land of egypt, saying, this month shall be unto you the beginning of months; it shall be the first month of the year to you. speak ye unto all the congregation of israel, saying, in the tenth day of this month they shall take to them every man a lamb according to the house of their fathers, a lamb for an house: and if the household be too little for the lamb, let him and his neighbor next unto his house take it according to the number of the souls: every man according to his eating shall make your count for the lamb. your lamb shall be without blemish, a male of the first year: ye shall take it out from the sheep or from the goats: and ye shall keep it up until the fourteenth day of the same month: and the whole assembly of the congregation of israel shall kill it in the evening. and they shall take of the blood, and strike it on the two side-posts, and on the upper door-post of the houses, wherein they shall eat it. and they shall eat the flesh in that night, roast with fire, and unleavened bread; and with bitter herbs they shall eat it."--ex., xii, 1-8. "and thus shall ye eat it; with your loins girded your shoes on your feet, and your staff in your hand: and ye shall eat it in haste; it is the lord's passover. for i will pass through the land of egypt this night, and will smite all the first-born in the land of egypt, both man and beast: and against all the gods of egypt i will execute judgment: i am the lord. and the blood shall be to you for a token upon the houses where ye are: and when i see the blood, i will pass over you, and the plague shall not be upon you to destroy you, when i smite the land of egypt. and this day shall be unto you for a memorial; and ye shall keep it a feast to the lord throughout your generations: ye shall keep it a feast by an ordinance for ever."-ex., xii, 11-14. "then moses called for all the elders of israel, and said unto them, draw out, and take you a lamb, according to your families, and kill the passover. and ye 'shall take a bunch of hyssop, and dip it in the blood that is in the basin, and strike the lintel and the two side-posts with the blood that is in the basin: and none of you shall go out at the door of his house until the morning. for the lord will pass through to smite the egyptians; and when he seeth the blood upon the lintel, and on the two side-posts, the lord will pass over the door, and will not suffer the destroyer to come in unto your houses to smite you. and ye shall observe this thing for an ordinance to thee and to thy sons for ever."--ex., xii, 21-24. "and the children of israel went away, and did as the lord had commanded moses and aaron, so did they. and it came to pass, that at midnight the lord smote all the first-born in the land of egypt, from the first-born of pharaoh that sat on his throne, unto the first-born of the captive that was in the dungeon; and all the first-born of cattle. and pharaoh rose up in the night, he, and all his servants, and all the egyptians; and there was a great cry in egypt: for there was not a house where there was not one dead. and he called for moses and aaron by night, and said, rise up, and get you forth from among my people, both ye and the children of israel: and go, serve the lord, as ye have said. also take your flocks and your herds, as ye have said, and be gone: and bless me also. and the egyptians were urgent upon the people, that they might send them out of the land in haste; for they said, we be all dead men."--ex., xii, 28-33. it is further said: "and it shall be when thy son asketh thee in time to come, saying, what is this? that thou shalt say unto him, by strength of hand the lord brought us out from egypt, from the house of bondage; and it came to pass, when pharaoh would hardly let us go, that the lord slew all the first-born in the land of egypt, both the first-born of man, and the first-born of beasts; therefore i sacrifice to the lord all that openeth the matrix, being males; but all the first-born of my children i redeem."--ex., xiii, 14, 15. from the above quotations, amongst other important matters, it appears, that when the destroying angel passed by the houses of the children of israel he found the blood of a lamb sprinkled on the door post; which was a type of the blood of christ, the lamb of god. the angel who was the executor of justice could not touch those who were protected by that sacred symbol; because that prefigured the sacrifice of the son of god, which was provided at the beginning of creation for the redemption of the human family, and which was strictly in accordance with provisions then made by the almighty for that purpose--"the lamb slain from before the foundation of the world"--and accepted in full as an atonement for the transgressions of mankind, according to the requirements of eternal justice and agreed to by the savior and his father. a proposition is made to meet the requirements of justice, which proposal is accepted by the contracting parties, all these contracting parties being satisfied with the arrangement thus made. hence it is said by one of the prophets: "then he is gracious unto him, and saith, deliver him from going down to the pit: i have found a ransom."--job, xxxiii, 24. and further: "therefore the redeemed of the lord shall return, and come with singing unto zion; and everlasting joy shall be upon their head: they shall obtain gladness and joy; and sorrow and mourning shall flee away."--isaiah, li, 11. who are the redeemed, except those who have accepted the terms of the ransom thus provided? the ransom being provided and accepted, the requirements of justice are met, for those contracts are provided and sanctioned by the highest contracting parties that can be found in the heavens, and the strongest, most indubitable and infinite assurances are given for the fulfilment of that contract, and until the contract is fulfilled the sacrifices are offered as a token and remembrance of the engagements and covenants entered into god gave a token to noah, of a rainbow, which should be a sign between him and mankind that he would nevermore destroy the earth by water; he accepted these sacrifices as a token of the covenant that the messiah should come to take away sin by the sacrifice of himself, and thus fulfil the covenant, pertaining to this matter, made before the world was. and again there was another token, which was given to adam by an angel. this holy messenger said to our great father, "thou shalt do all that thou doest in the name of the son. and thou shalt repent, and call upon god, in the name of the son for evermore." (pearl of great price.) for, as expressed in the new testament, "there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved." (acts iv, 12.) or, to quote from the book of mormon, "there shall be no other name given, nor any other way nor means whereby salvation can come unto the children of men, only in and through the name of christ, the lord omnipotent." and furthermore, that name, or token, will continue to be given until the scripture is fulfilled which saith: "wherefore god also hath highly exalted him, and given him a name which is above every name: that at the name of jesus every knee shall bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth; and that every tongue should confess that jesus christ is lord, to the glory of god the father."--phil., ii, 9-11. again, the lord, through the sprinkling of the blood of a lamb on the door-posts of the israelites, having saved the lives of all the first-born of israel, made a claim upon them for their services in his cause. it is written: "and i, behold, i have taken the levites from among the children of israel instead of all the first-born that openeth the matrix among the children of israel; therefore the levites shall be mine; because all the first-born are mine; for on the day that i smote all the first-born in the land of egypt i hallowed unto me all the first-born in israel, both man and beast; mine they shall be: i am the lord."--num., iii, 12, 13. but the first-born of the egyptians, for whom no lamb as a token of the propitiation was offered, were destroyed. it was through the propitiation and atonement alone that the israelites were saved, and, under the circumstances they must have perished with the egyptians, who were doomed, had it not been for the contemplated atonement and propitiation of christ, of which this was a figure. hence the lord claimed those that he saved as righteously belonging to him, and claiming them as his he demanded their services; but afterwards, as shown in the above quotation, he accepted the tribe of levi in lieu of the first-born of israel; and as there were more of the first-born than there were of the levites, the balance had to be redeemed with money, which was given to aaron, as the great high priest and representative of the aaronic priesthood, he being also a levite. (see numbers, iii, 50, 51.) chapter xiv. history of sacrifices and the law of moses among the nephites- references to the books of nephi, jacob, mosiah and alma--the testimony of jesus regarding the law of moses. from the bible we turn to the book of mormon, with a view to discover to what extent the law of sacrifice, as a type of the offering up of the promised messiah, was observed among that branch of the house of israel which god planted on this continent. in perusing the pages of this sacred record, we shall find several important facts and ideas, in connection with this subject, presented very prominently by the ancient nephite historians: among them-first, that the law of moses, with all its rites, ordinances, and sacrifices, was strictly observed by the faithful nephites from the time of their arrival on the promised land, until it was fulfilled in christ, and by his command ceased to be observed. second, that when the nephites brought any of the lamanites to the knowledge and worship of the true god, they taught them to observe this law. third, that those who apostatized from the nephites, as a general thing, ceased to observe this law. fourth, that the true import of the law of moses, and of its ceremonies and sacrifices, as typical of the atonement yet to be made by our lord and savior, was thoroughly taught by the priesthood among that people, and very generally understood by them. fifth, that associated with the observance of this law, there were continued admonitions given that salvation was in christ and not in the law, which was but the shadow and type of that of which he was the prototype and reality. sixth, that temples were erected of the same pattern as that of solomon at jerusalem, evidently for the reason that they were to be used for the same purposes. seventh, that the gospel was preached in connection with the law, and churches were established and organized according to the gospel requirements, and that the higher priesthood, although not fully organized in all its parts, ministered to the nephites as well as the lesser. eighth, it appears indubitable from the two records, the bible and the book of mormon, that the intent and true meaning of the law of moses, of its sacrifices, etc., were far better understood and comprehended by the nephites than by the jews. but in this connection, it must not be forgotten, that a great many most plain and precious things, as the book of mormon states, have been taken from the bible, through the ignorance of uninspired translators or the design and cunning of wicked men. as might naturally be expected, we find that lehi, like his forefathers of the mosaic age, offered sacrifices to the lord during his journeyings in the wilderness. these sacrifices were occasions of thanksgiving and praise to god. as examples, we note the occasion of the safe return of lehi's sons from jerusalem with the records, when, we are told by nephi, their parents "did rejoice exceedingly, and did offer sacrifice and burnt offerings unto the lord; and they gave thanks unto the god of israel. and after they had given thanks unto the god of israel, my father, lehi, took the records which were engraven upon the plates of brass, and he did search them from the beginning."--1 nephi, v, 9, 10. another occasion was when nephi and his brethren again returned from the holy city, bringing with them ishmael and his family. of this nephi writes: "after i and my brethren, and all the house of ishmael, had come down unto the tent of my father, they did give thanks unto the lord their god; and they did offer sacrifice and burnt offerings unto him."--1 nephi, vii, 22. after the arrival of the colony on the promised land and the death of lehi, his sons and their families divided into two communities, or nationalities; the one righteous and godfearing, the other rebellious and debased. owing to the contentious and quarrelsome disposition of the latter, who recognized laman, lehi's eldest son, as their head, the portion who sought to serve the lord, for the sake of peace and security moved some distance to the northward. nephi was their leader, and of them he records: "and all those who were with me, did take upon them to call themselves the people of nephi. and we did observe to keep the judgments, and the statutes, and the commandments of the lord in all things, according to the law of moses. and the lord was with us: and we did prosper exceedingly."--2 nephi, v, 9--11. one of the first things that the nephites did on their arrival at their new home was to build a temple. they could not keep the judgments, the commandments, and the statutes of the lord in all things, according to the law of moses, unless they did so; and necessarily it was fashioned after the one at jerusalem, for it was to be used for the same purposes; in it the same ordinances were to be performed, the same sacrifices were to be offered. nephi writes: "and i, nephi, did build a temple: and i did construct it after the manner of the temple of solomon, save it were not built of so many precious things; for they were not to be found upon the land; wherefore, it could not be built like unto solomon's temple. but the manner of the construction was like unto the temple of solomon; and the workmanship thereof was exceeding fine."--2 nephi, v, 16. thus the fulfilling of the divine commandments was provided for; a place was erected where the law of moses could be carried out, and the sacrifices be offered which formed so important a part of that code. the nephites were not left by their priesthood in ignorance of the intent and symbolism of these ceremonies. they were not unmeaning, burdensome, spiritless performances to them. nephi and his successors were particularly careful in explaining that these ordinances, like all other rites of the church of god, had their value in their association with or being directly typical of the great, infinite sacrifice of atonement to be offered up by the lamb of god in his own person. nephi informs us: "behold, my soul delighteth in proving unto my people the truth of the coining of christ: for, for this end hath the law of moses been given; and all things which have been given of god from the beginning of the world, unto man, are the typifying of him."--2 nephi, xi, 4. and a little later he writes: "and notwithstanding we believe in christ, we keep the law of moses, and look forward with steadfastness unto christ, until the law shall be fulfilled; for, for this end was the law given; wherefore the law hath become dead unto us, and we are made alive in christ, because of our faith; yet we keep the law because of the commandments; and we talk of christ, we rejoice in christ, we preach of christ, we prophesy of christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins. wherefore, we speak concerning the law, that our children may know the deadness of the law; and they, by knowing the deadness of the law, may look forward to the life which is in christ, and know for what end the law was given. and after the law is fulfilled in christ, that they need not harden their hearts against him, when the law ought to be done away."--2 nephi, xxv, 24-27. which agrees with the statement of paul: "wherefore the law was our schoolmaster, to bring us unto christ, that we might be justified by faith." so firm a foundation having been laid for the faith of the nephite people, we find that in every period of their history they retained their reverence for the law of moses, though disputations sometimes arose, by reason of iniquity, with regard to its symbolism or its saving quality. the apostates, who separated themselves from the church, occasionally fell into the grievous error ef exalting the law above the gospel, and, whilst maintaining its divine origin, they ignored its typical value and denied that it was a preparatory system leading to a higher, holier and more perfect law; they refused to recognize it as a schoolmaster to bring them to christ. the first of these apostacies occurred in the days of jacob, the brother of nephi. with regard to the people in general, he writes: "behold, they believed in christ and worshipped the father in his name, and also we worship the father in his name. and for this intent we keep the law of moses, it pointing our souls to him; and for this cause it is sanctified unto us for righteousness, even as it was accounted unto abraham in the wilderness, to be obedient unto the commandments of god in offering up his son isaac, which is a similitude of god and his only begotten son."--jacob, iv, 5. but while the majority of the nephites fully recognized these saving truths, there arose a man named sherem, who disputed and denied that the law pointed the souls of men to christ, as the great propitiator for sin and the redeemer of the world. this sherem declared unto the people that there should be no christ, and his flatteries and sophistries led away many people. of him and his doings jacob writes: "and it came to pass that he came unto me; and on this wise did he speak unto me, saying: brother jacob, i have sought much opportunity that i might speak unto you: for i have heard and also know, that thou goest about much, preaching that which you call the gospel, or the doctrine of christ; and ye have led away much of this people, that they pervert the right way of god, and keep not the law of moses, which is the right way: and convert the law of moses into the worship of a being, which ye say shall come many hundred years hence. and now behold, i, sherem, declare unto you, that this is blasphemy; for no man knoweth of such things; for he cannot tell of things to come. and after this manner did sherem contend against me. but behold, the lord god poured in his spirit into my soul, insomuch that i did confound him in all his words. and i said unto him, deniest thou the christ who should come? and he said, if there should be a christ, i would not deny him; but i know that there is no christ, neither has been, nor ever will be. and i said unto him, believest thou the scriptures? and he said, yea. and i said unto him, then ye do not understand them; for they truly testify of christ. behold, i say unto you, that none of the prophets have written, nor prophesied, save they have spoken concerning this christ. and this is not all: it has been made manifest unto me, for i have heard and seen and it also has been made manifest unto me by the power of the holy ghost; wherefore, i know, if there should be no atonement made, all mankind must be lost."--jacob, vii, 6-12. somewhat similar was the argument that took place between the martyr abinadi and the apostate priests of the iniquitous noah, king of the land of lehi-nephi. they officiated in the temple, observed the outward forms of the mosaic law, but revelled in licentiousness, covetousness, gluttony and all manner of iniquity. to them was abinadi sent to warn them and their king of the results of their mutual wrong doing. in the account of this mission of abinadi we read that he said: "ye have not applied your hearts to understanding; therefore, ye have not been wise. therefore, what teach ye this people? and they said, we teach the law of moses. and again he said unto them, if ye teach the law of moses why do ye not keep it? why do ye set your hearts upon riches? why do ye commit whoredoms and spend your strength with harlots, yea, and cause this people to commit sin, that the lord has cause to send me to prophesy against this people, yea, even a great evil against this people? know ye not that i speak the truth? yea, ye know that i speak the truth; and you ought to tremble before god. and it shall come to pass that ye shall be smitten for your iniquities: for ye have said that ye teach the law of moses. and what know ye concerning the law of moses? does salvation come by the law of moses? what say ye? and they answered and said, that salvation did come by the law of moses. but now abinadi said unto them, i know if ye keep the commandments of god ye shall be saved; yea, if ye keep the commandments which the lord delivered unto moses in the mount of sinai."--mos., xii, 27-33. he then rehearsed to them the commandments; after which he again inquired: "have ye taught this people that they should observe to do all these things? for to keep these commandments? i say unto you nay; for if ye had, the lord would not have caused me to come forth and to prophesy evil concerning this people. and now ye have said that salvation cometh by the law of moses. i say unto you that it is expedient that ye should keep the law of moses as yet; but i say unto you, that the time shall come when it shall no more be expedient to keep the law of moses. and moreover, i say unto you, that salvation doth not come by the law alone; and were it not for the atonement which god himself shall make for the sins and iniquities of his people, that they must unavoidably perish, notwithstanding the law of moses. and now i say unto you, that it was expedient that there should be a law given to the children of israel, yea, even a very strict law; for they were a stiff-necked people; quick to do iniquity, and slow to remember the lord their god; therefore there was a law given them, yea, a law of performances and of ordinances, a law which they were to observe strictly, from day to day, to keep them in remembrance of god, and their duty towards him. but behold, i say unto you, that all these things were types of things to come. and now, did they understand the law? i say unto you, nay, they did not all understand the law; and this because of the hardness of their hearts; for they understood not that there could not any man be saved, except it were through the redemption of god. for behold, did not moses prophesy unto them concerning the coming of the messiah, and that god should redeem his people, yea, and even all the prophets who have prophesied ever since the world began? have they not spoken more or less concerning these things?"--mos., xiii, 25-33. at this time the righteous nephites in the land of zarahemla were keeping the law of moses strictly, so far as its outward ordinances were concerned, and understandingly with regard to its symbolism and similitudes. when the obedient nephites were led out of the land of nephi by mosiah, they found in the land, afterwards called zarahemla, a people who proved to be a branch of the house of israel, but who, owing to the fact that they had no records nor scriptures, had corrupted their language, failed to observe the law of moses, and had so far fallen that they actually denied the existence of god. mosiah and the nephites amalgamated with this people, taught them their language, instructed them in the worship of god and built a temple in that land, which indeed they made their permanent home. mosiah had a son called benjamin, who ruled in righteousness all the days of his long life. shortly before his death he instructed his son mosiah to gather the people to the temple, that he might give them a charge and nominate his successor. it is written: "after mosiah had done as his father had commanded him, and had made a proclamation throughout all the land, that the people gathered themselves together throughout all the land, that they might go up to the temple to hear the words which king benjamin should speak unto them. and there were a great number, even so many that they did not number them; for they had multiplied exceedingly, and waxed great in the land. and they also took of the firstlings of their flocks, that they might offer sacrifice and burnt offerings, according to the law of moses."--mos., ii, 1-3. here we observe that the law in relation to sacrifices and burnt offerings was still faithfully observed, although nearly five hundred years had passed since lehi left jerusalem; for the colony which he led started on their eventful journey six hundred years before the birth of christ, whilst this gathering took place one hundred and twenty-five years before that same most important appearing. during the days that the judges ruled the nephites the righteous portion of that people continued to observe the requirements of this law. we will simply give two quotations from the book of alma on this point, though the references are numerous. the first is: "yea, and they did keep the law of moses; for it was expedient that they should keep the law of moses as yet, for it was not all fulfilled. but notwithstanding the law of moses, they did look forward to the coming of christ, considering that the law of moses was a type of his coming, and believing that they must keep those outward performances, until the time that he should be revealed unto them. now they did not suppose that salvation came by the law of moses; but the law of moses did serve to strengthen their faith in christ; and thus they did retain a hope through faith, unto eternal salvation, relying upon the spirit of prophecy, which spake of those things to come."--alma, xxv, 15, 16. with this the words of paul, when speaking on this subject, precisely agree: "but before faith came, we were kept under the law, shut up unto the faith, which should afterwards be revealed. wherefore the law was our schoolmaster to bring us unto christ, that we might be justified by faith."--gal., iii, 23, 24. the second quotation is: "therefore it is expedient that there should be a great and last sacrifice; and then shall there be, or it is expedient that there should be, a stop to the shedding of blood; then shall the law of moses be fulfilled; yea, it shall be all fulfilled; every jot and tittle, and none shall have passed away. and behold, this is the whole meaning of the law; every whit pointing to that great and last sacrifice; and that great and last sacrifice will be the son of god: yea, infinite and eternal."--alma, xxxiv, 13, 14. but some of those who apostatized from the nephites and organized churches of their own ceased to keep this law. such a sect were the zoramites, of whom it is written: "now the zoramites were dissenters from the nephites; therefore they had the word of god preached unto them. but they had fallen into great errors, for they would not observe to keep the commandments of god, and his statutes, according to the law of moses; neither would they observe the performances of the church, to continue in prayer and supplication to god daily, that they might not enter into temptation; yea, in fine, they did pervert the ways of the lord in very many instances."--alma, xxxi, 8-11. shortly after the appearance of the signs that betokened the birth of the savior at bethlehem, there arose a few among the nephites who endeavored "to prove by the scriptures that it was no more expedient to observe the law of moses. now in this thing they did err, having not understood the scriptures. but it came to pass that they soon became converted, and were convinced of the error which they were in, for it was made known unto them that the law was not yet fulfilled."--3 nephi, i, 24, 25. after his resurrection, jesus, in his ministrations in the midst of the nephites, perceiving that they wondered regarding the fulfilment of the law of moses, said unto the listening multitude, "behold, i say unto you that the law is fulfilled that was given unto moses. behold, i am he that gave the law, and i am he who covenanted with my people israel; therefore the law in me is fulfilled, for i have come to fulfil the law; therefore it hath an end. behold, i do not destroy the prophets, for as many as have not been fulfilled in me, verily i say unto you, shall all be fulfilled. and because i said unto you that old things hath passed away, i do not destroy that which hath been spoken concerning things which are to come. for behold, the covenant which i have made with my people is not all fulfilled; but the law which was given unto moses hath an end in me."--3 nephi, xv, 4-8. chapter xv the offering of sacrifice in the times of the restitution of all things--teachings of the prophet joseph smith thereon--the sons of levi--malachi's prophecy--the dispensation of the fulness of times. it would appear that, when everything shall have been accomplished pertaining or relating to the sacrifice and atonement of the son of god, in the time of the restitution of all things the sons of levi will offer up an acceptable offering unto the lord; what this offering will be does not distinctly appear. there are many things associated with the final salvation of man, and the working out and accomplishment of the purposes of god in relation to the human family, which lie yet in the future: the peculiar position which the children will occupy, also the position of the heathen who have died without law, and of those who have been translated, and who it would appear have a specified labor to perform associated with their mission to the terrestrial worlds; the letting loose of satan after the thousand years, and many other things which it is not permitted for us at the present time to comprehend in full. these will all be revealed in the due time of the lord. the prophet joseph makes the following statement with regard to the offerings above referred to: "thus we behold the keys of this priesthood consisted in obtaining the voice of jehovah, that he talked with him [noah] in a familiar and friendly manner, that he continued to him the keys, the covenants, the power and the glory with which he blessed adam at the beginning; and the offering of sacrifice, which also shall be continued at the last time; for all the ordinances and duties that ever have been required by the priesthood, under the directions and commandments of the almighty, in any of the dispensations, shall all be had in the last dispensation; therefore all things had under the authority of the priesthood at any former period, shall be had again, bringing to pass the restoration spoken of by the mouth of all the holy prophets; then shall the sons of levi offer an acceptable sacrifice to tho lord. see malachi, iii, 3: 'and he shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he shall purify the sons of levi, and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the lord.' it will be necessary here to make a few observations on the doctrine set forth in the above quotation, as it is generally supposed that sacrifice was entirely done away when the great sacrifice was offered up, and that there will be no necessity for the ordinance of sacrifice in future; but those who assert this are certainly not acquainted with the duties, privileges, and authority of the priesthood, or with the prophets. the offering of sacrifice has ever been connected with and forms a part of the duties of the priesthood. it began with the priesthood, and will be continued until after the coming of christ, from generation to generation. we frequently have mention made of the offering of sacrifice by the servants of the most high in ancient days, prior to the law of moses; which ordinances will be continued when the priesthood is restored with all its authority, power and blessings. elijah was the last prophet that held the keys of this priesthood, and who will, before the last dispensation, restore the authority and deliver the keys of this priesthood, in order that all the ordinances may be attended to in righteousness. it is true that the savior had authority and power to bestow this blessing, but the sons of levi were too prejudiced. 'and i will send elijah the prophet before the great and terrible day of the lord,' etc., etc. why send elijah? because he holds the keys of the authority to administer in all the ordinances of the priesthood, and without the authority is given, the ordinances could not be administered in righteousness. it is a very prevalent opinion that the sacrifices which were offered were entirely consumed. this was not the case; if you read leviticus, second chapter, second and third verses, you will observe that the priest took a part as a memorial and offered it up before the lord, while the remainder was kept for the maintenance of the priests, so that the offerings and sacrifices are not all consumed upon the altar, but the blood is sprinkled, and the fat and certain other portions are consumed. these sacrifices, as well as every ordinance belonging to the priesthood, will, when the temple of the lord shall be built, and the sons of levi be purified, be fully restored and attended to in all their powers, ramifications and blessings. this ever did and will exist when the powers of the melchizedek priesthood are sufficiently manifest, else how can the restitution of all things spoken of by all the holy prophets be brought to pass? it is not to be understood that the law of moses will be established again with all its rites and variety of ceremonies. this has never been spoken of by the prophets, but those things which existed prior to moses' day, namely, sacrifice, will be continued. it may be asked by some, what necessity for sacrifice, since the great sacrifice was offered? in answer to which, if repentance, baptism and faith existed prior to the days of christ, what necessity for them since that time? the priesthood has descended in a regular line from father to son, through their succeeding generations. see book of doctrine and covenants."--history of joseph smith, deseret news, vol. iv., no. 30. the remarks of president joseph smith are very plain and explicit, and are a strong confirmation of the passage he himself refers to, pertaining to the times of the restitution of all things; which will embrace all systems, doctrines, ordinances, dispensations, and priesthoods connected with the church and kingdom of god. that there will be a full manifestation of all these things, relating to the various times and dispensations, is assured; yet, as joseph smith has very properly said, the details of those rituals and observances cannot now be fully defined. but as ancient israel preserved in the ark of the covenant memorials of god's power, goodness and mercy, manifested during the exodus from egypt, in the two tables of stone and the pot of manna; and of the recognition of the aaronic priesthood in aaron's rod that budded; and as the sword of laban, the sacred plates already revealed, as well as numerous others yet to be made manifest, and a urim and thummim were preserved on this continent; so will there be an exhibition an evidence, a memorial, and an actual manifestation of matters pertaining to laws, ordinances, ceremonies and dispensations, from the commencement of the world to the present time, preserved and manifested in the dispensation that the lord in his loving kindness has now inaugurated. this will be in accordance with the eternal plans and purposes of god, and with the rights, ceremonies and ordinances belonging to the priesthoods of god in the different ages, pertaining to the organization of this world, the proposed mediation and atonement of the son of god, the manifestations and developments of the melchizedek priesthood, as the prophet joseph has referred to, as well relating to sacrifices in early days as in other matters, the introduction of the aaronic priesthood, together with the ark and the tabernacle, which we are told were made after the patterns shown unto moses in the mount--patterns which existed in the heavens; the eternal existence, authority and power of both priesthoods as connected with god and administering in time and eternity; the attempts of satan to overthrow the dynasty, power and authority of jehovah and his complete failure and discomfiture; exhibiting in a panorama all the leading, prominent details of the creation, atonement, redemption, salvation and exaltation of the world and man, the organization of a new heaven and a new earth, and all the purposes of god, his plans and ordinances, manifested through the priesthood from the first inception of the organization of the world to the final consummation, purification and exaltation of the world and its inhabitants, according to the foreknowledge and determinate counsel of the almighty. for as these memorials of the atonement were used by the ancient patriarchs and prophets to manifest to god their faith in the plan of redemption and in the coming redeemer; so will these great types be again introduced as exhibiting the sacrifice of the great antitype, jesus, the mediator of the new covenant, and as a perpetual recognition of the eternal salvation and exaltation wrought out by him for the human family by the sacrifice of himself. (see also 3 nephi, xv, 4-8, previously quoted.) chapter xvi. brief retrospect of the history of sacrifice and its symbolism--the passover and the lord's supper--christ's relation to both these ordinances--the last supper. as before stated, these sacrifices which were offered up from the days of adam until the time of our savior's advent, were typical of the great expiatory sacrifice which he was to make by the sacrifice of himself. they were so many types, shadows and forms of which he was the great prototype--the substance, the reality prefigured and foreshadowed by the other sacrifices which had been offered up from the beginning. when the law was given by moses, all the forms pertaining to the sacrificial ceremonies were revealed in detail, and the instructions in relation thereto were not simply of a general nature, but they entered into minute particulars in relation to all things connected with those who officiated, the form and pattern of the sacred utensils and of the vestments of the priesthood, the creatures to be sacrificed, the order of the proceedings, and indeed of all matters associated with the observance of these rites. almost the whole of the book of leviticus, and considerable of the book of numbers, is occupied with these instructions and kindred matters. this mosaic law, with all its duties, observances, ceremonies and sacrifices, continued in force until christ's death. the time having come when the great atonement should be made by the offering up of himself, christ told peter and john to go and prepare a place where he might, according to his custom, eat the passover with his disciples. eat what with his disciples? the passover. was it the passover, or the sacrament of the lord's supper? the lord, in egypt, passed by, or passed over the houses of the israelites whose door posts had been sprinkled with the blood of the lamb sacrificed for that purpose; and the israelites were commanded to observe this passover in all their generations. jesus, in compliance with this command, directed that a place be made ready where he might eat the passover with his apostles; for he, the great prototype, was going to offer up himself as a lamb without spot or blemish; not only for the israelites, but for all nations, for every people, and kindred, and tongue under the face of the whole heavens: "for god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. for god sent not his son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved." but previous to the offering up of himself, as the great expiatory sacrifice, having fulfilled the law and made it honorable, and having introduced the gospel, he met with his disciples, as already noticed, to eat the passover. he then told them, "with desire i have desired to eat this passover with you before i suffer." to eat what with you? the passover. to eat what with you? the sacrament of the lord's supper. thus he eat both, for the two ceremonies centered in him, he was the embodiment of both, he was the being provided before the foundation of the earth, and prophesied of by men of god throughout all the preceding ages; and also on account of whom the sacrifices were offered up by all the servants of the lord, from the fall of adam to that time; and all the various atonements heretofore offered pointed to him, for whom they were all made and in whom they all centered. on the other hand, he it was who introduced the more perfect law, and offering himself once for all, an infinite atonement, he, through this sacrifice, accomplished that which was designed by the almighty before the world was, and of which the blood of bullocks, of goats and of lambs was merely the shadow. in view of what was almost immediately to take place, he instituted the sacrament of the lord's supper in commemoration of this great crowning act of redemption. when at the table, "he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, this is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me;" afterwards, "he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them saying, drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the new testament which is shed for many for the remission of sins." in reality, this act of the atonement was the fulfilment of the sacrifices, of the prophesying, of the passover, and of all the leading, prominent acts of the patriarchs and prophets relating thereto; and having performed this, the past and the future both centered in him. did these worthies offer sacrifices? they prefigured his appearing and atonement. did they prophecy? it was of him, for the testimony of jesus is the spirit of prophecy. did they keep the passover? he himself was the great expiatory offering. were the people called upon afterwards to commemorate this event? they did it in remembrance of him, as a great memorial among all of his disciples in all nations, throughout all time; of the sacrifice of his broken body and spilt blood; the antitype of the sacrificial lamb slain at the time of the passover; of him; as being the mediator, the messiah, the christ, the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end: the son of the living god. as from the commencement of the world to the time when the passover was instituted, sacrifices had been offered as a memorial or type of the sacrifice of the son of god; so from the time of the passover until that time when he came to offer up himself, these sacrifices and types and shadows had been carefully observed by prophets and patriarchs; according to the command given to moses and other followers of the lord. so also did he himself fulfil this requirement, and kept the passover as did others; and now we, after the great sacrifice has been offered, partake of the' sacrament of the lord's supper in remembrance thereof. thus this act was the great connecting link between the past and the future; thus he fulfilled the law, met the demands of justice, and obeyed the requirements of his heavenly father, although laboring under the weight of the sins of the world, and the terrible expiation which he had to make, when, sweating great drops of blood, he cried: "father, if it be possible let this cup pass from me; nevertheless not my will but thine be done;" and when expiring in agony upon the cross he cried, "it is finished," and gave up the ghost. during this ever memorable supper, the savior said unto his disciples, "but i say unto you, i will not drink henceforth of the fruit of the vine, until that day when i drink it new with you in my father's kingdom." he was the lamb proposed to be slain from before the foundation of the world; he was the lamb spoken of by the prophets in the different ages, and for which sacrifices were made; in him was now fulfilled everything that prefigured his approach, and that was prophesied of him pertaining to the atonement. he also was to burst the barriers of the tomb, become the first fruits of those that slept, and introduce the resurrection, and indeed to be the resurrection and the life. he was also to ascend to the heavens, resurrect his saints, and after resurrecting them, drink of the fruit of the vine with them in his father's kingdom. every knee should yet bow to him, and every tongue confess that he was the christ to the glory of god the father. every nation, kindred, and tongue should bow to his sceptre, and the earth through him be filled with the knowledge of god, as the waters cover the sea, the earth be redeemed and become celestial, a new heaven and a new earth be instituted, wherein dwelleth righteousness, and the redemption and resurrection of the living and the dead, according to the eternal plan of jehovah, should be brought about through his mediation and atonement. chapter xvii. the atonement and the resurrection--adam and christ--why a law was given unto adam--the results of disobedience to that law--testimony of our first parents--"adam fell that man might be"--the fall a necessary part of the plan of salvation--god's plan a merciful plan--the plan of lucifer--man's free agency--the chain complete. in the economy of god and the plan proposed by the almighty, it was provided that man was to be placed under a law apparently simple in itself, yet the test of that law was fraught with the gravest consequences. the observance of that law would secure eternal life, and the penalty for the violation of that law was death. for, we are told, in adam all die, and hence the declaration, "it is appointed for man once to die." there is another principle associated with this, which is, that the atonement provided a means and plan whereby death could be overcome, and the resurrection of the body from death be brought about, for it is written, "as in adam all die, even so in christ shall all be made alive." but without this atonement the resurrection of the body could not be brought about; hence jesus, when on earth, proclaimed, "i am the resurrection and the life," and he himself "was the first fruits of them that slept." men could not have been tested without a law. the penalty for the violation of that law was death. if the law had not been broken, man would have lived; but would man thus living have been capable of perpetuating his species, and of thus fulfilling the designs of god in preparing tabernacles for the spirits which had been created in the spirit world? and further, could they have had the need of a mediator, who was to act as a propitiation for the violation of this law, which it would appear from the circumstances was destined to be broken; or could the eternal increase and perpetuity of man have been continued, and his high exaltation to the godhead been accomplished, without the propitiatory atonement and sacrifice of the son of god? jesus said, "thus it is written, and thus it behooved christ to suffer." could it have behooved christ to suffer if man had not sinned, and was it not part of the eternal plan of god that man should violate that law, that an atonement might be provided and had, and by this means man be purified and perfected, through the struggles and trials incident to his coming in contact with the powers of darkness, and, through the mediation and atonement of jesus christ, and his own obedience to the requirements of the law associated therewith, be raised to a higher state of existence than it would have been possible for him to have obtained without the transgression of that law? these points are made exceedingly plain in the pearl of great price. it is there stated: "and adam called upon the name of the lord, and eve also, his wife; and they heard the voice of the lord from the way towards the garden of eden, speaking unto them, and they saw him not; for they were shut out from his presence. and he gave unto them commandments, that they should worship the lord their god, and should offer the firstlings of their flocks, for an offering unto the lord. and adam was obedient unto the commandments of the lord. and after many days an angel of the lord appeared unto adam, saying, why dost thou offer sacrifices unto the lord? and adam said unto him, i know not, save the lord commanded me. and then the angel spake, saying, this thing is a similitude of the sacrifice of the only begotten of the father, which is full of grace and truth. wherefore, thou shalt do all that thou doest in the name of the son, and thou shalt repent and call upon god in the name of the son for evermore. and in that day the holy ghost fell upon adam, which beareth record of the father and the son, saying, i am the only begotten of the father from the beginning, henceforth and for ever, that as thou hast fallen thou mayest be redeemed; and all mankind, even as many as will. and in that day adam blessed god and was filled, and began to prophesy concerning all the families of the earth, saying, blessed be the name of god, for because of my transgression my eyes are opened, and in this life i shall have joy, and again in the flesh i shall see god. and eve, his wife, heard all these things and was glad, saying, were it not for our transgression we never should have had seed, and never should have known good and evil, and the joy of our redemption, and the eternal life which god giveth unto all the obedient. and adam and eve blessed the name of god; and they made all things known unto their sons and their daughters." thus we find: firstly. that adam and eve both considered that they had gained, instead of suffered loss, through their disobedience to that law; for they made the statement, that if it had not been for their transgression they never would "have known good and evil." and again, they would have been incapable of increase; and without that increase the designs of god in relation to the formation of the earth and man could not have been accomplished; for one great object of the creation of the world was the propagation of the human species, that bodies might be prepared for those spirits who already existed, and who, when they saw the earth formed, shouted for joy. secondly. by pursuing the course they did, through the atonement, they would see god as they had done before; and furthermore, they would be capable of exaltation, which was made possible only through their fall, and the atonement of jesus christ; and also, they might have the comforting influence of the spirit of god, and his guidance and direction here, as well as eternal lives and exaltations in the world to come. paul, in his epistle to the romans, also writes very directly upon these truths; he says: "nevertheless, death reigned from adam to moses, even over them that had not sinned after the similitude of adam's transgression, who is the figure of him that was to come. but not as the offence, so also is the free gift. for if, through the offence of one many be dead, much more the grace of god, and the gift by grace, which is by one man, jesus christ, hath abounded unto many. and not as it was by one that sinned, so is the gift; for the judgment was by one to condemnation, but the free gift is of many offences unto justification. for if by one man's offence death reigned by one; much more they which receive abundance of grace and of the gift of righteousness shall reign in life by one jesus christ. therefore, as by the offence of one judgment came upon all men to condemnation; even so by the righteousness of one the free gift came upon all men unto justification of life. for as by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous. moreover, the law entered, that the offence might abound. but where sin abounded, grace did much more abound: that as sin hath reigned unto death, even so might grace reign through righteousness unto eternal life, by jesus christ our lord." --romans, v., 14-21. whilst in the book of mormon lehi teaches: "and now, behold, if adam had not transgressed, he would not have fallen; but he would have remained in the garden of eden. and all things which were created, must have remained in the same state which they were, after they were created; and they must have remained for ever, and had no end. and they would have had no children; wherefore, they would have remained in a state of innocence, having no joy, for they knew no misery; doing no good, for they knew no sin. but behold, all things have been done in the wisdom of him who knoweth all things. adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy. and the messiah cometh in the fulness of time, that he may redeem the children of men from the fall. and because that they are redeemed from the fall, they have become free for ever, knowing good from evil; to act for themselves, and not to be acted upon, save it be by the punishment of the law at the great and last day, according to the commandments which god hath given. wherefore, men are free according to the flesh; and all things are given them which are expedient unto man. and they are free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great mediation of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil; for he seeketh that all men might be miserable, like unto himself."--2 nephi, ii, 22-27. in the same book it is written: "yea, i know that ye know, that in the body he shall show himself unto those at jerusalem, from whence we came; for it is expedient that it should be among them; for it behooveth the great creator that he suffereth himself to become subject unto man in the flesh, and die for all men, that all men might become subject unto him. for as death hath passed upon all men, to fulfil the merciful plan of the great creator, there must needs be a power of resurrection, and the resurrection must needs come unto man by reason of the fall; and the fall came by reason of transgression; and because man became fallen, they were cut off from the presence of the lord. wherefore it must needs be an infinite atonement. save it should be an infinite atonement, this corruption could not put on incorruption. wherefore, the first judgment which came upon man must needs have remained to an endless duration. and if so, this flesh must have laid down to rot and to crumble to its mother earth, to rise no more. o the wisdom of god! his mercy and grace! for behold, if the flesh should rise no more, our spirits must become subject to that angel who fell from before the presence of the eternal god, and became the devil, to rise no more."--2 nephi, ix, 5-8. there is a principle developed in the above quotation to the effect that death was "passed upon all men to fulfill the _merciful plan_ of the great creator;" and furthermore, that the resurrection came "by reason of the fall." for if man had not sinned, there would have been no death, and if jesus had not atoned for the sin, there would have been no resurrection. hence these things are spoken of as being according to the merciful plan of god. this corruption could not have put on incorruption, and this mortality could not have put on immortality, for, as we have elsewhere shown, man by reason of any thing that he himself could do or accomplish, could only exalt himself to the dignity and capability of man and therefore it needed the atonement of a god, before man, through the adoption, could be exalted to the godhead. again, if the body could not have been resurrected, it would have had to "crumble to its mother earth," and remain in that condition without the capability of ascending to the godhead: and furthermore, not only would our bodies have lost their entity, their life and power, but the spirit also would have been placed in a state of subjection "to that angel who fell from before the presence of the eternal god, and became the devil," without a capability or even hope of life, salvation and exaltation, and would have been deprived of all free agency and power, and subject to the influences, dominion and eternal destruction of lucifer, the enemy of man and of god. hence, on this ground, and because of the terrible effects which would have resulted to humanity from the proposed plan to deprive man of his free agency, and in seeking to do away with the atonement, lucifer was cast out of heaven, as were also those associated with him in the same diabolical plans and purposes. the testimony of the book of doctrine and covenants is in full accord with the revelations in the ancient scriptures. in it we are instructed that god "created man, male and female, after his own image and in his own likeness created he them, and pave unto them commandments that they should love and serve him, the only living and true god, and that he should be the only being whom they should worship. but by the transgression of these holy laws, man became sensual and devilish, and became fallen man. wherefore the almighty god gave his only begotten son, as it is written in those scriptures which have been given of him. he suffered temptations, but gave no heed unto them; he was crucified, died, and rose again the third day; and ascended into heaven, to sit down on the right hand of the father, to reign with almighty power according to the will of the father."--doc. and cov., sec. xx, 18-24, p. 123. again, we read from the same source: "behold, i gave unto him that he should be an agent unto himself; and i gave unto him commandment, but no temporal commandment gave i unto him, for my commandments are spiritual, they are not natural nor temporal, neither carnal nor sensual."--doc. and cov., sec. xxix, 35, p. 146. "wherefore, it came to pass that the devil tempted adam, and he partook the forbidden fruit and transgressed the commandment, wherein he became subject to the will of the 'devil, because he yielded unto temptation. wherefore, i the lord god caused that he should be cast out from the garden of eden, from my presence, because of his transgression, wherein he became spiritually dead, which is the first death, even that same death, which is the last death, which is spiritual, which shall be pronounced upon the wicked when i shall say, depart, ye cursed. but, behold, i say unto you, that i the lord god gave unto adam and to his seed that they should not die as to the temporal death, until i the lord god should send forth angels to declare unto them repentance and redemption, through faith on the name of mine only begotten son. and thus did i, the lord god, appoint unto man the days of his probation; that by his natural death he might be raised in immortality unto eternal life, even as many as would believe."--doc. and cov., xxix, 40-43, p. 147. in accordance with this we find it written in the pearl of great price, that the lord did send an angel to adam (as elsewhere quoted), who taught unto him the gospel. thus it would appear that if any of the links of this great chain had been broken, it would have interfered with the comprehensive plan of the almighty pertaining to the salvation and eternal exaltation of those spirits who were his sons, and for whom principally the world was made; that they through submission to the requirements of the eternal principle and law governing these matters might possess bodies, and these bodies united with the spirits might become living souls, and being the sons of god, and made in the image of god, they, through the atonement might be exalted, by obedience to the law of the gospel; to the godhead. chapter xviii. christ as the son of god--a comparison between his position glory, etc., and those of other sons of god--his recognition by the father--christ called the very eternal father. it may here be asked, what difference is there between the son of god, as the son of god, the redeemer, and those who believe in him and partake of the blessings of the gospel? one thing, as we read, is that the father gave him power to have life in himself: "for as the father hath life in himself, so hath he given to the son to have life in himself;" and further, he had power, when all mankind had lost their life, to restore life to them again; and hence he is the resurrection and the life, which power no other man possesses. another distinction is, that having this life in himself, he had power, as he said, to lay down his life and to take it up again, which power was also given him by the father. this is also a power which no other being associated with this earth possesses. again, he is the brightness of his father's glory and the express image of his person. also, he doeth what he seeth the father do, while we only do that which we are permitted and empowered to do by him. he is the elect, the chosen, and one of the presidency in the heavens, and in him dwells all the fulness of the godhead bodily, which could not be said of us in any of these particulars. another thing is, that all power is given to him in heaven and upon earth, which no earthly being could say. it is also stated that lucifer was before adam; so was jesus. and adam, as well as all other believers, was commanded to do all that he did in the name of the son, and to call upon god in his name for ever more; which honor was not applicable to any earthly being. he, in the nearness of his relationship to the father, seems to occupy a position that no other person occupies. he is spoken of as his well beloved son, as the only begotten of the father--does not this mean the only begotten after the flesh? if he was the first born and obedient to the laws of his father, did he not inherit the position by right to be the representative of god, the savior and redeemer of the world? and was it not his peculiar right and privilege as the firstborn, the legitimate heir of god, the eternal father, to step forth, accomplish and carry out the designs of his heavenly father pertaining to the redemption, salvation and exaltation of man? and being himself without sin (which no other mortal was), he took the position of savior and redeemer, which by right belonged to him as the first born. and does it not seem that in having a body specially prepared, and being the offspring of god, both in body and spirit, he stood preeminently in the position of the son of god, or in the place of god, and was god, and was thus the fit and only personage capable of making an infinite atonement? hence we read: "wherefore, when he cometh into the world, he saith, sacrifice and offering thou wouldst not, but a body hast thou prepared me: in burnt offerings and sacrifices for sin thou hast had no pleasure. then said i, lo, i come (in the volume of the book it is written of me) to do thy will, o god. above, when he said, sacrifice and offering and burnt-offerings and offering for sin thou wouldst not, neither hadst pleasure therein; which are offered by the law; then said he, lo, i come to do thy will, o god he taketh away the first, that he may establish the second."--heb., x, 5-9. we are told, in the pearl of great price, that when satan proposed a plan of his own, promising to redeem every soul of man, but wherein the free agency of man would be destroyed, and said, "wherefore give me thine honor," the only begotten said, "father, thy will be done, and the glory be thine for ever" "i am prepared to carry out thy plan." the apostle above quoted states, "a body hast thou prepared me. * * then said i, lo, i come to do thy will, o lord." hence from the above we learn that though others might be the sons of god through him, yet it needed his body, his fulfilment of the law, the sacrifice or offering up of that body in the atonement, before any of these others, who were also sons of god by birth in the spirit world, could attain to the position of sons of god as he was; and that only through his mediation and atonement. so that in him, and of him, and through him, through the principle of adoption, could we alone obtain that position which is spoken of by john: "beloved, now are we the sons of god; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that when he shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is." thus his atonement made it possible for us to obtain an exaltation, which we could not have possessed without it. "his name shall be called immanuel," which being interpreted is, god with us. hence he is not only called the son of god, the first begotten of the father, the well beloved, the head, and ruler, and dictator of all things, jehovah, the i am, the alpha and omega, but he is also called the very eternal father. does not this mean that in him were the attributes and power of the very eternal father? for the angel to adam said that all things should be done in his name. a voice was heard from the heavens, when jesus was baptized by john the baptist, saying, "this is my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased," and when the father and the son appeared together to the prophet joseph smith they were exactly alike in form, in appearance, in glory; and the father said, pointing to his son, "this is my beloved son; hear him." there the father had his apparent tabernacle, and the son had his apparent tabernacle; but the son was the agency through which the father would communicate to man; as it is elsewhere said, "wherefore, thou shalt do all that thou doest in the name of the son. and thou shalt repent, and shalt call upon god, in the name of the son, for evermore." chapter xix. man as man--his excellency and his limitations--salvation and eternal progression impossible without the atonement--in christ _only_ can all be made alive. man, as man, can only make use of the powers which are possessed by man. made, indeed, as represented in the scriptures, in the image of god, as monarch of the universe he stands erect on the earth in the likeness of his great creator; beautifully constructed in all his parts, with a body possessing all the functions necessary for the wants of humanity; standing, not only by right, but by adaptability, beauty, symmetry and glory, at the head of all creation; possessing also mental powers and the capacity of reflecting upon the past, with capabilities to reason upon cause and effect, and by the inductive powers of his mind, through the inspiration of the almighty, to comprehend the magnificent laws of nature as exhibited in the works of creation; with the capacity also of using the elements and forces of nature, and of adapting them to his own special benefit; and by his powers penetrating into the deep, ascending into the heavens, rushing with mighty velocity across the earth, making use of the separate or combined forces of nature with which he is surrounded and subjugating them to his will; as, likewise, by his intelligence, he has dominion over the fishes of the sea, over the fowls of the air, and over the cattle. he can girdle the earth with the electric fluid and convey his thoughts to any land or zone; by the same subtle influence he can talk with his fellows, and be heard when hundreds of miles apart. he can apply the forces of earth, air, fire and water to make them subservient to his will, and stands proudly erect as the head of all creation and the representative of god upon the earth. but while he occupies this exalted position, and is in the image of god, yet he possesses simply, as a man, only the powers which belong to man; and is subject to weakness, infirmity, disease and death. and when he dies, without some superior aid pertaining to the future, that noble structure lies silent and helpless, its organs, that heretofore were active, lively and energetic, are now dormant, inactive and powerless. and what of the mind, that before went back into eternity and reached forward into eternity? and what of its powers? or what of that spirit, which, with its godlike energies, its prescience and power, could grasp infinity? what of it, and where is it? the scriptures say that the body returns to the dust and the spirit returns to god who gave it. but what of its powers as made known to us, what of the hereafter? the philosophy of the world tells us that the spirit dies with the body, and like it is dissipated in surrounding nature, but as an entirety no longer exists; and all the power the being ever had was to propagate its own species and to impart the powers of the body and the mind to its posterity. such philosophers can comprehend nothing pertaining to the future--no glory, no exaltation, no eternal progression, only as developed by a succession of manhood. if, then, there is a spirit in man which reaches into futurity, that would grasp eternal progress, eternal enjoyments, and eternal exaltations; then those glories, those exaltations, those capabilities and those powers must be the gift of some superior being, power, or authority to that which exists in man; for the foregoing is a brief exhibition of the powers and capabilities of humanity. it is of this gift that we now speak. it is of a principle that emanates from god, that originates with a superior intelligence, whose plans, and powers, and capabilities are exalted above those of mortal man, as the heavens are above the earth, or as the majestic works of the great creator throughout the infinitude of space are superior to the puny efforts of the children of mortality. it is for the exaltation of man to this state of superior intelligence and godhead that the mediation and atonement of jesus christ is instituted; and that noble being, man, made in the image of god, is rendered capable not only of being a son of man, but also a son of god, through adoption, and is rendered capable of becoming a god, possessing the power, the majesty, the exaltation and the position of a god, as it is written, "beloved, now are we the sons of god; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is." as a man through the powers of his body he could attain to the dignity and completeness of manhood, but could go no further; as a man he is born, as a man he lives, and as a man he dies; but through the essence and power of the godhead, which is in him, which descended to him as the gift of god from his heavenly father, he is capable of rising from the contracted limits of manhood to the dignity of a god, and thus through the atonement of jesus christ and the adoption he is capable of eternal exaltation, eternal lives and eternal progression. but this transition from his manhood to the godhead can alone be made through a power which is superior to man--an infinite power, an eternal power, even the power of the godhead: for as in adam all die, so in christ _only_ can all be made alive. through him mankind are brought into communion and communication with god; through his atonement they are enabled, as he was, to vanquish death; through that atonement and the power of the priesthood associated therewith, they become heirs of god and joint heirs with jesus christ, and inheritors of thrones, powers, principalities and dominions in the eternal worlds. and instead of being subject to death, when that last enemy shall be destroyed, and death be swallowed up in victory, through that atonement they can become the fathers and mothers of lives, and be capable of perpetual and eternal progression. chapter xx. christ to be subject to man--his descent below all things--man's condition had there been no atonement--the sons of god--man's inability to save himself--christ's glory before the world was- necessity for an infinite atonement--the father and son have life in themselves. again we will return to the quotation from the book of mormon.[a] satan, as we have remarked before, wanted to deprive man of his agency, for if man had his agency, it would seem that necessarily the lord would be subject to him; as is stated, "for it behooveth the great creator that he suffereth himself to become subject unto man in the flesh, and die for all men, that all men might become subject unto him." [footnote a: 2 nephi, ix, 5-7.] the lord being thus subjected to man, he would be placed in the lowest position to which it was possible for him to descend; because of the weakness, the corruption and the fallibility of human nature. but if man had his free agency, this necessarily would be the result, and hence, as it is said, jesus descended below all things that he might be raised above all things; and hence also, while satan's calculation was to deprive man of his free agency, and to prevent himself or the only begotten from being subject to this humiliation and infamy, the lord's plan was to give man his free agency, provide a redeemer, and suffer that redeemer to endure all the results incidental to such a position, and thus, by offering himself as a substitute and conquering death, hell and the grave, he would ultimately subjugate all things unto himself; and at the same time make it possible for man to obtain an exaltation that he never could have had without his agency. it is said, as already stated, "for behold, if the flesh should rise no more, our spirits must become subject to that angel who fell from before the presence of the eternal god, and became the devil, to rise no more;" and hence the plan of satan it appears would have frustrated the designs of the almighty, and have deprived man of that exaltation and glory which his heavenly father contemplated. it is further written: "and our spirits must have become like unto him, and we become devils, angels to a devil, to be shut out from the presence of our god, and to remain with the father of lies; in misery, like unto himself; yea, to that being who beguiled our first parents; who transformeth himself nigh unto an angel of light, and stirreth up the children of men unto secret combinations of murder, and all manner of secret works of darkness. o how great the goodness of our god, who prepareth a way for our escape from the grasp of this awful monster; yea, that monster, death and hell, which i call the death of the body, and also the death of the spirit. and because of the way of deliverance of our god, the holy one of israel, this death, of which i have spoken, which is the temporal, shall deliver up its dead; which death is the grave. and this death of which i have spoken, which is the spiritual death, shall deliver up its dead; which spiritual death is hell; wherefore, death and hell must deliver up their dead, and hell must deliver up its captive spirits, and the grave must deliver up its captive bodies, and the bodies and the spirits of men will be restored one to the other; and it is by the power of the resurrection of the holy one of israel. o how great the plan of our god! for on the other hand, the paradise of god must deliver up the spirits of the righteous, and the grave deliver up the body of the righteous; and the spirit and the body is restored to itself again, and all men become incorruptible and immortal, and they are living souls, having a perfect knowledge like unto us in the flesh save it be that our knowledge shall be perfect; wherefore, we shall have a perfect knowledge of all our guilt; and our uncleanness, and our nakedness; and the righteous shall have a perfect knowledge of their enjoyment, and their righteousness, being clothed with purity, yea, even with the robe of righteousness. and it shall come to pass, that when all men shall have passed from this first death unto life, insomuch as they have become immortal, they must appear before the judgment seat of the holy one of israel; and then cometh the judgment, and then must they be judged according to the holy judgment of god. and assuredly, as the lord liveth, for the lord god hath spoken it, and it is his eternal word, which cannot pass away, that they who are righteous, shall be righteous still, and they who are filthy, shall be filthy still; wherefore, they who are filthy, are the devil and his angels; and they shall go away into everlasting fire, prepared for them; and their torment is as a lake of fire and brimstone, whose flame ascendeth up for ever and ever, and has no end. o the greatness and the justice of our god! for he executeth all his words, and they have gone forth out of his mouth, and his law must be fulfilled."--2 nephi, ix, 9-17. in the economy of god pertaining to the salvation of the human family, we are told in the scriptures that it was necessary that christ should descend below all things, that he might be raised above all things; as stated above, he had to "become subject to man in the flesh." it was further necessary that he should descend below all things, in order that he might raise others above all things; for if he could not raise himself and be exalted through those principles brought about by the atonement, he could not raise others; he could not do for others what he could not do for himself, and hence it was necessary for him to descend below all things that he might be raised above all things; and it was necessary that those whom he proposed to save should also descend below all things, that by and through the same power that he obtained his exaltation, they also, through his atonement, expiation and intercession, might be raised to the same power with him; and, as he was the son of god, that they might also be the adopted sons of god; hence john says: "beloved, now are we the sons of god; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is."--1 john, iii, 2. and by this power we shall overcome and sit down on his throne, as jesus overcame and sat down upon the throne of his father. we are told in the foregoing quotation from the book of mormon that the atonement must needs be infinite. why did it need an infinite atonement? for the simple reason that a stream can never rise higher than its fountain; and man having assumed a fleshly body and become of the earth earthy, and through the violation of a law having cut himself off from his association with his father, and become subject to death; in this condition, as the mortal life of man was short, and in and of himself he could have no hope of benefitting himself, or redeeming himself from his fallen condition, or of bringing himself back to the presence of his father, some superior agency was needed to elevate him above his low and degraded position. this superior agency was the son of god, who had not, as man had, violated a law of his father, but was yet one with his father, possessing his glory, his power, his authority, his dominion. as he, himself, prayed: "and now, o father, glorify thou me with thine own self, with the glory which i had with thee before the world was."--john, xvii, 5. a man, as a man, could arrive at all the dignity that a man was capable of obtaining or receiving; but it needed a god to raise him to the dignity of a god. for this cause it is written, "now are we the sons of god; and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that when he shall appear we shall be like him." and how and why like him? because, through the instrumentality of the atonement and the adoption, it is made possible for us to become of the family of god, and joint heirs with jesus christ; and that as he, the potential instrument, through the oneness that existed between him and his father, by reason of obedience to divine law, overcame death, hell and the grave, and sat down upon his father's throne, so shall we be able to sit down with him, even upon his throne. thus, as it is taught in the book of mormon, it must needs be that there be an infinite atonement; and hence of him, and by him, and through him are all things; and through him do we obtain every blessing, power, right, immunity, salvation and exaltation. he is our god, our redeemer, our savior, to whom, with the father and the holy spirit, be eternal and everlasting praises worlds without end. again, jesus testifies of himself: "verily, verily, i say unto you, the hour is coming, and now is, when the dead shall hear the voice of the son of god: and they that hear shall live. for as the father hath life in himself, so hath he given to the son to have life in himself; and hath given him authority to execute judgment also, because he is the son of man. marvel not at this: for the hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation."--john, v, 25-29. it would seem from the above that the son hath life inherent in himself, even as the father hath life in himself, he having received this power from the father. also, that he had power in himself, as elsewhere stated, to lay down this body, and also to take it up again; and in this respect he differed from others. while man dies and lays down his body, he has not power under any circumstance to raise it again, only through the power of jesus and his intercession and atonement; for the redeemer has proclaimed himself to be the resurrection and the life; and it is by this resurrective power which he possesses, as the gift of god through obedience to the will of the father, that the dead shall hear the voice of god and shall live. hence he not only becomes the first fruits of those that slept, having conquered death himself and triumphed over it, but he also becomes the means of the resurrection of all men from the dead. hence he says: "therefore doth my father love me, because i lay down my life, that i might take it again. no man taketh it from me, but i lay it down of myself. i have power to lay it down, and i have power to take it again. this commandment have i received of my father."--john, x, 17, 18. thus, when he says he has power to lay down his life and power to take it up again, he speaks of a power never before exhibited among men upon this earth; and which power, indeed, does not belong to man in and of himself. chapter xxi. the relation of the atonement to little children--jesus assumes the responsibility of man's transgression, and bears the weight of his sins and sufferings--the inferior creatures and sacrifice--the terrors and agonies of christ's passion and death--the tribulations, earthquakes, etc., when he gave up the ghost--universal nature trembles--the prophecies of zenos and enoch--the testimony of the centurion--heirship, and the descent of blessings and curses. the redeemer himself, when tabernacling in the flesh, said to his disciples on the eastern continent, "suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of god. verily i say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of god as a little child shall in no wise enter therein."--luke, xviii, 16, 17. and after his crucifixion and resurrection he repeated this same admonition to his nephite disciples: "and again i say unto you, ye must repent, and be baptized in my name and become as a little child, or ye can in no wise inherit the kingdom of god."--3 nephi, xi, 38. without adam's transgression those children could not have existed; through the atonement they are placed in a state of salvation without any act of their own. these would embrace, according to the opinion of statisticians, more than one-half of the human family, who can attribute their salvation only to the mediation and atonement of the savior. thus, as stated elsewhere, in some mysterious, incomprehensible way, jesus assumed the responsibility which naturally would have devolved upon adam; but which could only be accomplished through the mediation of himself, and by taking upon himself their sorrows, assuming their responsibilities, and bearing their transgressions or sins. in a manner to us incomprehensible and inexplicable, he bore the weight of the sins of the whole world; not only of adam, but of his posterity; and in doing that, opened the kingdom of heaven, not only to all believers and all who obeyed the law of god, but to more than one-half of the human family who die before they come to years of maturity, as well as to the heathen, who, having died without law, will, through his mediation, be resurrected without law, and be judged without law, and thus participate, according to their capacity, works and worth, in the blessings of his atonement. again, there is another phase of this subject that must not be forgotten. from the commencement of the offering of sacrifices the inferior creature had to suffer for the superior. although it had taken no part in the act of disobedience, yet was its blood shed and its life sacrificed, thus prefiguring the atonement of the son of god, which should eventually take place. the creature indeed was made subject to vanity not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope. millions of such offerings were made, and hecatombs of these expiatory sacrifices were offered in view of the great event that would be consummated when jesus should offer up himself. with man this was simply the obedience to a command and a given law, and with him might be considered simply a pecuniary sacrifice: with the animals it was a sacrifice of life. but what is the reason for all this suffering and bloodshed, and sacrifice? we are told that "without shedding of blood is no remission" of sins. this is beyond our comprehension. jesus had to take away sin by the sacrifice of himself, the just for the unjust, but, previous to this grand sacrifice, these animals had to have their blood shed as types, until the great antitype should offer up himself once for all. and as he in his own person bore the sins of all, and atoned for them by the sacrifice of himself, so there came upon him the weight and agony of ages and generations, the indescribable agony consequent upon this great sacrificial atonement wherein he bore the sins of the world, and suffered in his own person the consequences of an eternal law of god broken by man. hence his profound grief, his indescribable anguish, his overpowering torture, all experienced in the submission to the eternal fiat of jehovah and the requirements of an inexorable law. the suffering of the son of god was not simply the suffering of personal death; for in assuming the position that he did in making an atonement for the sins of the world he bore the weight, the responsibility, and the burden of the sins of all men, which, to us, is incomprehensible. as stated, "the lord, your redeemer, suffered death in the flesh; wherefore he suffereth the pains of all men;" and isaiah says: "surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows," also, "the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all," and again, "he hath poured out his soul unto death, and he was numbered with the transgressors; and he bare the sins of many;" or, as it is written in the second book of nephi: "for behold, he suffereth the pains of all men; yea, the pains of every living creature, both men, women and children, who belong to the family of adam;" whilst in mosiah it is declared: "he shall suffer temptations, and pain of body, hunger, thirst and fatigue, even more than man can suffer, except it be unto death; for behold, blood cometh from every pore, so great shall be his anguish for the wickedness and abominations of his people." groaning beneath this concentrated load, this intense, incomprehensible pressure, this terrible exaction of divine justice, from which feeble humanity shrank, and through the agony thus experienced sweating great drops of blood, he was led to exclaim, "father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me." he had wrestled with the superincumbent load in the wilderness, he had struggled against the powers of darkness that had been let loose upon him there; placed below all things, his mind surcharged with agony and pain, lonely and apparently helpless and forsaken, in his agony the blood oozed from his pores. thus rejected by his own, attacked by the powers of darkness, and seemingly forsaken by his god, on the cross he bowed beneath the accumulated load, and cried out in anguish, "my god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me!" when death approached to relieve him from his horrible position, a ray of hope appeared through the abyss of darkness with which he had been surrounded, and in a spasm of relief, seeing the bright future beyond, he said, "it is finished! father, into thy hands i commend my spirit." as a god, he descended below all things, and made himself subject to man in man's fallen condition; as a man, he grappled with all the circumstances incident to his sufferings in the world. anointed, indeed, with the "oil of gladness" above his fellows, he struggled with and overcame the powers of men and devils, of earth and hell combined; and aided by this superior power of the godhead, he vanquished death, hell and the grave, and arose triumphant as the son of god, the very eternal father, the messiah, the prince of peace, the redeemer, the savior of the world; having finished and completed the work pertaining to the atonement, which his father had given him to do as the son of god and the son of man. as the son of man, he endured all that it was possible for flesh and blood to endure; as the son of god he triumphed over all, and forever ascended to the right hand of god, to further carry out the designs of jehovah pertaining to the world and to the human family. and again, not only did his agony affect the mind and body of jesus, causing him to sweat great drops of blood, but by reason of some principle, to us unfathomable, his suffering affected universal nature. "world upon world, eternal things, hang on thy anguish, king of kings." when he gave up the ghost, the solid rocks were riven, the foundations of the earth trembled, earthquakes shook the continents and rent the isles of the deep darkness overspread the sky, the mighty waters overflowed their accustomed bounds, huge mountains sank and valleys rose, the handiwork of feeble men was overthrown, their cities were engulphed or consumed by the vivid shafts of lightning, and all material things were convulsed with the throes of seeming dissolution. thus was brought to pass that which was spoken by the prophet zenos: "the rocks of the earth must rend; and because of the groanings of the earth, many of the kings of the isles of the sea shall be wrought upon by the spirit of god to exclaim, the god of nature suffers." [1 nephi, xix, 12.] and it is recorded, that so confessed the centurion, and they that were with him watching the body of jesus. for when they witnessed the earthquake, and the other things that were done, they feared greatly, saying, "truly this was the son of god." so also was fulfilled that which is written in the prophecy of enoch: "and the lord said unto enoch, look; and he looked and beheld the son of man lifted up on the cross, after the manner of men; and he heard a loud voice; and the heavens were veiled; and all the creations of god mourned; and the earth groaned; and the rocks were rent; and the saints arose, and were crowned at the right hand of the son of man, with crowns of glory; and as many of the spirits as were in prison came forth, and stood on the right hand of god; and the remainder were reserved in chains of darkness until the judgment of the great day."--pearl of great price. thus, such was the torturing pressure of this intense, this indescribable agony, that it burst forth abroad beyond the confines of his body, convulsed all nature and spread throughout all space. the statement previously quoted, "the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all," could only be in reference to the transgression of our first parent, who, acting as the progenitor and head of the human family, assumed a responsibility not only for himself, but for all of his seed; for the whole of the human family not having then been born, could not be responsible, personally, for acts that transpired before they had an existence on the earth. but as children inherit blessings from their fathers, so it would also seem that they must inherit curses, or share in their calamities. the lord, in speaking to the children of israel, said he would visit "the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate" him; and furthermore "a bastard shall not enter into the congregation of the lord, even to his tenth generation." this ostracism or punishment could be for no personal act of their own, for they had no part in the sin of their parents; any more than adam's progeny had in the original sin or transgression. but it seems to be a principle admitted, that if they share the blessings accruing to their father for righteous acts, they must also share the condemnation for acts that are unrighteous. hence comes in the atonement of the messiah, which amply covers all of these acts, and more than that, for as paul says: "but not as the offence, so also is the free gift. for if through the offence of one many be dead, much more the grace of god, and the gift by grace, winch is by one man, jesus christ; hath abounded unto many." hence we say, as above, the atonement covered more, apparently, than the transgression; for adam, without the transgression, would have had no increase. that transgression opened the way for the increase, as stated by eve, "were it not for our transgression, we never should have had seed, and never should have known good and evil, and the joy of our redemption, and the eternal life which god giveth unto all the obedient." that being the case, all children born among any people, not having arrived at the years of accountability, are saved through the atonement of jesus christ, as stated by moroni: "little children cannot repent; wherefore it is awful wickedness to deny the pure mercies of god unto them, for they are all alive in him because of his mercy. and he that saith, that little children need baptism, denieth the mercies of christ, and setteth at naught the atonement of him and the power of his redemption. wo unto such, for they are in danger of death, hell, and endless torment. i speak it boldly, god hath commanded me. listen unto them and give heed, or they stand against you at the judgment seat of christ. for behold, that all little children are alive in christ, and also all they that are without the law. for the power of redemption cometh on all they that have no law; wherefore, he that is not condemned, or he that is under no condemnation, cannot repent; and unto such baptism availeth nothing. but it is mockery before god, denying the mercies of christ, and the power of his holy spirit, and putting trust in dead works."--moroni, viii, 19-23. chapter xxii. the operations of the priesthood in the heavens and upon the earth, in time and eternity--the heirs of the celestial kingdom--those who die without law--the judges of the earth--priests and kings--christ the king of kings--condition of patriarch joseph smith, apostle david patten and others--moses and elias--the visits of angels and their testimonies--peter, james and john--the angel in the book of revelation. there is something peculiarly interesting in the contemplation of events associated with the future destiny of mankind. among other things it will be seen that there is a very close connection or affinity between the operations of the priesthood in the heavens and the priesthood upon earth. in examining this subject we find it written: "the lord redeemeth none such that rebel against him and die in their sins; yea, even all those that have perished in their sins ever since the world began, that have wilfully rebelled against god, that have known the commandments of god, and would not keep them; these are they that have no part in the first resurrection."--mosiah, xv, 26. but on the other hand it is promised that those who would have received the gospel if they had had the opportunity shall yet have that privilege. the prophet joseph smith records in his history: "thus came the voice of the lord unto me, saying, all those who have died without a knowledge of this gospel, who would have received it if they had been permitted to tarry, shall be heirs of the celestial kingdom of god; also all that shall die henceforth without a knowledge of it, who would have received it with all their hearts, shall be heirs of that kingdom, for i, the lord, will judge all men according to their works, according to the desire of their hearts."--deseret news, vol. ii, no. 22. with this agree the words of the apostle paul, that those who have died without law shall be judged without law; whilst the lord further reveals to the prophet joseph that "that which is governed by law is also preserved by law, and perfected and sanctified by the same. that which breaketh a law, and abideth not by law, but seeketh to become a law unto itself, and willeth to abide in sin, and altogether abideth in sin, cannot be sanctified by law, neither by mercy, justice, nor judgment. therefore they must remain filthy still." with this teaching is associated a grand principle connected with the everlasting priesthood, which administers in time and in eternity. when we reflect upon the statement of creatures being judged without law, the question arises as to who are to be their judges. we may here state that christ is called the judge of the quick and the dead, the judge of all the earth. we further read that the twelve apostles who ministered in jerusalem "shall sit upon twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of israel." (matt., xix, 28.) also the following: "and again, verily, verily, i say unto you, and it hath gone forth in a firm decree, by the will of the father, that mine apostles, the twelve who were with me in my ministry at jerusalem, shall stand at my right hand at the day of my coming in a pillar of fire, being clothed with robes of righteousness, with crowns upon their heads, in glory even as i am, to judge the whole house of israel, even as many as have loved me and kept my commandments, and none else."--doc. and cov., sec. xxix, 12, p. 143. and nephi writes in the book of mormon: "and the angel spake unto me, saying, behold the twelve disciples of the lamb, who are chosen to minister unto thy seed. and he said unto me, thou rememberest the twelve apostles of the lamb? behold, they are they who shall judge the twelve tribes of israel; wherefore, the twelve ministers of thy seed shall be judged of them; for ye are of the house of israel. and these twelve ministers, whom thou beholdest, shall judge thy seed. and, behold they are righteous for ever; for because of their faith in the lamb of god, their garments are made white in his blood."--1 nephi, xii, 8-10. this exhibits a principle of adjudication or judgment in the hands, firstly, of the great high priest and king, jesus of nazareth, the son of god; secondly, in the hands of the twelve apostles on the continent of asia, bestowed by jesus himself; thirdly, in the twelve disciples on this continent, to their peoples, who it appears are under the presidency of the twelve apostles who ministered at jerusalem; which presidency is also exhibited by peter, james and john, the acknowledged presidency of the twelve apostles; they, holding this priesthood first on the earth, and then in the heavens, being the legitimate custodians of the keys of the priesthood, came and bestowed it upon joseph smith and oliver cowdery. it is also further stated that the saints shall judge the world. thus christ is at the head, his apostles and disciples seem to take the next prominent part; then comes the action of the saints, or other branches of the priesthood, who it is stated shall judge the world. this combined priesthood, it would appear, will hold the destiny of the human family in their hands and adjudicate in all matters pertaining to their affairs; and it would seem to be quite reasonable, if the twelve apostles in jerusalem are to be the judges of the twelve tribes, and the twelve disciples on this continent are to be the judges of the descendants of nephi, then that the brother of jared and jared should be the judges of the jaredites, their descendants; and, further, that the first presidency and twelve who have officiated in our age, should operate in regard to mankind in this dispensation, and also in regard to all matters connected with them, whether they relate to the past, present, or future, as the aforementioned have done in regard to their several peoples; and that the patriarchs, the presidents, the twelve, the high priests, the seventies, the elders, the bishops, priests, teachers and deacons should hold their several places behind the veil, and officiate according to their calling and standing in that priesthood. in fact, the priesthood is called an everlasting priesthood; it ministers in time and in eternity. moses speaks of the levitical priesthood as an everlasting priesthood. (ex., xl, 15.) paul refers to the melchizedek priesthood as being "without father, without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days, nor end of life." (heb., vii, 3.) whilst the prophet joseph smith states that this "priesthood continueth in the church of god in all generations, and is without beginning of days or end of years." (doc. and cov., sec. lxxxiv, 17, p. 290.) this being the case, it necessarily follows that those holding the priesthood on the earth continue in the exercise of that priesthood in the heavens, their operations being changed from this to another state of existence; and when the dead, small and great, shall be judged, while god stands at the head, and jesus is the great high priest of our profession, all those who have ever lived who are worthy will stand in their proper positions, according to their callings, priesthood, ordinations or quorums. it is written that they without us can not be made perfect, and that we without them can not be made perfect. we have commenced to build temples, and to administer in them according to the decrees, purposes and foreknowledge of god. when we have got through with our personal affairs connected with our individual families and interests, so far as we can legitimately trace them, then it becomes a question as to the position of those that are behind the veil of whom we have no personal knowledge. does it not seem consistent that to the ancient as well as the modern patriarchs, prophets, presidents, apostles, seventies, high priests, elders, bishops and others would be committed the manipulation and judgment of those who are behind the veil; and with whom we, at present, have nothing to do? and if temples are to be built here and ordinances performed in them in the interest of those who have died without law, and in the adjudication of all these matters, that the priesthood behind the veil, to whom is committed the judgment of these things, should communicate with the priesthood upon the earth, that they may be administered for by proxy in the temples erected by us, and those who shall follow after us; that all things may be done according to equity, law, and justice, and that none but those worthy to receive those great blessings and high exaltations can participate in the same; being thus sanctioned by the priesthood in heaven and the priesthood upon the earth? hence, while they are saviors, preach to the spirits in prison and judge the dead, we build temples and administer for them upon the earth, and thus become, as it is written, "saviors upon mount zion;" operating and cooperating with the priesthood behind the veil, in the interest, happiness, salvation and exaltation of the human family. thus shall we also become legitimately and by right, through the atonement and adoption, kings and priests--priests to administer in the holy ordinances pertaining to the endowments and exaltations; and kings, under christ, who is king of kings and lord of lords, to rule and govern, according to the eternal laws of justice and equity, those who are thus redeemed and exalted. in corroboration of these ideas is the statement, in the book of doctrine and covenants, that father joseph smith, who was the first patriarch to the church in this dispensation, is now at the right hand of abraham, who was also a presiding patriarch. the passage reads: "that i may receive him unto myself, even as i did * * * my aged servant, joseph smith, sen., who sitteth with abraham at his right hand, and blessed and holy is he, for he is mine."--doc. and cov., cxxiv, 19, p. 431. it is also stated of david patten, one of the twelve apostles, who was slain by the mobbers in missouri, that "david patten i have taken unto myself; behold, his priesthood no man taketh from him; but, verily i say unto you, another may be appointed unto the same calling."--doc. and cov., cxxiv, 130, p. 445. the same is said of seymour brunson, one of the high council, and of edward partridge, the first bishop of the church, both of whom were dead: "seymour brunson i have taken unto myself, no man taketh his priesthood, but another may be appointed unto the same priesthood in his stead."--doc. and cov., sec. cxxiv, 132, p. 445. "that when he shall finish his work, that i may receive him unto myself, even as i did my servant david patten, who is with me at this time, and also my servant edward partridge."--doc. and cov., sec. cxxiv, 19, p. 431. we read that moses and elias came to administer to jesus, on the mount, while peter, james and john were with him. who were this moses and this elias? moses was a great prophet, appointed by the lord to deliver israel from egyptian bondage, and lead them to the promised land; and he held the keys of the gathering dispensation, which keys he afterwards conferred upon joseph smith in the kirtland temple. who was elias? elijah; which name in the old scriptures is made synonymous with elias; and who held, according to the testimony of joseph smith as elsewhere stated, the keys of the priesthood. these men, who held those keys and officiated upon the earth, having left the earth, now come, associated with jesus, to administer to peter, james and john, and confer upon them the priesthood which they hold; and these three ancient apostles conferred the priesthood upon joseph smith and oliver cowdery in this dispensation. this principle is very clearly illustrated in the following quotation from the book of doctrine and covenants, sec. cxxviii, 20, 21, p., 457: "and again, what do we hear? glad tidings from cumorah! moroni, an angel from heaven, declaring the fulfilment of the prophets--the book to be revealed. a voice of the lord in the wilderness of fayette, seneca county, declaring the three witnesses to bear record of the book. the voice of michael on the banks of the susquehanna, detecting the devil when he appeared as an angel of light. the voice of peter, james and john in the wilderness between harmony, susquehanna county, and colesville, broome county, on the susquehanna river, declaring themselves as possessing the keys of the kingdom, and of the dispensation of the fulness of times. "and again, the voice of god in the chamber of old father whitmer, in fayette, seneca county, and at sundry times and in divers places through all the travels and tribulations of this church of jesus christ of latter-day saints. and the voice of michael, the archangel; the voice of gabriel, and of raphael, and of divers angels, from michael or adam, down to the present time, all declaring their dispensation, their rights, their keys, their honors, their majesty and glory, and the power of their priesthood; giving line upon line, precept upon precept; here a little and there a little--giving us consolation by holding forth that which is to come, confirming our hope." hence their priesthood was everlasting, it administered in time and in eternity. in consonance with the same idea is a remark made by a mighty angel, to be found in the revelation received by st. john on the isle of patmos. after this angel had communicated to john many great and important events yet to transpire, the apostle was so overawed by his presence that he fell at his feet to worship him; whereas the angel said, "see that thou do it not; i am thy fellow servant, and of thy brethren that have kept the testimony of jesus: worship god; for the testimony of jesus is the spirit of prophecy." (rev., xix, 10.) in other words, he had held the holy priesthood on the earth and had officiated therein; he had been subjected to all the obloquy, contumely and reproach which the prophets of god generally suffered. but now the scene was changed; he was officiating in another sphere, and was revealing unto the apostle john, who had a peculiar mission on the earth, some of the great and important truths or events that should be developed in the accomplishment of the purposes of god. all of these men, having held the everlasting priesthood on earth, still retain the power and authority conferred upon them, and stand forth as prominent examples of the perpetuity of the everlasting priesthood, administering on the earth or in the heavens, as the purposes of god and the fulfilment of their duties render necessary, or the circumstances require. chapter xxiii. the laws of god unchangeable, universal and eternal--examples and definitions--evolutionists--kingdoms and light--christ the creator, etc.--deviations from general laws--every kingdom has a law given. there is an inexorable law of god that requires from his professed followers the principles of virtue, honor, truth, integrity, righteousness, justice, judgment and mercy, as exhibited in the following scriptures: "justice and judgment are the habitation of thy throne: mercy and truth shall go before thy face."--psalm lxxxix, 14. "thou lovest righteousness, and hatest wickedness: therefore god, thy god, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows."--psalm xlv, 7. "lord, who shall abide in thy tabernacle? who shall dwell in thy holy hill? he that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart. he that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbor, nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbor. in whose eyes a vile person is contemned; but he honoreth them that fear the lord. he that sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not. he that putteth not out his money to usury, nor taketh reward against the innocent. he that doeth these things shall never be moved."--psalm xv, 1-5. "who shall ascend into the hill of the lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? he that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. he shall receive the blessing from the lord, and righteousness from the god of his salvation."--psalm xxiv, 3-5. "who among us shall dwell with the devouring fire? who among us shall dwell with everlasting burnings? he that walketh righteously, and speaketh uprightly; he that despiseth the gain of oppressions, that shaketh his hands from holding of bribes, that stoppeth his ears from hearing of blood, and shutteth his eyes from seeing evil. he shall dwell on high; his place of defence shall be the munitions of rocks: bread shall be given him; his waters shall be sure."--isaiah, xxxiii, 14-16. there are eternal, unchangeable laws associated with god, and with all his plans, his works and ways, the requirements of which must be met; nor can they be evaded or changed, except on certain principles provided for and contained in the laws themselves. when man had transgressed, an atonement had to be made commensurate with the act, and fully adequate to meet the inexorable demands of justice; so that, as stated, justice might be satisfied, which, if it had not been, the law pertaining to this matter could not have been carried out, and must necessarily have been violated. all the works of god connected with the world which we inhabit, and with all other worlds, are strictly governed by law. so accurate are the movements of the heavenly bodies that even with our limited knowledge we can compute, after the departure of most of these bodies, the time of their return to a minute. the sun rises and sets with great regularity, and we can tell to a moment, by calculating the revolution of the earth, at what time it will make its appearance in the morning and disappear in the evening; the same rule applies to the moon, the whole of the solar system, and to all bodies that can be reached by our instruments. there is perfect regularity, exactitude and order associated with all worlds; a departure from which would produce incalculable evil and irretrievable destruction and ruin. with regard to the matter of which the earth is composed, it is also governed by strict, unchangeable laws; matter possessing the same properties under the same conditions, in all parts of the world. the various grasses, herbs, plants, shrubs, flowers, minerals, metals, waters, fluids or gases, when under the same conditions, are subject to or governed by unchangeable laws; and by those laws chemists or scientists are enabled to apply tests to demonstrate the properties of the various elements in nature, which they find are always immutable, and the same degree of accuracy applies to the laws and various formations of crystallization, under the same circumstances. the animal and vegetable creations are governed by certain laws, and are composed of certain elements peculiar to themselves. this applies to man, to the beasts, fowls, fish and creeping things, to the insects and to all animated nature; each one possessing its own distinctive features, each requiring a specific sustenance, each having an organism and faculties governed by prescribed laws to perpetuate its own kind. so accurate is the formation of the various living creatures that an intelligent student of nature can tell by any particular bone of the skeleton of an animal to what class or order it belongs. these principles do not change, as represented by evolutionists of the darwinian school, but the primitive organisms of all living beings exist in the same form as when they first received their impress from their maker. there are, indeed, some very slight exceptions, as for instance, the ass may mix with the mare and produce the mule; but there it ends, the violation of the laws of procreation receives a check, and its operations can go no further. similar compounds may possibly be made by experimentalists in the vegetable and mineral kingdoms, but the original elements remain the same. yet this is not the normal, but an abnormal condition with them, as with animals, birds, etc.; and if we take man, he is said to have been made in the image of god, for the simple reason that he is a son of god; and being his son, he is, of course, his offspring, an emanation from god, in whose likeness, we are told, he is made. he did not originate from a chaotic mass of matter, moving or inert, but came forth possessing, in an embryotic state, all the faculties and powers of a god. and when he shall be perfected, and have progressed to maturity, he will be like his father--a god; being indeed his offspring. as the horse, the ox, the sheep, and every living creature, including man, propagates its own species and perpetuates its own kind, so does god perpetuate his. there are different organisms possessing different qualities, from which the same results are uniformly obtained. the body of a sheep produces wool, that of a goat produces hair, the flesh of certain kinds of fish produces scales, the flesh of birds produces feathers, and by the coverings of the various kinds of animals, birds and fishes, may their originals be known. it is true that some of these coverings may be slightly changed by a removal of the creature from the arctic to the torrid zone, or vice versa; wool may assume a nearer approach to hair in length and texture, or hair may become more woolly, but these modifications are slight, and this covering of the animal is predisposed to return to its original qualities when the creature is replaced in his natural habitat. paul, in speaking on the resurrection, refers to the different qualities of flesh as follows: "but god giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his own body. all flesh is not the same flesh; but there is one kind of flesh of men, another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds."--1 cor., xv, 38, 39. these different qualities seem to be inherent in the several species, as much so as the properties of silver, gold, copper, iron and other minerals are inherent in the matter in which they are contained, whilst herbs, according to their kind, possess their specific properties, or as the leading properties of earth, air, and water, are distinct from one another; and hence, on physiological grounds, this principle being admitted, and it cannot be controverted, it would be impossible to take the tissues of the lower, or, indeed, of any order of fishes, and make of them an ox, a bird, or a man; as impossible as it would be to take iron and make it into gold, silver, or copper, or to produce other changes in the laws which govern any kind of matter. and when the resurrection and exaltation of man shall be consummated, although more pure, refined and glorious, yet will he still be in the same image, and have the same likeness, without variation or change in any of his parts or faculties, except the substitution of spirit for blood. this principle of exactitude in all the works of god represents the principles that dwell in god himself. he is called in scripture the i am, in other words, i am that i am, because of those inherent principles, which are also eternal and unchangeable; for where those principles exist, he exists; and when speaking of the worlds by which we are surrounded, it is said, "behold, all these are kingdoms, and any man who hath seen any, or the least of these, hath seen god moving in his majesty and power."--doc. and cov., sec. lxxxviii, 47, p. 310. and again it is written: "he comprehendeth all things, and all things are before him, and all things are round about him: and he is above all things, and in all things, and is through all things, and is round about all things; and all things are by him, and of him, even god, for ever and ever. and again, verily i say unto you, he hath given a law unto all things, by which they move in their times and their seasons."--ibid., 41, 42, p. 309. and again, in the same revelation, we read: "as also he is in the sun, and the light of the sun, and the power thereof by which it was made. as also he is in the moon, and is the light of the moon, and the power thereof by which it was made. as also the light of the stars, and the power thereof by which they were made. and the earth also, and the power thereof; even the earth upon which you stand. and the light which now shineth, which giveth you light, is through him who enlighteneth your eyes, which is the same light, that quickeneth your understandings; which light proceedeth forth from the presence of god to fill the immensity of space. the light which is in all things; which giveth life to all things: which is the law by which all things are governed: even the power of god who sitteth upon his throne, who is in the bosom of eternity, who is in the midst of all things."--ibid., 7-13, p. 306. the world was made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made, and, therefore, having made all things he has given to all things a law; and hence those laws which we have briefly alluded to, are the productions of his comprehensive, intelligent, and infinite mind: he is the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, the fountain of all life, of all light, of all truth, of all intelligence, of all existence. he is also the sustainer of all life and all light in all created beings; in him all animal life of every form has its being. there are some apparent deviations from general laws. but these apparent deviations are merely appendages to the great general law, in order that creation may be perfect in all its parts. for instance, there is a general law of what is termed gravitation which causes bodies to fall to the earth from a given height, with the same velocity according to their specific gravity. but there are other local laws which disturb the normal conditions, so far as they extend, of what may be termed the general law. as, for example, the magnet, in its limited sphere, is more powerful than the general law of gravity, it attracting certain matter to itself in opposition to the general law, while the magnet itself is subject to the general law. there is also another principle, called capillary attraction, which causes water and other fluids to ascend in the earth, in tubes, etc. take away these local agencies and everything resumes its normal condition. a bird, through the use of its wings, possesses the power of locomotion through the air; let that bird, however, lose its mechanism and power by being maimed or killed, and it is governed by the same law of gravitation and drops to the earth. balloons will ascend and carry a specified weight with them to great altitudes, but this is owing to a modification of one part of the law of gravitation; which causes denser bodies to cling with greater tenacity to the earth, and the gas that enters the balloons is more rarified than the atmosphere immediately contiguous to the earth; which dense atmosphere forces the lighter gases to their proper place, causing them to bound upwards; this being done and the equilibrium obtained, if the gas is permitted to escape, the materials of which the balloon is composed, together with its occupants, are precipitated, according to the general laws of gravitation, to the earth. god is unchangeable, so are also his laws, in all their forms, and in all their applications, and being himself the essence of law, the giver of law, the sustainer of law, all of those laws are eternal in all their operations, in all bodies and matter, and throughout all space. it would be impossible for him to violate law, because in so doing he would strike at his own dignity, power, principles, glory, exaltation and existence. the book of doctrine and covenants states: "and again, verily i say unto you, that which is governed by law is also preserved by law, and perfected and sanctified by the same. that which breaketh a law, and abideth not by law, but seeketh to become a law unto itself, and willeth to abide in sin, and altogether abideth in sin, cannot be sanctified by law, neither by mercy, justice, nor judgment. therefore they must remain filthy still. all kingdoms have a law given: and there are many kingdoms; for there is no space in the which there is no kingdom; and there is no kingdom in which there is no space, either a greater or a lesser kingdom. and unto every kingdom is given a law; and unto every law there are certain bounds also and conditions. all beings who abide not in those conditions are not justified; for intelligence cleaveth unto intelligence; wisdom receiveth wisdom; truth embraceth truth; virtue loveth virtue; light cleaveth unto light; mercy hath compassion on mercy, and claimeth her own; justice continueth its course, and claimeth its own; judgment goeth before the face of him who sitteth upon the throne, and governeth and executeth all things."--sec. lxxxviii, 34-40, p.p. 308, 309. hence, the law of atonement had to be met as well as all other laws, for god could not be god without fulfilling it. jesus said, "if it be possible, let this cup pass." but it was not possible; for to have done so would have been a violation of the law, and he had to take it. the atonement must be made, a god must be sacrificed. no power can resist a law of god. it is omnipresent, omnipotent, exists everywhere, in all things, through all things and round about all things. we read: "o the greatness of the mercy of our god, the holy one of israel! for he delivereth his saints from that awful monster the devil, and death, and hell, and that lake of fire and brimstone, which is endless torment. o how great the holiness of our god! for he knoweth all things, and there is not any thing, save he knows it. and he cometh into the world that he may save all men, if they will hearken unto his voice; for behold, he suffereth the pains of all men; yea, the pains of every living creature, both men, women, and children, who belong to the family of adam. and he suffereth this, that the resurrection might pass upon all men, that all might stand before him at the great and judgment day. and he commandeth all men that they must repent, and be baptized in his name, having perfect faith in the holy one of israel, or they cannot be saved in the kingdom of god. and if they will not repent and believe in his name, and be baptized in his name, and endure to the end, they must be damned; for the lord god, the holy one of israel, has spoken it; wherefore he has given a law; and where there is no law given, there is no punishment; and where there is no punishment, there is no condemnation; and where there is no condemnation, the mercies of the holy one of israel have claim upon them, because of the atonement; for they are delivered by the power of him; for the atonement satisfieth the demands of his justice upon all those who have not the law given to them, that they are delivered from that awful monster, death and hell, and the devil, and the lake of fire and brimstone, which is endless torment; and they are restored to that god who gave them breath, which is the holy one of israel. but wo unto him that has the law given; yea, that has all the commandments of god like unto us, and that transgresseth them, and that wasteth the days of his probation, for awful is his state."--2 nephi, ix, 19-27. chapter xxiv. the results of the atonement--the debt paid--justice and mercy- extracts from the teachings of alma and others. from the facts in the case and the testimony presented in the scriptures it becomes evident that through the great atonement, the expiatory sacrifice of the son of god, it is made possible that man can be redeemed, restored, resurrected and exalted to the elevated position designed for him in the creation as a son of god: that eternal justice and law required the penalty to be paid by man himself, or by the atonement of the son of god: that jesus offered himself as the great expiatory sacrifice; that this offering being in accordance with the demands or requirements of the law, was accepted by the great lawgiver; that it was prefigured by sacrifices, and ultimately fulfilled by himself according to the eternal covenant. "he was wounded (as prophesied of) for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and with his stripes we are healed." the savior thus becomes master of the situation--the debt is paid, the redemption made, the covenant fulfilled, justice satisfied, the will of god done, and all power is now given into the hands of the son of god--the power of the resurrection, the power of the redemption, the power of salvation, the power to enact laws for the carrying out and accomplishment of this design. hence life and immortality are brought to light, the gospel is introduced, and he becomes the author of eternal life and exaltation. he is the redeemer, the resurrector, the savior of man and the world; and he has appointed the law of the gospel as the medium which must be complied with in this world or the next, as he complied with his father's law; hence "he that believeth shall be saved, and he that believeth not shall be damned." the plan, the arrangement, the agreement, the covenant was made, entered into and accepted before the foundation of the world; it was prefigured by sacrifices, and was carried out and consummated on the cross. hence being the mediator between god and man, he becomes by right the dictator and director on earth and in heaven for the living and for the dead, for the past, the present and the future, pertaining to man as associated with this earth or the heavens, in time or eternity, the captain of our salvation, the apostle and high-priest of our profession, the lord and giver of life. is justice dishonored? no; it is satisfied, the debt is paid. is righteousness departed from? no; this is a righteous act. all requirements are met. is judgment violated? no; its demands are fulfilled. is mercy triumphant? no; she simply claims her own. justice, judgment, mercy and truth all harmonize as the attributes of deity. "justice and truth have met together, righteousness and peace have kissed each other." justice and judgment triumph as well as mercy and peace; all the attributes of deity harmonize in this great, grand, momentous, just, equitable, merciful and meritorious act. the book of mormon is very explicit on these principles. we read therein: "and behold, i say unto you, this is not all: for o how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that is the founder of peace: yea, even the lord, who has redeemed his people: yea, him who has granted salvation unto his people: for were it not for the redemption which he hath made for his people, which was prepared from the foundation of the world; i say unto you, were it not for this, all mankind must have perished. but behold, the bands of death shall be broken, and the son reigneth, and hath power over the dead; therefore, he bringeth to pass the resurrection of the dead. and there cometh a resurrection, even a first resurrection; yea even a resurrection of those that have been, and who are, and who shall be, even until the resurrection of christ: for so shall he be called. and now, the resurrection of all the prophets, and all those that have believed in their words, or all those that have kept the commandments of god, shall come forth in the first resurrection; therefore, they are the first resurrection. they are raised to dwell with god who has redeemed them: thus they have eternal life through christ, who has broken the bands of death. and these are those who have part in the first resurrection; and these are they that have died before christ came, in their ignorance, not having salvation declared unto them. and thus the lord bringeth about the restoration of these; and they have a part in the first resurrection, or have eternal life, being redeemed by the lord. and little children also have eternal life. but behold, and fear, and tremble before god; for ye ought to tremble: for the lord redeemeth none such that rebel against him, and die in their sins; yea, even all those that have perished in their sins ever since the world began, that have wilfully rebelled against god, that have known the commandments of god, and would not keep them; these are they that have no part in the first resurrection. therefore had ye not ought to tremble? for salvation cometh to none such; for the lord hath redeemed none such; yea, neither can the lord redeem such; for he cannot deny himself; for he cannot deny justice when it has its claim."--mosiah, xv, 18-27. the next is a portion of a sermon of the prophet amulek, the companion of alma, to the zoramites: "my brother has called upon the words of zenos, that redemption cometh through the son of god, and also upon the words of zenoch; and also he has appealed unto moses, to prove that these things are true. and now behold, i will testify unto you of myself that these things are true. behold, i say unto you, that i do know that christ shall come among the children of men, to take upon him the transgressions of his people, and that he shall atone for the sins of the world; for the lord god hath spoken it; for it is expedient that an atonement should be made; for according to the great plan of the eternal god, there must be an atonement made, or else all mankind must unavoidably perish; yea, all are hardened; yea, all are fallen and are lost, and must perish, except it be through the atonement which it is expedient should be made; for it is expedient that there should be a great and last sacrifice; yea, not a sacrifice of man, neither of beast, neither of any manner of fowl; for it shall not be a human sacrifice; but it must be an infinite and eternal sacrifice. now there is not any man that can sacrifice his own blood, which will atone for the sins of another. now if a man murdereth, behold will our law, which is just, take the life of his brother? i say unto you nay. but the law requireth the life of him who hath murdered; therefore there can be nothing which is short of an infinite atonement, which will suffice for the sins of the world; therefore it is expedient that there should be a great and last sacrifice; and then shall there be, or it is expedient there should be a stop to the shedding of blood; then shall the law of moses be fulfilled; yea, it shall be all fulfilled; every jot and tittle; and none shall have passed away. and behold, this is the whole meaning of the law: every whit pointing to that great and last sacrifice; and that great and last sacrifice will be the son of god: yea, infinite and eternal; and thus he shall bring salvation to all those who shall believe on his name; this being the intent of this last sacrifice, to bring about the bowels of mercy, which overpowereth justice, and bringeth about means unto men that they may have faith unto repentance. and thus mercy can satisfy the demands of justice, and encircles them in the arms of safety, while he that exercises no faith unto repentance, is exposed to the whole law of the demands of justice; therefore only unto him that has faith unto repentance, is brought about the great and eternal plan of redemption. therefore may god grant unto you, my brethren, that ye may begin to exercise your faith unto repentance, that ye begin to call upon his holy name, that he would have mercy upon you."--alma, xxxiv, 7-17. and again, to quote from the commandments of alma to his son corianton: "and now, my son, i perceive there is somewhat more which doth worry your mind, which ye cannot understand, which is concerning the justice of god, in the punishment of the sinner; for ye do try to suppose that it is injustice that the sinner should be consigned to a state of misery. now, behold, my son, i will explain this thing unto thee: for behold, after the lord god sent our first parents forth from the garden of eden, to till the ground, from whence they were taken; yea, he drew out the man, and he placed at the east end of the garden of eden, cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the tree of life. now we see that the man had become as god, knowing good and evil; and lest he should put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat and live for ever, the lord god placed cherubim and the flaming sword, that he should not partake of the fruit; and thus we see, that there was a time granted unto man to repent, yea, a probationary time, a time to repent and serve god. for behold, if adam had put forth his hand immediately, and partook of the tree of life, he would have lived for ever, according to the word of god, having no space for repentance; yea, and also the word of god would have been void, and the great plan of salvation would have been frustrated. but behold, it was appointed unto man to die; therefore as they were cut off from the tree of life they should be cut off from the face of the earth, and man become lost for ever; yea, they became fallen man. and now we see by this, that our parents were cut off, both temporally and spiritually, from the presence of the lord; and thus we see they became subjects to follow after their own will. now behold, it was not expedient that man should be reclaimed from this temporal death, for that would destroy the great plan of happiness; therefore, as the soul could never die, and the fall had brought upon all mankind a spiritual death as well as a temporal; that is, they were cut off from the presence of the lord; it was expedient that mankind should be reclaimed from this spiritual death; therefore, as they had become carnal, sensual, and devilish by nature, this probationary state became a state for them to prepare; it became a preparatory state. and now remember, my son, if it were not for the plan of redemption, (laying it aside,) as soon as they were dead, their souls were miserable, being cut off from the presence of the lord. and now there was no means to reclaim men from this fallen state which man had brought upon himself, because of his own disobedience; therefore, according to justice, the plan of redemption could not be brought about, only on conditions of repentance of men in this probationary state; yea, this preparatory state; for except it were for these conditions, mercy could not take effect except it should destroy the work of justice. now the work of justice could not be destroyed; if so, god would cease to be god. and thus we see that all mankind were fallen, and they were in the grasp of justice; yea, the justice of god, which consigned them for ever to be cut off from his presence. and now the plan of mercy could not be brought about, except an atonement should be made; therefore god himself atoneth for the sins of the world, to bring about the plan of mercy, to appease the demands of justice, that god might be a perfect, just god, and a merciful god also. now repentance could not come unto men, except there were a punishment, which also was eternal as the life of the soul should be, affixed opposite to the plan of happiness, which was as eternal also as the life of the soul. now, how could a man repent, except he should sin? how could he sin, if there was no law? how could there be a law, save there was a punishment? now there was a punishment affixed, and a just law given, which brought remorse of conscience unto man. now if there was no law given if a man murdered he should die, would he be afraid he would die if he should murder? and also, if there was no law given against sin, men would not be afraid to sin. and if there was no law given if men sinned, what could justice do, or mercy either; for they would have no claim upon the creature? but there is a law given, and a punishment affixed, and a repentance granted; which repentance, mercy claimeth; otherwise, justice claimeth the creature, and executeth the law, and the law inflicteth the punishment: if not so, the works of justice would be destroyed, and god would cease to be god. but god ceaseth not to be god, and mercy claimeth the penitent, and mercy cometh because of the atonement; and the atonement bringeth to pass the resurrection of the dead; and the resurrection of the dead bringeth back men into the presence of god; and thus they are restored into his presence, to be judged according to their works; according to the law and justice; for behold, justice exerciseth all his demands, and also mercy claimeth all which is her own; and thus, none but the truly penitent are saved. what! do ye suppose that mercy can rob justice? i say unto you, nay; not one whit. if so, god would cease to be god. and thus god bringeth about his great and eternal purposes, which were prepared from the foundation of the world. and thus cometh about the salvation and the redemption of men, and also their destruction and misery."--alma, xlii, 1-26. in the first place, according to justice men could not have been redeemed from temporal death, except through the atonement of jesus christ; and in the second place, they could not be redeemed from spiritual death, only through obedience to his law. chapter xxv. the resurrection--the universality of the atonement--the promises to those who overcome--the gospel--its first principles--faith, repentance, baptism and the gift of the holy ghost--its antiquity- it is preached in various dispensations, from adam until the present--the final triumph of the saints. the great pre-requisites having been fulfilled, it now becomes our duty to enquire what next had to be done to consummate the great object obtainable through the fulfilment of this law, or what was accomplished by the atonement. first, the resurrection. the penalty of the broken law in adam's day was death; and death is passed upon all. the word of the lord was, "in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." the atonement made by jesus christ brought about the resurrection from the dead, and restored life. and hence jesus said: "i am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;" and jesus himself became the first fruits of those who slept. the next question that arises is, how far does this principle extend and to whom is it applicable? it extends to all the human family; to all men of every nation: as it is written: "for, if by one man's offence death reigneth by one; much more they which receive abundance of grace, and of the gift of righteousness, shall reign in life by one, jesus christ. therefore, as by the offence of one judgment came upon all men to condemnation, even so by the righteousness of one the free gift came upon all men unto justification of life."--romans, v, 17, 18. this will not all take place at once. "but every man in his own order: christ, the first fruits; afterward they that are christ's at his coming."--1 cor., xv, 23. "but the rest of the dead lived not again until the thousand years were finished."--rev., xx, 5. hence what was lost in adam was restored in jesus christ, so far as all men are concerned in all ages, with some very slight exceptions arising from an abuse of privileges. transgression of the law brought death upon all the posterity of adam, the restoration through the atonement restored all the human family to life. "for since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. for as in adam all die, even so in christ shall all be made alive." so that whatever was lost by adam, was restored by jesus christ. the penalty of the transgression of the law was the death of the body. the atonement made by jesus christ resulted in the resurrection of the human body. its scope embraced all peoples, nations and tongues. "for all my lord was crucified, for all, for all my savior died." this is one part of the restoration. this is the restoration of the body. the next question for us to examine is, how, and in what manner are men benefitted by the atonement and by the resurrection? in this, that the atonement having restored man to his former position before the lord, it has placed him in a position and made it possible for him to obtain that exaltation and glory which it would have been impossible for him to have received without it; even to become a son of god by adoption; and being a son then an heir of god, and a joint heir with jesus christ; and that, as christ overcame, he has made it possible, and has placed it within the power of believers in him, also to overcome; and as he is authorized to inherit his father's glory which he had with him before the world was, with his resurrected body, so through the adoption, may we overcome and sit down with him upon his throne, as he has overcome and has sat down upon his father's throne. and as he has said, "i and the father are one," so are the obedient saints one with him, as he is one with the father, even as he prayed: "that they all may be one; as thou, father, art in me, and i in thee, that they also may be one in us; that the world may believe that thou hast sent me. and the glory which thou gavest me, i have given them; that they may be one, even as we are one; i in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one; and that the world may know that thou hast sent me, and hast loved them as thou hast loved me."--john, xvii, 21-23. being the sons of god through the atonement and adoption, and through faith in jesus christ, they rise to the dignity and glory of the godhead, even to be gods; as it is promised: "him that overcometh, will i make a pillar in the temple of my god, and he shall go no more out: and i will write upon him the name of my god, and the name of the city of my god, which is new jerusalem, which cometh down out of heaven from my god: and i will write upon him my new name."--rev., iii, 12. again, "to him that overcometh will i grant to sit with me in my throne, even as i also overcame, and am set down with my father in his throne."--rev., iii, 21. yet again, "he that overcometh shall inherit all things; and i will be his god, and he shall be my son."--rev., xxi, 7. hence, through his atonement, believers in christ, and those who obey his law, partake of his glory and exaltation, and are inheritors of the godhead; whilst those who do not obey his law although resurrected cannot inherit this exaltation; they are raised from the dead, but cannot inherit a celestial glory without being obedient to a celestial law, and thus we come again to a scripture quoted before. jesus said, "thus it is written, and thus it behooved christ to suffer, and to rise from the dead the third day: and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in his name among all nations, beginning at jerusalem." having noticed the great blessings, privileges, powers and exaltations that are placed within the reach of man, through the atonement of jesus christ, it next becomes our duty to enquire what is required of man to place him in possession of them. that the world might be benefitted through the redemption brought about by jesus christ, he called and ordained twelve apostles, and commanded them to go forth into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature, saying, "he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned," or condemned. thus placing it within the reach of every man to obtain the glory and exaltation referred to above, and leaving all men without excuse who would not obey the law and be subject to the conditions imposed. the penalty of adam's sin having been removed through the atonement, it now became the privilege of all men, in all nations, to partake of the salvation provided by the great mediator. and this provision applies not only to the living, but also to the dead, so that all men who have existed in all ages, who do exist now, or who will exist while the earth shall stand, may be placed upon the same footing, and that all men may have the privilege, living or dead, of accepting the conditions of the great plan of redemption provided by the father, through the son, before the world was; and that the justice and mercy of god may be applied to every being, living or dead, that ever has existed, that does now exist, or that ever will exist. the conditions required of the human family to enable them to obtain the high exaltation which the atonement makes it possible for them to receive, are: first, faith in god as our father and the great supreme ruler of the universe; in whose hands are the destinies of the human family; in whom we live and move and have our being. and in his son jesus christ, as the lamb slain from before the foundation of the world, as the great mediator and great propitiatory sacrifice provided by the father before the creation, and consummated by the offering of himself upon the cross. for "god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." or, to use the words of the nephite king benjamin: "believe in god; believe that he is, and that he created all things, both in heaven and in earth; believe that he has all wisdom, and all power, both in heaven and in earth; believe that man doth not comprehend all the things which the lord can comprehend." or as paul writes; "he that cometh to god must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him." the second principle of the gospel of salvation, is repentance. it is a sincere and godly sorrow for and a forsaking of sin, combined with full purpose of heart to keep god's commandments. as is written by the prophet isaiah: "let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our god, for he will abundantly pardon." and to quote from the book of mormon: "and again: believe that ye must repent of your sins and forsake them, and humble yourselves before god; and ask in sincerity of heart that he would forgive you; and now, if you believe all these things, see that ye do them."--mosiah, iv, 10. thirdly, baptism for the remission of sins, of our personal transgressions, which, through this means, provided by divine mercy, are, by reason of the atonement, blotted out. to use the words of paul: "therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the father, even so we also should walk in newness of life. for if we have been planted together in the likeness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection." next, the reception of the holy ghost through the laying on of hands of those who have received the holy priesthood, and are duly authorized, ordained, and empowered to impart this blessing: thus peter preached on the day of pentecost: "repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of jesus christ, for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the holy ghost. for the promise is unto you, and to your children, and to all that are afar off, even as many as the lord our god shall call."--acts, ii, 38, 39. these are the introductory or first principles of the everlasting, unchangeable gospel of our lord and savior jesus christ, that is and has been the same to all men, amongst all nations, in all ages, whenever, or wherever it has been taught by the authority of heaven. hence we read: it was "preached from the beginning, being declared by holy angels, sent from the presence of god, and by his own voice, and by the gift of the holy ghost. and thus all things were confirmed unto adam, by an holy ordinance, and the gospel preached, and a decree sent forth, that it should be in the world, until the end thereof."--pearl of great price. and in that day "the lord god called upon men by the holy ghost everywhere, and commanded them that they should repent; and as many as believed in the son, and repented of their sins, should be saved; and as many as believed not and repented not, should be damned; and the words went forth out of the mouth of god in a firm decree; wherefore they must be fulfilled."--ibid. this same gospel was preached to seth, and to all the antediluvian patriarchs, and they ministered under its authority. by its power, as we have already shown, enoch and his people were translated. of noah it is written: "and the lord ordained noah after his own order, and commanded him that he should go forth and declare his gospel unto the children of men, even as it was given unto enoch." and further, to quote from the testimony of noah before the flood: "and it came to pass that noah continued his preaching unto the people, saying, hearken, and give heed unto my words; believe and repent of your sins, and be baptized in the name of jesus christ, the son of god, even as our fathers did, and ye shall receive the holy ghost, that ye may have all things made manifest; and if ye do not this, the floods will come in upon you." from this we learn that the principles of the gospel in the first ages of the world were identical with those taught in our day. the gospel and the holy priesthood continued from noah to abraham. "abraham received the priesthood from melchizedek, who received it through the lineage of his fathers, even till noah." (doc and cov., lxxxiv, 14, p. 289.) as paul writes, "and the scripture, foreseeing that god would justify the heathen through faith, preached before the gospel unto abraham, saying, "in thee shall all nations be blessed;" whilst jesus declared, "abraham saw my day and was glad." the knowledge and practice of the gospel were perpetuated through isaac, jacob, joseph and other patriarchs, until the age of moses, who, it is said, esteemed "the reproach of christ greater riches than the treasures in egypt;" and of the israelites, of whom he was the great lawgiver, paul writes: "moreover, brethren, i would not that ye should be ignorant how that all our fathers were under the cloud, and all passed through the sea; and were all baptized unto moses in the cloud and in the sea; and did all eat the same spiritual meat; and did all drink the same spiritual drink: (for they drank of that spiritual rock that followed them: and that rock was christ.) but with many of them god was not pleased: for they were overthrown in the wilderness."--1 cor., x, 1-5. the further history of the gospel in its relation to the house of israel is briefly told in the following paragraphs from the book of doctrine and covenants: "now this moses plainly taught to the children of israel in the wilderness, and sought diligently to sanctify his people that they might behold the face of god; but they hardened their hearts and could not endure his presence, therefore the lord in his wrath (for his anger was kindled against them) swore that they should not enter into his rest while in the wilderness, which rest is the fulness of his glory. therefore he took moses out of their midst, and the holy priesthood also; and the lesser priesthood continued, which priesthood holdeth the key of the ministering of angels and the preparatory gospel; which gospel is the gospel of repentance and of baptism, and the remission of sins, and the law of carnal commandments, which the lord in his wrath caused to continue with the house of aaron among the children of israel until john, whom god raised up, being filled with the holy ghost from his mother's womb; for he was baptized while he was yet in his childhood, and was ordained by the angel of god at the time he was eight days old unto this power, to overthrow the kingdom of the jews, and to make straight the way of the lord before the face of his people, to prepare them for the coming of the lord, in whose hand is given all power."--sec. lxxxiv, 23-28, p. 290, 291. it was this same gospel that the crucified redeemer commanded his disciples to preach, when "he said unto them, go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. he that believeth and is baptized, shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned. and these signs shall follow them that believe: in my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover."--mark, xvi, 15-18. and mark testifies: "they went forth, and preached every where, the lord working with them, and confirming the word with signs following." hence we find on the day of pentecost, peter, the senior of the apostles, in answer to the cry of the believing multitude, "men and brethren, what shall we do?" replying in the words already quoted: "repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of jesus christ, for the remission of sins; and ye shall receive the gift of the holy ghost. for the promise is unto you and your children, and to all that are afar off, even as many as the lord our god shall call."-acts, ii, 38, 39. again, it was this same everlasting, unalterable, unchangeable gospel whose restoration to the earth john, the apostle, spoke of as follows: "and i saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people, saying with a loud voice, fear god and give glory to him; for the hour of his judgment is come: and worship him that made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and the fountains of waters."--revelation, xiv, 6, 7. from the bible, we turn to the book of mormon, and in its pages discover that the same gospel which jesus directed his disciples to go into all the world and preach, was preached on this continent, from the earliest ages. the jaredites became acquainted with it through the revelations given to the brother of jared; in one of which jesus said unto him: "behold, i am he who was prepared from the foundation of the world to redeem my people. behold, i am jesus christ. i am the father and the son. in me shall all mankind have light and that eternally, even they who shall believe on my name; and they shall become my sons and my daughters."--ether, iii, 14. "and he ministered unto him, even as he ministered unto the nephites."--ether, iii, 18. the principles of this gospel were very fully understood by the nephites before the advent of the messiah. we quote from a sermon of the younger alma. he says: "now if it had not been for the plan of redemption, which was laid from the foundation of the world, there could have been no resurrection of the dead; but there was a plan of redemption laid, which shall bring to pass the resurrection of the dead, of which has been spoken. and now behold, if it were possible that our first parents could have went forth and partaken of the tree of life, they would have been for ever miserable, having no preparatory state; and thus the plan of redemption would have been frustrated, and the word of god would have been void, taking none effect. but behold, it was not so; but it was appointed unto man that they must die; and after death they must come to judgment; even that same judgment of which we have spoken, which is the end. and after god had appointed that these things should come unto man, behold, then he saw that it was expedient that man should know concerning the things whereof he had appointed unto them; therefore he sent angels to converse with them, who caused men to behold of his glory."--alma, xii, 25-29. it will be seen from this, in the first place, that, as we have before stated, god's plan in relation to man was that he should fall, and having fallen and obtained a knowledge of good and evil, (which knowledge he could not have obtained without placing himself in that position,) then it became necessary that he should know concerning the atonement and redemption which should be brought about through the mediation of jesus christ; and hence the angel communicated, as before related, this knowledge to adam, and alma's testimony on this continent is found to agree precisely with the testimony given in the pearl of great price, pertaining to the revelation of god's will through an angel to adam. we again quote from the same discourse: "and they began from that time forth to call on his name; therefore god conversed with men, and made known unto them the plan of redemption, which had been prepared from the foundation of the world; and this he made known unto them according to their faith and repentance, and their holy works; wherefore he gave commandments unto men, they having first transgressed the first commandments as to things which were temporal, and becoming as gods, knowing good from evil, placing themselves in a state to act, or being placed in a state to act according to their wills and pleasures, whether to do evil or to do good; therefore god gave unto them commandments, after having made known unto them the plan of redemption, that they should not do evil, the penalty thereof being a second death, which was an everlasting death as to things pertaining unto righteousness; for on such the plan of redemption could have no power, for the works of justice could not be destroyed, according to the supreme goodness of god. but god did call on men, in the name of his son, (this being the plan of redemption which was laid,) saying, if ye will repent, and harden not your hearts, then will i have mercy upon you, through mine only begotten son; therefore, whosoever repenteth, and hardeneth not his heart, he shall have claim on mercy through mine only begotten son, unto a remission of his sins; and these shall enter into my rest. and whosoever will harden his heart, and will do iniquity, behold, i swear in my wrath that he shall not enter into my rest."--alma, xii, 30-35. when jesus himself appeared to the nephites, he preached the same identical principles that he had previously taught to the jews, adding occasionally further truths, because of the greater faith of the first named people; "and he did expound all things, even from the beginning even until the time he should come in his glory." amongst other things he said: "whosoever will hearken unto my words and repenteth, and is baptized, the same shall be saved. search the prophets, for many there be that testify of these things."--3 nephi, xxiii, 5. and it is this same gospel, attended by the same power and spirit, blessed by the same inspiration, and led by the same priesthood, that is now being preached to all the world for a witness. through its principles, and by its power the kingdom of god will be established, righteousness spread, evil overcome, and satan be vanquished; by it zion and the new jerusalem will be built up, enoch and his city be received, the work of the millennium be done, the renovation of the earth accomplished, and all god's glorious will be fulfilled, until the vision becomes a reality which daniel saw and wrote: "behold, one like the son of man came with the clouds of heaven, and came to the ancient of days, and they brought him near before him. and there was given him dominion, and glory, and a kingdom, that all people, nations, and languages should serve him; his dominion is an everlasting dominion, which shall not pass away, and his kingdom, that which shall not be destroyed. * * * and the kingdom and dominion, and the greatness of the kingdom under the whole heaven, shall be given to the people of the saints of the most high, whose kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and all dominions shall serve and obey him."--daniel, vii, 13, 14, 27. appendix. the ideas of a general atonement and redemption, entertained by ancient heathen nations, derived originally from the teachings of earlier servants of god. the following are some natural deductions drawn from the theories entertained by men and recorded in history, which tend to establish rather than to overturn the principles which are so clearly demonstrated in the foregoing pages, exhibiting and showing that the atonement was a great plan of the almighty for the salvation, redemption and exaltation of the human family; and that the pretenders in the various ages had drawn whatever of truth they possessed, from a knowledge of those principles taught by the priesthood from the earliest periods of recorded time; instead of christianity being indebted, as some late writers would allege, to the turbid systems of heathen mythology and to pagan ceremonials. we believe in the foregoing pages it has been clearly demonstrated to all latter-day saints, that the prophecy and promise of the coming of the son of god was fully understood in every dispensation of god's providence from the earliest period of the world's history, down through the succeeding ages, everywhere and at all times when the church of god existed on the earth. furthermore, that the doctrine of the atonement, as understood by us, was understood in like manner by the ancient servants of the lord, and that it was the central principle of their faith, the foundation of their hope for eternal felicity and salvation, and their only trust for the resurrection of their bodies and life everlasting in the presence of the father. again that the ancient patriarchs, seers, prophets, high priests and others, were almost as intimately acquainted with the earthly life and ministry of the savior, by and through the gift of prophecy and the spirit of revelation, as we are by the perusal of his history, given to us in the sacred scriptures. these worthies of olden time knew where he would be born and the names that would be given to him; that his mother would be called mary, and be a virgin of the tribe of judah and house of david. herod's massacre of the innocents, and the flight of the holy family into egypt, were not hidden from them. they spake of christ's baptism by john in jordan, and of the divine approval that would follow; they prophesied of his ministry, rejoiced in his wonderful works of power and deeds of charity and love; they understood that he should be betrayed for thirty pieces of silver; they mourned at the vision of his sufferings and death, and rejoiced at his triumph and resurrection. even the minor details of the soldiers parting his raiment among them, his death between two malefactors, and his burial in the rich man's tomb were revealed; and still further, his descent into hades, his preaching to the spirits in prison, his visits to the nephites and his ultimate ascension to the father, were all comprehended. they knew that he would triumph over death, hell and the grave, be crowned with glory at the right hand of the majesty on high, and that all power would be given to him in heaven and on earth. these and many more details were understood, prophesied of, talked about and rejoiced in by the priesthood and saints from the days of adam to the hour that they began to be fulfilled by his advent and incarnation. it is needless for us to go backward to the days before the flood to learn to what extent these truths were understood by the antediluvian races; for all the accounts that we have of those peoples come down to us through the channel of the holy priesthood, and all the records, books, traditions, etc., of those early inhabitants of our globe were brought to the children of the renovated earth through one family, that of noah; and that patriarch, by right of universal fatherhood to the new generations, ruled them as high priest, patriarch and king, as one to whom the living god revealed his mind and will, through whom the keys, rights and powers of the everlasting priesthood were continued upon the earth, and with whom special covenants were made by the almighty and the bow set in the clouds as an everlasting token of their perpetuity and unchangeableness. it will be perceived that in the first days after the flood there was but one religion, and that was the worship of the true god under the ministration and guidance of his duly authorized servants. further, that the belief of the first inhabitants of the postdiluvian age was not only the true one, but it was accompanied by the power and authority of the holy priesthood, which received revelations direct from the almighty. thus the young world, like the old, was opened with a dispensation of god's mercy, and the posterity of noah were not left to grope in the dark for light and truth, anymore than had been the immediate descendants of our great original father. the effects of thus repeopling the earth under the direct and immediate guidance of jehovah, through his duly appointed servants, have been felt through all succeeding generations; for men, as they scattered over the earth, took with them the seeds of divine truth, and though, frequently, in after ages, they disfigured it with false and base theories of their own, introduced all manner of corruptions into their forms of worship, established orders of uninspired and unauthorized priesthood, and replaced the worship of the true god by idolatry, yet the fact of the existence of god the universal father was not entirely forgotten, nor was the doctrine of the atonement ever utterly obliterated from the minds of men. so strong and so universal a hold had this principle in the varied religions of antiquity, that its very strength has been used as an argument against the doctrine; and it has been vigorously asserted that the gospel taught by the savior was of pagan origin, and that he was simply a reformer who took the most excellent wisdom of past ages and framed it into a code of morals and system of religious faith to suit his own ideas and accomplish his own purposes, however noble those purposes might have been. the earliest departures from the straight and narrow path to the lives that are eternal, appear to have been made in chaldea and egypt. in the former land, nimrod was one of the first leaders in apostacy and wickedness.[a] these evils so rapidly spread, that as early as the days of melchizedec and abraham, the worship of false deities and idols seems to have become almost universal; and even those who did not worship graven images, the starry hosts of heaven, or the forces of nature, had so far perverted the principles of the gospel, that they taught numerous soul destroying errors, totally inconsistent with the plan devised by heaven. in egypt the apostacy began, and an unauthorized priesthood was established as early as the days of the grandson of ham. the origin of this defection is explained in the book of abraham, as follows: [footnote a: josephus' antiquities, book i, chap. 4.] "now the first government of egypt was established by pharaoh, the eldest son of egyptus, the daughter of ham, and it was after the manner of the government of ham, which was patriarchal. pharaoh being a righteous man, established his kingdom and judged his people wisely and justly all his days, seeking earnestly to imitate that order established by the fathers in the first generations, in the days of the first patriarchal reign, even in the reign of adam, and also of noah, his father, who blessed him with the blessings of the earth, and with the blessings of wisdom, but cursed him as pertaining to the priesthood. "now, pharaoh being of that lineage by which he could not have the right of priesthood, notwithstanding the pharaohs would fain claim it from noah, through ham." as the idolatries of chaldea and egypt gave marked tone and color to the mythologies of the dominant races of antiquity on the eastern hemisphere, we shall not trace the growth and development of the religions of persia, greece, rome, etc., through their various branches and ramifications. such an effort would require a volume; but we shall confine ourselves simply to a brief consideration of the doctrine of the atonement, as understood by the ancient gentile nations; referring only to such other theories and ideas as have naturally a bearing on that doctrine. as a starting point we believe we may state with assurance of its truth that the expectation of the coming of a son of god, a messiah, in the flesh was universal with all the leading nations that flourished in the ages previous to the advent of the redeemer. this is true of the people of egypt, babylon, arabia, persia, hindostan, greece and rome; as also of the races that inhabited the american continent. and so strong in certain cases had this idea grown that by gradual stages it became changed into the belief that that expected son of god had already come, and such a being was reverenced and worshiped under various names. in greece and rome this idea became so prevalent that nearly every very eminent man was thought to be a son of one of the gods; and evil designing men sometimes personated these deities on purpose to seduce the virtuous of the other sex, whose chastity they could overcome in no other way than by falsely declaring themselves to be the god for whom such women had particular reverence and esteem.[a] whilst on the other hand young women who found themselves mothers without husbands would cunningly declare that their children were the offspring of a god; or, to use the words of the historian grote, when speaking of greece, "the furtive pregnancy of young women, often by a god, is one of the most frequently recurring incidents in the legendary narratives of the country." to such an extent did this excess run, that at a later period a decree was issued subjecting to a very severe penalty any woman who should pretend that her child was of divine parentage. one writer states: "many are the cases noted in history of young maidens claiming a paternity for their male offspring by a god. in greece it became so common that the reigning king issued an edict, decreeing the death of all young women who should offer such an insult to deity as to lay to him the charge of begetting their children." whilst on this point mr. draper writes: "immaculate conceptions and celestial descents were so currently received in those days, that whoever had greatly distinguished himself in the affairs of men was thought to be of supernatural lineage. even in rome, centuries later, no one could with safety have denied that that city owed its founder, romulus, to an accidental meeting of the god mars with the virgin rhea sylvia, as she went with her pitcher for water to the spring. the egyptian disciples of plato would have looked with anger on those who rejected the legend that perictione, the mother of the great philosopher, a pure virgin, had suffered an immaculate conception through the influences of apollo, and that the god had declared to ariston, to whom she was betrothed, the parentage of the child. when alexander issued his letters, orders and decrees, styling himself 'king alexander, the son of jupiter amnion,' they came to the inhabitants of egypt and syria with an authority that now can hardly be realized. the freethinking greeks, however, put on such a supernatural pedigree its proper value. olympias [alexander's mother], who, of course, better than all others knew the facts of the case, used jestingly to say, that 'she wished alexander would cease from incessantly embroiling her with jupiter's wife.'"--draper's conflict between religion and science. [footnote a: see josephus' antiquities, book xviii, chapter iii.] returning to egypt where, as before stated, a priesthood, disowned of god, had been set up, we are informed[a] that those who were initiated into the inner mysteries of its mythology, were taught that god created all things at the first, by his first born, who was the author and giver of all knowledge in heaven and on earth, being at the same time the wisdom and the word of god. the incarnation and earthly life of this important being constituted the grand mystery of their entire religious system. so great was their faith in the advent of this holy one, that they had chambers prepared in their temples for his nativity. [footnote a: see osborn's "religions of the world."] the priesthood of the egyptians, though entirely without divine authority, taught many great truths which they had received from noah, through ham and pharaoh, and it took generations before these gospel truths were so entirely overlaid and corrupted by falsehood and pagan innovations, that they became undiscernable to all but the initiated. it is an important fact, holding good of other ancient civilizations as well as that of egypt, that the farther we trace back their religious beliefs and mythologies, the purer does the creed become, the nearer it approaches to heavenly truth, and the stronger and more evident are the traces of gospel teachings. this fact alone is sufficient to prove that paganism had its origin in the revelations of heaven, from which, in its various diverse branches, it had turned and strayed, and by gradual growth, had become the vile, inconsistent, degrading and loathsome system which is abhorred by all pure minded, honorable and intelligent people. had the various forms of ancient dominant pagan worship been radically and entirely different, with only those features in common that could reasonably be attributed to accident or the inter-communication of races, the inference would be strong that they had different origins; but when, as is the case, there is a strong family likeness, and that likeness grows stronger the further it is traced back, and continually points to a common parentage, and that parentage is the truth as taught by the early patriarchs and inspired servants of heaven, our conclusions must necessarily be that these correct and god-given teachings were the source from whence the whole sprang, and the differences in development arose from the varied incidents in the history, and the peculiar surroundings of the various races that gave a local hue and tinge to their forms of belief. it is also noteworthy that the fundamental principles of the everlasting plan devised by infinite wisdom, and which were the most widely taught and accepted, are those which prevailed the most extensively in pagan creeds, and which longest retained their hold in the faith of the different races.[a] amongst these ideas or principles we will mention a few that were so general that they might almost be called universal: [footnote a: see writings of hitzig, hyde, faber, goodsir, higgins, osborn, levy, etc.] 1st. the belief in one great father god. 2d, the expectation of the coming of his son to dwell in the flesh and redeem mankind. 3d. the belief in a resurrection, and in future rewards and punishments for acts done in this life. 4th. the observance of the rite of sacrifice. 5th. the doctrine of repentance, and in certain cases the ordinance of baptism. we ask, when it is proved that all these principles were taught by the duly appointed servants of god in the earliest ages, where else but from them could the ancient gentile races have obtained their knowledge thereof? men have been ever prone to apostacy; our fallen nature is at enmity with a godly life; sometimes in one way, sometimes in another, satan led men from the right path and under the influences of a false or diabolic inspiration many errors were introduced; as well as through the natural corrupt ambition of men who sought to obtain power over their fellows by promulgating new theories in the name of god and under the auspices of religion. the "ologies" of to-day would have been impossible in the days of pharaoh and nimrod. the style of apostacy was necessarily fashioned by the condition of men's minds, their advance in civilization, and their understanding of physical laws. in the rudimentary condition of the nations who scattered at babel, the easiest thing for them to do was to worship their dead ancestors and the heavenly orbs. in due course naturally followed the framing of idols, which at first only represented the being or thing worshiped, but which were afterwards regarded as gods themselves, and as such reverenced. the idea of god's anger at men's sins, associated with the law of sacrifice, led mankind to believe that the more precious and beloved was the offering to him who offered it, the more acceptable would it be to heaven. as a result, men soon began to offer up their sons and their daughters to appease the wrath of their gods. abraham informs us: "now, at this time it was the custom of the priest of pharaoh, the king of egypt, to offer up upon the altar which was built in the land of chaldea, for the offering unto these strange gods, men, women and children. and it came to pass that the priest made an offering unto the god of pharaoh, and also unto the god of shagreel, even after the manner of the egyptians. now the god of shagreel was the sun. even the thank-offering of a child did the priest of pharaoh offer upon the altar which stood by the hill called potiphar's hill, at the head of the plain of olishem. now, this priest had offered upon this altar three virgins at one time, who were the daughters of onitah, one of the royal descent directly from the loins of ham. these virgins were offered up because of their virtue; they would not bow down to worship gods of wood or of stone, therefore they were killed upon this altar, and it was done after the manner of the egyptians."--book of abraham. this practice of offering human sacrifices had become very general on the eastern continent in abraham's day. one peculiar phase of false doctrine with regard to the atonement had grown strong in the days of this patriarch. it was "that the blood of the righteous abel was shed for sins."[a] this was a very natural mental outgrowth among people who believed in the consequences of the fall of adam and had been taught the necessity of a redeemer. it was a very easy thing to fall into the error that as adam had transgressed, so his immediate son atoned by his blood for his father's act. and in the spread of this incorrect idea of abel's atonement amongst the early peoples, may be found the origin of the many diversified legends of a sacrificed redeemer. this theory was taught at a day so early in the world's history, that it spread with the migrating races in every direction, so that traces of it can be found from hindostan to spain, from the baltic to ethiopia. of course, every people in their own language had their peculiar name for this savior, and each race claimed him as theirs, as abel certainly belonged as much to one as the other, having no posterity; and by degrees they wove many fanciful and mythical legends round his life and death, varying according to the tastes, imaginative power and environment of the different races. this, to a very great extent, explains that enigma to christians, who believe that gospel truths were first taught by jesus when in the flesh, how the knowledge of the principle of the atonement and the tradition of a savior was so wide spread throughout the world before his actual coming. [footnote a: inspired translation of genesis, xvii, 7.] there is another way by which the knowledge of these truths was taught. we refer to the extended preaching of such worthies as melchizedec, abraham, jethro, job, jeremiah, jonah and others; and above all to that of the apostles after the redeemer's death. dispensation succeeded dispensation, as age succeeded age; time and time again the people apostatized, but each time some little remnant of divine truth remained with them. jesus christ was preached by name soon after the creation, as cyrus was named by divine revelation about two hundred years before his birth. thus, in some languages, we have accounts of great men of god or gods, as the case may be, whose acts are said to have been, in a greater or less degree, the counterpart of those of the messiah when he tabernacled in the flesh; and whose names bear a most remarkable likeness to that of the son of god. hence we have checsna or chrishna of hindostan, and hesus of the druids, both of which names bear a marked similarity to those of the redeemer; the first to christ, the second to jesus. it appears altogether probable that the histories of these men are simply the shadowy traditions of the savior, the faint recollection of the teachings of inspired men, which were localized to suit sectional vanity or pride of race; or that some ancient teacher of their own peoples has been clothed with the attributes and works of christ, and during the lapse of ages the acts and deeds of the two lives have been intermingled in one, until at this day a rightful separation is impossible. this habit of mixing and mingling the great deeds of several distinct persons, and forming therefrom one grand, if not altogether harmonious whole is one well understood by those who have studied the traditions of mankind; it is not peculiar to any age or race, and even in our day we often find a certain anecdote, whether real or imaginary, told of various celebrities, some of whom may be yet living, while others are among the recent dead. the effects of this habit, when continued through long ages, amongst semi-civilized or barbarous nations, went far to fashion the history of their gods, and often to manufacture deities out of altogether imaginary personages. modern revelation has restored another most important key to unlock the mystery of the almost universal knowledge of the redeemer and of the plan of the atonement. it is found in the statement that jesus, after his resurrection, visited at least the inhabitants of two distinct portions of the earth, which could not have been reached through the ministry of his jewish apostles. these two peoples were the nephites on this land, and the ten tribes in their distant northern home. the knowledge that the mexicans, and other aboriginal races of america had, at the time of their discovery by the spaniards, of the life of the savior, was so exact, that the catholics suggested two theories (both incorrect, however) to solve the mystery. one was that the devil had invented an imitation gospel to delude the indians; the other, that the apostle thomas had visited america and taught its people the plan of salvation. the story of the life of the mexican divinity, quetzalcoatl, closely resembles that of the savior; so closely, indeed, that we can come to no other conclusion than that quetzalcoatl and christ are the same being. but the history of the former has been handed down to us through an impure lamanitish source, which has sadly disfigured and perverted the original incidents and teachings of the savior's life and ministry. regarding this god, humboldt writes: "how truly surprising is it to find that the mexicans, who seem to have been unacquainted with the doctrine of the migration of the soul and the metempsychosis _should have believed in the incarnation of the only son of the supreme god, tomacateuctli_. for mexican mythology, speaking of no other son of god, except quetzalcoatl, who was born of chimelman, the virgin of tula (without man), by his breath alone, by which may be signified his word or will, when it was announced to chimelman, by the celestial messenger, whom he dispatched to inform her that she should conceive a son, it must be presumed this was quetzalcoatl, who was the only son. other authors might be adduced to show that the mexicans believe that this quetzalcoatl was both god and man; that he had previously to his incarnation existed from eternity, and that he had been the creator both of the world and man; and that he had descended to reform the world by endurance, and being king of tula, was crucified for the sins of mankind, etc., as is plainly declared in the tradition of yucatan, and mysteriously represented in the mexican paintings." the following brief extracts relating to quetzalcoatl, are from lord kingsborough's "antiquities of mexico." speaking of a certain plate, he observes: "quetzalcoatl is there painted in the attitude of a person crucified, with the impression of nails in his hands and feet, but not actually upon the cross." again: "the seventy-third plate of the borgian ms. is the most remarkable of all, for quetzalcoatl is not only represented there as crucified upon a cross of greek form, but his burial and descent into hell are also depicted in a very curious manner." in another place he observes: "the mexicans believe that quetzalcoatl took human nature upon him, partaking of all the infirmities of man, and was not exempt from sorrow, pain or death, which he suffered _voluntarily to atone for the sins of man_." rosales, in his history, when speaking of the people of the extreme southern portion of america, states: "they had heard their fathers say, a wonderful man had come to that country * * * who performed many miracles, cured the sick with water, caused it to rain that their crops of grain might grow, kindled fire at a breath, healing the sick and giving sight to the blind; and that he spoke with as much propriety and elegance in the language of their country as if he had always resided in it, addressing them in words very sweet and new to them, telling them that the creator of the universe resided in the highest place of heaven, and that many men and women, resplendent as the sun, dwelt with him." thus we see that in the tradition's with regard to this especial god, we have an almost complete life of the savior, from the announcement of his birth to his virgin mother by an angel, to his resurrection from the grave. had we space, other extracts could be given, showing that there were many details, not above mentioned, ascribed to quetzalcoatl, that relate to incidents in the life of christ. the book of mormon alone explains the mystery. the account there given of christ's ministrations amongst the forefathers of these peoples makes the whole thing plain. we understand, through that record, how and by what means they obtained this great knowledge, and can also readily perceive how the unworthy descendants of those whom the savior visited, gradually added much childish rubbish to the original facts; making their story, like almost all other mythology, an unseemly compound of heavenly truth and puerile fable. but, in view of these facts, when all things are considered, it is almost a wonder that so much of the truth was retained to the days when america became known to europeans. we find, in the mythology of the northmen, certain traditions that lead us to imagine that it is possible that the visit of the savior to the ten tribes was by some means communicated to them. but this is simply a conjecture. however, it is asserted that they claimed that woden, one of their principal deities, was a descendant of king david, a very curious circumstance, that it is difficult to explain, only on the supposition of christ's visit, and that woden, with them, occupied the place that quetzalcoatl did with the mexicans. there is yet another source from which the ancients obtained their ideas of the life and mission of the son of god. it is to be found in the translation of enoch and his city. the fact of enoch's translation was generally known by the people who lived immediately after the flood. it had occurred so short a time before, that it was almost a matter of personal recollection with the sons of noah. they must also have been acquainted with the fact that others were caught up by the power of heaven into zion, and it would appear strongly probable that melchizedec and many of his people were also translated. revelation does not state this in so many words, but the inference to be drawn from what is said, points clearly in that direction. the fact of these translations, the frequent visits of angels to men holding the priesthood, and the manifestation of god's power over the elements of nature made manifest through his servants, laid a foundation for many of the fables of ancient mythology; some of which, if we were to change the names and localities to those of bible history, would not be as far from the truth as many suppose. this era of inter-communication with the holy beings of the other world was easily magnified and distorted into the golden age when gods dwelt with men, associated with much of earth life, and were swayed by passions very much as were their mortal companions. and, as before remarked, the simplicity of these traditions was greatly changed as the ages rolled around, until they were completely overlaid and hidden by abominable and monstrous fables, invented, taught and used by the priests and their associates for their own sinister and unholy purposes. from the whole of these statements, we gather that while men, who have written in relation to the various gods, or virgins who have, each in her turn, conceived and borne a god or a messiah, would argue that the accounts of the birth, ministry, death, resurrection, etc., of the savior, were simply a backing up and resuscitating of some of the old legends of heathen mythology which had been in existence in ages long antecedent to his advent, and that, therefore, the account of the life and works of the redeemer was simply an act of priestcraft, to introduce another messiah, and another establishment of religion in the interests of the projectors, and that christianity was simply a copy of the old paganisms that had exhibited themselves in the forms above referred to, whereas the reverse is clearly demonstrated in the foregoing chapters on the atonement. the fact is clearly proved, instead of christianity deriving its existence and facts from the ideas and practices of heathen mythologists, and from the various false systems that had been introduced by apostacy, unrecognized pretensions and fraud, that those very systems themselves were obtained from the true priesthood, and founded on its teachings from the earliest ages to the advent of our lord and savior jesus christ; that those holy principles were taught to adam, and by him to his posterity; that enoch, noah, abraham, and the various prophets had all borne testimony of this grand and important event, wherein the interest and happiness of the whole world were concerned, pertaining to time and to eternity. the gospel is a system, great, grand and comprehensive, commencing in eternity, extending through all time, and then reaching into the eternities to come; and the ideas with regard to these disjointed materials, that are gathered together from the turbid waters of heathen mythology, are so much clap trap and nonsense, calculated only to deceive the unwary, superstitious and ignorant, and are as far below those great and eternal principles of heavenly truth which permeate through all time, penetrate into the heavens, and are interwoven with all the interests, happiness and exaltation of man, as the earth is below the heavens above. the object of placing this statement before our brethren, is to prove and demonstrate, what was stated in the commencement, that these truths should "grow together unto the confounding of false doctrines, and laying down of contentions." if any man sin by h. a. cody author of the chief of the ranges, the long patrol, under sealed orders, the frontiersman, etc. grosset & dunlap publishers new york copyright, 1915, by george h. doran company printed in the united states of america to my wife this book is lovingly dedicated contents i. chords of memory ii. the verge of trembling iii. a wilderness waif iv. by the mirroring lake v. a cabin for two vi. 'tis hard to forget vii. the ceaseless throb viii. the discovery ix. the golden lure x. the awakening xi. unfolding xii. the edge of events xiii. the lap of to-morrow xiv. the supplanter xv. suspicion xvi. tom makes a discovery xvii. heart thrusts xviii. the royal bounty xix. beginnings xx. under cover of night xxi. the way of a woman xxii. heart searchings xxiii. the meeting xxiv. within the little room xxv. the river flows between xxvi. the face at the door xxvii. the inner impulse xxviii. the keepsake xxix. atonement xxx. revelation xxxi. "the valley of the shadows" xxxii. refined gold if any man sin chapter i chords of memory it was sunday night and the great city was hushed in silence. a thick mist hung over streets and houses through which numerous lights endeavoured to force their rays. few people were astir and all traffic had ceased. presently the chimes from a hidden church tower pealed forth their sweet message to the world. a man standing alone within the shadow of the church started and turned his face upwards. the musical sounds seemed to fascinate him, and he listened as one entranced. he gave no heed to the men and women hurrying by phantom-like on their way to the evening service. not until the last note had died upon the air did the man abandon his listening attitude. then his head drooped, his tense body relaxed, and he stepped back a few paces as if fearful of being observed. twice he started forward, moved by some inner impulse, but each time he shrank back deeper within the shadow. his strong form trembled convulsively, telling plainly of a mighty fire of emotion raging within. the man at length left his place of concealment and paced rapidly up and down outside the church, with his head bent forward. this he did for some time. he at last paused, stood for a while in an undecided manner, and then with a stealthy step approached the door. his hand was raised to the large iron latch when strains of music fell upon his ears. then he heard the sound of numerous voices lifted up in the closing hymn. his courage almost deserted him, and he half turned as if to leave the place. but some irresistible power seemed to stay his steps and force him to open the door and enter. the church was warm, brightly lighted, and well filled with men and women. no one heeded the stranger as he slipped quietly into a back seat and looked around. the trained voices of the white-robed choir thrilled his soul. every word of the hymn was familiar to him, for he had often sung it in days gone by. the congregation, too, was singing, and ere long he distinguished one voice from the rest. he had not heard it at first, but now it fell upon his ears with a startling intensity. it was a woman's voice, sweet, clear, and full of mingled tenderness and pathos. the man's firm white hands clutched hard the back of the seat in front of him, and his face underwent a marvellous transformation. his eyes shone with eagerness, and his bosom lifted and fell from the vehemence of his emotion. he leaned forward until he could see the singer and watched her intently. then when the hymn was finished, and ere the congregation dispersed, the stranger, having cast one more longing look upon the woman with the sweet voice, slipped noiselessly out of the building. upon reaching the street he stepped aside and waited for the people to come forth. it was not long ere the big door was thrown wide open, and as the men and women passed by he scrutinised them as closely as possible. he was watching for one person alone, and presently he saw her walking by herself. when she had gone a short distance he followed after, and never once let her out of his sight until she came to a large house, the door of which she opened and entered. for some time the man stood outside, keeping his eyes fixed upon the building. a policeman passing by noted the man, and, mistaking him for a vagrant, ordered him away. the stranger's pale face flushed, and his hands clenched as he obeyed the command. slowly he walked along the street with his eyes fixed upon the pavement. at length he paused, retraced his steps, and stood once more before the house into which the woman had entered. here he remained until the clock of a nearby church struck the hour of eleven. then, drawing himself together, the man hurried away with rapid steps. reaching a house on a side street, he opened a door with a latch-key, and passed within. up three flights of stairs he moved till he came to a little room on the top floor. groping around in the dark, he lighted an oil lamp fastened to the wall. it was a humble and scantily furnished garret he had entered. in one corner was a narrow cot. at its foot stood a wash-stand, over which hung a small cracked mirror. a rough worn table occupied the centre of the room, upon which rested a well-kept violin lying by its open case. opposite the door was an open fire-place, and as the night was chilly the man lighted a fire from several dry sticks, and threw on some soft coal. soon a cheerful blaze was curling up the chimney, before which the man sat on the one rickety chair the room contained and warmed his numbed hands. for over half an hour he remained thus, gazing down intently into the fire. but hotter than the coals before him seemed the eyes which burned in his head. at last he aroused from his reverie and, crossing the room, opened a small grip and brought forth a carefully-folded newspaper clipping. this he unwrapped, spread it out upon the table, and drawing up his chair sat down. he fixed his eyes upon an article with the big headline, "deposed by his bishop." a deep flush mantled his cheeks and brow as he read for more than the thousandth time that story of disgrace and degradation. he had really no need to read it over again, for every word was seared upon his soul as with a red-hot iron. but the printed words seemed to fascinate him. the tale was all there in black and white, and the newspaper had made the most of it. but there were things which were not recorded in cold type, and ere long his eyes drifted from the printed page far off into space. he beheld again the white-haired bishop sitting in his library, and heard his voice tremble as he uttered the words which deposed him forever from the ministry. then he recalled his own hot invectives hurled against the church, and the vow that he would banish it and its teaching entirely from his heart and mind, and free himself from its influence. he remembered his scornful laugh when the bishop told him that such a thing was impossible. "martin rutland," he had said in an impressive voice, "you know not what you are saying. do you imagine that you can cut yourself off from the influence of the church of your childhood? i tell you that you are mistaken, for such a thing is utterly impossible. the church and her teaching will follow you to the grave, no matter to what part of the world you go." he had laughed at the bishop's words then, thinking them to be only an old man's empty threat. he lived over again his last visit to his aged parents. it was the day before christmas, and they believed that he had to hurry away to attend the services in his parish the next morning. never for a moment did they suspect him of a single wrong. how proudly they had looked upon him as he stood before them ere he left the house. he never saw them again, and now in the loneliness of his barren room, a wretched outcast, buffeted by the world, he bowed his head upon the table and gave vent to his feelings in a flood of passionate tears. the whole vision rose before him with stinging vividness: his little home and the happy days of youth; his bright prospects, and what he would make of life; his parents toiling and denying themselves to provide for his education. it all came back to him this night like a mighty rushing torrent. in the excitement of the years of aimless wandering, he had partly stifled the thoughts. but to-night it was impossible. the pent-up stream, which could no longer be curbed, had given way in one onward sweep, all the greater, and over-mastering because of the restraint of years. he rose abruptly to his feet and paced rapidly up and down the room. he knew what had brought upon him this mood. why had he been so weak as to enter that church? he asked himself. and what was she doing there? he could not separate the two. the church and beryl were always connected. he recalled the last time he had seen her in his old parish. it was the evening of the day he had said good-bye to his parents. he wished to see her, but upon approaching her home his courage had failed him. how could he look into her face with the great stain upon him? her large lustrous eyes would have pierced his very soul. she believed him to be true, noble, and upright. but how little was she aware as she sat at the piano that night, practising the christmas music, that rutland, to whom she had given her heart and hand, was watching her longingly through the window. he had stood there until she ceased her playing. then she had come to the window and looked out upon the world of snow and ice. he remembered how he had shrunk back fearful lest she should see him. for some time did she stand there, and rutland knew that of him she was thinking. he had waited until the house was in darkness, and then crept back to his own lodging place. how every incident of that night was burnt upon his brain! he had left the parish like a coward, and when several days later the startling news of his fall and deposition reached glendale he was swallowed up in the great world of seething humanity. he knew nothing of the grief and agony of his parents, nor the overwhelming blow which for a time almost prostrated beryl heathcote. but he read the accounts of his degradation in the papers, and heard men by his side discuss the affair in a light careless manner. how he had recoiled as he listened to their rough remarks, and their apparent delight that another clergyman had gone astray. in a few weeks the story of wrong was forgotten, save by those whose hearts had been most sorely stricken. rutland had wandered far and wide, staying only long enough in any one place to earn enough money to supply his scanty needs. he would prove the bishop's words to be false. he would get away from the influence of the church and all religious teaching. he attended no place of worship during the years of his wanderings, and though living in a country of churches and church activities he believed that he had so steeled his heart and mind that never again could they exert any influence over him. he lived entirely for himself, and to the few people he occasionally met he was a mystery. but rutland had found that he could as easily walk through a flower-garden and not touch the flowers nor inhale their fragrance as he could pass through the world and not be affected by the influence of the christian religion. he upbraided himself for his weakness in entering that church. that it should never happen again he was determined. he must get away far off into the wilderness. he would go where the influence of the church was unknown, and where it was not even a name. he would penetrate regions never before trodden by the feet of white man, and there at last he would find the rest and peace he desired. to stay longer in this city so near to beryl he could not. the thought of her, however, brought a degree of calmness to his troubled mind. he had ever associated her with peace. in days gone by her mere presence was refreshing. now she was near, but he must not go to her, neither must she ever know how close he had been to her this night. when she thought of him, he mused, it must be with the deepest loathing. what a terrible change the years had brought about! there was a time when he could hasten to her side, and rejoice in her love. how she would listen to him as he played upon the violin, and often she would accompany him upon the piano. all that was changed now. they were sundered more widely than by the broadest ocean. at length he paused before the table and picked up the violin, one of the few cherished things he had carried with him. it alone had been his comforting companion in his wretched wandering life. and so to-night as he seated himself upon the cranky chair, and drew the bow across the strings, the old mystic spell swept over his soul. he was a child once more, care-free and happy, playing around his home with the flowers, birds, bees, and butterflies as his companions. he passed into his first and only parish. he saw the faces of those to whom he ministered turned up to him, their chosen leader. but brightest and most-outstanding of all was the face of beryl as she watched him from her seat by the little church organ. when rutland ceased the fire was out in the grate, and a clock in a nearby steeple was striking the hour of two. a shiver passed through his body as he rose and laid his violin tenderly upon the table. hastily blowing out the light, he threw himself upon the narrow cot, and drew over him the two thin blankets. at length the outcast slept, and for a time the fierce agony of heart and mind troubled him no more. chapter ii the verge of trembling when the news of martin rutland's ignominy reached beryl heathcote all the light and joy passed out of her life. at first she could not believe it possible, and hoped against hope that there had been some terrible mistake. in a few days, however, she had to realise that it was only too true, and that the man in whom she had trusted so implicitly was an outcast not only from society but from the church as well. she tried to bear up and face the storm which raged so furiously in the parish. on every side she was forced to listen to the most scathing denunciations of the deposed clergyman. people seemed to take a fiendish delight in calling upon her to discuss the affair and to express their undesired sympathy. no word of blame or complaint passed her lips. at first she cherished the feeble hope that martin would either return or write to her, that he would prove himself innocent. but as the days slowly edged into weeks, and no word came, a heavy despair settled upon her. the strain proved too much to bear, and she succumbed to a long serious illness, from which it was believed at one time that she could not recover. when at last she was able to sit up she was but the shadow of her former happy buoyant self. "oh, if i had only died!" she moaned. "what a relief it would have been. how can i face life again with this terrible weight upon my heart!" when she was stronger she became determined to leave glendale, the gethsemane of her young life, and to go where she would no longer hear the story of shame, and where curious eyes would not follow her whenever she moved abroad. her only sister lived in a western city and thither she made her way. what a relief it was to her burdened heart to have the comfort of her sister's love. here she could rest and endeavour to gather up as far as possible the tangled and broken threads of her life. this, however, she found to be most difficult, and months passed before she was able to compose her mind and think of the future. she felt that she should be doing something, and thus not depend upon others. to return to her old home to the love and attention which would be hers there she could not. she must remain away from the scene of her great sorrow. in work, beryl believed, she could in a measure forget herself. but what work could she do? music was the only thing in which she had been thoroughly trained. but the idea of turning to it now, and taking in pupils, was most repugnant. not since that night when she had played in her old home, when martin rutland was watching longingly through the window, had she touched the keys of any instrument. neither had she sung a single note. music had passed out of her life, and the clear sweet voice which had thrilled the hearts of so many was stilled. at length, after discussing the matter with her sister, beryl decided to become a nurse. not that she cared at all for the profession, but it was the only thing that seemed to offer, and she must keep her mind and hands employed if she were to forget the past. that she must forget she was determined, and she believed that in time the deep wound her heart had received would be at least partly healed. during the months of her inactivity she had brooded much over what had taken place in her life. many were the battles she had fought, silent and alone. at times a bitterness, so foreign to her loving nature, possessed her. then it was that her faith in god and man weakened. was there a father in heaven who cared? she would ask herself over and over again. if so, why had he allowed her bright young life to be so clouded and blighted? then she would think of martin and how much he had meant to her. though she had always defended him, or remained silent when others had condemned, nevertheless in her own heart the thought of what he had done rankled sore. but her love was too strong for such feelings to last for any length of time, and so she was always able to come forth unscathed from the fierce struggles. beryl threw herself with much energy into the work of her new profession. she made rapid progress, and all who came into contact with her were charmed by her gentleness of manner, and the sweetness of her disposition. to the patients, especially, she was an angel of light. no voice was as comforting, and no hand as soothing as hers, and they would always watch eagerly for the nurse who had the sunny smile of cheer. though her own heart might be heavy, she revealed nothing of her sorrow to the world, but radiated sunshine wherever she went. but beryl found it a severe strain to be always presenting to the world a bright face, and by the time her course of training was almost over she felt that it was impossible for her to do so much longer. every day it was necessary for her to force herself to her duties, and to assume that lightness of heart which she did not feel. she had little to give her that zest for her work which would make each task a joy. must she go through life, lacking the needful inspiration? she often asked herself. she knew the difference between work done in the spirit of duty and love. one was mechanical, a mere tread-mill round; the other was of the heart. she was thinking of these things one sunday night during service in the church where she generally attended, and which was the nearest to her sister's home. as a rule she was a most devoted and attentive worshipper. but to-night her thoughts wandered. they would go back to glendale, and to that little church, where for years she had been organist. again she saw martin conducting the service just as he used to do before his fall. somehow it seemed to beryl that he was near her this night. once she glanced partly around as if expecting to see him in the church. she could not account for the idea, as she never had such a feeling before. with an effort she checked her wandering thoughts, and fixed them upon what the clergyman in the pulpit was saying. at once her interest became aroused, and she followed him with the deepest attention. he was speaking about service, and referred to the noble work nurses were doing both at home and in the mission field. he told also about the red cross society, and paid a tribute to florence nightingale. he then quoted one verse of longfellow's "santa filomena": "a lady with a lamp shall stand in the great history of the land, a noble type of good, heroic womanhood." as he uttered these words a strange new thrill swept through beryl. her heart beat fast, and her face flushed with living interest--the first time in years. almost in an instant she became transformed. hitherto she had been trembling on the verge of uncertainty, with nothing definite in life. now she had a purpose, which, like a star of hope, burst suddenly into view. the last hymn was given out, and the congregation rose, and joined in the singing. beryl knew the words and had no need of a book, though she held one in her hand. an impulse now stirred her heart, her lips moved, and at last, like a wild bird escaped from its cage, she lifted up her voice, and sang for the first time in years. and it was that voice which martin heard, where he crouched in a back seat, and which thrilled his entire being. when the service was over, beryl left the church and hurried to her sister's house. she knew nothing of the lonely outcast, who yearningly followed her, and then paced the street for hours after the door had closed behind her. when alone with her sister that night, beryl related her experience in the church and the new purpose which had come into her life. they were seated before an open fire, and the light illumined their fair faces with a soft glow. "yes," beryl told her, "i have at last made up my mind. i am going to offer for the mission field. i care not to what place i am sent so long as it is somewhere." "you will need training, perhaps, in that special work," her sister replied. "i know it, lois. but you see, when i have graduated i shall take a course in preparatory mission work. i understand there is such a school in this city connected with our church. i shall then know where i shall be sent." "it will be a grand work, beryl," and lois hardinge laid her hand lovingly upon that of her sister's. "it will take you out of yourself, and make you forget the past." "it can never make me forget," and beryl gazed thoughtfully into the fire as she spoke. "i can never forget him, and i don't want to now. no matter what people say, i cannot believe that he is a bad man, even though he has fallen and is an outcast from the church. oh, lois, do you know i had the feeling to-night that he was near me during service. it was only a fancy, of course, but it seemed so real. since then i have the idea that somewhere, sometime, i shall meet him, that we shall understand each other, and that all will be well." "god grant it so, dear," her sister fervently replied. "if it will comfort you in your work hold fast to that hope." chapter iii a wilderness waif the great mackenzie river flowed with a strong and steady sweep on its way to the arctic sea. two boats floated upon its surface, bearing northward, manned for the most part by half-breeds and indians. employees were they in the service of the notable fur trading company, which for long years had ruled this wilderness land. for weeks these men had been pushing their way along this stream, contending with rocks, rapids, and portages. their work was hard, but they did it with a rollicking good humour, and took every difficulty as all in the day's labour. martin rutland worked as hard as the rest though he talked but little. a spirit of elation grew within him as they advanced into the great silent region. he rejoiced at the work, no matter how hard it might be. he had little time for thought during the day, but at night in camp he would sit somewhat apart and consider the new life which was now opening up to him. he seldom joined in talk with his companions, and they did not interfere with him in any way. this strange, silent, hard-working man was a mystery to both half-breeds and indians alike. it was only when he brought forth his violin and began to play that they would gather eagerly around him. music has charms when produced by a master, and such was rutland. but never does it seem so entrancing as out in the open on a calm evening beneath the branches of the tall, over-shadowing trees. there is a mystic plaintiveness about the sound of a violin on such an occasion. rutland's music was generally in a minor key. it expressed his inmost feelings, and often as he played the naturally superstitious half-breed would glance apprehensively among the shadowy trees. it awed them by its strange weirdness like wailing spirits, lost, wandering, and seeking vainly for refuge and peace. at other times rutland would play bright airs and snatches of old songs, which delighted the hearts of his companions and banished their feeling of fear. each day of progress brought to rutland a greater feeling of exultation. at last he was free from all influence of the church which had cast him out. here in this barren region he could live like the natives, free from care. he would seek some far-off band, and become one of them. he had read much about the indians, and their picturesque life had always appealed to him most strongly. he would watch his opportunity, steal away, and live and die in their midst, more of an outcast than they. at times he thought about the church to which he had once belonged, and a contemptuous sneer always curled his lips when he thought of it. lying among the trees, he often wondered how he had ever endured the thraldom of bygone days. he remembered how particular he had been about the observance of the slightest rule. in the performance of his duties he had followed the rubrics of the prayer book with the most punctilious care. the slightest deviation from the rules laid down filled him with much concern. special days had been kept with great regularity, and the command of his bishop was as his conscience. but now all was changed. the solemn vows he had taken did not trouble him in the least, and the church was to him merely a name. neither did the sin which had driven him forth disturb him. the spirit of rebellion had reigned in his heart during all the years of his wandering life. he believed that he had been unjustly treated. he did not blame himself, but others. he thought of his comrades in the ministry, and a feeling of pity and superiority came into his heart. he pictured them moving in their narrow, petty circle as of old, and he asked himself what did it all amount to anyway. the spell of the wilderness was now upon him, and he longed for the voyage to end. he would abandon the boat when it had reached its most northerly destination. then, when his companions had started back, he would plunge into regions beyond and become lost forever to the world of civilization. one evening after a hard day's work they came to a small indian encampment just below a dangerous rapid. they had much difficulty in overcoming this turbulent piece of water, and very glad were they to rest after their arduous exertions. they found the indians in a state of great excitement, the cause of which was soon apparent. that very day a young fur-trader and his wife had been drowned in an attempt to shoot the rapid in a canoe. their little child, a girl of four years, had been rescued by the natives, and taken to their encampment. the woman's body was recovered, but of the man no trace could be found. rutland, with several of his companions, entered the lodge where the body of the unfortunate woman was lying. as he drew back the deer-skin robe which had been placed over her still form, he was surprised at the young and beautiful face which was presented to view. he stood there for some time after the rest of the men had taken a hurried look and departed. he could not get the face of the dead woman out of his mind, and he awoke in the deep of the night thinking that she was standing by his side. in his dream he beheld her, and she was pointing with her finger to something lying at his feet, which he saw to be a little child. the indian women had taken good care of the rescued child, and she awoke from a sound sleep none the worse for her cold plunge into the river the day before. opening her eyes, she expected to see the loved faces of her parents looking down fondly upon her. her bright, happy expression changed to one of terror when she saw instead the dusky native women bending over her. wildly she called for her mother, but alas! for the first time in her young life her mother did not respond with loving words, nor hurry to her side. rutland, hearing the cry of terror, hastened to the lodge and entered. why he did so he could not tell. he did not stop to analyse his feelings, but acted merely upon the impulse of the moment. it was sufficient for him to know that the little one was in distress and needed assistance. a large indian woman was holding the child in her arms when rutland appeared. several squaws were gathered around trying to soothe her. but the more they talked in the native tongue the more terrified the child became. rutland stood for an instant just within the entrance of the lodge. he saw the little girl, her face distorted with fear, struggling madly to free herself, and pleading vainly for her mother. not for years had rutland's heart been so stirred. he stepped quickly forward and reached out his hands to the child. the latter saw him and, intuitively realising that here was one who could be trusted, endeavoured to go to him, while a sob of relief escaped her lips. rutland caught her in his arms, folded her to his breast, and began to calm her with words of comfort. "hush, hush, little one," he soothed, as he stroked her silken hair. "you are safe with me, so don't cry any more." "mamma, mamma. i want my mamma," wailed the child. rutland knew not how to reply. he was little accustomed to the ways of children, so all he could do was to hold her close to his breast and tell her that she was safe. ere long his words had the desired effect, and soon she remained quietly in his arms looking up into his face with big, wondering eyes. passing forth from the lodge, rutland sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree just outside the door. he placed the child upon his knee, and began to talk to her. he pointed out to her a squirrel sitting upon the branch of a jack-pine not far off. the child's eyes grew bright, her face beamed with pleasure, and she clapped her hands with delight. in a few moments they were the firmest of friends, and soon they started off in search of the chattering squirrel. it was a balmy morning, with not a ripple upon the surface of the river. a new feeling of peace stole into rutland's heart as he walked by the side of the child with her soft hand in his. she was a beautiful little maid, with wavy brown hair, rosy cheeks, and clear, dark eyes. her plaid dress was neatly made, and her shoes were of a light-tan colour. at her throat was a small silver clasp-pin, with the one word "nance" engraven upon it, which rutland believed must be her name. after they had strolled about for a while they returned to the lodge, where the indian women were preparing breakfast. "you stay here, little one," rutland said. "these women will give you something to eat. i must go away now, but i shall come back soon." "no, no," the child cried, clinging close to him. "i don't want to stay. i want my mamma. take me to my mamma. where is my mamma?" "she can't come to you now," rutland replied. "but i promise you that i shall come back soon." after much persuasion the child was induced to remain, but she watched her protector anxiously, with tears in her eyes, as he left her. rutland hurried at once toward the forest along an indian trail, which led to a hill not far from the river. here was a native burying ground where a new grave had been dug that morning. his companions were already assembled, and by the time rutland arrived they had the body of the young woman lowered into the ground. this task was performed in deep silence, for the presence of death stilled the tongues of these usually garrulous men. no coffin had they in which to place the body. instead, a grey blanket was used as a shroud, and this had been carefully wrapped around the stiffened form. as rutland stood by the grave and looked down upon all that remained of nance's mother he thought of the dream which had come to him in the night, and he saw again the woman pointing silently to the child at his feet. between him and the men standing by his side there was a great gulf fixed. they were rude and unlettered, while he was an educated man, capable of seeing things not always revealed to others. they saw only the shrouded form lying in the grave. he saw much more. he beheld a little home, which had been rudely shattered by the sudden death of husband and wife. he pictured loved ones far away waiting anxiously for news from the great northland, and then the sorrow when at last the tidings reached them, if ever they did, of the precious toll the wilderness had taken. he thought, too, of the little child so terribly bereaved, upon whom so much love and care had been bestowed. what would become of her? he asked himself. he was roused from his reverie by the sound of shovels striking hard upon gravel. he looked quickly up and saw that the men were making ready to fill in the grave. for an instant only he hesitated and then straightening himself up he raised his right hand. "wait a moment," he commanded. "it is not right that we should lay this woman here without one word of prayer. who will say it?" at once every hat was doffed, and the men looked at one another. "you go ahead, pard," said one at length. "you know best what to say." yes, rutland knew very well what to say--the exact words--but why should he utter them? he had put everything connected with his church away from him forever. he paused in an effort to think of something else. twice he started, but each time floundered and stopped. he could not back down, for the men were watching him. he must say something over the body of nance's mother. at length, pulling himself together, he repeated the words he had used so often in other days. "forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty god of his great mercy to take to himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." here he paused, stooped, and seizing a handful of gravel sprinkled it three times upon the body. this done, he continued the prayer to the end. then he stepped back and remained perfectly silent, watching the men as they rapidly filled in and rounded up the grave. in fact, he stood there until his companions had gone back to the river. then he looked cautiously around to be sure that he was alone. seeing no one in sight, he picked up two sticks lying upon the ground and fastened them together into the form of a cross, with a piece of a raw moose-hide thong he had in his pocket. this he placed at the head of the newly-made grave, thrusting it well down into the loose earth. rutland could not account for what he had done. if any one had told him when he awoke that morning that he would repeat that prayer and erect this rude cross, he would have scoffed at the idea. "i did it all for the child's sake," he said to himself, as an excuse for his temporary weakness. at once there flashed into his mind the words of the aged bishop. "do you think that you can free yourself from the influence of the church? i tell you that you are mistaken; it is impossible." rutland's hands clenched hard as the memory of the past swept upon him. he reached down and laid his hand upon the cross he had just erected. he would tear it out and break it into a dozen pieces. but as he touched that symbol of redemption his outstretched arm dropped by his side, and his head drooped low. though an outcast, and determined to have nothing more to do with his church, he knew now that its influence was upon him still. it was harder than he had imagined to uproot the teaching which had been implanted in his heart and mind in early days, and carefully nourished throughout the years. but he would succeed. never again would he allow such weakness to possess him. he would prove the bishop's words to be false. when rutland returned to the encampment he found that his companions were almost ready to depart. nance saw him approaching, and with a cry of delight ran to meet him. he caught her in his arms, and his heart thrilled with joy at her confidence. here was the one person in the whole world to greet him and look up to him for protection. he carried her to where several indian women were squatting upon the ground. "you stay here, little one," and he gently untwined her arms from around his neck as he spoke. "be a good girl, and i shall come back to you some day." for a few brief heart beats the child lifted her head, looked searchingly into his eyes, and then with a piteous wail of despair clung to him closer than ever. "don't leave me. don't leave me," she sobbed. "take me with you. take me to my papa and mamma. i won't stay here. i won't." rutland did not know what to do. he seated himself upon a stump and placed nance on his knee. he tried to reason with her, telling her how happy she would be with the indian women, and how they would care for her. but his words were of no avail. the more he talked, the closer she clung to him, and begged him not to leave her. a shout from the river warned rutland that his companions were ready to depart. quickly rising to his feet, he unloosened the child's arms, handed her to an old squaw, and moved rapidly away. at once wild shrieks of despair and terror filled the air. he endeavoured not to listen, and tried to steel his heart. but it was no use. he stopped and looked back. he saw the child where he had left her, her little hands stretched out appealingly toward him. the sight was more than he could endure. hesitating no longer, he rushed back, seized her in his arms, bore her swiftly to the river, and placed her gently in one of the boats. in a few minutes they were speeding northward, and with them went nance, the little waif of the wilderness. chapter iv by the mirroring lake of all the sheets of water lying hidden in the great range of mountains sloping to the cold north pacific ocean, none was fairer than lake klutana. it was one of nature's most beautiful cameos. tall, dark trees of spruce, fir, and jack-pine shouldered back from the margin and cast irregular silhouettes around the border. lofty mountain peaks towered beyond and reflected their coronals of snow in the lake which they embosomed. to the north-east stretched a long wooded valley with crouching foot-hills on either side. down through this opening flowed a small river, called by the indians the "quaska." where this stream joined the lake the land was level, which from time immemorial had afforded an excellent camping ground for the natives of the locality. in days long past the tasko tribe had been a large one. hundreds of them had come regularly to this lake to catch the fine salmon, white, and other fish its water contained. at times mighty warriors had gone forth to make raids upon neighboring tribes, and once a furious battle had taken place among the trees at the mouth of the quaska. but wars and diseases had thinned the tribe until it numbered barely one hundred souls, men, women, and children in all. the days of warfare were now over, and these natives led a quiet life, subsisting chiefly upon the game which the land produced in abundance. the arrival of the white men beyond the great mountains of the rising sun gave them a market for their furs, which they bartered for clothing, food utensils, and trinkets of the world of civilisation. to all outward appearance theirs was the ideal life as they gathered around their lodges one evening when summer was slowly merging into fall. several small fires were sending up wreaths of smoke into the pine-scented air. the women were preparing the evening meal; the men were lying prone upon the ground, while the children played near the shore. it all seemed such a free and easy existence. there was none of the mad rush for wealth, no hard grinding at the wheels of industrial life in office, factory, or store. the dwelling places were of the humblest. all the land for miles around was theirs, with no taxes to pay, and no rents continually coming due. game was plentiful in forest and stream, with only a moderate effort needed to procure it. changing fashions were unknown, and with the exception of the clothes obtained from the trading post, they used the dressed-skins of wild animals as did their ancestors for many generations. the sun of the long northern summer day was swinging low in the west as three men suddenly emerged from the forest, and moved slowly along the shore of the lake toward the indian encampment several hundred yards away. they bore heavy packs strapped upon their shoulders, while one carried a large bundle in his arms. at length they came to a lodge where a middle-aged woman and a girl of seventeen were seated upon the ground just before the entrance. as the men approached the women rose quickly to their feet, and looked intently upon the man with the burden in his arms. his companions uttered a few words in the guttural native tongue, and at once the girl stepped forward and relieved the man of the bundle. then a cry of surprise and pleasure came from her lips as she beheld the little white face of a sleeping child peeping out from beneath the blanket with which it was enfolded. martin rutland had greatly changed in appearance since the morning he had caught nance in his arms and carried her swiftly to the river. his hair and beard were long, his face was worn and haggard, while his clothes were almost in tatters. when he saw that nance was in good hands he gave a sigh of relief, unstrapped the pack from his back, and sank, much exhausted, upon the ground. a conversation at once ensued between his two companions and the indian women. then, while the girl laid nance upon a bed of furs within the lodge, the other squaw began to broil a fish over the hot coals of the fire-place. rutland was very hungry, and never did any food taste as good as the piece of salmon which was soon handed to him by the kind-hearted squaw. this fish formed the entire meal, but it satisfied his appetite. when he was through he lighted his pipe, and stretched himself full length upon the ground. though he did not understand the language of these people, the two indian men knew a few words of english. he accordingly learned that these women were their wives. the name of the elder was naheesh, and that of the younger quabee. rutland was too tired to talk much. it was so comfortable lying there, leaning against the butt of a log, watching the smoke curling up from his well-blackened pipe. other indians had now gathered around, and a continual buzz of voices fell upon his ears. he surmised that the conversation centered upon himself and the child asleep within the lodge. but this did not trouble him in the least. one thing alone disturbed his mind. he wondered if he would be forced to leave this place as he had to abandon camp after camp during the past weeks. he recalled, as he lay there, how hard it had been to find a band of indians uninfluenced by the church. at first he had imagined that such a thing would be very easy. in this, however, he had been mistaken. at the trading post, where he and nance had left the boats, there was a mission church. that evening, at the ringing of the little bell, the indians had left whatever they were doing and flocked to service. rutland, knowing that this was no place for him, had left at once, carrying nance in his arms. in company with several natives he reached an encampment miles away. here he believed he could remain. but no, even out in the great open he saw the indians gather together in a little group ere they laid themselves down to sleep. he watched them with much curiosity, thinking they were about to perform some ancient heathen rite. one native, who seemed to be a leader, spoke a few words, and then all began to sing. though he did not understand a word of the language, he recognised the tune of an old familiar hymn. he remembered how impressively they had sung it, and what fine voices they had. when they finished they all knelt down, and the leader prayed. a feeling of admiration swept over rutland as he watched them. then his own heart began to rebuke him for the first time since he left the ministry. here were these natives, children of the wild, putting him, who had taken such solemn vows upon himself, to utter shame. had they only known the life-story of the white man in their midst, what would they have thought of the christian religion? he had looked into their sincere faces, and for the first time in years felt humbled. it was impossible for him to remain here. how could he, whose life was a failure and a disgrace, endure the presence of such trusting people? their simple faith stabbed him to the heart and brought back memories he was striving so hard to forget. he accordingly fled to other encampments, but everywhere it was the same. out on the hills, in forest depth, or by inland lakes, he found that the church had been ahead of him and had influenced the natives in a most remarkable manner. he learned, too, that these indians were not the ordinary miserable creatures sometimes seen hanging around stores and railway stations. they were the nobility of the land, and having once embraced the teaching of the church, they endeavoured to put their belief into practice. more than once the words of his bishop uttered ten years ago came to his mind, and he began to realise that they were truer than he had imagined. thus he fled from camp to camp, and almost despaired of ever reaching a band of indians untouched by the christian religion. hearing at length of the far-off tasko tribe, he set his face toward lake klutana with two friendly natives, who were bound thither. the journey was a hard one, for nance had to be carried every step of the way. since leaving the boats at the great river he had at times chided himself for his foolishness in bringing the child with him. why had he not left her at the mission station where she would have been well cared for? he thought of this by day as he struggled over the cruel trail with the little one in his arms, and he upbraided himself at night when she awoke and cried piteously for her father and mother. but as a rule he was glad that he had her with him. she fared better than he did, for at every camp the indian women vied with one another in caring for the girl, who now no longer feared their dusky faces. rutland's love for nance increased as the days passed. the severe task of bearing her over long miles of trail became at last a joy. he was more than repaid by her prattling talk, and her gentle, affectionate ways. she imagined that he was taking her to her parents, and her guardian had not the courage to tell her otherwise. by the time rutland reached the tasko encampment his strength was almost gone. if these natives were christians he would abide here for a few days and then carry nance off somewhere into the wilderness, where they would live alone, undisturbed by either indians or whites. he dreaded the idea, however, of doing this, for he knew that it would mean many hardships for a time at least. so now as he sat quietly smoking, he was anxious to ascertain whether these people would hold a service such as he had witnessed at other places. as the evening wore on he was greatly relieved when the indians began to move away to their various lodges. he now believed that he was safe, and that these natives were free from all influence of missionary enterprise. at length he picked up his violin case which was lying by his side and opened it. through all the hardships of the past weeks he had never relinquished this companion. it had cheered him when most depressed, and by means of it he had been able to entertain and please the indians who had been so hospitable to him. as he now tuned up the instrument and drew the bow across the strings a movement took place in the camp. indians came from all sides and gazed with wonder upon the white man, who was producing such marvellous sounds. as rutland continued to play the natives squatted around him upon the ground. their only musical instrument was the mournful indian drum. but this was altogether different. on one occasion several of the men had listened to the sound of a violin at the fur-trading post, and they had never wearied of telling what they had heard to the rest of their tribe. they were naturally musical, these waifs of the wilderness. the sighing of the breeze, the murmur of the stream, and the roar of the tempest in winter, all had their meaning. they were sounds which soothed or roused their wild nature. so as they listened this night their hearts became strangely affected. something more than ordinary began to stir within them. it was the same old story being repeated here in the northland. it was the beginning of a new life, new longings, and new aspirations. it was, in short, the dawn of art which once moved the hearts of the uncouth ancestors of the most cultured races and inspired them to higher things. these tasko indians knew nothing of the history of civilisation. they felt only a keen pleasure as the white man played, and they gave vent to an occasional "ah, ah," when something appealed to them more than usual. it was late ere rutland ceased and laid his violin aside. the indians at once dispersed to their lodges, and silence brooded over the encampment. the moon rose big and bright above the mountains and cast its reflection down into the depths of the quiet lake. rutland sat for a while watching the superb scene. then he rose to his feet, and went to the lodge where nance was lying. he saw that she was sleeping comfortably and, bending over her, he kissed her little white cheek. the child moved, and the word "mamma" came sleepily from her lips. perhaps the mother, all unseen, was watching over her little one--who knows? rutland crept softly away and, with his single blanket wrapped about his body, was soon fast asleep upon the hard ground. chapter v a cabin for two in a few days martin's strength was much renewed. the indians treated him with great kindness, and the women were never weary of caring for the little white child. with hooks supplied him by the natives, martin succeeded in catching a number of fine salmon in the lake, and these formed excellent food. he looked forward also to the hunting of moose and mountain-sheep, for he had brought with him a good rifle and a number of cartridges. his spirits naturally rose as the days passed. to him the life was ideal. there was a freedom from care, and with nance by his side he often wandered for hours along the shore of the lake. the child thoroughly enjoyed these rambles, and many were the questions she asked as well as making quaint remarks about the numerous things she saw. martin soon realised that it would not do to remain idle for any length of time. the cool nights warned him that summer was passing, and unless he had a shelter for the winter their position would be a sorry one. such lodges as the indians used would be unbearable to them when frost sealed the streams and storms swept howling over the land. he accordingly searched around for a suitable place to build a cabin, and at length settled upon a beautiful spot near the mouth of the quaska river, where trees stood in abundance suitable for his purpose. with an axe, borrowed from an indian, he one day set earnestly to work. martin had been brought up on a farm, and was well accustomed to the use of the axe. during the years of his wandering life he had been forced at times to toil as a labourer to earn his daily bread. he now put his heart into his task and worked with a will such as he had not known for years. he had to ask no one for the use of the land, and the trees were standing ready for him to cut. as he cleared the ground upon a gentle elevation several rods back from the river, he would stand at times and look out over the lake. the thrill of ownership possessed his soul, and he felt that he would not exchange his lot for the most favoured being on earth. every day nance accompanied him and played among the trees and branches. he built her a little playhouse, and sometimes he would sit by her side to rest, play with her, or tell some story to delight the child's heart. the cabin martin planned to build was not a large one. it was only for two, he told himself, but it must be as cosy as his hands could make it. there were to be two rooms; one where they would live and the other where provisions would be stored. after the foundation had been laid martin began to carry stones from the river and the shore of the lake. with these he constructed a fire-place at one end of the building. this was a work of considerable importance, and occupied him for several weeks. the stones had to be broken, shaped, and then laid carefully together with clay, which he found by digging along the shore of the lake. this, when hardened, was almost like cement, and served his purpose better than the ordinary mortar. when the fire-place was completed, and tapered off into a capacious chimney, he set to work upon the walls of the cabin. logs, hewn on three sides, were laid one upon another, and fitted closely together. then came the roof, composed of long poles, covered with mud and turf. moss was used for the chinking of the walls, and to obtain this martin and nance went every day to a swamp a short distance back from the river, until a sufficient supply was gathered. by the time this work was completed the days were much shorter. martin was anxious to occupy his cabin as soon as possible, for he was afraid that the cold nights in the indian lodge might not be good for nance. with much difficulty he fashioned a door. it was a marvellous contrivance when finished, and martin was quite proud of his handiwork. he had no glass for windows, and so was forced to use the skins of mountain-sheep, with the hair removed and scraped very thin. these, stretched across the openings, let in considerable light during the day, and kept out the wind and cold as well. the floor was made of logs, hewn as smooth as the axe could make them. the living room was only eighteen feet long by twelve wide, which could easily be heated, and quite large enough for two. for the first time in his life martin possessed a house entirely his own, and which he had built with his own hands. in days long past he had pictured to himself a little home which he and beryl would occupy. he often thought of those day-dreams as he toiled at his cabin. in fact she had been much in his mind since the night he had seen her in the church and listened to her singing. try as he might, he could not forget her, although the remembrance always brought a bitter pang to his heart of what he had forever lost. often he would lie awake at night thinking of the days when they were so much together. at times he had an almost irresistible longing to see her again. this, however, he was forced to banish, as he well knew that such a thing was impossible. while busy at work upon the cabin he had no time to brood over his past life. he was always so tired at night that he slept soundly until the break of day. he dreaded the thought of having nothing to do. action was his one salvation, and he knew that he must be busy at something. he would find occupation, so he told himself, which would keep his mind from dwelling upon the things he wished to forget. it was a cold night when martin lighted the fire and brought nance to the cabin. a fierce wind was howling over the land, swaying the trees and ruffling the surface of the lake. nance stood watching the flames as they licked up the chimney. "pretty, pretty!" she cried, clapping her hands with glee and then stretching them out toward the fire. "is nance happy now?" martin questioned, watching with interest the bright sparkle of her eyes, and the fire-light playing upon her face and hair. "yes, happy," the child replied. then she climbed upon his knee, and laid her head against his shoulder. "when will we go to my papa and mamma?" she at length asked. "not yet, nance," and martin's voice was low. "you must stay with me for a while. but tell me about them, little one, for i never knew them." "you didn't know my daddy and mamma!" and nance lifted her head and looked straight into her guardian's eyes. "isn't that funny," and she gave a queer little chuckle. "my daddy was big and so strong that he could carry me everywhere. he played with me, too, and we had such fun. mamma used to tell me stories, such nice ones, and she always kissed me when i went to bed. i wonder where she can be." "do you like stories, nance?" martin asked. "oh, yes. i like nice ones about fairies. mamma often told me about alice in wonderland. do you know that? it is so pretty. i'll get mamma to tell it to you some day." a lump came into martin's throat as he listened to the prattle of this child. how could he ever tell her that she would never see her dear parents on earth again? would it not be as well for her to know the whole truth now? but no, it would be better to wait for some time until she was older. a sudden idea came into his mind. "look, nance, suppose we play that i am your daddy, and that your mamma is sitting right here by our side." "oh, yes," nance was ready for the game, "and i'll call you 'daddy,' and we'll talk to mamma, and make believe that she's right here." how often in the past in his old parish had martin pictured to himself a scene similar to this. it had all been so real: an open fire, a child on his knee, and beryl by his side. he closed his eyes, while a sigh escaped his lips. "daddy." he started at the name. "are you sleepy? why do you do that?" "do what?" "oh, this," and she drew in her breath, and let it out again. martin laughed. "i was just thinking, nance, that was all." "well, don't shut your eyes, and don't think, or mamma will be cross, won't you, mamma?" and she turned to an imaginary person nearby. "what do you want me to do?" "tell a story, and mamma and i will listen." "tell a story, nance! what kind of a one do you want?" "oh, a fairy story, about flowers, and birds, and people--a story like mamma used to tell." martin sat for a while without replying, watching the fire dancing merrily before him. it was a fairy-story the child wanted, and he could not remember any. "go on, daddy," nance demanded. "yes, little one, i will. i'm only thinking." "well, don't think," was the imperious command. "talk." "once upon a time," martin began, "there was a little boy who had a beautiful home." "that's nice." nance sighed, as she nestled her head back comfortably against the strong arm which was supporting her. "and the boy," martin continued, "had a father and a mother who loved him very much. all day long he played in the sunshine, amongst the flowers, birds, and butterflies. he had a big dog, too, and they were always so happy together. then the boy grew to be a man, and he had a garden all his own. he had many trees and beautiful flowers to look after, and he loved them very much, especially the little baby flowers. these came to him, and he would talk to them, and tell them what to do to make them grow strong and beautiful." "what! could the flowers talk?" nance asked in amazement. "wasn't it funny?" "yes, those flowers could talk, and understood everything the gardener told them." "what is a gardener?" "oh, the man who was once a little boy." "i see." sleepily. "well, after a while the gardener hurt one of his flowers." "he did!" nance was wide awake now. "wasn't he bad! how did he hurt it?" "he just broke it down, so it could never stand up again." "oh!" "yes, nance, that's what he did, and he had to leave his garden and go away." "go on," nance demanded as martin paused. "yes, he went away, for such a long time, and tried to forget all about his garden. then in a strange place he saw one of his most beautiful flowers and heard her sing." "what! can flowers sing?" "this one could, so beautifully. but the gardener did not dare to speak to her. she knew what he had done, and he was afraid. so he ran away again, far off into a land of wilderness. his heart was very sad and lonely. no one loved him, and everybody thought that he was so bad." "and wasn't he, daddy? he must have been bad or he wouldn't have hurt the beautiful flower." "he was very, very sorry, nance, and his heart was heavy all the time, but no one knew that. then one day he found another little flower. she had fallen into the water, but some kind people saw her and saved her. the gardener took this lovely flower with him wherever he went. he built a little house among the trees, where they lived all by themselves, and were so happy." "what was her name, daddy?" "the gardener called her 'heart's ease.'" "funny--funny--name," came low and sleepily from the child. martin paused, while his thoughts roamed back over the past. he sat thus for some time holding nance, who had fallen asleep in his arms. at length he arose, laid the child gently in the little rough cot he had prepared for her with such care, and wrapped her well up in the blanket he had obtained from an indian. he stood for a while watching her by the flickering light of the fire. he then picked up his violin and, seating himself, began to play soft and low. the wind roared and howled outside, but martin heeded it not. a mystic door had noiselessly opened, and he had passed through into an enchanted world, where the sorrows, regrets, and cares of earth were for a time forgotten. chapter vi 'tis hard to forget the following weeks were busy ones for martin. winter was fast closing in and he had many things to attend to. first of all it was necessary to lay in a sufficient supply of food to last them until spring. of fish he had plenty, and these were accordingly cached high up between three large trees, safe from prowling dogs or other animals. he next turned his attention to the hills and forest. it was an exciting and memorable day when he brought down his first moose. he was a big fellow, with great branching antlers. martin, in company with an indian, had come upon him as he was quietly browsing in a wild meadow, several miles back from the lake. to martin it seemed a most contemptible thing to creep up and shoot the unsuspecting creature. but such a feeling had to be overcome if he and nance were to live through the winter. at the first shot the moose gave a tremendous leap into the air, and dropped upon his knees. in his excitement martin rushed from cover, and exposed himself to view. the wounded animal saw him, and in its dying rage charged suddenly upon his assailant. his antlers were but a few yards away and in another instant they would have hurled martin to the earth. but again the rifle spoke, and the monarch of the forest went down with a thundering crash, never to rise again. skinning the moose, cutting it up, and packing it down to the lake was a task of considerable magnitude, and several days passed before all was completed. martin was now thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the chase, and he spent much of his time in the woods. instructed and assisted by his indian friends, he built a long circular line of traps, consisting chiefly of snares and dead-falls. he soon came to know the ways of the shy denizens of the forest, and took much pride in matching his skill against their cunning. at first meagre success rewarded his labours. the lynx, fox, martin, wolverine, and other animals for a time gave a wide berth to his carefully laid traps. but after a while a change took place, and each day he was able to bear home several furry prizes. these were promptly skinned, and placed upon stretchers, which the indians had taught him how to make. during martin's absence from his cabin quabee, the young indian woman, stayed with nance, and they thus became firm friends. but the child would always watch most anxiously for the return of her daddy, as she now called him, and never once did she forget to ask him if he had found her mamma and her "real daddy." through the evenings, which were now very long, martin worked upon the interior of his house. with considerable difficulty he fashioned a table, and a wonderful easy-chair. he also constructed a couch to the left of the fire-place. upon this he placed a liberal supply of fir boughs, over which he spread a large well-dressed moose skin which he had obtained from the natives. the cabin was thus made fairly comfortable, and when lighted by the blazing fire it presented a most cosy appearance. martin was not satisfied, however. he longed for more cooking utensils, as well as some pictures to adorn the bare walls. he needed, too, different food for nance. her principal diet consisted of meat and fish, and much of this was not good for a white child. dried berries, and bulbous roots, supplied by the indians, afforded a pleasing change. these had been procured during the summer, and through native skill had been dried and compressed into cakes. such delicacies had to be doled out very sparingly, although the women gave what they could to the little pale-face maid of whom they were becoming very fond. every night nance played upon the floor by martin's side with a funny doll he had made for her. she was delighted with it, and could never have it out of her sight for any length of time. the wilderness life agreed with her, and living so much in the open her face was well browned, and her cheeks like twin roses. martin was very particular about her appearance, and as he could not always attend to nance himself he had instructed quabee in the art of caring for a white child. at first the indian woman was much puzzled, but through patience she at length learned what was desired of her. cleanliness martin insisted upon, and this was something that quabee could not at first understand. with much labour martin had hewn a fair-sized bathtub out of the butt of a large pine tree. it had taken him days to perform this, but when it was finished he was quite proud of his accomplishment. this was accordingly installed in the cabin, and quabee soon learned what it was for. in this she gave nance her bath every morning near the fire. other indians came at times to the cabin, but quabee and her husband were there every day. the indian woman was quick, intelligent, and most anxious to learn the ways of the white people. having no children of her own, she placed her affection upon nance, and the idea of receiving pay for her services never once entered her mind. she was a superior woman in many ways, tall, straight, and comely in appearance. she was never so happy as when with nance. she would play with her, and the child soon began to learn a number of indian words, while quabee added daily to her knowledge of the english language. the indian woman also made neat little dresses of the finest of dressed deer-skin for the white child, trimming the borders with beads, and coloured fringes. little moccasins she made as well, and when nance was fully attired in this native costume martin thought he had never seen a more beautiful sight. this constant association with nance and the instruction she received from martin ere long exerted an influence upon the indian woman. she became somewhat neater in appearance, and she daily endeavoured to act more like the white people. she and her husband were greatly pleased with the log cabin, and they decided to have one just like it. one cold night, three weeks before christmas, martin was sitting before the fire lost in deep thought. nance was playing quietly by his side with her much-worn doll. on the floor at his left was a pile of furs, consisting principally of fox, lynx, wolverine, and beaver. he had counted them over several times, and had them all marked down upon a piece of bark of the birch tree. his only pencil was a small sharpened stick, which he blackened from a dead coal lying upon the table. martin had never lost track of the days and months, for one of the few things he had brought with him into the wilderness was a tiny calendar. he had carefully observed sunday, and abstained from all unnecessary work on this day. he told himself that it was not only for his bodily welfare that he should do so, but it was the divine command. it had nothing to do with the church, so he reasoned, and although he had been separated from the latter, he still believed that the great god was his father, and that his son had died for mankind. he was by no means an unbeliever, except in his attitude toward the church. in fact he had always been most careful about nance repeating her little prayer every night at his knee, although he himself had abandoned the practice since he had become an outcast. with much care he traced with his rude pencil the things he needed to make the cabin more comfortable, as well as the food and clothing necessary for nance. indian hunters were to start in the morning for the trading post across the mountains, and they would take his skins, and bring back the articles he required. they were not many to be sure, but the indians could easily bring them with their dog teams, and they were quite willing to do it for their white brother. a delighted chuckle from nance aroused him, causing him to glance quickly in her direction. "what is it, little one?" he questioned, as the child sprang to her feet and came to his side. "look, see!" she cried. "we are playing santa claus. mamma is fixing up a tree for me and dolly, oh, such a pretty tree." "it is a beauty," and martin opened his eyes wide, and stared hard at the imaginary tree. "what nice things you have upon it." "oh, no, there's nothing on it yet," and the child gave a chuckle of delight. "we're just fixing it up for santa claus. he's coming, you know, and will put such lovely things on it." "do you think that old santa will find you here?" martin inquired. "he found me last christmas, all right, and brought me such lovely things--a little woolly dolly, and candy. when will it be christmas again?" and nance climbed upon martin's knee. the imaginary tree was well enough in play, but it could not take the place of the real one. "christmas will soon be here, nance. it won't be long. what would you like santa claus to bring you this year?" "oh, so many things," and the child clasped her little hands together as she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "i want a new dolly, that will shut her eyes and go to sleep. i want candy--and something for quabee, and the little indian children. and i want----" "and what?" martin asked as she hesitated. "i want my daddy and my mamma. oh, why don't they come! do you think they will come this christmas?" "not this christmas, nance. you must wait, and some day you will understand why they cannot come to you now. but we'll fix up a tree, a little one, won't we?" he suggested in order to divert her attention. "we'll find a nice one and put it right by your bed, and we'll play that your daddy and mamma are here." "oh, yes," and nance clapped her hands with delight. "and we'll let the indian children see it, won't we? oh, that will be lovely!" after nance had been tucked into bed, and was fast asleep, martin picked up another strip of birch bark, and scrawled a note to the trader at fort o' rest. "they may have something suitable for a child," he mused, as he gazed thoughtfully upon what he had written. "nance will be terribly disappointed if she doesn't get something. they will have sugar, at least, and that will be better than nothing." as christmas approached martin became uneasy. the tree had been found, and was standing at the foot of nance's cot. every day he expected the arrival of the indians from the fort, bringing with them the long-looked-for supplies and presents. they were much later than usual, so quabee informed him, as it generally took them twelve sleeps to go and return. the day before christmas martin's anxiety increased. nance talked almost incessantly about what santa claus would bring her, and asked all kinds of questions. martin went often to the door, and looked far off towards the woods whither the trail led, hoping to hear the jingle of bells, the shouts of the indians, and the joyful yelps of the dogs. but no sound could he hear. the great forest, silent and grim, revealed nothing to the anxious watcher. when night, cold and dreary, shut down martin's last hope vanished. he now no longer expected the return of the indians. it was with a heavy heart that he played with nance, told her several stories about santa claus, and the christmas trees he had when he was a little boy. "and just think!" the child exclaimed with delight, "when i wake in the morning there will be such nice things upon my tree." martin did not reply; how could he? he merely held her close, and stared straight before him into the fire. he pictured her bitter disappointment when she opened her eyes and found the tree as bare as it was the night before. what could he say to her, and how would he be able to soothe her sorrow? when at last she was snugly tucked into her little cot she put her arms around martin's neck, and gave him a good-night kiss. "be sure and call me early in the morning, daddy," she said. "and you'll help me take my presents off the tree, won't you? oh, i'm so happy!" holding fast to her queer battered doll, she was soon in slumber deep. martin stood watching her sweet chubby face lying on the rough pillow, and in spite of himself tears came into his eyes. he threw himself upon the chair before the fire. if anyone had told him one year ago that a mere child could so capture his heart and weave such a wonderful spell about him he would have scorned the idea. but now that little being lying there was far dearer to him than life, and to think that such a sorrow should come to her in the morning! time and time again he replenished the fire from a liberal supply of wood in the corner. he felt that it would be useless to go to bed, for he knew that he could not sleep. how long he sat thus he could not tell, but he was at length aroused by the faint jingle of bells, and a noise outside. he sprang to his feet and listened eagerly. yes, it must be the indians! hurrying to the door, he threw it open, and peered forth. there before him were the forms of men and dogs. the former were busily unfastening something from their sleds. his greetings to the natives were answered by several grunts. they were too anxious to get to their own lodges to waste any time in talk just now. presently several parcels were handed to him, and martin was much surprised at their number. he placed them upon the floor, and when the indians had departed he closed the door, and carried the bundles over to the fire. with much satisfaction martin now examined each parcel. yes, there was everything he had ordered--rice, sugar, beans, tea, tobacco, pencils, paper, and several other things. then his face grew grave, for he could not find the presents he had ordered for nance. with a sinking heart he placed the goods against the wall, and was standing looking down upon them when a noise was heard at the door. it opened, and an indian stepped into the room. he was carrying a parcel in his hands. "injun no savvey," he quietly remarked. "injun all sam' lose 'um." saying which he held forth the bundle, and, turning, left the building. martin seized the parcel, and hastily tore off the paper wrapping. then he gave vent to an exclamation of joy, for lying before him were the presents for nance. he did not touch them at first, but crossing the room stood for a while gazing upon the sleeping child. a new feeling now possessed his heart, and he was anxious for morning to come that he might watch the joy in her sparkling eyes. going back to the presents, he examined them, and was greatly surprised at the number. he had no idea before that they kept so many things at the trading-post. there were several picture-books as well, and such a pretty little dress, and candy in coloured bags, all neatly made. as he turned the various things over a piece of paper caught his eye. picking it up, he read the words written thereon. as he did so his face grew dark, and the light of joy died out of his eyes. it was from the trader at fort o' rest. he did not keep toys, so he wrote, but a mission post had been established there the previous summer, and he had shown the missionary and his wife the birch-bark letter. they accordingly became much interested in the little girl away in the wilderness, and had made up the parcel of presents for her. this was the substance of the letter, and every word burnt itself into martin's soul. he sank into his chair, holding the paper in his hand, which trembled from the vehemence of his emotion. so these presents were the gift of the church. he knew very well that they had been sent in a bale to the mission by some society of the church to which he had once belonged. the words of his old bishop flashed into his mind: "do you imagine that you can cut yourself off from the influence of the church of your childhood? i tell you that you are mistaken, for such a thing is utterly impossible. the church and her influence will follow you to the grave no matter to what part of the world you go." martin groaned as he realised how true were these words. he had laughed at them when first spoken, fool that he was. how little he knew and understood the power of the church. he rose abruptly to his feet. he seized several of the presents in his hands and carried them to the fire. he would not take them from the church, no, not for the sake of the child he loved. he could endure her sorrow rather than the bitter remorse which was sure to follow him. as he stood there, hesitating for an instant, nance stirred in her sleep. "daddy, santa claus," she murmured. that was all, but it was enough to cause martin to draw back. the perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead, not caused by the fire alone. he paced rapidly up and down the room, pausing at times to look upon the child. it was a stern battle he was fighting. how could he accept those presents from the church? and yet how could he disappoint nance? he wavered to and fro. it was his own battle, and there was no one to help him. he went to the door, and looked out. he knew that it was past midnight by the position of the stars. all was still and cold. the sharp air cooled his hot face, and somewhat calmed his excited mind. he closed the door and sat down. it was christmas morning, the day which had always brought such a peace into his soul until his fall. he thought of it now and of the days of youth when he had gone with his parents to the little parish church. he saw the choir singing the familiar words of "hark! the herald angels sing," and "o come, all ye faithful." he knew that in a few hours they would be singing them again in the same parish from which he had been driven out. try as he might he could not banish the vision of the past which came to him this night. a spirit of peace seemed suddenly to surround him, while the old feeling of bitterness and animosity was for a time forgotten. he could not explain it, neither did he try to do so. how long he remained there he could not tell. whether he fell asleep and dreamed all the things he saw he did not know. but when he at length aroused himself the fire was burning low, and the dawn of a new christmas day was stealing over the land. he threw several sticks upon the fire, and then, picking up the presents, he hung them all upon the tree. the strife for the present was over. nance would be happy when she awoke, and that was all-sufficient. chapter vii the ceaseless throb after the christmas excitement life settled down to a quiet monotony in the little cabin at the mouth of the quaska river. nance played day after day with her doll and other toys, and never seemed to grow weary of them. martin visited his traps each day, and during the long evenings remained at home. there was no work he could do upon the interior of the building, so he had very little to occupy his time. nance always went to bed early, after she had several stories told to her. silence then brooded over the place, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sound of the violin, upon which martin would play when the mood was upon him. there was nothing else for him to do but sit and smoke, alone with his own thoughts. for a while he was contented with this quietness and solitude. but martin was a man, not a beast of the pen, and he possessed something besides a mere body. there was a power within him which refused to be still. it was ever active, like the ceaseless throb of the engine concealed within the ship. he had known other things. he knew what it was to study, to think, and to aspire. his training had made him so, and he could not endure a life of inactivity. for the first time since entering the wilderness an insatiable longing came upon him for books, or reading matter of some kind. he thought of his well-filled shelves in his old parish. what a pride he had taken in his library, and what joy had always been his when he could be alone for a while with his favourite authors. but now he had nothing, not even a scrap of a newspaper. he looked around the barren room, and a tremor shook his body as he realised what little chance there was of ever having those rude walls adorned with books. and what an opportunity for reading, he mused, by the bright light of the open fire. he was thinking thus one evening when the door softly opened and taku and quabee glided into the room, and squatted upon the floor to his left. martin was pleased that they had come, as he was beginning to be quite fond of these two well-behaved natives. the only difficulty he had was in talking with them. he did not understand their language, while their knowledge of the english tongue was most meagre. otherwise they would have proven most congenial company. by their manner he knew that they had come for some special purpose, for they were unusually silent, and sat for a time without saying a word. martin offered taku a plug of tobacco, which the latter took, filled his pipe, and then handed it over to his wife. soon large volumes of smoke were filling the room, while expressions of satisfaction rested upon the faces of the visitors. "good!" taku ejaculated, looking at martin. "fine squaw, eh?" and he motioned towards quabee. martin nodded. "you teach 'um all sam' white man, eh?" taku continued. "what's that?" martin inquired. "me no savvey." "you mak' 'um spik all sam' white man?" "oh, i see. you want to speak white man's tongue? you want to talk as i do?" "ah, ah, all sam'." "maybe so," was the slow reply. "i'll think it over. you come in the morning." "you mak' injun sling, eh?" "do what?" "sling, all sam' dis," and taku began to hum the air of a tune he had learned. "where did you hear that?" martin asked somewhat sharply. "at post. white squaw mak' beeg box sling all sam' dis," and the indian tapped upon the floor with his fingers, imitating some one playing an organ. "and did she sing, too?" martin questioned. "ah, ah." "and you savvey it, eh?" "ah, ah. me sling all sam' white squaw. me no savvey talk," and he shook his head in a disconsolate manner. "you want to savvey the words, do you?" "ah, ah." "well, then, i shall think about it. you come to me in the morning. savvey?" "ah, ah. me savvey." when the indians had departed martin sat for a long time in deep meditation. an uneasy feeling possessed him. he knew very well now that the hunters who had gone to the post for supplies had come in contact with the missionaries there, and had attended service. they would go back again, and each time they would hear and learn more about the teaching of the church. soon they would hold service among themselves, and sing the hymns as well. presently an idea flashed into his mind, which somewhat startled him. it was not unlikely that the missionary, knowing of these indians, would visit them from time to time and hold service among them. again the bishop's warning came to him. he was surely learning now how true were those words. he paced rapidly up and down the room. what should he do? must he leave this place, and the cabin upon which he had expended so much labour, and depart? if he did so where could he go from the influence of the church? a sudden thought stabbed his mind, which caused him to pause in the middle of the room. why had not the idea come to him before? he asked himself. he crossed at once to the chair he had recently left, and sat down. he wished to think it all out very carefully. the church had cast him off, and he had fled from its influence. he had been always on the defensive. why not change his position and assume the aggressive? the church was nothing to him now except the great disturber of his peace of mind. although he was only one, yet why should he not show that he could retaliate? why run away like a cur? would it not be better for him to use his influence and oppose the onward march of the church into the valley of the quaska? he would teach the indians the english language, and when they could understand him intelligently he would speak to them about the church, and it would not be to its advantage, either. the conclusion martin arrived at this night did not trouble him in the least. he believed that he was justified in the course he was about to pursue. he wondered why he had not done this before. more than once the idea came to his mind that he would like to go back to the ways of civilisation and expose the church. he knew many things about it which were not generally known, for he had been within the inner circle. he had seen much sham, hypocrisy, and even downright sin in the fold. he could tell of the strife, and division which often existed; of the incessant struggle for high positions; of the jealousy and envy which were so common. oh, yes, he would unfold a tale which would startle the world. he thought of all these things as he lay that night in his bunk. not once did there come to him a realisation of his own misdeeds, but only those of others. early in the morning taku and quabee came to the cabin, bringing with them so many other indians that the room could hardly hold them all. martin looked upon them with something akin to despair, although he determined to do the best he could to instruct them. he chose the simplest words at first, using the common articles with which they were familiar as illustrations. the natives were most anxious to learn, and repeated the words over and over again with remarkable patience. time was nothing to them, and in fact they would have remained all day if martin had been willing to instruct them. but a lesson of two hours was all that he could endure, especially as the atmosphere in the room had become almost unbearable. when he stopped, and signified that there would be no more teaching that day his scholars made no movement to depart. they remained squatted upon the floor with an expression of expectation upon their faces, which martin could not understand. at length taku rose slowly to his feet, and stood before the white man. "injun wait," he began. "injun lak' sling all sam' white squaw," and he jerked his thumb toward the east. these words were received with much approval by the assembled natives. martin well understood what they meant, and his heart beat rapidly. what should he do? should he teach these indians to sing the hymns of the church which had cast him out, or should he poison their minds by telling them that such things were all nonsense? the indians were observing him closely, and it seemed as if they were watching the struggle which was going on in his mind. their eyes appeared to reproach him, and for relief he lifted the violin from its case, and began to tune up the instrument. while he thus stood in the valley of decision martin glanced towards nance, sitting quietly by quabee's side. her sweet innocent face was turned towards him, and her bright eyes were following his every movement. he glanced towards the expectant natives. they were nance's companions, and would be for years to come. suppose he denied them their request now, and turned their minds against religious teaching, what would be the outcome? what had he to offer them instead? by influencing them for good it would be a benefit to nance as well. his hands trembled as he continued to thrum upon the strings. how could he turn against the church? he thought of his parents, and remembered what noble lives they had led, and the peace and comfort they had received through that very church which he was now on the verge of opposing. then his mind flashed to beryl. beryl! what a vision rose before him. how could he deny the church of which she was such a devoted member? what did all the sham and pretence amount to in comparison with her! a church which could produce such characters as his parents and beryl, how could he fight against it? by this time the indians were becoming restless. they were talking among themselves, and although martin could not understand what they were saying, it was not hard for him to detect a distinct note of anger. this brought him to himself, and put an end to his indecision. he thought of the bishop's words, and a scornful laugh broke from his lips, as he rose from the stool on which he had been sitting, and laid the violin upon the table. what a fool he had been, he told himself, for having wavered even for an instant. why should he teach these natives the hymns of the church? if he began now there would be no end. they would come every day, demanding more. no, it should not be. it was far better not to begin, no matter how angry the indians might be. when the natives understood that the white man would not play for them, and that the instructions for the day were ended, they departed surly and dejected. but martin did not care what they said or thought. he had made up his mind to oppose the church, and he was not to be turned aside any more. twice, at least, during the past year he had been weak, and had given way, but it must never happen again. that night after the simple supper was over, the few dishes washed and put away, nance climbed upon martin's knee. "tell me about the beautiful flower, please," she pleaded, laying her head contentedly against his shoulder. "what flower, dear? heart's ease?" "no, not that one now. the other one, you know, which could sing so lovely." "oh!" martin caught his breath. he was surprised that nance should make such a request when he had been thinking so much about beryl all through the day. "why do you wish to hear about her, little one?" he asked after a pause. "'cause i like her. i think about her so much, and how pretty she must be." "yes, she is pretty, nance, and so very, very good." "what's her name, daddy?" "beryl." "oh, isn't that a funny name for a flower!" "it is. but you see this flower is a woman." "a woman!" nance sat up straight, and looked full into martin's face. "i'm so glad. it's much nicer than being just a flower. you called her that in play, didn't you?" "yes, nance, just in play." "and is she a really real woman?" "a real woman, nance; the most beautiful i ever saw." "more beautiful than my own mamma?" martin started at this unexpected question. a picture rose before him of the white face of a dead woman, lying in the indian lodge on the bank of the great river beyond the mountains. how could he answer the child? "i never knew your dear mamma, little one," he at length replied. "i never talked to her. but i know beryl, and have heard her sing." "does she love little girls?" "yes. she loves everything that is good and beautiful." "does she love you, daddy?" "i--i am not sure," martin stammered, while a flush came into his face. "i am not beautiful, neither am i good." "yes, you are," and nance twined her little arms around his neck. "you are so beautiful and good that anybody would love you. i do, anyway." martin could say no more. a lump rose in his throat, and a strange feeling took possession of him. the simplicity and innocent prattle of this child were unnerving him. he told her that it was getting late, and that she must go to bed. as he bent over her and gave her the usual good-night kiss she looked up earnestly into his face. "when i am a big woman," she said, "i want to be just like beryl. do you think i will, daddy?" "i trust so," was the quiet reply. "but go to sleep now, and we'll talk about it to-morrow." chapter viii the discovery the more martin considered the idea that the missionary might cross the mountains and visit the tasko indians the more uneasy he became. he called himself a coward and asked why he should run away. but he well knew that he could not bear to meet the missionary. it would be better for him to be on the watch and slip away with nance somewhere out of sight if necessary. he could come back again, for the missionary would not be likely to make more than one visit a year if he came at all. then, if the indians became christians, he could remove to some place farther away, erect another cabin, and cut himself off entirely from all contact with the natives. in order, however, to move around easily and at will, it was important that he should have a canoe of his own. by means of this he could traverse the river leading from the lake, and explore the region lying westward. he had spoken to taku about the country beyond, but the indian knew very little. it was a land of mystery, so he was informed. the river heena, which drained the lake, flowed on and on until it came to a mighty river called by the indians the "ayan." after careful consideration, martin determined to fashion a canoe out of one of the trees standing near the shore of the lake. he would need the craft, so he told himself, for fishing purposes, and it would be pleasant to take nance out upon the water on many an enjoyable trip. as the days were now lengthening, and the spirit of spring was breathing over the land, it was possible to work out of doors in comfort. martin had met with much success in trapping during the winter, and had sent numerous fine skins with the indians when they had again crossed the mountains to the trading post. in addition to more provisions he had been able to obtain a good new axe, which was a great improvement upon the poor one belonging to the natives. he could now do much better work in less time with the axe the trader had sent to him from the post. instructed by taku, martin chose a large tree which would suit his purpose. it was a tedious task, and weeks glided speedily by as he hewed the tree into the desired shape, and dug out the interior. as the work progressed taku was always on hand, and sometimes he would bring his own axe and hew away for hours. he was very particular about the thickness of the shell, and would often pause and feel the sides to be sure that they were not too thick or too thin. at length the day arrived when the axes were laid aside. the canoe was then filled with water, and a fire built all around it, far enough away so as to heat but not to scorch the wood. stones were made red hot and placed into the craft, and these soon brought the water to the boiling point. this was kept up for a whole day, thus making the wood of the canoe pliable and capable of expansion. by means of narrow strips of wood hewn smooth and flat the canoe was expanded in the middle to the desired width. when the water had been taken out, and the shell allowed to cool, the sides of the canoe were thus rigid and curved in a uniform and graceful fashion. martin was much delighted with the craft, and thanked taku most heartily. he was anxious now for the ice to break up so he could launch the canoe, and take nance for a spin upon the lake. during the whole of this time nance stayed close by martin. she played among the chips, building little houses for her doll. often she would sit and watch the canoe which was a wonderful thing in her eyes. when she was told that it would carry her over the lake she became much excited, and could hardly wait for the ice to disappear. but one morning when they woke the lake was clear, the ice having all run out during the night. then martin and taku launched the canoe, which floated gracefully upon the glassy surface of the water. nance and quabee sat in the bottom, while martin and taku used the paddles. over the lake they sped, exploring every cove, and returned after a couple of hours well satisfied with the craft. that night nance could talk of nothing but the canoe, where they would go, and what they would do. "what shall we call it, nance?" martin asked. "we haven't given our canoe a name yet, you know." "let's call it beryl," was the reply. "won't that be a nice name?" "very well, little one," martin assented. "it shall be as you say." almost every day after this martin took nance out upon the water. the fishing was good, and many were the fine salmon they brought to land. but when not fishing martin would paddle slowly over the lake far away from the cabin. often the water was perfectly calm like a huge mirror, reflecting the trees and rocks along the shore, as well as the great fleecy clouds which floated lazily overhead. at such times a complete silence brooded over the lake. no discords from the far-off throbbing world of commerce disturbed the quiet scene. it was as serene and beautiful as when it came fresh from the hand of its creator. here there was no mad rush for wealth, position, or fame. here no huge industries vomited forth their volumes of poisonous smoke, nor crushed out the very life-blood of countless men, women, and children. here there was abundance for all in forest and in stream. martin thought of all this as he paddled slowly over the lake. they were happy hours for him. nance was near and often he would look upon her with love and pride. her chief enjoyment consisted in trailing one little hand through the water by the side of the canoe. often her joyous laugh would ring out over the silent reaches, and then she would listen entranced to its echo far away in the distance. one bright afternoon martin turned the prow of his canoe up the quaska river. hitherto he had not paddled up this stream but had been content to spend his time upon the lake. for some distance as he advanced the shores were lined with fir and jack-pines right to the water's edge. at length he came to a large wild meadow where the stream sulked along, and paddling was much easier. beyond this the trees were small and straggling, showing evidence of fires which had devastated the land. the water here was shallow, and at times the canoe grated upon the gravel. ere long he reached the mouth of a small stream flowing into the quaska. here he ran the craft ashore, and making it fast to a tree he took nance by the hand, and walked slowly up the creek. it was a quiet sun-lit place, where cottonwood trees and jack-pines lined the sloping hills. an indian trail led along the bank, and this they followed for some distance. coming at last to a fair-sized tree, a patriarch among its fellows, they paused. "we'll have something to eat now," martin remarked, as he seated himself upon the ground beneath the shade of the outspreading branches. "oh, this is nice!" nance sighed, as she took her place at his feet, and watched him unfold the parcel which contained their food. "wouldn't it be nice to stay here all the time?" "not at night, nance," and martin laughed. "it would be cold then, and there might be bears around." "would there?" and the child drew closer to her guardian. "will they come here now, do you think?" "don't be afraid," was the reassuring reply. "they'll not trouble us in the day-time." their repast was soon over, and then martin filled and lighted his pipe and leaned back against the old tree. nance played close to the water, and made little mounds out of the black sand along the shore. not a breath of wind stirred the trees, and the hot sun slanting down through the forest caused the water to gleam like burnished silver. birds flitted here and there, while squirrels chased one another along the ground, and ran chattering up among the boughs overhead. martin's eyes were fixed upon nance, but his thoughts were far away. such a scene of peace and quietness always brought beryl to his mind. he recalled one such afternoon when they had wandered among the trees, fields, and flowers. her bright, happy face rose before him. he remembered her words as they sat under a large tree to rest. "i often wonder," she had said, "why such happiness is mine. it seems almost too good to be true, and i fear lest something may happen to spoil it all." how little did she then know that in less than a year her fairy castle would be shattered, and all her fond hopes destroyed. martin's hands clenched hard as all this came to him now. he rose abruptly from his reclining position, and moved to the bank of the stream. "what are you doing, nance?" he asked, not knowing what else to say. "oh, just digging in the sand, and making houses," was the reply. "come and help me, daddy." in an instant martin was by her side, helping her to shape queer little mounds with the sand which was so fine and black. presently he noticed little golden specks, which gleamed whenever a ray of sunshine touched them. he examined them closely, and found that where the sand had not been disturbed a thin layer of such specks was lying upon the surface. instinctively he knew that it was gold, which had been washed down with the water and deposited along the shore. much interested, he examined the sand for several rods up and down the stream, and everywhere he found signs of gold. he next turned his attention to the gravel lying beneath the water. scooping up a quantity of this with his hands he found golden specks all through it as well as a number of small nuggets each about the size of rice. this discovery caused his heart to beat rapidly, and he sat down upon the bank in order to think. gold! had he made a rich discovery? the earth must be full of it, and perhaps beneath his feet the treasure was lying hidden. the glorious day, and the glamour of his surroundings appealed to him no longer. the idea of the great riches so near possessed his mind. the whole valley stretching between the high walls was his. it was full of gold beyond measure. ere long another feeling came upon him. suppose he did get gold what should he do with it? gold was useful only out in the world of civilisation. but here it was of no more value than the common stones lying in the river's bed. the indians knew nothing about it. to them the skins of the animals roaming in the forest were more precious than heaps of the gleaming ore. he well knew that if his discovery became known beyond the mountains a flood of miners would pour into the region, and instead of peace and quietness there would be the wild commotion of a mining town. no, such a thing should not occur. it should be kept a secret. he would say nothing of his find to the indians. in fact if they did learn of it they would not give themselves the trouble of visiting the place, he was sure of that. when at length he unfastened the canoe, and started with nance down to the lake, his mind was so full of the discovery he had made that he paid little or no heed to the prattle of the child. chapter ix the golden lure martin slept but little that night, as his mind was much disturbed. there were many things to think about since his discovery of the previous day. he did not feel quite sure of himself now. he had imagined that he had severed all connection with the outside world and that never again could he endure the trammels of conventional social life. he was so satisfied with the quiet ways of the wilderness that the awakening came as a severe shock. it was the gold which had made the change. he could not enjoy it here, but out there what magic it would work. what doors hitherto closed would instantly be opened, and great would be his influence. what a surprise it would be to the church which had cast him off, he mused, when he arose from seclusion and oblivion, and startled the world with his vast wealth. a grim smile of contempt curled his lips as he pictured how the church dignitaries, and others, would condone his past sin, and fawn upon him because of his money. how gratifying it would be to hear the very men who had condemned him most severely lift up their voices in praise of his contributions to the building of churches or charitable institutions. and would not the newspapers, which had devoted big headlines to his fall, be as eager to laud him for his munificence? then he thought of nance. how much the gold would do for her. she would be able to mingle with the most select people. he would take her to all parts of the world, and wherever they went they would gladly be received because of their riches. it was little wonder, therefore, that sleep would not come to martin with such visions whirling through his brain. he rose early, long before nance was awake, and prepared breakfast. a new spirit possessed his soul. he drank in great draughts of the fresh morning air, and he felt like shouting with exultation. he had to give vent to his feelings, and the only way he could do so was upon his violin. how he did play! there was a triumphant jubilant note in his music. the indians were surprised and startled to hear the strains of the violin at such an early hour, while the dogs set up loud barks and howls. the natives tumbled out of their lodges and hastened to the white man's cabin. they gathered in front of the building, and stood watching martin as he sat upon a block before the door, playing fast and furiously upon his violin. his long beard swept his breast, for he had not touched a razor to his face since entering the wilderness. his chest was expanded, and his body was drawn up rigid and erect. his eyes, which looked straight ahead, glowed with a defiant, victorious light. his moccasined right foot beat time upon the ground to the music. for a while the indians stood watching this unusual sight, and then glided back to their lodges. with almost bated breath they discussed what they had seen and heard. they believed that the white man was possessed with some strange spirit, or why should he look and act in such a peculiar manner? for some time martin played after the natives had left, and only ceased when nance came out of the house. she looked at him with astonishment in her eyes, and then ran to him for her customary morning kiss. martin smiled as he laid aside the instrument, and turned his attention to the child. he felt much relieved, and viewed the whole situation in a calmer and more reasonable light. his dreams of wealth had been too fanciful, so he told himself. perhaps he would not find the gold as easily as he had imagined. there might not be any in the valley, and what he had seen might have been washed from some source which he could not discover. martin was now anxious to hurry back up the river as soon as possible to make a careful examination of the ground. in an indian lodge he had once seen a shovel and a small pick. they had been found years before, so he was informed, on a creek many miles away. nearby were lying the skeletons of two men, prospectors no doubt, who had miserably perished in their search for gold. the natives regarded the pick and shovel with considerable interest, and had always taken good care of them. provided with these, his axe, and his frying-pan, which would serve him in the stead of the prospector's regular gold-pan, martin at length reached the spot where he had made the discovery the day before. he knew something about mining operations on a small scale, as he had not only read much about it in days past, but in his journey northward he had watched prospectors at work on the bars of the river and along the water's edge. this knowledge was of considerable service to him now. leaving nance to continue her play of the day before, martin scooped up a quantity of gravel with his frying-pan. washing this carefully, he was delighted to find some gold lying in the bottom of the pan. his excitement now became intense. stripping off several pieces of the bark of the cottonwood tree, he spread them upon the ground. upon these he deposited his treasure so that the sun would dry it, and turned once more to the panning of the gravel. all the morning and afternoon he worked with feverish haste, stopping only long enough to eat his meal with nance. the lure of the gold was upon him, and it was with great reluctance that he abandoned his task in the evening to go back to his cabin. he now believed that all the ground up and down the creek was rich with gold. the magnitude of his discovery almost overwhelmed him. he dropped upon the bank and tried to think it all out. he longed to express himself to some one, in order to relieve his feelings. gold! gold! he was wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, and there was no one to interfere with him. gathering up the gleaming ore, he placed it all in his cap. "look, nance!" he cried, as he ran his fingers lovingly through his treasure, "this is gold! you will be the richest woman on earth when you grow up!" "pretty, pretty," the child replied, picking up several of the largest nuggets. "let me play with them." "yes, nance, when you get home. we will both play with them then, eh?" that night outside the cabin door the gold was all carefully examined, and the little stones picked out. this they did each night, for every day the work of washing out the gold was continued. it was then placed in a strong moose-skin bag and hidden away in the cabin. after he had been working for some time in the stream martin turned his attention to the bank above. he believed that gold in large paying quantity could be found by digging down through the earth and if possible reaching bed-rock. this he accordingly began to do, and with pick and shovel he made good progress until he struck frozen earth. this needed to be thawed, so, gathering dry wood, he kept a fire burning all through the day. while this thawing process was going on he prepared other shafts over which fires were also built. every day he dug out the softened earth and ere long had several excavations from six to ten feet in depth. the farther he descended the richer became the ground. at times he would wash out a pan full of earth to find a most gratifying amount of gold. one afternoon he came to gravel which led him to believe that he was now not far from bed-rock. in this he was not mistaken, for, digging with feverish haste, he struck at last upon solid rock. he could see that the gravel was full of gold, and every shovelful he threw out sparkled with the golden ore. the bed-rock, which was soon exposed, sloped downward, and as martin continued his shovelling, he came to a crevice, and here he found gold which caused him to drop his shovel and to stare in amazement. then he rubbed his eyes to be sure that he was not mistaken. he stooped for a better inspection. he sank upon his knees and tore at the treasure with his hands. some of it was loose, but for the most part it was packed and wedged into the split of the bed-rock. how far this ran underground he could not tell. but right in sight was a fortune in itself. compared with this new discovery his past efforts seemed ridiculous. he recalled how he had hoarded the smallest grains with the greatest care. but here it was as plentiful as dirt, nuggets large and small all jammed between the rocks. although this gold was of no more use to martin than the gravel lying around, yet it filled him with intense excitement. there was the joy of discovery, and the happy feeling that so much wealth was his with none to dispute his claim. he understood now for the first time something of the fascination of the quest which lures men into the wilderness to endure untold hardships for the golden treasure. the mere finding the gold, looking upon it, and fondling it, form the great reward. nance was not with martin the day of his great discovery. she had stayed at home with quabee as she generally did now, for the trips up the river had lost their fascination for her. she had been left much to herself and had found no interest in the big holes which martin had dug in the ground. her sand houses were of more importance to her, and she had cried at times when martin would not play with her. to her the gold was nothing more than so many pretty little stones. she did not know that to obtain such things men and women in the far-off world would be willing to sacrifice almost everything; that for those common things men were sweltering, fighting, and dying; or that if the richness of the quaska valley became known a vast army of gold seekers would pour into the place and change peace into chaos. neither did the natives realise the great wealth lying so near their encampment. they knew nothing as yet of the magic power of gold, as all their trading hitherto with the white people had been with the skins of wild animals. the action of their white brother digging so earnestly up the river simply amused them. ever since that morning when they had watched him playing at such an early hour before his cabin door they had serious doubts as to his sanity. they had often discussed the strange expression in his eyes, and the wildness of the sounds he had made upon the "stick with strings," the name they gave to the violin. martin was greatly pleased that the natives did not understand what he was doing. it would have given him no end of trouble if they realised the value of the discovery he had made. therefore, when he returned to his cabin with the gold he had taken off of bed-rock there was no one to ask any questions, and no curious excited persons crowding around to examine the ore. there was only nance, who was not even surprised, who merely ran to meet him to tell what she and quabee had been doing during the day. chapter x the awakening all through the rest of the summer martin carried on his mining operations, and steadily the pile of gold within the cabin increased. at length the cold nights and the short days warned him that winter was fast approaching. he accordingly began to wonder what he should do with his treasure. he did not care to have it lying about in the house, as it was hard to tell what might happen to it. at any time a white man might drift that way, and he well knew that dark deeds had been committed with a far lesser motive than the seizure of so much gold. it would prove a temptation to almost any man. he would often awake with a start in the dead of night thinking that some one was creeping stealthily across the floor. formerly he would sit late before the fire with never a shadow of a fear upon his mind. but now he would turn apprehensively towards the window, thinking that faces were peering in upon him. he hardly liked to be away from home for any length of time lest something should happen to the gold during his absence. his mind became so obsessed with this idea that he became nervous, and his peace of mind vanished. at last he determined to deposit the gold in a secure place. after careful consideration he dug a hole in the ground at the back of the cabin. at the bottom he placed a large flat stone, walled up the sides, and plastered them over with clay, such as he had used upon the fire-place and chimney. when this had been finished to his satisfaction he erected over it a small, strong log building, the back of the cabin forming one of the sides, through which he cut a door. there was no other opening in the lean-to, not even a window, so the place would always be in darkness except when lighted by a candle. in the floor, and immediately over the excavation, he fastened a trap-door, fitting the flat-hewn pieces of timber in such an irregular manner that no one would ever suspect that there was any opening in the floor at all. then when the roof was placed in position, and all finished, martin brought the gold from the cabin and deposited it in his ground vault. when the trap-door was dropped back into place martin viewed everything with great approval. he called this building his "bank," and he often smiled to himself as he considered what a unique bank it really was. he alone was the president, shareholder, and depositor. there were no books to keep, and no regular hours in which to do business. there was no competition, and no anxious watching of the fluctuations in the money market. he had full control of everything, and to no one did he have to render any account. martin's mind thus became so filled with the lure of the gold that for weeks everything else was either neglected or forgotten. from morning till night, and often during the night, he thought of the wealth he was acquiring. the fear lest the missionary should visit the encampment troubled him very little. nance, too, received but a small share of his attention. he found it difficult to play with her, or to tell her the stories for which she asked. she was left more and more to quabee's tender care, and always ran to the indian woman with her little troubles. martin did not notice that the child was eating less of late, neither did he awaken to the fact that her happy joyous laugh was seldom heard. she would often sit quietly by herself, holding her doll in her arms, while her big open eyes gazed far off into space. one morning when nance did not get up at her usual time martin went to her cot. "what's the matter, little one?" he asked. "you are sleepy this morning." a faint smile trembled about the corners of the child's mouth, but she made no reply. as this was something unusual, martin became anxious. he placed his hand to her forehead, and found that it was very hot. "nance, nance! are you sick?" he cried, as he bent and looked searchingly into her eyes. "yes, daddy," was the low response. "i'm so tired and hot. i want quabee." as martin listened to these words he was seized with a nameless dread. for the first time he noticed how very wan was her flushed face. what should he do? he was helpless in the presence of sickness. the indian women might know what was the trouble. "so you want quabee, do you?" he questioned. "yes, i want quabee," was the faint reply. "very well, then. i shall go for her at once. i won't be long." as martin hurried over to the indian encampment he upbraided himself for his neglect of the child. "i've been a fool, a downright fool!" he muttered to himself. "i might have seen days ago that she was failing if i had not been so taken up with that cursed gold." it did not take him long to tell quabee and her mother, naheesh, about the child's illness, and soon the three were hurrying towards the cabin. nance's face brightened as the young indian woman bent over her. martin saw the smile of greeting and it smote him sore. knowing that the women could do all that was possible for the child, he left the building and sat upon the trunk of the old tree just outside the door. what if nance should die? the thought was terrible. how could he live without her? he had neglected her so much that the first one she wanted was quabee. a jealous feeling stole into his heart. and yet he knew that it was his own fault. oh, why had he left her so much to herself? it was for her sake, he reasoned. he desired the gold for her, not for himself. but if nance should be taken away what good would all the gold in the country amount to then? later when he crept softly back into the room nance was asleep, and quabee motioned to him to be silent. naheesh had gone to prepare some medicine from native herbs and bark, and would return shortly. all that he could do, therefore, was to sit close by the cot and watch. ere long nance opened her eyes and asked for water. all through the day she tossed upon her little bed. martin left her side hardly for a moment. she did not know him nor any one else in the room. she called often for her mother, and piteously asked why she did not come to her. the day passed and night came on, but martin remained at his post with quabee ever near. his eyes seldom left the child's face, and sometimes he would hold one of her little hot hands in his. how he longed for her to look up into his face, speak to him, and throw her arms about his neck. he recalled the last time she had run to him. it was when he was busy sorting the gold he had gathered that day. he had put her away somewhat abruptly, telling her that he was very busy, and that she must not bother him. she had looked surprised, her lips had quivered as she turned away towards quabee. how forcibly the whole incident came to him now. what would he not give to have her put her arms around his neck and ask him to play with her as of old. the second night of nance's illness martin was sitting alone by her side, as quabee had gone back to her own lodge for a much-needed rest. the faithfulness and self-denial of the young indian woman made a deep impression upon his mind. no mother could have been more attentive to her sick child than was quabee to this motherless girl. martin sat very still with his head bent low, but with ears keenly alert to nance's heavy breathing. he tried to be brave and hope for the best. but as the hours dragged by he found it difficult to keep up his drooping spirits. the terrible fear was ever with him that he was to lose nance. what should he do without her? he asked himself over and over again. with her gone, what was there for him to live for? there was no one else in the whole world who cared for him except this little child. why should he lose her when she meant so much to him? a vision of his past life rose suddenly before him. it came upon him with a startling intensity, and in a manner altogether different from anything he had hitherto experienced. the sin which had caused him to be an outcast upon the face of the earth loomed out of the darkness black and appalling. there was not one extenuating circumstance connected with the whole affair. he saw the woman, whose life he had ruined, left to bear her disgrace alone. never before did he comprehend what a monster he really was. what chastisement could be severe enough to punish him for what he had done? had he a right to expect anything else? he believed that he had suffered during the past years, but it was as nothing compared to what he was enduring this night. his very soul was being laid bare by some mysterious power which he could not fathom. why should such thoughts arise within his bosom now? he asked himself. was nance to be taken away as a part of the punishment which truly belonged to him? he had often thought and preached about the miseries of the damned, but only now did he realise that a man who has sinned carries the tortures of hell within his own bosom. haggard and trembling, martin staggered to his feet, and paced up and down the room. the veins stood out upon his forehead; his blood-shot eyes had the look of a hunted animal; the muscles of his body were firmly rigid, while his clenched hands had the grip of a drowning man clinging desperately for life to a few floating straws. how could he endure such agony of soul? would it last through days, months, and years to come? he knew that such could not be the case, for if it continued much longer he would surely go raving mad. a slight moan from nance aroused him. going at once to the cot, he looked down upon the face of the sleeping child. she was talking in her sleep, and listening attentively martin could catch the words, "mamma, daddy." after a pause she began to repeat the words of a prayer she said every night. "'now i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord my soul to keep. if i----'" then she wandered off and talked about quabee, her dolly, and the christmas tree. martin took her little hand in his, and as he watched her a love, such as he had never before known, came into his heart. then his eyes grew dim, and down his cheeks flowed the tears. he sank upon a stool by the cot, and buried his face in his hands. not for years had he wept, but it was that little prayer which had unbound the flood-gates and allowed the tears to well forth. he thought of the nights she had said the same words at his knees, and how she had always prayed for her father and her mother. at length he lifted his head and in his eyes was a new light. he slipped from the stool, and sank upon his knees upon the hard floor. it was no set formal prayer which the outcast uttered this night. it was a passionate, yearning cry to the great father above to spare the little child, and to leave her with him for a while longer. for some time he remained in this kneeling position, but somehow he did not receive the reassuring comfort he had expected. he recalled the time when peace and comfort had always come to him on such an occasion. now, however, it was so different. he believed that the same father was ready to hear as of old, but why was there not the feeling of peace as formerly? he thought of this as he knelt by the side of the sick child, with his face deep in his hands. then in an instant it all came to him. it was his great sin which stood between him and his god! he understood for the first time the full meaning of the story of the garden of eden. as it was impossible for the first parents to go back to the sweet peace of their former life after they had sinned, so neither could he return to the blessed state of years ago because of the sin which he had committed. there stood before him at the gate the explicit "nay" of the eternal god which guarded the entrance to the throne of purity and peace as truly as did the flaming revolving sword in the far-off edenic days. he knew that he was an outcast in a more terrible manner than he had ever imagined. he was an outcast not only from his church, but from his god. the former he had scorned, believing that he could get along without it. but an outcast from his god! he lifted his haggard face as the terrible reality dawned upon him. he rose slowly to his feet. he groped his way to the big chair, and sank heavily into it, the very epitome of wretched despair. chapter xi unfolding when morning dawned the horrors of the night lessened, and although weary from want of sleep martin was not so much depressed. this was due principally to the fact that nance was somewhat improved. the change had come very quietly, and toward morning she had opened her eyes and had spoken to the bowed man crouching in the chair before the fire. martin had bounded to her side, and when he saw the new expression in her eyes he knew that the turn for the better had come, and that with care she would recover. there was complete silence in the cabin all through the day, for nance, who had sunk into a natural sleep, must not be disturbed. quabee, and often taku, kept a patient and faithful watch by the child, while martin slept on the couch to the left of the fire-place. thus through the days and weeks which followed this season of anxiety nance rapidly improved. martin was ever with her, played with her, told her stories, and did all in his power to atone for his past neglect. the story he was called upon to tell more than any other was about beryl. nance was never weary of hearing about her, and it was the one which martin was never tired of relating. a mere general and vague idea of what her heroine was like would not satisfy the child. she had to know the colour of her eyes, hair, what kind of dresses she wore, and how she looked when she sang, in fact so many things that martin's memory was severely put to the test. to nance beryl was more than human. the child's vivid imagination wrought a marvellous transformation, and invested her heroine with qualities little short of divine. as the months passed and nance's mind steadily developed this silent adoration instead of diminishing increased. beryl was her standard of perfection in everything. she must have her hair arranged just like beryl's, and she endeavoured to teach quabee to make her dresses like those of her heroine. the indian woman would often gaze in amazement as nance talked about beryl. she could not see with the eyes of the child, nor enter into her bright and wonderful world of fancy. the greatest thing of all to nance was that beryl could sing. she, accordingly, must do the same. she had a sweet voice herself, and a true ear, and picked up tunes almost intuitively. able to sing himself, martin taught her all the songs and hymns he could remember. then when she became old enough he gave her lessons upon the violin. it was a great day for the child when she was allowed to take the instrument into her own hands. she had often looked upon it with deep longing, and would sit for any length of time watching martin drawing the bow so skilfully across the strings, and producing such marvellous music. since nance's illness martin's mind had been much concerned as to the child's future. he had brought her into the wilderness, and was it right that she should grow up in ignorance? he began to realise his responsibility more and more. some day, no doubt, she would go out into the world of civilisation, and should she go as a young savage? no, such should not be the case. he would teach her here in the little cabin. it would be the schoolhouse, he the teacher, and nance the pupil. he would instruct her year after year, develop her mind, and lead her into many fields of knowledge. although far away from the great centres of education she should have learning which should not make her ashamed if ever she should leave her forest home. with his mind thus made up martin at once outlined a course of studies for nance. the instruction was very simple at first. martin was a good teacher, the child an apt scholar, and so rapid progress was made. by the time nance was able to read there came the great necessity for books. martin had printed everything for her upon scraps of paper. but this was a laborious and a never-ending task. he, therefore, sent an order to the trading post, and after waiting for over a year the books at last arrived. martin had written for children's books suitable for a little girl. this order the trader had forwarded to his company in england, and the selection was accordingly made there. it was a great event for nance when the books arrived. it was a cold night in midwinter when the indians returned from their trip to the post. there were other things as well in the various packages, but the girl had no eyes for anything but the books. martin, too, was much interested. the sight of a book was to him like a sparkling spring of water to a thirsty traveller. although they were only books for children, yet he unwrapped the parcel with feverish haste and examined each volume. he and nance were on the floor before the fire, and as the thick paper wrapping gave way, and the books were exposed to view, the maiden clapped her hands with delight. "oh, daddy, look at this!" and she picked up one of the treasures with a bright picture on the cover. "you will like that, nance," martin replied. "it's 'alice in wonderland,' the story your mother used to tell you, and suppose we begin upon it first." thus sitting upon martin's knee, with her head resting against his shoulder, nance heard again that sweet, thrilling story of alice's marvellous adventures. never before had she listened to a tale from a real book, and often she would interrupt the reading that she might look upon the funny, and, to her, wonderful pictures. that night after nance was asleep martin sat for a long time before the fire. the book he was reading was not new to him, but it had been years since he had first read "little women." it fascinated him now more than ever. he could enter into the ways of children, and in every incident nance always rose up before him. how pure and innocent were the little folk mentioned in the book, and what a confiding trust they had in their elders. after a while he laid the volume aside and began to muse upon what he had just been reading. suppose that the children should have found out that the older ones, surrounding them with such love and care, were very wicked, and had committed evil deeds in the past. what a fearful and heart-breaking revelation it would have been to them. then he thought of nance. what if she in some way should learn that he himself was a bad man! what would she think? he knew that she looked upon him as her hero, and if she should find out the truth about his past life what a terrible grief it would bring to her. martin sat straight up in his chair as these thoughts swept upon him. nance must never know. she must always think of him as a man true and pure. neither must he give her any cause to believe otherwise. martin was not at all satisfied with himself. he longed to be worthy of nance's trust. what would he not give to be able to look into her clear, confiding eyes, and to feel that he was just what she considered him to be. this was what gave him so much concern now. he wanted the child to believe in him, and at the same time he wished to be worthy of that belief. a new life was now opened up to nance. she was growing fast, not only in body, but in mind as well. the books had admitted her into a world of wonder of which she had never before dreamed. they were only a few to be sure, but she knew them almost by heart. her music, too, gave her much delight, and martin was astonished at the rapid progress she made. the next year more books arrived, with some sheet-music as well, and thus nance's mind was fed upon new delights. then, one christmas morning, when she opened her eyes, she found at the foot of the christmas tree a fine new violin--her very own. she did not know how much the instrument had cost, nor the effort which had been made to obtain it. her cup of joy was now overflowing. martin, too, was happy as he watched nance. her eyes sparkled with animation, and her face beamed with happiness as she drew the bow deftly across the strings. that she was developing into a beautiful maiden he was well aware. she was growing fast, with a figure lithe and graceful. her dark eyes reflected as in a clear spring the various moods of her nature. they twinkled with fun, and danced with delight. often they grew sad and thoughtful, and at times they were soft with the light of love. hers was an affectionate nature, which was revealed more and more as the years passed. to her martin was all in all, and as her mind expanded she saw the difference between him and the indians. the latter were very dear to her, especially quabee. but the native women could not understand the deep longings hidden within her bosom. she knew that martin could, and to him she talked. nance often wondered what the great world was like beyond the mountains, about which she had read so much in the books. why were she and martin living away in the wilderness among the indians? she asked herself many a time. martin often noticed the far-away expression in her eyes, and partly surmised the cause. it gave him considerable uneasiness. he was afraid lest nance should become dissatisfied and wish to go to the places of which he had so often told her. he had expected this, and had even looked forward to the day when they would leave their forest home. but now when the time seemed to be drawing near he shrank more and more from the idea. although nance had just entered her teens when these thoughts came to martin, yet he realised that every year would make the life more unbearable to her. she was longing for some white girl to play with. the indian children, notwithstanding the teaching they had received from martin, did not suit her as companions. she seldom cared to play with them, preferring to be by herself or with martin. during the summer nance lived mostly in the open. when not roaming along the river gathering wild flowers, which grew in such abundance, she was out upon the lake with martin. what life could be more congenial than that spent in god's great open. yet in the maiden's heart there was a longing for other things. she wished to know more of the world beyond the mountains, and to mingle with the people of whom she had heard so much from martin and read about in the books. she often pictured to herself what it would be like, how she should act, and what people would think of her. at such times she always thought of beryl, and tried to imagine what she would do and say. such an influence was by no means without its effect, and martin often marvelled how nance acquired such a quiet and graceful manner, never having seen a white woman, except her mother, whom she did not even remember. he did not know that the silent daily worship of an ideal woman was working the transformation. everything he had told her about beryl had been thought over so continually that the very character of the woman of beauty, refinement and nobleness had become indelibly impressed upon the maiden's plastic nature. thus, while nance was living in her enchanted world of fancy, martin was brooding deeply over more serious things. of his burden, which grew all the heavier as the years passed, he could in no way lighten it by speaking of it to nance. he had to bear it alone, no matter how crushing it might become. chapter xii the edge of events it was a night of wind and storm in the quaska valley. it had been snowing all day, and a fierce wind was driving down the river. as long as daylight lasted nance had stood by the window, looking out towards the lake. the mountains were all hidden from view, and nothing could she see but the snow which swirled and raved around the house. it was the last of january, and all through the winter nance had been thinking seriously of that life beyond the mountains which was drawing her with irresistible, invisible cords. she was not a child now, but a young woman of seventeen, tall and graceful. leaving at length the window, she began to prepare the evening meal. the cabin had undergone considerable changes during the past five years. it was no longer a bare dingy place. the rough walls had been carefully covered with cotton, and this coloured with a light-blue paint, which had been procured at the trading post. magazine-pictures were tacked on all sides, while several large rare pelts were stretched out upon the walls. the bareness of the floor was relieved by a number of well-dressed bear skins. on the side of the fire-place, where nance's cot had formerly stood, a room had been curtained off especially for her own use. instead of scraped skins letting in the light through the windows, glass had been obtained at much expense. in the middle of the room stood the table as of old, but this now was covered with a cloth of a deep rich shade. it had been one of martin's ambitions to make this little home as cosy and comfortable as possible, and each year he had added some of the refinements of civilisation. in this way he had hoped not only to educate nance but to make her more satisfied with her lot. as nance now prepared supper she laid a white cloth upon the table, and brought from a little cupboard to the left plates, cups, saucers, knives, and forks. she was a good housekeeper, for martin had instructed her in such matters, as well as in music and other accomplishments. she was thus busy at work when the door opened and martin entered. he stood for a few seconds looking upon the scene before him. the bright light of the fire illumined the room, forming a pleasing contrast to the roughness of the night outside. nance turned towards him with a smile of welcome. "oh, daddy," she began, "i'm so glad you are back, as i have been very lonesome. what has kept you so long?" martin walked over to the fire and laid aside his heavy coat. "supper is ready, i see," and he glanced at the nicely-browned piece of moose meat sizzling by the fire. "i'm hungry as a bear, so can't tell you now what i've been up to. but you shall know before long." when both were seated at the table, and the meal was well under way, martin looked over at nance. "i've heard important news to-day," he remarked. "at taku's?" "yes. it's somewhat startling, too. the indians have brought in word that there has been a rush of white men into the country. there's been a gold strike somewhere down the heena, and they came in by way of the ayan river." "will it affect us here, do you think?" and nance looked earnestly at martin. "not for a while," was the reply. "but we can't expect to be left alone for any length of time. there will be prospectors prowling all over the country now, and they are bound to strike the rich diggings up the quaska. when that happens there'll be hordes and hordes up this way." "will they trouble us any, daddy, do you think?" "will they! you may be sure they will. this will be no place for us if they discover the gold up yonder. they will swarm in here like flies, and our days of peace will be over." nance did not reply to these words, and save for the crackling of the fire there was silence in the room. martin's mind dwelt upon the changes which would take place around the quiet lake should the miners come. he thought also of the gold, so carefully concealed in the ground at the rear of his house. he and nance were the only ones supposed to know anything about the treasure buried there. "daddy, let us go away from this place," nance at length remarked. martin started, and almost dropped the cup he was raising to his lips. he looked keenly into the flushed face before him, and then partly understood what an effort it had been for nance to make such a request. "are you tired of living here, little one?" he asked, and his voice had a pathetic note, which did not escape nance's attention. "are you dissatisfied with your lot?" "not altogether, daddy. but we used to talk, you remember, how some day we would go away to the great world outside, although we have not spoken about it for several years. in a way i am happy here, and you do so much for me that i should be satisfied. but i do want to see some of the things of which you have told me." "sure, sure; it's only natural," martin assented. "it seems as if we should go soon," nance continued, "if we are to go at all. should the miners come here our quiet home-life would be broken up, and you would not wish to remain any longer if they came, would you?" martin did not at once reply to these words. he pushed back the stool upon which he was sitting, and drew forth his pipe. his mind was in a perturbed state. he had been dreading the coming of the time when nance should wish to leave the quaska valley. he had taught her for years, and she had responded to his teaching. he was proud of her, and he well knew that she could soon take her place in the great world beyond. there were many things, of course, which she would have to learn there in addition to what he had taught her. he had kept from her all knowledge of the church, and of clergymen. of them she knew absolutely nothing. she would naturally be astonished when they went outside, and would ask why he had not spoken to her about such things. what answer would he be able to give? at times during her reading nance had come across various things about the church, but as martin had told her that it was merely a society of men and women she had thought nothing more about it then. martin dreaded, moreover, the idea of mingling again with many people. he tried to believe that all had forgotten him, and what he had done. but now he did not feel so sure, as he felt that some would remember. for himself he did not care so much. but suppose that nance should hear of it! there were bound to be meddlesome people, who would consider it their duty to tell everything they knew. he had met such persons, who seemed to consider it a part of their religion to make it as uncomfortable as possible for any one who had stepped aside from the path of rectitude. he recalled the case of a young man who had slipped in life, and had spent several years in prison. upon his release he determined to redeem the past. he obtained a position with a large firm, and was giving excellent satisfaction when several human vultures recognised him, and with hypocritical solicitude informed the manager about the young man's past life. the result was that he was discharged. the same thing occurred wherever he went, until, broken in spirit, he gave up the fight, and drifted into evil ways. he knew the people who had wrecked that young man's after life, and they firmly believed that they were doing the lord's work. this he well knew would be true in his own case. there would be some who would recognise him as the outcast clergyman, and who would consider it their unctuous duty to tell all they knew. of course he and nance could go to some place far off, away from the scene of his disgrace. but even there he would not feel secure. the world was small in these days of easy travel, and he might find it hard to escape unknown. the gold would supply all their needs. his only worry was as to how he could take so much outside. it would be very difficult to carry it without arousing suspicion. while martin was thus musing, nance had cleared off the table, washed the dishes, and put them carefully away. when all had been completed, she drew the big chair up close to the fire. then, going to where martin was sitting, she laid her hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "come, daddy," she said, "your chair is all ready. it's more comfortable there." martin obeyed her without a word. nance at once took up her position on a little stool at his feet, and rested her left arm upon his knee. for some time she gazed steadily into the fire without speaking. martin, too, was silent as he sat there smoking away at his pipe. "daddy," nance after a time began, "you are not my real father, are you?" "no, little one, i am not," was the quiet reply. "you knew that, didn't you? but i've been a father to you, have i not?" "yes, and a mother, too. but i do long to know about my real father and mother. when i was little you told me that you would take me to them some day. i believed that then, but as i grew older i felt there was some reason why you did not do so. i have often longed for you to tell me the whole truth, but i was afraid to ask you." "what were you afraid of, nance? that i wouldn't tell you, eh?" "no, not that. you see, i looked forward so long to meeting them that i used to dream about it by night, and think about it by day. then it came slowly to me that they were dead. at first i put away the thought, but it grew stronger and stronger the older i became. and then i was afraid to know the truth, because the old hope of meeting them some day had taken such a hold upon me. now i want to know all." "i did it for the best, nance," martin replied. "when you were little i knew that it would give you much sorrow if i told you all. then as you grew older i found it difficult to tell you, and as you did not speak to me about them i thought that perhaps you had forgotten. i did it for the best. now i know that i should have told you." "i know you did; i am sure of it," and nance turned her eyes up to martin's. "you always do everything for the best. you are so good." at these words a slight mistiness rose before martin's eyes. if she only knew, he said to himself, how differently she would think. but to nance he only said: "yes, i shall tell you all now, for you are a woman, and can understand such things." then martin unfolded to nance the sad scene which had taken place on the great mackenzie river years before. he told her about the accident which had deprived her of father and mother, and left her to the mercy of the indians. he related simply the part that he himself had performed in caring for her, and carrying her off into the wilderness. to all this nance listened with fast-beating heart her cheeks were flushed, caused not by the heat of the fire, but from the vehemence of her emotion. when martin spoke about her mother lying so white and still in the indian lodge her eyes grew moist. but when he mentioned the grave upon the hill-top tears streamed down her cheeks, and her form trembled violently. "there, there, little one," martin soothed, laying his hand affectionately upon her head, "i didn't mean to make you feel so badly." "i know you didn't, daddy," nance sobbed. "but i cannot help it. my poor father and mother! and only think what would have become of me if you had not been there! i might have lived the rest of my life among the indians just like one of them. it makes me shudder when i think about it. how much i owe to you." "you have done more for me, nance, than i have ever done for you." "for you!" nance exclaimed in astonishment. "why, what have i done for you?" "you gave me new life, that is what you have done. before i found you no one loved me, and i had no one to care for. i was a lonely man, without any definite purpose in life. but since you came i have had you to live for. you are all i have now, nance." "i have often wondered," nance replied, "why you ever brought me here. i never liked to ask you, but i have thought about it very much. you know so many things about the world outside, and all that it means, that it must have been hard to bury yourself away in such a wilderness place as this." as martin made no immediate reply nance at first thought that she had offended him. seeing the expression of pain which passed over his face, she rose quickly to her feet, and threw her arms about his neck. "forgive me, daddy," she pleaded. "i'm so sorry that i asked that question. i had no right to do so. you did it for the best, i am sure." "sit down, nance," and martin motioned her to the stool. "you certainly have the right to ask why i brought you here and kept you shut up in such a place as this for so many years. but how can i answer you? something caused me to come here, but just what it was i cannot explain. i made a failure in life years ago, and so fled into the wilderness to be far off from people who knew what i had done. to them i am a bad man. but, oh, nance, i would give anything to be what i once was! how happy i should be to be able to go out into the world and not shrink back from the looks of men and women. but there, i did not mean to tell you this. you will wonder what it all means." "don't, don't talk that way, daddy," and nance placed her hand in his as she spoke. "you are not a bad man. i don't care what people say or think. they do not know you as i do. if they knew what you have done for me all of these years they would think differently. anyway, no matter what people say, it won't make any difference in my love to you. though you are not my real father, i love you just the same." "i know it, nance; i know it," martin huskily replied, while his hand closed tight upon hers. "and, daddy," nance returned, "if you don't want to go away from here, i shall not mind. so don't let us worry any more about it." "no, nance; that must not be. it will be for the best if we go away. i have been thinking it all over very carefully of late. we shall go out to the trading post next summer, in time to go south on the first steamer as it returns from its northern trip. i can get a number of indians to pack the gold over the mountain. as to the future, we can talk about that again. come now, let us have some music together, and banish all sad thoughts." thus in the cosy cabin before the bright fire martin and nance played upon their beloved instruments. the storm continued to rage outside, but they heeded it not. forgotten for a while were their worries, and what the future might have in store did not trouble them. the music cheered them, and united their hearts with the strong bands of enduring affection. chapter xiii the lap of to-morrow the storms of winter were over, and the days were rapidly lengthening. the sun rode higher in the heavens, and the breath of spring was pervading the great northland. nance was much excited at the thought of leaving the quaska valley and passing beyond the mountains to the marvellous world outside. she dwelt upon it by day and dreamed of it by night. her few scanty belongings she had carefully gathered together. these she would take with her. but when out in the big cities she would buy many wonderful things for which her heart longed. martin noted her animation, and listened quietly as she talked about the journey they were to make, and what nice times they would have seeing the strange sights. although he was pleased to see nance so happy, his heart, nevertheless, was heavy. to him the idea of mingling once again with the throbbing world of humanity brought no joy. the little cabin in the wilderness was very dear to him. here he had spent the past twelve years, hidden from people of his own race and immune from the bitter tongues of men and women. the lake, river, forest, and mountains were friends true and tried. he loved them, and their varying moods drew him very close to them. he had watched and studied them so often, both in calm and storm, that he wondered how he could get along without them. the indians, too, though rough and uncouth, had been kind neighbors. he disliked their manner of living and their improvident ways. yet they had always been good to him and to nance, and he should greatly miss them. thus he would sit at night, long after nance had gone to bed, smoking and thinking about the changes which were soon to take place in his life. he was seated one evening before the fire with nance by his side, when the door of the cabin was gently pushed open, and taku glided into the room. he was given a hearty welcome, and martin passed over his tobacco as soon as the native had squatted himself upon the floor. when taku had filled his pipe, and clouds of smoke were circling above his head, an expression of satisfaction overspread his honest, dusky face. "snow all go soon," he at length remarked. "geese, duck all come back. plenty grub den." "how long before the ice goes out this year?" martin asked. "beeg moon, leetle moon, moon all go. ice go also," was the reply. "in about one month, eh?" "ah, ah." "good fishing this year?" martin inquired. "good feesh? ah, ah, mebbe so. taku no feesh," and the indian shook his head. "what, not going to do any fishing?" "no. taku go down ribber. taku see white man. taku get moche." "oh, i see. but are you sure that the white men are there? maybe they all went away last fall." again taku shook his head, and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "white man no go," he at last explained. "taku see two wan sleep ago." "what? you saw two white men?" martin exclaimed, now much aroused. "ah, ah." "where?" "down ribber." "what, the heena?" the indian nodded. "and what were the white men doing on the river?" "trabblin', dat's all, pack on back. taku see 'um. dey in hurry. dey tell taku come down to beeg ribber." "didn't they tell you where they had come from or what they were doing in here?" martin questioned. "no, dey tell nottin'. dey in beeg hurry; dat's all." "did they tell you what they wanted you for, taku?" "no." "and you will go?" "ah, ah." "when?" "wan sleep. tak' dog also. go queeck." martin sat up later than usual this night, as his mind was much disturbed. nance saw that something was troubling him, so she did not ask for the customary evening music. she kissed him as she had done for years, and went to her own little room. early next morning martin announced that he was going up stream, and might be gone all day. he left nance standing in the doorway, looking enquiringly after him. "i will tell you all about it, nance, when i come back," he called to her as she waved him good-bye. it was supper time ere martin returned, and over the meal he explained the object of his visit up the river. "it's just what i thought, nance," he began. "when taku told us about those two white men i had my suspicion, and i was right. they were prospectors, and have discovered the gold up the quaska." "oh!" it was all that nance said as she looked inquiringly across the table. "yes," martin continued, "i suspected something, and made up my mind to visit my old diggings. there were faded foot-prints all around, and i found where the men had shovelled away the snow and examined the hole i had made. of course, as you know, the earth i left is full of gold, so they must have found enough in the frozen ground to more than satisfy them. i saw the little brush lean-to where they had evidently camped, showing that they must have been there several days. i tracked them down-stream, and learned that they had been close to our house. why they did not call, i cannot tell. perhaps they were unaware that white people lived here. they turned off sharply to the left, and either crossed the lake or went around the other side, and came out upon the river farther down." "do you think that they will come back?" nance inquired. "come back! indeed they will, and bring a regular crazy mob with them. it isn't every day that men make such a strike as that. as soon as those men record what they have found there will be the greatest stampede the world has ever seen." "will they wait until the river is open, do you think?" nance asked. "we may be away soon afterwards, and so they will not trouble us." "no, they won't wait, nance. they will come at once, and many of them, no doubt, will die upon the way. there is no trail, and the ice in the river is getting weak. i've heard about such stampedes. men seem to go about crazy. they start off with little food, some get hurt, others sick, and numbers just play out. it is wonderful to me what men will endure for the sake of gold." almost three weeks later what martin had foretold came to pass. the vanguard of the prospectors and miners arrived. it was early morning when men were observed making their way slowly along the shore of the lake. they bore packs upon their backs, and leaned much forward. each carried a stick, which he used as a cane. they all passed close to the cabin, so martin and nance could see them quite plainly. they did not turn aside to rest, but moved steadily onward. they seemed to be very weary, and their clothes were ripped and torn. they passed, and, later, others came. several were limping painfully, which told of swollen and blistered feet. they, too, passed without stopping. then far down the shore of the lake a struggling line appeared, and as they drew near and staggered by, the watchers from the cabin were moved to deep pity. "look at that old man with the white beard!" nance exclaimed. "why, he can hardly walk, and that young man by his side is supporting him and helping him along. they must be father and son." she had barely finished speaking when the old man fell heavily forward. with a cry that could be heard within the cabin, the young man knelt by his side, and endeavoured to lift him to his feet. no one stopped to help him, but all brushed by and hurried on. the gold was ahead, and they must not delay. they had witnessed numerous cases such as this since leaving the great river, one hundred and forty miles away, and their hearts had become hardened to such sights. with the watchers in the cabin, however, it was different. no sooner had the man fallen than martin bounded across the room, flung open the door, and hurried out into the open. the young man was astonished to see aid in the form of a white man emerge from a building, which he had supposed contained only natives. "come," martin ordered, "give me a hand, and we'll carry him up to the house." lifting the helpless man in their arms, they bore him swiftly and gently up the slope. nance was standing holding open the door as they drew near, and when the sufferer had been laid upon martin's cot she came close and stood by his side. she noted how worn and haggard was the man's face, while his eyes shone with an unnatural light. his hair was white and long, and his beard fell in profusion upon his breast. he was a powerfully-built man, and the cot upon which he was lying was too short for him. he kept tossing his arms wildly about, and made several attempts to rise, but always fell back panting heavily after each exertion. "i must get there!" he cried. "don't stop me! the rest will be ahead of me. fer god's sake, let me go!" at these words the young man bent over him, and placed his right hand upon his arm. "hush, hush, tom," he commanded. "everything will be all right. be quiet and rest a while." the vacant expression in the old man's eyes suddenly cleared, and he looked eagerly up. "is it much farther, pard?" he asked. "are we almost there?" the young man turned inquiringly to martin standing near. "can you answer him?" he asked. "it's not far," martin replied. "but it's too far for this man in his present condition." "is there anything there?" the young man asked. "is the ground rich?" "rich! there's gold everywhere. the ground is full of it." the old man heard these words, and attempted to rise. "help me up," he cried. "i must go! d'ye hear what he says? the ground is full of gold. give me yer hand, pard, an' help me out of this." "no, no, tom; you can't; you're not able," the young man insisted, pushing him gently back. "i can't! why can't i? why should i stay here an' let the others get all the gold? i've been rustlin' fer gold all me life, an' d'ye think i'll be baulked when it's so near? let me up, i say." "but you know, tom, it's impossible," the young man urged. "you're all in. you should never have come on this trip at all." "i shouldn't! why shouldn't i? i'm not a baby." "but think how sick you were at rapid city. why, man, you got out of bed to come, and would listen to no advice. it's a wonder to me that you're not dead. what kept you up for days on that trail is more than i can understand." "it was the gold that did it, ha, ha," and the old man's eyes glowed with the intense light of the enthusiast. "yes, the gold'll cure all sickness in my body. it always has. didn't dozens of chaps play right out, while i came through? yes, an' by god, i'll go on, too, an' won't be stuck here. i'll stake my claim with the rest. i've never been beaten, an' won't now!" "now, look here, tom. don't you worry about that claim you hope to stake. i'll stake it for you, so it will be all right." "but you can't stake two, pard." "no, and i don't intend to try. i didn't come here to stake a claim. but as you are not able to do it, there's nothing else for me to do but take your place, see?" "but----" "there, that will do, tom," and the young man's voice was firm; "i won't listen to anything more. you can't go, that's certain, and i won't help you. i'm going in your place. you stay here, keep quiet, and don't worry. i will come back as soon as i can, and report." the young man turned away from the cot, and as he did so he caught sight of nance near the fire-place. he had not noticed her before so much taken up had he been with his stricken companion. but now he stood looking with wonder at the woman before him. the table was set ready for breakfast. the cloth was spotless, and the dishes were all neatly arranged. nance had just stooped to lift the tea-pot, where it was warming before the coals, as the young man turned and saw her. the light of the fire brought into clear relief her graceful figure, adding at the same time a charm to her face and well-poised head such as he had never seen before. he stood spellbound for a few seconds, wondering where she could have dropped from. he had never expected to find such a beautiful being in this wilderness region. he even passed his hand across his eyes to make sure that it was not a vision which would immediately vanish. then he glanced around the room, and was still further surprised at the books so neatly arranged against the wall. he longed to cross over and examine them, as he was hungry for reading matter of any kind. as he stood thus martin approached. "come, young man," he remarked; "you must have something to eat before you start up river. breakfast is all ready, so if you care to put up with our humble fare, you are more than welcome." the man addressed turned a pair of grateful brown eyes upon martin's face. "humble, do you say!" he replied with a laugh. "do you call that humble, sir? why, i have not seen anything half so good as that steak for months. and as for bread, i don't know when i have tasted a scrap. hard-tack, and mighty little of that, has been the nearest i have had to bread since last year. and as to sitting down to a table with a white cloth upon it, and such dishes as you have here, is most unusual in this country. why, this is a palace. it is certainly good of you to invite me to such a feast as this, for i am very hungry. but with your permission i shall feed tom first, for he is about starved." martin liked the appearance and the voice of the stranger. he had such an honest face, almost boyish in appearance. his eyes were expressive of sympathy and fun. his tall, erect figure was clad in a rough buckskin suit, a belt encircled his waist, while his feet were encased in the rough miner's boots laced halfway to the knees. over his right shoulder extended a strap, supporting at his side a black leather case. "pardon me," martin remarked, suddenly realising his position as host; "this is my--my daughter, nance, nance rutland. i fear i have been neglecting my duty." the young man at once stepped forward, and held out his hand. "this is certainly more than i expected, miss rutland," he replied. "i had no idea that there was such a house as this out here. it is a great treat to meet a white woman, especially," he continued with a smile, "when one is starving. i have been doing my own cooking for months, and am thoroughly tired of it." "you had better wait until you know what my cooking is like," nance replied, as she took her place at the head of the table. she tried to be calm, but her heart kept beating very fast, and she knew that her cheeks were flushed more than they should be. she instinctively felt that this stranger was a gentleman, and she wished to do what was proper in his presence, and not seem confused. but her hand trembled as she poured the tea, and she could not trust herself to speak lest she should make some foolish blunder. she tried to imagine how beryl would act on such an occasion, and what she would say. there was little need for words, however, on her part. martin and the stranger talked, so she was content to listen. the young man told about his own experience and that of the others on their wild stampede into the quaska valley. he drew a pathetic picture of the hardships and sufferings which were endured, and how many became discouraged and turned back. he told of the humorous side as well, and related several stories of an amusing nature. "if i were only an artist," he concluded, "or if i had a camera along, i should have been able to obtain some excellent pictures." "i thought that black case contained a camera," martin replied. "i am quite relieved, for i was afraid lest you should snap our cabin and force nance and me to undergo the same ordeal." "nothing would please me better," the visitor laughed, glancing toward nance. "but it's not as serious as that. it's only a simple medical case i always carry with me. i've had to use it quite often since leaving rapid city." "you're a medical man, then--a doctor," martin returned. "i suppose i am, and back at old mcgill i'm recorded as an m.d., and the men will persist in calling me 'doc.' but i like to be called just 'dick,' without any handle. dick russell is my name, by the way. 'mr.' and 'doctor' make one feel so old, but just dick sounds fine to my ears. but, say," he added in a lower voice, "you won't mind looking after tom, will you? he's all gold, but knocked out just now. he's a character all by himself, true as steel, and full of fun. he's been the life of the camp down river all winter. i must be off now, but would you let me sleep here on the floor to-night if i should come back?" "sure," martin replied. "you're welcome to the best we have, and you'll need it, too, i'm thinking." telling tom to keep up courage, and with a good-by and a wave of the hand to martin and nance standing at the door, the young man swung away from the cabin toward the trail, leading along the quaska river. chapter xiv the supplanter nance stood for a while in the doorway, and watched the retreating form of dick russell as it disappeared among the trees. she then turned back into the room, while martin went off to cut some wood for the fire. the house seemed very lonely now to nance and strangely silent. it had never appeared so before, and nance could not understand the reason. she went about her work of washing the dishes and looking after the room, but her thoughts were elsewhere. her mind dwelt continually upon the stranger who had come so suddenly into her life. she wondered who he was, and what he was doing in the country. he did not come to stake a claim for himself, so she had heard him say. what, then, was his purpose in making the journey over such a terrible trail at this season of the year? she longed to talk the matter over with martin when he came in with the wood, but for the first time in her young life she found it most difficult to confide in the man who had done so much for her. several times during the morning she was on the point of speaking, but on each occasion her lips refused to fashion the words, and she became so confused that she was certain martin would notice her flushed cheeks. and martin did notice, although he said nothing. he observed nance's quiet and preoccupied manner, which was so different from her bright and buoyant disposition. he partly surmised the cause, and it pressed heavily like a great weight upon his heart. he understood how natural it was that nance, who had never met white men before, should consider this stranger in the light of a hero. he knew how impulsive was her nature, and how ready was her heart to respond to the call of love. had she been brought up to the ways of the busy world, and had met people of her own age and race, she would, like other maidens of her years, not have been so stirred by the presence of this stranger. but no one had ever told her about the subtle ways of the heart. she was a child of the wilderness, brought up to live and commune with nature. martin had taught her book knowledge and much about the things of the civilised world. but of the deep passions of the heart he had been silent, and nance, though now a woman in years, was in many ways but a mere child. martin thought of these things now as he had never done before. nance was all that he had in the world, and he had fondly cherished the idea that she would always be with him to care for him and to love him. but now he realised that he was to be supplanted, and by a stranger at that, a mere stripling, whom nance had seen for only one hour. it was but natural that a spirit of resentment should rise in his heart as he thought of these things. all through the morning, and for most of the afternoon, tom, the white-haired and long-bearded old man, slept upon the cot. it was a sound, natural sleep, and at times nance went over and stood by his side. his face strongly appealed to her. lines of care furrowed his brow, and his cheeks were very wan. occasionally as she watched him a smile would play about the corners of his mouth as if his dreams were pleasant. nance wondered if he had any one who thought of him in love, and whom he loved in return. toward evening the old man opened his eyes, and saw nance standing by his side. he started up in surprise. "nell, nell, is that you?" he demanded. then seeing the look of astonishment upon nance's face, he sank back upon the pillow, while a deep sigh escaped his lips. "fergive me, miss," he said. "i had sich a beautiful dream, an' when i opened my eyes an' saw you a-standin' there i was sure it was my nell." "would you like to see her?" nance asked. "would you like for her to be standing by your side now? how you must miss her." "i do, i do," was the emphatic reply. "god alone knows how i long fer her!" "can't you go to her, then? or why doesn't she come to you?" "that can't be, miss. it's been twenty years since she left me, an' i've been wanderin' ever since. i laid her in the little churchyard way back east, an' i haven't seen the spot since. but i see her in a way, an' that's all i can expect on this earth now. she's ever with me day an' night. out in the hills she's by my side, an' i often talk to her jist like i used to do years ago, an' it's very comfortin'." "w-was she your daughter?" nance queried. "no, miss. she was my wife." "oh!" "yes," the old man continued after a pause, "she was my wife, an' we'd been married scarce one year when she left me." "poor man!" nance soothed. "how hard it must have been for you. you have no home, then, and no one to love you?" "well, i can't altogether say that, miss. my home is wherever night overtakes me, but it's seldom in sich a comfortable place as this. i've friends a plenty, but no one to care fer me jist like nell used to do. i can't expect it. people have about as much as they can do to look after themselves without botherin' about an old man who has one foot in the grave." "but you must get very sad and lonely at times," nance remarked. "i do, miss; i certainly do." "how do you keep so cheerful, then?" "how d'ye know that i keep cheerful?" and tom looked his surprise. "oh, that man who came with you told us that you were the life of the camp at rapid city last winter." "did dick really say that, miss? an' did he tell ye anything about himself?" "no." "well, that's jist like 'im. but i'll tell ye some day. it's gittin' on toward night now, isn't it, miss? i think i'll git up and sit by yon bright fire fer a while, an' have a smoke. dick should be back soon." "do you feel better?" nance asked. "feel fine. that deep was jist what i needed." "i am so glad," and nance's eyes beamed with happiness. "i shall get you something to eat at once, for you must be very hungry. daddy will be home soon, and he will want his supper, too." "i am hungry, miss, fer i haven't had a good square meal since i left the river." ensconced in martin's big chair to the right of the fire, the old man leaned back and puffed away at his blackened pipe, at the same time keeping his eyes upon nance as she moved quietly about the room. "ye do remind me of my nell," he at length remarked, taking the pipe from his mouth and blowing a great volume of smoke into the air. "she was about your size, an' fixed up her hair in the same way. i remember how i used to sit by the fire, jist as i am now, when the day's work was done, an' watch her gittin' supper. this certainly does remind me of old times." "how happy you must have been," nance replied. "have you been in this northern country ever since?" "ah, no. i've travelled over many parts, but i like this the best." "i suppose it's the gold which keeps you here. i should think that it would be nicer outside where you would meet more people, and life would not be so hard." "so it would be, miss. i would like to be near the place where my nell is lyin'. but one needs the gold to live there, an' as soon as i git it i'm a-goin' to hike back. but there, i don't know as if the gold'll make me any happier. it's the searchin' fer it, an' the findin' it, that gives the pleasure." "it must be nice outside," nance remarked. "i have heard so much about the many things there that i should like to see them." "have ye never been outside, miss?" tom asked in surprise. "no, i've lived all my life in the wilderness." "what! ye don't say so! well, i declare! if that don't beat all!" just then the door opened, and martin entered. "i'm glad to see you sitting up," he began, coming close to tom. "how are you feeling now?" "great. never felt better in me life. an' why shouldn't i with sich comforts as a good fire, my pipe, an' yer sweet daughter to talk to me an' wait upon me? we've been havin' a fine time together." "that's good," martin returned. "but i think that supper will make you feel better still. we can have a pipe together afterwards. it's been a long time since i've had any one to smoke with except the indians." they were partly through with the meal when dick returned. he looked very tired, although his voice was cheery as he greeted his companion of the trail. "it's good to see you sitting there, tom," he said, as he took the seat nance had placed for him. "it's the lassie who has done the trick, pard," and tom jerked his head toward nance. "she's the cause of my sudden return to health." nance's face flushed, not so much because of tom's words as from the eyes of the young man, which were turned upon her with gratitude. "oh, i haven't done anything," she replied, as she poured out a cup of steaming tea for dick. "it was the sleep that did it." "only partly, miss; only partly," tom rejoined. "sleep an' food don't do everything toward makin' one feel that life is worth livin'. ah, no. an old man like me knows a thing or two. but say," and he turned suddenly toward the young man across the table, "how did ye make out up stream, pard?" an anxious expression came into dick russell's eyes. this passed almost instantly, however, although it did not escape tom's searching look. "i got along fairly well, and staked a claim at the very edge of some old diggings i found there. how the rest happened to overlook the place i cannot understand. but they are about crazy and hardly know what they are doing." "are they camping up there to-night?" martin asked. "i can't say that they are camping. they are there for the night, that's sure. but they've been rushing about like mad ever since they reached the place. they will spend the night on the ground just as they have been doing since leaving rapid city. but their grub is about all gone. if they don't get some from the indians they'll be in a bad fix." "dear me!" tom murmured. "the indians can't help them much," martin explained. "they are living from hand to mouth themselves now. they generally are at this time of the year." "we could give them something to eat, couldn't we, daddy?" and nance looked over at her father. "yes, i suppose we could give them something," was the reluctant reply. "but we haven't enough for a crowd of hungry men." "oh, they'll make out all right," dick hastened to explain. "they don't know to-night what they are eating. hard-tack and roast turkey would be about the same thing to them. when i left they were sitting about a great blazing fire, munching the scraps of food they had left. they are clean daft over the discovery of that gold. i have been chuckling to myself ever since i left them over what they were saying. they are already planning what they are to do with the gold when they get it. one intends to buy a ranch, and keep, i don't know how many, horses and cattle. another will tour the world. some have decided to go back to the big cities to live in fine houses they expect to build. but dobson, generally known as 'whiskey jack,' is going on a big spree just as soon as he gets outside." "yes, yes, they'll all follow jack's example, i'm afraid," tom sadly replied. "i know their kind only too well. they always plan big things, but as a rule they lose it all in whiskey, gambling, and----but there," he suddenly broke off, "it has always been so, an' what's the use of us worryin' about it?" "but some one must worry, tom," was dick's emphatic reply. "too many say the same thing. but i know better. i never saw a finer lot of men in my life. they are rough at times, i know. there are a few who gave us trouble last winter, but most of them were good fellows at rapid city, and you know it." "sure thing, pard, sure thing. i'm not denyin' that. but i guess it was you who kept them straight, an' made them show up their best side." "what about yourself, tom? you had a big hand in the whole affair, if i am not much mistaken." supper ended, nance began to clear away the dishes. martin and tom brought forth their pipes and sat down before the fire for a comfortable chat. "you men smoke away to your hearts' content," dick laughed. "i'm going to help with the dishes, that is, if i may," and he turned to nance. "no, no, please," the latter hurriedly replied. "i can do them quickly, so don't you bother about them." "it's no bother, i assure you. but, say, what shall i call you?" "nance, just nance," was the reply. "but i must not call you that. it wouldn't be right for a stranger to call you that. wouldn't 'miss rutland' sound better?" "no. please call me nance. i like it better, and i have never been called anything else." "very well, then, nance," dick laughed, as he began to clear away the dishes. "i am not going to see you doing all the work while three men sit lazily before the fire. it wouldn't be fair." "but i would rather----" "let him alone, miss," tom interrupted. "he's a good hand at sich things, an' he'll enjoy the job. he can't be still fer two minutes at a time." thus while martin and tom smoked and talked the two young people looked after the dishes. dick did most of the talking. he told nance about his experiences at rapid city during the past winter. at some of his stories nance laughed heartily, especially when he told of the dogs stealing his supper one night. "it wasn't very funny then, i assure you," dick explained. "but perhaps the poor dogs needed the food more than i did." by the time the dishes were washed, wiped, and put away, dick and nance were firm friends, and somewhat reluctantly they joined the others before the fire. "may i have a look at your books, sir?" dick asked, turning to martin. "i've had my eyes upon them all the evening." "not upon the books alone, eh, pard?" tom chuckled. "look at them to your heart's content," martin replied. "my library is very small, and i am afraid you will find but little there to interest you." dick soon returned, bringing with him three small books. "i've made a strike to-night," he exclaimed, "which is of more interest to me than the gold of the quaska. just think, here i have hazlitt's 'table talk,' emerson's 'essays,' and carlyle's 'heroes and hero worship.' i didn't know that there were such books as these anywhere in this country," and he looked curiously toward martin. "you know them, then?" the latter queried, his interest now becoming much aroused in the young man. "know them! i should say i do. but it has been years since i read them, and of course i have forgotten much. it will all come back again, however, for one never really forgets. may i take hazlitt with me to-morrow? it will be a great comfort, and i shall take good care of it." "ask nance," martin replied. "we are co-partners. you have my consent to take the book, but you must get hers as well." "have you read these?" dick asked in surprise, turning toward the young woman sitting near by. "oh, yes," was the blushing reply. "i have read them all several times, and found them so nice." "now jist listen to that, pard," tom spoke up. "there's something like a woman fer ye. i don't think ye'd find many young women outside readin' sich books. they'd want novels, an' sich like." "i think i should like novels, too," nance replied. "i have heard about them, and they must be nice." "you are better off without many of the novels of to-day," dick returned. "such books as these have done me much good. i read as many as i could while at college, but of late years i have had little opportunity for reading." "did you read such books as these when you were at college?" martin asked. "i was of the opinion that you studied only medical works." "oh, i read as widely as possible, especially at kings, away back east, before i went to mcgill." as dick uttered these words martin gave a distinct start, and looked searchingly into the young man's face. the mention of the former college brought to his mind many thoughts. he himself had graduated from the same institution years before, and he knew that it was principally a divinity college, where young men were trained for the ministry. "and what course did you take there?" he asked as calmly as possible, although his heart beat faster than usual. "i took arts and studied divinity," dick responded. "then you are a----?" martin could not form the word. a strange feeling swept upon him. he suddenly recalled the warning of his old bishop, especially his closing words, "the church and her teaching will follow you to the grave, no matter to what part of the world you go." "he's a parson as well as a doctor, that's what he is," tom explained, noticing his host's hesitation. martin rose suddenly to his feet, picked up his hat, and silently left the building. once outside he stood as if uncertain what course to pursue. then he paced rapidly up and down before the house. his brain throbbed and beat with wild emotions. "and has it come to this?" he asked himself. "i have taken in a minion of the church; i have allowed him to enter my cabin and break bread with me. had i known who he was he should never have crossed the threshold. and he has won nance's heart and supplanted me in her affections. and to think that i have kept her hidden away here all of these years, and this is the end! but no, by god, it shall not be! i will not lose her! i have fled from the church, and it has followed me into the wilderness, and is about to wrench from my grasp the one who is dearer to me than life. it shall not be. no longer shall that man remain beneath my roof. he came here under the guise of a doctor. why didn't he say plainly and frankly what he was? he seems to be ashamed of his profession." seldom had martin ever allowed himself to be so angry with any one. he had always prided himself upon his calmness. but it was the thought of this stranger, and a clergyman at that, coming to the place and winning nance's heart which stirred his inmost depths. he stood for a few moments looking out across the lake. the perspiration appeared in great beads upon his forehead. presently he heard dick's hearty laugh, and this annoyed him all the more. he would soon stop that. he took a step toward the door, but stopped as the sound of violin music fell upon his ears. it was nance playing. then some one began to sing. it was a clear, strong tenor voice, which he recognised as that of the young stranger. martin listened for a few moments and then, pushing open the door, he entered. no one noticed him as he moved quietly towards the fire. he paused in the middle of the room, strangely affected. it was not the music which caused him to hesitate and place his hand to his forehead in a perplexed manner. it was the expression of supreme happiness depicted upon nance's face which held him spellbound. her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were flushed with pleasure as she drew the bow skilfully across the strings. martin's anger cooled as he looked upon this peaceful scene. it was a striking and a rebuking contrast to the hell in his own heart, and he knew it. he moved quietly forward, took his seat to the left of the fire, and remained silently there for the rest of the evening. but long after the others were wrapped in slumber martin sat before the dying embers, fighting the hardest of all battles--the battle of the heart. chapter xv suspicion dick russell rose early the next morning, much refreshed by his sleep. but martin was up ahead of him, and had slipped out of the building before any one else was astir. tom lighted the fire, and proved very handy in helping nance with preparing the breakfast. in an hour's time the meal was over. it was a very frugal repast, but what was lacking in food was made up in pleasant conversation. dick thought that nance looked prettier than ever as she sat at the head of the table and poured the tea. the men naturally wondered what had become of martin, but nance informed them that he must have gone to the hills for mountain sheep. their supply of fresh meat was getting low, and it was nothing unusual for her father to go off in the early morning hours. "i must be off, too," dick remarked, as he rose from the table. "this hot sun is breaking up the trail, and it is necessary to get to rapid city as soon as possible to record that claim. you will stay?" and he turned to tom. "yes, pard," was the reply. "my old legs are not fit fer sich a trip at present. i shall git a cabin fixed up as quick as i can. i haven't much to live upon, to be sure, though i've been placed in a far worse position many a time before. i'll go down to the cache we left along the river an' git my rifle an' some grub. you'll need the rest." nance, too, had risen to her feet, and stood looking at the two men. her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were bright. "you will come back, will you not?" she faltered, as dick took her hand to bid her good-bye. "just as soon as i can," dick returned. "before the summer?" she queried. "i hope you will, as we are going away." "what!" dick dropped her hand, and looked intently into her eyes. "going away! surely you don't mean it!" "yes, it is true. we have been planning for some time to go outside, and so have everything arranged for this coming summer." "but you must not go until i return. promise me that," the young man urged. "it all depends upon my father. i did want to go so much a while ago, but now i am not so anxious." it was with great reluctance that dick left the house, with nance standing in the doorway, and swung off down the trail, which ran along the shore of the lake. several times he turned and waved his hand to the young woman, until a bend in the trail hid her from view. "she's certainly a fine one," tom remarked, as he trudged along by dick's side. "it's a great mystery to me; it really is." "what's a mystery, tom?" and dick glanced inquiringly at his companion. "why, you know, pard, as well as i do. i can't savvey why that man should be livin' here all of these years with that beautiful daughter of his. it isn't natural that any one should bury himself like that in sich a wilderness as this." "you're right, tom," dick reflected. "he's an educated man, too, which makes it all the more mysterious. his books plainly show that. he speaks well, and he has taught nance to play the violin splendidly." "i felt like askin' him about his life when we were sittin' before the fire last night. but he acted so queer at times that i thought it best not to do so. did ye notice how he left us so suddenly, an' when he came back he sat glum an' silent in the corner?" "i did, tom." "now, what would ye make out of that, eh?" "nothing. perhaps it was only his manner. living so long in the wild is enough to make any one odd, don't you think so?" "it may be as ye say, pard, though it doesn't altogether fill the bill. now, why should a man with a fine edication want to live in sich a place as this fer so many years? if it was gold he was after i could somewhat savvey it. but he doesn't seem to care anything about the strike. he hasn't even staked a claim. there's a mystery somewhere in the background, that's certain." "do you suppose he knows about the gold up the quaska?" dick asked. "what d'ye mean, pard?" "didn't i tell you about the big holes which had been dug up there? i staked your claim right next to them. now, suppose that martin did the digging, and has taken out more than he needs, eh?" "not on yer life, pard. if he had the gold he'd 'a' hiked out of the country long afore this." "but who dug those holes, then?" dick insisted. "i can't say fer certain. the rooshians may have done it. they were pokin' around this country years ago. i have found holes in many places that they have dug." "but surely martin must have known about those holes, tom. he has hunted all over this region. but, then, perhaps he wasn't after the gold. he has a very neat cabin at any rate, which is so comfortable." "who wouldn't be comfortable with sich a house an' sich a daughter to look after it, tell me that. she's about the finest specimen of womankind i have ever set my eyes on, an' that's sayin' a good deal. what a pity that she's been hid away so long in a lonely spot like this." dick made no reply to these words, but all the way along the trail, after tom had left him, he thought of nance. to him the quaska valley had a new fascination now. he had come into the country with the special object of carrying on his great master's work, lengthening the cords and strengthening the stakes of the church. as a medical man, as well as a missionary, he had done much good among the men in the various camps. this stampede into the quaska valley had opened to him another door of usefulness. he had gone with the men, not for the sake of gold, but for the assistance he might be able to give. this new region had always seemed to him a very desolate place. but now all had been changed since he had found nance. almost unconsciously he began to repeat to himself one of his favourite and inspiring verses of scripture. only now he applied the words in a different sense. "the wilderness and the solitary places," he murmured, "shall be glad for _her_, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose." her image was thus ever before him as he toiled over the weary trail. he thought of her by day, and dreamed of her at night, as he lay alone upon his bed of fir boughs with the stars twinkling overhead. he was several hours in advance of the rest of the men, and he was glad that such was the case. he wished to be alone with the new happiness which had come so suddenly into his life. never before had any one impressed him as did nance. he had met many beautiful and clever women, but not one had ever appealed to him as had this woman by the shore of the klutana lake. he was anxious to hurry down to rapid city, record the claim, and make ready to return up river as soon as the ice ran out of the stream. that this would not be long he was well aware, for the hot sun was making havoc with the ice, and the water was rising fast. the trail was abominable, but he did not seem to mind it now. a new spirit filled his soul and animated his whole being. his one great desire was to get back to the little cabin in the wilderness before nance and her father should leave. after several days of hard travelling, dick reached rapid city. he was very tired and hungry when he reached the place, but the first thing that he did was to record the claim he had staked in tom hendrick's name. that night all the men in the mining town came to his cabin, anxious to learn all they could about the prospects of the new "diggings." "what about the old man who lives out there?" sam pelchie after a while asked. "where did you get your knowledge, sam?" and dick looked at him in surprise. "i haven't told you a word about him." but the other only laughed, and tipped a wink to dave purvis, who grinned in return. dick was about to tell what he knew about martin when the action of these men caused him to hesitate. of all the miners at rapid city these two had been the most troublesome during the past winter. they were noted for their laziness, and but for the good-heartedness of others they would have starved. they seldom did any hunting for their support. they were disliked by the men of rapid city, but, as is so often the rule in a frontier camp, they received a share of all that was going. the sense of shame in living as parasites did not bother them in the least. dick always managed to get along fairly well with "the twins," as they were commonly called, although he believed them to be veritable scoundrels, who would turn against their best friends upon the least pretext. nothing more was said on this occasion about martin, and so the conversation drifted off to the gold of the quaska. but dick determined to keep his eyes upon pelchie and purvis. he intended to keep his ears open as well in an effort to learn how they happened to know that martin lived up river. he knew that they did not hear of him from the two prospectors who had made the discovery, as they had reported that only indians lived up there. these men had already returned to the quaska valley. taku had gone with them, his dogs drawing a supply of provisions. dick went to bed that night wondering what the twins meant by the winks they had passed to each other, and their mysterious manner. a sudden thought came into his mind, which caused him to toss to and fro, tired though he was. was it possible that pelchie and purvis had heard about nance and her remarkable beauty? he knew from what the men had said on former occasions that they had very little respect for women. in a land such as this where might was right, what chance would a beautiful young woman, innocent as a child, have against wily minions of satan? what else, he asked himself, would make the twins take such an interest in martin? at length he fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that nance was beset by cruel and terrible dragons, and that he was unable to go to her assistance. early the next morning a band of weary stampeders reached rapid city, and recorded their claims. after breakfast dick went over to the store, where he found a crowd of men gathered. upon a small table in the middle of the room was a rough map, sketched with the point of a burnt stick, showing the new diggings. around this most of the men were clustered, discussing it in a most animated manner. small numbers marked the places where the stampeders had staked their claims. the old holes formed the boundary line of the valley, and the claims were marked "above" or "below," according to their situation. "where is the old man's cabin?" pelchie asked, leaning over for a better view. "at the mouth of the river," ben haines replied, "right there," and he made a small cross upon the paper. "did he stake?" pelchie further queried. "no. takes no interest in the discovery. he's a strange one; lives alone with his daughter, and just hunts for his living. but he was mighty good to us, and handed out about the whole of his grub. his daughter is certainly a beauty. you should have seen her eyes fill with tears when we carried poor old 'dad' into the cabin, sick as a dog, and moaning like a baby. he was clean cracked when we left him, but that girl was nursing him like a mother. you missed something, sam, by not being along with us. why in hell didn't you and dave go on the stampede?" "had other business, ben, hey, dave?" and he winked to his partner. "sure thing," was the reply. "we've never seen the quaska, but i'll gamble that we'll take out more gold from that place than any of you." a laugh went up from the men in the room. they knew the twins and what bluffing they always did. this last remark was most characteristic. "you'll have to get a hustle on if you intend to stake," barry dane spoke up. "the _northern packet_ will be here as soon as the river clears, and i wouldn't be surprised if a big crowd comes on her. we're going to get her to go right up to the lake. there's bound to be a lively bunch there this summer, so you'd better make a move at once if you're going to do anything. we're not going to keep you again as we did last winter, i can tell you that." "don't you worry," dave surlily replied. "we'll make your eyes stick out before the summer's over, never fear. i don't care for any d---crowd which comes on the _packet_." dick russell said nothing to any of the men about the thoughts which were troubling him. as the days passed he endeavoured to learn something of the plans of pelchie and purvis, but in vain. he saw them at times together, talking in a most confidential way, and knew that they were often in each other's cabins. he believed that martin, and perhaps nance, formed the chief topic of their conversation, and his heart grew heavy as he thought of what the future might reveal. he awaited anxiously for the river to clear, and the steamer to arrive, that he might hurry up stream, not for gold, but to see nance and, if necessary, to protect her. chapter xvi tom makes a discovery it was not long after dick and tom had left martin's cabin that the stampeders arrived. they were in good spirits, but very hungry, having eaten the last of their meal the previous evening. nance was washing the breakfast dishes and thinking of dick, when she was startled by the appearance of several men at the door. they doffed their caps when they saw the young woman, and asked if they might have something to eat. "we are sorry to disturb you, miss," barry dane explained, acting as spokesman, "but we're down to hard-pan. we've not had a bite to eat since last night, and there's a long trail ahead of us." "come right in," nance replied. "we haven't much ourselves, but i know that my father will be pleased to share with you." while the men seated themselves about the room, nance went to the larder, and brought forth a large piece of moose meat. from this she cut off numerous slices, and then began to fry several of them over the fire. "let me help you, miss," barry volunteered. "i am fairly handy at such work, and it isn't right that you should cook for us lazy louts." "well, then, you can attend to this while i look after the table," and nance handed him the frying-pan. each man had with him his meagre supply of dishes, and ere long all were enjoying the meat, as well as the tea, which nance had prepared. these men treated their young hostess with the greatest courtesy. not a rough word was spoken, and it was somewhat pathetic to observe the manner in which several of them endeavoured to assume an air of gentility. they were true knights, this body of men, rough outwardly, but possessed of big, loyal hearts. they were almost through with their meal when martin arrived, bringing with him an old man, who tottered as he walked. he had wide-staring eyes, and was continually muttering to himself. the stampeders rose to their feet in surprise as they recognised 'dad' seddon, whom they had left up the quaska that morning. he had refused to come with them, saying that he would follow later and overtake them. "what's happened to dad?" was barry dane's first question. "he seems to be all in." "he certainly is," martin replied. "i found him up stream down on his knees, clawing at the ground, and jabbering away at a great rate. he's gold mad, that's what's the trouble with him. come, nance," and he turned toward her; "a piece of that meat and a cup of tea will do him much good." nance had been staring hard at the pathetic figure of the old man. he looked so frail and helpless that her eyes filled with tears as she watched him. "say, dad, what's wrong with you?" barry asked, stepping over to seddon, and laying a heavy hand upon his shoulder. but the poor creature simply stared, and continued his muttering as before. he ate ravenously the food nance brought him, and gulped down a cup of tea. "what are we to do with him?" jim lane asked. "we can't take him with us, that's sure." "leave him here," martin replied. "we will look after him as well as we can. i think he'll be all right after he has had a good sleep." "it's kind of you, sir," barry remarked, "and we won't forget it. we have a long trail ahead of us and could hardly manage dad. and, besides, we've no grub until we strike our cache down stream. could you let us have some meat?" "i think we can," and martin crossed over to the larder as he spoke. "we have a little meat and a small supply of smoked fish. we can spare some, eh, nance?" "yes," nance replied. "we can get along very well, as we shall soon have fresh fish from the lake." "thank ye kindly," several of the men responded. "we certainly won't forget what ye've done for us to-day." in about half an hour they had left the cabin, and were swinging off down the trail. they met tom a short distance from the house, and to him they imparted the news about dad. "i'll look after the poor chap," tom said. "he'll be all right in a short time, never fear." when he reached the house he found dad tucked in bed. the half-crazed man had objected at first, but at last had yielded to nance. her words and the touch of her hand upon his greatly soothed his excited state of mind, so in a short time he was sleeping soundly. "it's jist what he needs," tom explained, as he looked upon him. "he's slept hardly a wink since startin' upon this stampede. that an' the want of food, together with the thought of the gold, has somewhat upset the machinery of his head. oh, i've seen sich cases afore. he's a fine one, is old dad, true as steel to his friends, rather cranky at times, an' a regular devil to any one who tries any crooked business upon him. i always got along well with the old chap. in fact we were quite chums last winter. he's great at chess, an' we used to play it most every night. he's got a set of chessmen he made durin' the long winter evenin's out of ivory from the tusk of an old mastodon we found on a little creek some time ago. he's mighty proud of them, i can tell you that, an' if we can git his mind off of the gold fer a while an' turn it on to chess, it might do him a world of good." "why, chess is one of our games," nance replied. "daddy taught it to me a long time ago, and he, too, made all the pieces himself, out of wood." "well, i declare!" and tom looked his surprise. "to think of you playin' sich a deep, solemn game as that! i don't believe that ye'd find many young women outside spendin' their time in sich a way, ah, no. they're too lightheaded an' giddy fer that. it certainly'll be a great comfort to old dad when he sees yer chessmen. he'll keep ye at it all the time. he'd 'a' played night an' day last winter if any one would have played with 'im. you will surely be all right in his eyes when he wakes an' i tell 'im the news." "you had better be careful," martin laughed. "nance might not be able to do anything else if dad gets hold of her. i might lose my housekeeper." "ye're bound to lose her sooner or later, anyway," and tom winked at nance, as he drew forth his pipe and tobacco from his pocket. at these words martin's face darkened, and he straightened himself up with a sudden jerk. his lips moved as if he were about to speak, but not a sound did he utter. he looked tom full in the face for a few seconds, and then turning walked towards the door. he paused upon the threshold, and glanced around upon the prospector. "you look after him until i return," and he motioned towards dad. "i brought down a sheep this morning, but left its carcass up the valley in order to bring in the old man." "let me go," tom hastened to reply. "it isn't fair that you should do all the work." "no, thank you, i shall go myself. you wouldn't know where to find it." with that he was off, leaving tom much puzzled over his peculiar manner. the prospector seated himself upon a stool, and deliberately filled his pipe. when it was lighted and drawing to his satisfaction, he turned toward nance, who was putting away the dishes she had just wiped. "yer father seems worried over something," he began. "i wonder what is the matter." nance paused in her work and looked intently upon the old prospector's honest, rugged face. she, too, had noticed martin's strange behaviour of late, and she longed to unburden her mind to some one. she felt that in tom she would have a sympathetic listener, and that he would keep her confidence as a sacred trust. she, accordingly, left her work and sat down upon a bench at the side of the table. "my father," she began, "has only acted in this strange manner since you arrived. he was never like that before. did you notice how he left so suddenly last night, and when he came back he didn't talk at all?" "i did; i certainly did, miss," tom assented. "some words which my pardner let drop seemed to upset 'im completely. i wonder--i wonder," he mused, half to himself, "if he is afraid of dick. it may be that. he's mighty taken with you, miss, is dick, an' it might be that yer father fears that he'll lose ye." a flush suffused nance's cheeks, and her eyes dropped. was this, then, the reason of her father's strange actions? she asked herself. "when d'ye expect to leave, miss?" tom suddenly queried. "leave!" nance gave a little startled laugh. "i cannot tell now when we shall leave." "an' d'ye expect to come back some day?" "it is hardly likely. this place will be too busy for my father. he would never return, i feel quite sure of that." "have ye really lived up here all yer life, miss?" "yes, all my life. my father and mother were drowned on the mackenzie river when i was a little child, and so----" "what's that ye tell me?" tom interrupted in astonishment. "isn't martin yer father, then?" "oh, no. he happened along with several other men, and took me from the indians, who would have kept me, and brought me to this place." "good lord!" broke from the prospector's lips. "but go on, miss." "there's nothing more to tell except that we've lived here ever since." "but what in the world kept yer father--i mean martin--in sich a place as this? didn't he ever tell ye?" "no. i haven't the least idea. i have often thought about it, but father never told me." "well, i declare!" and tom scratched his head in perplexity. "but what is his other name besides martin?" "it's rutland," nance replied, "and he lived, so he told me, somewhere back in eastern canada before he came here. that is all i know." tom sat for some time lost in deep thought, while nance went back to her work. "martin rutland," he mused; "where have i heard that name before?" presently he came straight to his feet, while an exclamation escaped his lips. "pardon me, miss," he explained to nance, who had looked around in surprise. "it is nothing. i take strange kinks sometimes, which make me yelp. i'll jist stroll outside a bit an' work it off." once in the open he paced up and down before the door. there came to him now through the mist of twenty years the vision of an open grave, where his nell was lying, and a young clergyman was reading the burial service. the man had come from a neighbouring parish, as his own rector was ill. tom had heard his name then, and remembered it because of later events. yes, the man's name was martin rutland. he had read how he had been deposed by his bishop for a serious offence. the newspapers had made much of the trouble at the time. could it be possible that this was the same man? tom paused in his rapid walk, and looked out over the lake, although he saw neither the shimmering water nor the dark trees in the background. he beheld again the look upon martin's face the previous evening when he learned that dick russell was a clergyman as well as a medical man. he recalled how he had abruptly left the building, returning later, silent and gloomy. then, why had martin left so early this morning, and after the reference to nance leaving him, why had he taken himself off again as if anxious to be alone? tom thought, too, of the books in the cabin, not of an ordinary reader, but of a scholar and a thinker. yes, so he concluded, this must be that same outcast person who had hidden himself away in the wilderness all of these years. there then came into his mind the thought of the beautiful young woman in the house. it was quite evident that she knew nothing about the past life of the man she had been in the habit of calling "father." what a terrible blow it would be to her if she ever heard the truth. anyway, she should not hear it from him, tom made up his mind to that. there was the slight chance, of course, that there might be some mistake, and that it was only a coincidence of names. he determined, nevertheless, to keep his eyes and ears open and try to find out what he could. "if it's true," he mused, "i must stand by the lassie. there'll be many only too glad of an opportunity of casting the story at her and causing her trouble. no, not a soul shall ever hear of it from my lips." chapter xvii heart thrusts that evening a little group gathered before the open fire, for the nights were still cool. martin was in better spirits, and talked freely with the old prospector, to whom he had taken a great liking. dad seddon was sitting close to nance, gazing upon the bright flames as they licked around the large chunks of wood and then curled up the chimney. the sleep had much refreshed the old man, although he was still quite weak from his hard experience since leaving rapid city. tom was in fine fettle. the little circle pleased him greatly, and at times he cast admiring glances toward nance, who was busy with her needle. he had been thinking deeply over what he had heard that day about martin, and he was anxious to know for certain if he were the same man who had buried his nell years ago. he had tried in vain to find some resemblance between this long-bearded, rugged frontiersman and the trim young man who had stood before him on that saddest day of his whole life. "it cannot surely be the same," he thought, as he turned his eyes occasionally toward martin, who was puffing away at his pipe. "and yet," he mused, "years make a great difference in a man's appearance." "how are ye feelin' now, dad?" he suddenly asked, turning to the old trapper. "better, tom," was the brief quiet reply. "that's good. a game of chess would put ye right on yer pins, eh?" "sure thing!" and dad's eyes brightened at the mention of his favourite game. "ah, i thought that would bring ye out of yer dumps," and tom's hearty laugh rang out. "but ye needn't think that i'm goin' to keep my nose down over any chess-board to-night, not a bit of it." "no?" and the old man looked his disappointment. "how d'ye expect to git a board an' men out here?" tom queried. "sure. i never thought of that," dad sadly replied. "don't tease mr. seddon," nance laughed. "would you like to have a game with me?" and she turned to the man at her side as she spoke. "what! can you play, miss?" there was a pathetic eagerness in dad's eyes as he riveted them upon the young woman's face. in reply nance rose, and going to a shelf brought down a chess-board and a small box containing the various pieces. dad was delighted as he took the latter in his hands and examined them with a critical eye. "did you make these?" he asked, turning to martin. "yes," was the reply, "and many a fine game we've had with them during the long winter evenings, though we haven't played much of late." nance had now drawn up a small table, and soon she and dad were deeply engaged in the royal game. tom watched them with much satisfaction, and gave vent to several chuckles of delight when he found that nance was a match for the trapper. "ha, that was a fine move!" he exclaimed, while nance laughed with glee as dad scratched his head and endeavoured to extricate himself from the clever trap into which his fair opponent had led him. "i'm glad that dad has met his equal at last," tom continued, "fer he always beat me without mercy. the first time i ever saw chess played," and he now addressed his remarks to martin, "was away back in eastern canada. old parson dowden, who was rector fer forty years of glendale, the parish in which i was born, didn't have an equal at the game as fer as i know. why, he'd go without his meals any time to play chess." at these words, and especially at the mention of "dowden" and "glendale," martin gave a distinct start, took the pipe from his mouth and looked keenly at tom. but the latter seemed as though he did not notice martin's surprise. he bent over, lighted a splinter of wood at the fire, and applied it to his pipe. "yes," he continued between puffs, "old parson dowden was a great man at chess. i remember hearin' how he licked the parson from the next parish in a wonderful game. but he was a young man, an' hadn't the experience of parson dowden." the fingers of martin's right hand clutched the pipe with a firm grip. his eyes, staring and big, were fixed upon the prospector's face. surprise, mingled with consternation, was depicted upon his countenance. but tom did not seem to notice anything unusual, and nance was too intent upon the game to heed anything else. "i only saw that young parson from the adjoinin' parish but once," tom went on after a pause, in which he seemed to be meditating. "it was when he buried my nell. but, poor chap, i heard that he got into trouble, was put out of the church, an' so left the parish to parts unknown. 'twas a great blow to his friends an' relatives, so i understand." tom ceased his narration, casually blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and shot one lightning glance toward martin. any doubt as to the identity of the man before him was now removed. the strained, haggard expression upon martin's face plainly told of the agony within. he sat very still, although he often looked anxiously and keenly into tom's face as if wondering how much he knew, and if he had any idea that the man sitting before him was the same who had buried his nell. but the prospector's manner as he watched the game led him to believe that he had not the slightest suspicion. although this was somewhat of a relief to martin, yet he began to feel uneasy in tom's presence. he longed to hear more about his old parish, and he knew that tom could supply him with the information. several times his lips moved ere he could sufficiently control himself to speak. "you've been away from eastern canada for some time, i suppose," he at length remarked in an attempted off-handed manner. "yes, nigh on to twenty years," was the reply. "many changes must have taken place in your home parish during that time." "yes, many," and tom gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "i kept in touch with it fer years, but i haven't heard any news fer a long time now. i guess people have fergotten all about me an' my nell. it's wonderful how soon people will fergit except one thing." "and what is that?" martin queried. "oh, anything bad about a person. now take the case of that young parson from glendale fer instance. i don't believe they've fergotten about it yit, at least they hadn't the last time i heard from home." "oh, you don't think so?" came involuntarily from martin's lips, which tom was not slow to notice. "no, not a bit of it. i understand that what he did almost ruined the church there, and the man who followed him had a tough time of it." "oh!" "yes, numbers of people lost all faith in parsons, while others, though they did not exactly leave the church, looked with suspicion upon the new man, as if wonderin' what capers he'd cut up." "you don't say so!" "but there were some who took the trouble harder than all the rest," tom continued. "the young parson's fall broke his parents' hearts, an' they both died the next year." "my god!" this unusual exclamation caused nance to look up, startled, from the game. but martin did not notice her. he was standing erect now, with clenched hands, looking straight before him. quickly recovering himself, he sat down again. "it's nothing," he said. "i was overcome at the story of that wretch who killed his parents. go on, please." and once more tom stabbed to the quick. "i heard that there was a young woman, i jist fergit her name, who took on very hard. it nearly broke her heart at what the parson did. she was a fine singer, too, so i understand. she was sick fer a long time. when she got well she left glendale, an' i heard later that she became a trained nurse. she was very beautiful. i know that, fer i saw her once myself. she was very much in love with the young parson, so i heard, an' she had her weddin' dress all made. they were to have been married the next summer. it was all very sad." tom knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sat watching the dying embers before him. martin remained in his chair with his head bent forward, the very embodiment of despair. occasionally tom glanced toward him, and his heart smote him with compunction for having caused the man such agony of soul. nance wondered more than usual at the expression upon her father's face as she stooped to give him the customary good-night kiss. she noticed that he took both of her hands in his and held them longer than was his wont. she knew that something was troubling his mind, and her heart was very heavy as she went to her room. during the following days martin's mind was much disturbed. the news he had heard about his parents caused him intense remorse. he thought of them by day, and would often start up in the dead of night thinking that they were standing by his side. he pictured over and over again their sorrow as they sat alone at night in the old farmhouse, mourning over their wayward son. he recalled the last time he had seen them and how proudly they had looked into his face. never before did he fully realise what his sin had meant to them. but now it all swept upon him with a maddening intensity. often a lump would rise in his throat, and tears roll down his cheeks as that night when he had last seen his parents rose before him. once out on the hills he had buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child. only the trees, flowers, and birds witnessed his grief, and they would not divulge the secret. although martin was fond of the old prospector, yet he felt somewhat uneasy in his presence. several times he found tom watching him with a wondering expression in his eyes. he was, accordingly, glad when tom left with dad for the diggings up the quaska. but he knew that he would return in a few days, and his peace of mind would once more be disturbed. one beautiful evening martin and nance were seated at the supper table. the ice had run out of the lake and the river over a week ago. the air was balmy, and the days long and fine. nance had been unusually quiet of late. she was wondering when dick would return, and if he would be really the same as when he went away. she had thought over and over again every word he had uttered. the chair on which he had sat the last night he was in the cabin she had carefully kept in the same place. "it will be there for him when he comes back," she had whispered to herself. hers was the supreme joy of pure first love, and her heart was light and happy. dick russell's strong, manly form rose before her. she saw the twinkle in his light-blue eyes, the frank open face, and the erect poise of his head. to her he was a hero, a knight such as she had read about in a book upon the shelf. she was thinking of him as she now sat at the head of the table on this fine evening. "it will soon be time for us to be packing up, nance." the words startled her, and she lifted her eyes quickly to martin's face. "yes," the latter continued, "we must be over to the mackenzie in time to catch the steamer on its return from the north." "oh!" it was all that nance could utter, but it caused martin to study her face very carefully. "don't you want to go, little one?" he asked, not unkindly. "do you really want to go, daddy?" she returned. "we can't stay here, nance, that's certain. i could not live with such a crowd swarming around us. there would no longer be any charm for me here." "but there would be no quietness outside, daddy." "that's different, quite different." nance lowered her eyes and toyed for some time with her cup. martin watched her anxiously. he knew as well as if she had told him why she did not wish to leave the country now. but he must get her away forever from the influence of the young usurper, who would undoubtedly return. although nance was very quiet, a great struggle, nevertheless, was taking place within her breast. she wished to stay, to see dick again. but her duty must be to martin first. he it was who had done so much for her, and her love for him was deep and sincere. how could she see him stay if his heart was set upon leaving the place? rising from the table, she threw her arms about martin's neck. "daddy," and her face came close to his as she spoke, "i will go with you whenever the time comes. you are all i have in the world who really loves me, so why should i care to remain here?" martin caught her hand in his, drew down her face, and kissed her. tears came into his eyes, and when he tried to speak he found it difficult to form the words. he rose abruptly to his feet, and dashed his hand across his eyes. "there, there, little one," and a smile such as nance had never seen illumined his face. "i know you love me, and it makes me happy. it will be hard for you to leave, but----" at that instant a hoarse, raucous sound fell upon their ears with a startling intensity. they looked at each other, and then hurried to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. chapter xviii the royal bounty the _northern packet_, the little flat-bottom, stern-wheel steamer, had made a notable trip up the heena river. she was the first that had ever ploughed the waters of this crooked stream. every foot of the way she had to contend with the swift current, and there was constant danger from sandbars, which, like long fingers, were thrust out below the surface. no pilot had hitherto navigated that river, and great care had to be exercised. thus for several days the steamer nosed her way into the wilderness. her incessant wheezing and puffing startled the wary denizens of the region. rabbits scurried away in affright; foxes hurried off under cover; moose, grazing in wild meadows, lifted their great heads, stared for an instant at the strange monster on the river, snorted, and with long, swinging strides sought refuge among the tall trees. but the _northern packet_ was well accustomed to startling the creatures of the wilderness. she had been doing it on her long, tedious run of over two thousand miles up the mighty yukon river. it was not the first time that she had done so, either. hers were the first blasts which had awakened the silence of the land for several years past. she had made it a point to be the first steamer to contend with running ice, and other dangers of that northern stream, to carry supplies to lone miners and prospectors encamped along the banks. no sound was so welcome to the weary watchers as her hoarse whistle, and no sight so dear to straining eyes as her scarred prow breasting the racing stream. but never before had the _northern packet_ started upon such an uncertain venture as the run up the heena to the klutana lake. neither had she ever carried such a throng of excited and anxious men as those which now crowded her almost to overflowing. word of the new strike had drifted down the yukon, and by the time the steamer reached rapid city it looked as if she could carry no more. but in some mysterious manner room was made. there was no limit set by stern authority as to the number of passengers she should carry. it was simply climb on board and room would be made somehow. all the freight which had been consigned for points farther down river was still on board, and this took up considerable space on the lower deck. but wherever there was a nook some one was stowed, and at night those who could not curl themselves up on the floor were forced to stand and wait their turn. but notwithstanding the inconveniences a remarkable spirit of harmony prevailed. those who had already staked their claims were looking eagerly forward to large cleanups, while those who had never been up the river before were greatly encouraged by the reports they heard of the richness of the land. dick russell was as anxious as any of the men on the steamer to reach lake klutana. it was not the gold he craved to see, but the young woman whose face was enshrined in his heart. he was somewhat worried for her sake. he feared the crowd of men thronging the boat. some of them, he knew, were nature's gentlemen, but there were others who could not be trusted. he believed that it would be necessary to keep a strict watch upon "the twins." that they had some mischief in their minds he was quite certain, and it was only natural that he should think of nance. as for the newcomers, who came from the lower river, he knew very little about them. he had overheard some of them talking, however, and the stories they had told filled him with apprehension. he was determined, at any rate, to put nance on her guard against such men, and to protect her from any injury. he was standing on deck, well forward, when the _northern packet_ steamed out of the heena into lake klutana. eagerly he strained his eyes for the first glimpse of the little cabin nestling on the bank among the trees. when the loud, coarse blasts of the whistle rent the air he saw the indians running to the shore in amazement. then as the steamer swept forward martin's house appeared to view, and in a few minutes he was able to see two figures standing in the doorway. there was much excitement on board as the steamer slowed down, drifted slowly into shore, and her bow ran gently upon the sand and gravel right in front of martin's house. then ensued a wild scramble for the shore, but dick was the first to land, and without waiting an instant he ran swiftly up the slope straight toward nance. the expression upon the latter's face was one of supreme joy as she held out her hands to the young man. "my! it's good to be back," dick panted, as he took her hand in his. "how are you, sir?" and he turned to martin. "well, very well," was the somewhat reluctant reply. martin then relapsed into silence, and stood watching the miners scrambling off the steamer. but various conflicting emotions were disturbing martin's heart. he longed to turn upon the visitor and drive him away from the place. the look of happiness in nance's eyes, however, deterred him from action. how could he bring sorrow to her who was dearer to him than life itself? he was standing thus uncertain what to do, when a cry of pain down by the shore caused the three to turn quickly in the direction from whence the sound came. there was excitement there, and the men were gathered around some object, and were talking in a most excited manner. fearing that something was seriously the matter, dick left nance, and hurried at once to the spot. "what's wrong?" he asked of those standing on the outskirts of the crowd. "pete larsen's hurt," was the reply. "in jumping from the boat his foot caught, and he came down hard on the ground." dick at once pushed his way through the crowd, and those gathered about the unfortunate man fell back a little as he approached. "it's his leg," dick explained, after he had made a brief examination. "i'm afraid it's broken. we must get him away from here as soon as possible." "put him back on the steamer," was the suggestion of several. "he can go down to the mission station. they'll look after him there better than we can." "no, no!" moaned the injured man. "for god's sake, let me stay! i must stake my claim." "guess he'll have to stay," spoke up the captain of the _packet_. "we couldn't do anything with him on board. he needs attention at once, and more than we can give him." "you are right," dick replied. "he must remain here. we'll look after you, pete, so don't worry." by this time martin had joined the crowd, and was listening to the conversation. "bring him up to my house," he quietly remarked. "we'll take care of him as well as we can." at these words the miners turned and looked upon the speaker. they were surprised at his sudden appearance in their midst, and several questioned one another as to where he had come from. dick at once motioned to the men standing near, who lifted pete in their arms and carried him as gently as they could up the slope to martin's house, and laid him upon the cot within the building. "it is a pity that we are giving you so much trouble," dick apologised, as nance met him at the door. "we are certainly making a hospital out of your house." "we do not mind," was the reply. "it is so nice to be able to help people in trouble." "i am afraid there may be more who will need assistance," and the young man turned his face sadly toward the lake. "among all that crowd there's something sure to be happening every day." martin stood near at hand and watched dick as he reset the broken leg and put it in splints. he could not help admiring the skilful way in which everything was done. as he looked upon the stricken man lying before him he was thankful for the first time that dick russell was present. if he were simply a medical man and not a missionary, martin would have been delighted. he thought of the days years ago when, in his old parish in eastern canada, he had longed to be a doctor as well as a clergyman. there had been several outlying places where the people were very poor. what a comfort it would have been to them, and what an assistance to him in his work, could he have attended to their bodily wants. and now this young man was doing what he had desired to do, and was unable through lack of training. a sudden revulsion of feeling came over martin as he watched dick doing so much for the stricken miner. here was this man, young in years, doing an unselfish work, while he himself was useless. the missionary had given up home and the comforts of civilisation, and was living in the wilderness, not for the sake of gold, but to help others. and what was he himself doing? he had disgraced his calling; his church had cast him out, and he in turn had repudiated her. he had thought that it would be an easy thing to free himself from her influence. but here, right in the region where he believed that he would be safe from all interference, and in his own cabin at that, stood a clergyman of the church which had cast him out forever. then for the first time since he had been deposed came the feeling of his own selfishness. what had he really accomplished during his long sojourn in the wilderness? a longing suddenly rose in his heart to take up the work he had abandoned so many years before. he recalled the high ideals which had animated his soul when he took charge of his first and only parish. they were just as lofty and noble, he believed, as those of the young man now standing before him. after the injured man was resting as comfortably as could be expected, martin, nance, and dick sat for a while outside the door. the evening was balmy and the air delightful. the _northern packet_ had moved away, and was lying close to the shore just across the mouth of the quaska. dick related his experiences on the steamer, and told in a humorous way the inconveniences the passengers endured. martin had very little to say for some time. he leaned back against the house, smoking and listening intently. nance was very happy. often she turned her eyes full upon dick's face, and at times her joyous laugh rippled forth at some droll story. the sun had just swung low behind a tall mountain peak and heavy shadows were lying athwart the calm surface of the lake. the only sounds which disturbed the peaceful scene came from the men unloading the steamer. martin gazed over the water and far beyond the black forest. his pipe was clutched in his right hand, and he had the appearance of a man oblivious as to his surroundings. presently he shifted a little on the bench and glanced at dick. the latter was sitting near nance, silent, and watching with her the operations going on across the river. martin beheld the thoughtful young faces aglow with a light which was more than the reflection of the departing sun. "what led you to come into this country?" martin quietly asked, turning toward dick. the latter gave a slight start, as if aroused from a dream, and looked searchingly into his inquirer's face. "it was the royal bounty which did it," was the slow reply. "the royal bounty! i don't understand." "no, it is not likely that you should. it is all very simple and beautiful to me, however." "go on," martin commanded, as dick paused, and looked once more out over the water. "would you really like to hear my little story which i have never told to any one before?" "certainly. that is, if you don't mind." "no, not at all. but i should not like to tell it to every one. few there are in the world, it seems to me, who would understand. it was all through a sermon about the royal bounty which i heard years ago from the lips of a dear old clergyman. he spoke about king solomon giving to the queen of sheba all the things she asked for, and then he added of his own free will of his royal bounty. i cannot remember now all that he said, but the sermon made a very strong impression upon my heart and mind. several thoughts, however, i can never forget. he showed how god is always giving us of his royal bounty, that is, blessings over and above what we actually need. the earth, for instance, might have been made all stony, but he added flowers to give us joy. birds are not absolutely necessary. he could have made the seasons, the sun, fields, and forests. but he gave of his royal bounty, and added the birds to change the silence into song. he also showed that christ could have gone through life working at his tasks like other men. but he was not content to do that alone. he was ever going about doing good. he threw in, so to speak, the royal bounty, that is, blessings which were not expected. "i was somewhat unsettled in my mind at the time i heard that sermon, and it started me thinking along new lines. i had open before me a business career, with every opportunity for great success. but that sermon changed my mind completely. i desired to become more than a mere successful business machine. life took on a new aspect. i wished to do something that would bring the greatest joy to others. with this object in view i entered college to study for the ministry, and in due time took my degree. i was not satisfied with this, however, and longed to be better fitted for my life's work. with my father's permission i entered mcgill university, and studied medicine. when i was through there i was ordained. this was a great day for me, and yet i was not altogether satisfied. a comfortable parish i could have entered at once, and carried on the work for which i had been prepared. but i wished to do more, something which was not expected of me, such as caring for the bodies as well as for the souls of those among whom i laboured. i have always believed that the two should go together, and am now more convinced of it than ever." "quite true, quite true," martin interposed. "but how did you happen to come into such a region as this, when you might have done such a good work outside?" "i am coming to that," dick replied. "it, as well, was all due to the royal bounty idea. you see, this caused me to enter the ministry and to study medicine that i might make the most of life and do as much good as possible. i, accordingly, looked around for a field in which to begin my work. everywhere i found earnest clergymen and doctors devoting themselves to the souls and bodies of people in their various parishes, so my service of a dual nature was not required. one night i heard an address by a missionary who had been working for years in the northland. he appealed for men, and impressed me so strongly that i at once responded. that was five years ago, and i have been up here ever since." "and you have never regretted the step?" martin queried. "no, not for a single moment. whether i have done any good or dispensed the royal bounty is not for me to judge. but in living among men on the ragged edge of civilisation and trying to help them body and soul has given me great happiness. i would not exchange my lot for the most favoured being on earth." there was a long silence when dick ended his story. he sat quietly by nance's side, and compared the past with the present. he had fondly believed that his life was full to overflowing. but now what a difference. there was added a new happiness, a love such as he had never experienced before. martin, too, was silent. thoughts, too deep for words, were passing through his mind. in his heart as well as in dick's a new life had arisen, although of a far different nature. chapter xix beginnings morning dawned clear and fresh. the sun was abroad early, and the filmy mist hovering over the lake soon vanished before the hot rays. the gold-seekers on the shore were astir at break of day. some, in fact, had been busy all night selecting suitable sites and pitching their tents. the steamer was nearly unloaded, and the captain was anxious to hurry down the river as speedily as possible to return with another cargo before the summer was over. the miners had chosen this spot for their encampment because it was on the side of the quaska river where the gold had been discovered. they would thus not have to cross the stream, but simply follow the trail to the diggings. they wished to settle near the lake so that the steamers could land their goods right at their doors, otherwise it would be difficult to take the whole of their supplies up river. they could easily pack what they would need for several days, and could always come back to the lake for more. dick stood in the door of martin's house watching the animated scene across the river. not a ripple stirred the surface of the lake, and the dark trees and the towering mountains were reflected in the clear, deep water. it appealed to his poetic nature. he had beheld many grand sights since coming north, but this was the most beautiful and majestic upon which he had ever gazed. "what grandeur," he mused, "and to think that she has been living here in the midst of it all for years, far away from the tumult of the world." a step at his side caused him to turn, and his eyes rested upon the object of his thoughts. "isn't it beautiful," nance remarked in response to dick's greeting. "i love the lake, mountains, and trees. i have looked upon them ever since i was a child, and they are very near to my heart." "how fortunate they are," the young man murmured, gazing with admiration upon her bright face. "oh, they know nothing about it," nance laughed. "it is an all one-sided love, you see." "i wish that i could change places with them for a while. i wonder if your feelings would be the same then." a deep flush suffused nance's cheeks at these words, and her eyes dropped for an instant. dick noticed her embarrassment, and he was afraid lest he had offended her. "pardon me," he hastened to explain. "i fear that i have said too much. i allowed my heart to overcome my head, or, in other words, i made a fool of myself." "you didn't offend me," nance shyly replied. "i was thinking how funny it would be if you took the place of the mountains, trees, and lake." "and why?" dick questioned. "because you would have such a hard time of it. you have only seen them in peace and sunshine. if you could look upon them as i have, when a fierce storm is raging over the land, you would not envy them then. but i love them just the same. i like to hear the wind roaring down the valley, to see the trees shake and bend, and the water of the lake lashed into foam. oh, it is grand!" dick looked with amazement into the face of the young woman at his side. he saw it transformed. her cheeks were aglow, and her eyes were very bright as she gazed far off into space and beheld the scene she so vividly described. he knew that it was no ordinary woman that uttered such words. though naturally quiet and reserved, there were within her soul great depths of thought. she was in harmony with her surroundings, and her rich blood pulsated to the tunes of the moods of the wilderness. all this appealed strongly to dick. to him she was the most beautiful and yet mysterious woman he had ever met. everything she said and did was so natural. there was nothing artificial or unreal about her. to her the veneer of polite social life was unknown. as these thoughts passed through dick's mind martin suddenly appeared, hurrying along the trail from the forest. his rifle was over his shoulder, and he carried in his hand several grouse he had recently shot. with a cry of joy nance sprang to meet him, and martin's face brightened as she drew near. taking the grouse from his hand, she walked by his side. "where have you been, daddy?" she asked. "we have been waiting breakfast for you." "i am sorry, nance, that i have kept you waiting," was the reply. "but i have been out on the hills for several hours. and how is pete?" was his greeting to dick as he reached the door. "doing as well as can be expected. he has had a fairly good night." during breakfast martin had very little to say, and dick observed him as carefully as he could without arousing any suspicion. he noted that his host seemed ill at ease, that his face was drawn and haggard, and that his eyes were big and staring. he seemed like a man who had been awake all night, and whose thoughts were troubling him. he wondered if nance saw anything amiss with her father. he longed to speak to her, but had no opportunity just then. when the meal was over dick tended to the wants of the injured man lying on the cot, and then made ready to leave the house. "may i have the use of your canoe, sir?" he asked, turning to martin. "certainly, certainly," was the jerky reply, and dick wondered more than ever. he thought much concerning the man's strange appearance as he paddled swiftly across to the encampment on the opposite shore. here he found confusion and excitement. men were busy unloading the steamer, and the miners were searching for their goods among the piles of stuff thrown out upon the bank. with difficulty dick rescued his own meagre outfit, and carried it to a secure place. opening one of the bundles, he lifted out a small leather writing-case, from which he took a sheet of paper and an envelope. seating himself upon his rolled-up tent, he began to write. this letter was the outcome of many thoughts which had been surging through his mind for days past. several times while on the river he had been upon the point of doing this, but had always put it off until a more favourable opportunity. the accident which had happened to pete, and the fact that the steamer was soon to depart, made any further delay unavoidable. he knew that help would be needed if he were to accomplish any definite work among the miners. there was only one place to which he could turn, and if he neglected to send a message now it might be too late when the next steamer arrived. when he had finished the letter he went on board the _northern packet_ and gave it to the captain, with strict instructions to deliver it at the mission station of the good samaritan down river. hurrying ashore, he started to work at once upon his tent. the place he chose for his abode was a snug spot near several large jack-pines. it took him most of the morning to complete the task of erecting his tent, and when at last all was finished he stood and looked upon his handiwork with much satisfaction. the tent shone white beneath the sun, and not a wrinkle marred the smoothness of the well-stretched canvas. while dick had been thus busy at work dozens of men around him were also erecting their humble, flimsy abodes. a row of tents had been stretched along the water front, several yards back from the shore of the lake. higher up on the shelving bank others were placed, while a street ran between. on all sides pounding and shouting continued throughout the day. men were constantly moving about, all hustling as fast as they could in order to get through with their work as speedily as possible. it was the rude beginning of a frontier mining camp, which would develop later into a town of wooden houses of considerable importance. one tent much larger than any of the rest was being erected right in the centre of the encampment. dick watched this with more than ordinary interest. the men who were doing the work had come up from the lower river and were strangers to him, although he had seen them on the steamer. he had not liked their appearance when first he saw them, and they impressed him now more unfavourably than ever. there were three of them, rough and foul-mouthed. at first he had partly suspected the object of their visit into the country. now he was certain that they were not miners, but liquor dealers, and the tent they were erecting was to be the saloon. several cases piled together contained whiskey, he was quite sure, and when these were opened he well knew what the result would be. there was no one in authority to keep law and order, and he shuddered as he thought of the wild scenes which would ensue when the whiskey began to be circulated among the miners. he naturally thought of nance, and his face grew grave as he realised the danger to which she would be constantly exposed. what regard would drink-inflamed men have for the purity and the honour of the beautiful woman across the river? he asked himself over and over again. already, no doubt, they knew of her presence in the little cabin. when sober they might not interfere with her, but when mad with the demon of whiskey there was no telling what they might do. there were several men in the camp he could trust, especially tom and dad. but what could a few do against so many? the presence of sam pelchie and dave purvis disturbed him. they had put up their miserable little tents, and were now loitering around, always together. several times dick saw them engaged in earnest conversation and casting furtive glances at the cabin across the quaska. he suspected these men, and firmly believed that they had some sinister motive in their minds. "could it be of nance they were talking?" he mused. "had they heard of her down at rapid city, and were their veiled remarks in reference to her when they had spoken about martin?" the more he thought of these things, the more uneasy he became. just what to do he did not know, but he was determined to be on his guard, and keep as sharp a watch as possible over the movements of the two men. during the rest of the day dick made himself useful in helping his neighbours. the men who had lived all winter at rapid city were not in the least surprised at the assistance he gave, for they knew him of old. but the newcomers were much astonished, and all agreed that the young "parson chap was a real sort of a man after all." that evening dick crossed the river to see nance and his patient. he found the former seated by martin in front of the house, for the evening was very mild. she greeted the visitor with a smile as he sat down upon the bench at her side. martin had very little to say, and while he puffed at his pipe the young people talked about the miners over the river. dick was full of plans which had been revolving in his mind all day. he said nothing about the saloon nor his suspicions as to what the miners might do when inflamed with whiskey. he did not wish to alarm nance, and if necessary he would speak to martin privately. his face became animated as he told about the church he hoped to build and the hospital tent he expected would be sent up from the mission station down river. "i believe they can spare it," he added, "for the missionary in charge told me that he had one he could let me have if ever i wanted it." "so you think there will be need of a hospital, then?" martin remarked. "certainly. we can't tell how soon several of those chaps may get knocked out and will need attention. it has been the way in other large mining camps, and this one is not likely to be an exception." "will you be able to care for them yourself?" martin inquired. "it will be quite an undertaking, will it not?" "i have considered that matter very carefully and believe there will be no trouble. i have written to the mission station down river, asking for a trained nurse. i think they can spare one. as soon as the tent comes i shall be able to hold services in it until we get a church built." "what do you mean by a church?" nance simply asked. dick gave a start, and looked at her in surprise. "what!" he demanded, "didn't you ever hear of a church?" "only in books, but i could never understand what the word meant. i suppose it is one of those wonderful things that people have in the great outside world." dick now looked at martin as if expecting him to speak. but the latter was gazing far off over the lake, to all appearance seeing and hearing nothing around him. his pipe was clutched firmly in his right hand. he was sitting very straight, with body tense and rigid. at length he arose abruptly to his feet. "nance doesn't know," and he turned to the young man as he spoke. "tell her if you like. i shall be back presently." when he returned about an hour later he found the young couple sitting where he had left them. he was quick to note the expression of happiness upon their faces. they had eyes only for each other, and they could not read the writing upon the countenance of the man who slowly approached, and sank down wearily upon the seat he had vacated. they little realised that while they were engaged in such a pleasant conversation martin had been wrestling hard with his own heart as he paced to and fro along the margin of the lake. it was not for them to know of the forces which had risen in his soul, and which at times had almost gained the mastery. it was not easy to break the cords which had bound him for years. he had taken such a grim joy in his spirit of rebellion, and the proud resolve that he would have nothing more to do with the church which had cast him out. and yet in the presence of the missionary old longings returned which he had imagined were dead and buried forever. he comprehended now more than ever how true were the bishop's words. he had believed that the influence of the church was merely external. but now he knew that it was within him, and that wherever he went he carried with him the teachings he had received. he understood that the truths which had been engrained into his very being were much like seeds. they might lie dormant for years, and to all outward appearance dead. but the life was within them still, and through proper environment of soil, air, and sunshine they would spring forth into vigorous growth. "oh, daddy," was nance's greeting. "i have heard such wonderful things. you never told me about the church. but," and here her voice lowered, "dick has been telling me so much." "has he?" martin replied, and again lapsed into silence. the missionary remained for some time after martin returned, relating to nance many things of which she knew nothing. to all this she listened with rapt attention. what she heard was all so wonderful to her, and dick was so enthusiastic that it was almost impossible not to be affected by his spirit. it was late when at length he arose, and looked in at pete. finding him asleep he went back out of doors. nance was standing there, but martin had gone into the house. he stood by her side, and gazed out over the water. "beautiful, isn't it?" he remarked. "yes," was the quiet reply. "but it never seemed so lovely as to-night." "what's the reason, do you think?" dick queried. "oh, i don't know, except that when i am very happy things always seem more beautiful than at other times." as dick watched her standing there an intense longing came over him to seize in his those well-shaped hands which were clasped before her. he forebore, however, and stood silently by her side, looking with her out over the lake. speech was unnecessary, for love was speaking to their hearts in a language which could not be expressed in mere words. chapter xx under cover of night when dick left nance at the cabin door and walked slowly down to the river, his heart was in a tumult of happiness such as he had never before experienced. he could hear the sounds of laughing, talking, and shouting among the miners, late though it was. he suspected that some of the men had been drinking, and were accordingly in a mood of riotous mirth. he did not wish to join them just now. what connection had he with their revelry? he contrasted the quietness of martin's cabin with the confusion over the river. on the one side there was nance, beautiful and pure; on the other, men destined for noble purposes and yet willing to degrade themselves at the least opportunity. what could he do to make those men see and realise something of the joy of a life in which the evil passions were subdued, and the higher virtues were predominate? was it not his duty as a missionary in the great master's cause to stem the tide of evil which was about to set in, and, if possible, to check the moral depravity which, like in other mining camps, always abounded? but what could one man do against so many? he could speak strong words of denunciation, rebuke, and exhort. but he knew such efforts would be of little avail. the men might listen but they would not heed. some issue of a practical nature, he was well aware, was needed to cause such men to side with right against wrong. but what was this issue to be which would appeal to natures such as theirs? not a campaign against liquor and its attending evils, he was sure of that. dick seated himself upon a log at the foot of a large tree, and gave himself up to serious meditation. martin's canoe was nearby, so he could cross the river and in a few minutes reach his own tent. but he had no desire to sleep, as his mind was too active for that. he thought of nance, her words, and the charm of her face. but a cloud arose to darken the light. the miners came into his mind, and he could not get clear of the idea that something was to happen, and that the one he loved was in real danger. he felt that his duty was of a twofold nature now: he must protect nance, and also help the men who would not help themselves. but how was he to do this? he was aroused from his reverie by the sound of a canoe grating upon the shore. looking quickly up he was able to discern by the light of the moon two dark forms stepping from a little craft some distance below martin's cabin. that they were there for no good purpose he felt quite sure, and his attention became instantly riveted upon their movements. he saw them leave the edge of the water and glide toward the house. rising to his feet, he stood irresolute for a few heart-beats, wondering what course he should pursue. it would not do for him to follow them in the open, as his form could easily be seen. glancing to the right he saw the forest, sweeping in a black curve around the back of the house and not far away. with him to think was to act, so moving at once a short distance up stream, he reached the border of the clearing until he gained the shelter of the sombre trees. then travelling as rapidly as caution would permit, he skirted the edge of the forest, keeping well within the black shadows. reaching at length a position just back of the cabin, he peered cautiously forth. the bright light of the moon made every object visible in the clearing beyond, so that any one approaching the house could easily be seen, although his countenance could not be discerned. observing no one in sight, he moved forward a few paces and again stopped. this time his efforts were rewarded, for out in the open he saw the two men moving hurriedly to and fro. several times they encircled the cabin. they seemed to have no design upon the building itself, but contented themselves by keeping a certain distance away. dick racked his brain in an effort to solve the purpose of their strange actions. ere long he heard the faint sounds of blows, and observed one of the men driving something into the ground. he then moved some distance away, when more blows followed. this was repeated several times, and the concealed watcher closely observed each spot where this process was performed. suddenly the meaning of it all flashed into dick's mind. they were staking claims upon the very ground where the cabin was situated. the thought of this cowardly act sent the blood coursing rapidly through his veins, and a desire came upon him to rush forth, confront them, and frustrate their evil designs. this, however, he realised would be of little use. he well knew that martin had not staked the spot upon which he was living. in a way it was his by right of possession, but how that would hold in mining law he had not the least idea. he cared little, anyway, for the legal right, as it was the sense of justice which over-shadowed everything else. did the men desire the cabin? he wondered, and had they taken this under-handed method of procuring it? or did they have some other motive in view of which he was ignorant? dick watched the men until they had finished their task, and made their way back to the river. he was tempted to go over, pull up the stakes they had driven down, and throw them away among the trees. but this he knew would not do. it might lead to complications. he determined, nevertheless, to have a hand in this affair, and that at once. quickly making his way back over the route he had recently travelled, he came close to the river. here he remained until he was sure that the two men had reached the opposite shore. he then walked cautiously toward martin's canoe, pushed it off, and paddled as silently as possible across the stream. it did not take him long to reach his own tent, and when once inside he sat down upon his bunk, and gave himself over to anxious thought. he longed for some trusty person with whom he could discuss the whole affair, and his mind turned naturally to tom, who was up at the new diggings. at first he was inclined to wait until morning to see what would happen. this idea he soon banished, however, and he determined to set off at once for assistance. silence brooded over the encampment as he started forth upon his journey. the numerous tents gleamed white in the light of the moon, and dick paused for a moment to gaze upon the scene. nature was making everything beautiful, and a holy hush reigned over mountains, river, and lake. but what a change would take place on this spot in a few days, nay even when the new day dawned fresh and bright. in a few weeks quaska would be a typical mining camp, where licentiousness would run riot, unless in some way it could be checked. he looked across the river to the house nestling on the slope of the opposite bank, and thought of nance sleeping so peacefully, with no idea of the lone man who on this night was so alert and watchful. with a wordless prayer that she might be kept safe from harm, he moved rapidly along the trail leading up stream. he knew that by keeping close to the river, even though he could not always follow the trail, he would in time come upon the miners. it was still very early when dick came in sight of the first tents close to the bank of the creek. soon others appeared to view, but no living being could be seen. not wishing to disturb any one, and not knowing which was tom's cabin, he strolled along the shore to observe how much work the men had been doing. coming to a large tree he sat down upon the ground, and leaned back against the bole. little did he know that years before, under that same fir, martin and nance had stopped to rest, and that the maiden had played in the sand nearby. had he known of this, how precious would the spot have been to him. he thought of nance, nevertheless, as he reclined there. in truth she was seldom out of his mind. presently he saw her standing before him. the same sweet smile was upon her face, and her hands were stretched out toward him. he noted how small and brown they were, and he reached out to take them in his own. at that instant the vision faded, and he opened his eyes with a start, to see tom standing before him, holding a tin pail in his hand. "sorry i've disturbed ye," and the prospector chuckled. "ye sure looked like a sleepin' beauty." "asleep, all right, but not a beauty," dick laughed, as he sprang to his feet. "it was stupid of me to go to sleep." "why didn't ye come to my shack, pard?" tom asked, as he placed his pail upon the ground. "i didn't know which was yours, tom, and i did not care to disturb the camp hunting around." "h'm! what on earth brought ye out here at sich an unearthly hour? tell me that." "business, tom." "must be mighty special business." "that's for you to judge." "nothin' wrong down yon among the men, i hope?" "nothing special. they were asleep when i left, or most of them, at any rate." "it isn't the lassie, is it?" and tom looked keenly into the young man's face. "yes; it concerns her and her father." tom at once picked up his pail, and soon returned with it full to the brim. "come with me, pard," he quietly remarked. "we'd better talk it out under cover." when once within the tent tom placed the pail of water upon the ground, and turned to his companion. "sit down, pard, an' let's have yer story. speak low, as it's better not to let every ninny hear what ye've got to say." quickly and briefly dick related his experiences during the past night, to all of which tom listened with much interest. when the story was ended the prospector sat for a while thinking deeply. he scratched his head in a characteristic manner. at length he rose, and reached for his frying-pan. "we'll have some breakfast, pard, eh?" he began. "ye surely must need some grub by this time. i brought down a fine sheep out on the hills yesterday, an' a nice juicy piece 'ill do ye much good, i'm thinkin', fer ye look about tuckered out." "i've hardly thought about eating," dick replied with a laugh, "so worked up have i been over this affair." "an' good reason, pard. i'm jist at a loss to express my feelin's at present, so must do somethin' with my hands. it'll all come back soon, an' then i'll tell ye jist what i think about them skunks." "but i'm much puzzled," dick mused. "over what, pard?" "i've been wondering if we can do anything. martin hasn't staked the claim on which his house is situated, and the twins have. now, legally, to whom does that land belong?" tom tossed several pieces of meat savagely into the frying-pan, and watched them for a while as they crackled and sizzled. "legally! legally!" he roared. "what is the meanin' of the word? tell me that. i don't care a damn what has been recorded in any law-book, or what decision wise old owls of judges have come to. sich things don't cut any ice here. that man owns the land on which his cabin is built accordin' to the law of this country. in a frontier sich as this we make our own laws, an' i guess the one we make concernin' this affair won't be fer wrong. there'll be no red-tape about it, either, mark my word. legally! legally! h'm!" and tom gave a grunt of deep disgust as he thrust the knife under the meat to turn it over. "good for you, tom!" dick exclaimed. "i knew where to come for help, didn't i? you voice my feelings exactly. but we must not lose any time. i don't want martin, and especially nance, to get word of this matter. it would worry them, i believe, very much." "oh, they shan't be bothered a mite, pard. as soon as i've had a snack to eat, i'll slip out an' have a talk with old dad, an' a few others i kin trust. it's always well to have several at yer back in an affair like this. talkin' does mighty little good with some chaps unless ye have plenty of power back of yer words. i've found that out time an' time agin. so as soon as we're through with breakfast you turn in to yon bunk, while i stroll around a bit. a few winks won't do ye any harm." when tom had left the cabin dick stretched himself out upon the one bunk the place contained. he did not believe that he could sleep, but felt that a little rest would do him good, and refresh him for the tramp back to the lake. he wished to return as soon as possible, and he hoped that tom would go with him. he was anxious about nance and martin, for he did not know what tricks the twins might be already planning. thinking thus he slept, and when he opened his eyes an hour later tom was standing by his side. "feelin' rested, pard?" was the prospector's cheery greeting. "yes," and dick sprang out of the bunk as he spoke. "i am surprised at myself, for i didn't believe that i could sleep." "ye were pretty well tuckered out, lad, so the nap 'ill do ye a world of good. but i think we'd better be away now. several of the boys are more'n willin' to go with us. they're certainly roused up over what ye say the twins did last night." outside dick found dad seddon, and three other men, all strong, powerfully built fellows. tom had made a wise choice in asking these men to accompany him down stream. they were not given to many words, which was partly natural, and partly acquired through long years in the silent wilderness. but they were men in whose eyes lurked not the slightest semblance of fear. they were friends worth having, but enemies to be dreaded. dick never forgot that rapid march down to the lake. very little was said as they strode forward, and it was still early morning when klutana's surface at length appeared to view. the miners were astir, and the confusion and bustle of a new day had already begun. but the five men headed by tom did not pause until they had reached a tent of moderate size, situated on somewhat higher ground. here the various claims were all recorded, and the recorder was eating his breakfast, which was spread out upon an overturned empty soap box. he looked up with interest as the men appeared before him at the entrance of his tent. "mornin', tom," was his salutation. "struck somethin' good, eh?" "should say not," and tom spoke in a low voice. "have ye recorded any claims this mornin', bill?" "sure thing. but why do ye ask?" "was it the twins?" the recorder's eyes opened wide in amazement, and he looked curiously at the rest of the men standing silently and grimly outside. "have the twins been here this mornin'?" tom again asked. "yes. they routed me up at a most unearthly hour." "did they record claims over on yon bank?" and the prospector waved his hand toward the right. "yes; over the quaska. said they had rich ground there." "d'ye know the locality?" "not exactly. this whole region is so new to me that i hardly know one spot from another." "bill," and tom's voice sank to a deep hoarse whisper, "i believe that the twins have staked martin's place over the river." the recorder gave vent to an exclamation of surprise. he reached over to a small rude shelf, and brought forth the book in which the various claims were recorded. this he studied for a few seconds, and then read off what he had written there that morning. "that's it, an' no mistake!" tom cried. "the skunks! d'ye know where they are now, bill?" "they left here some time ago, and seemed to be in high fettle. i didn't savvey their game, and so paid no attention to their movements." "come, boys," and tom turned suddenly to his companions, "i really believe that those devils are over the river now. let's follow them, an' see what tricks they're up to. thank ye, bill, fer the information. we'll report to ye later." chapter xxi the way of a woman "daddy, what do girls do in the great outside world when they grow up?" nance and martin had just finished their breakfast. it was early, and the morning sun, streaming in through the window, fell athwart the table. pete, the invalid, was still asleep, for the movements in the room had not disturbed him in the least. martin looked curiously at nance as she asked the question. he pushed back the bench upon which he was sitting, and began to fill his pipe. nance sat with her elbows upon the table, her hands supporting her chin, watching him thoughtfully. "young women generally get married," martin at length replied. "that is about all they think of." "but suppose they don't get married, daddy?" "then they stay at home and help their mothers." "but suppose they have no mothers, what then?" "oh, they get out and shift for themselves." "and what do they do to make a living?" "some become servants, others are clerks in stores, dressmakers, school teachers, and so on." "and some become nurses, do they not?" "certainly; i forgot all about them." "well, that is what i want to be, daddy." martin looked up quickly into the flushed face of the young woman before him. "who put such a notion as that into your head?" he quietly remarked. "was it that young man?" "no, not altogether. i have been thinking about it for some time. ever since i read the story of florence nightingale in one of my books i have longed to be a nurse. i am practising every day upon pete, and i know i should like the work so much. i want to be of some use in the world, daddy." "but you are of some use, little one, of great use to me, at least. what would i do without you? you would go away, and i should be left alone." "but i am not of much use to you now," and there was a note of sadness in nance's voice. "you are away all day long out on the hills, so we only see each other morning and evening. once we were together all the time." martin lowered the pipe from his mouth, and his eyes dropped. he knew how true were the words he had just heard, and his heart reproached him. yes, he had spent most of his time on the hills since the arrival of the miners, and he had left nance alone. he had almost forgotten her, in fact, so engrossed had he been with his own thoughts, and the perplexing questions which were always disturbing his peace of mind. but of these he could not speak to nance. he had to bear his burden alone, and not even to the one who was so dear to him could he confide. he looked at her now longingly, and a great fear came over him lest in any way she should learn something about his past life. that she had perfect confidence in him he was well aware. how terrible it would be if she should hear what kind of a man he really was. "are you not happy here, nance?" and his voice was somewhat hoarse as he asked the question. "would you like to go away? if so, we shall start at once. there will yet be time to cross the mountains, and catch the steamer on her return from the north. then, when once outside, if you so desire, you can train to be a nurse." "no, no, daddy, i don't want to go away," nance hastened to reply. "and, besides, there is no need of it, as i can be just as happy here. some one will be needed to care for the miners, and why cannot i help?" "you are talking somewhat wildly, are you not?" martin replied a little sharply. "though you have cared for pete, and have done it well, yet you know hardly anything about nursing. a very thorough training is necessary to make one proficient." "but i may learn here, daddy. dick," and at the mention of the name the flush upon her face became more apparent--"told me that he expects a trained nurse in soon on one of the steamers." "did he! well that's news to me. where is she to stay, pray?" "at the hospital, which is to be built." "h'm. is that so?" "yes. and dick told me something about the woman he expects will be sent in to take charge of the hospital. she is known only as nurse marion. she has been working along the yukon river for years, and she has done so much for the miners. they love her just like the soldiers loved florence nightingale. dick thinks that she will come, for it is always she who goes into new places, and starts the hospital work. i do hope that nurse marion will come, for i long to see her. i never saw a white woman, except my mother, and i was too young when she died to know anything about her." "she was very beautiful, nance," martin replied, "and you look just like her." "do i, daddy? i didn't know that i am beautiful. but if i look like my mother used to then i must be. you have often told me about beryl, how beautiful she is, and i have often wished to look just like her. dick says that nurse marion is beautiful, that she has a sweet face, wonderful eyes, and can sing better than any one he ever heard. he said that it is fine to hear her sing by the side of sick people. her voice is so comforting, and she always seems to know exactly how the patient feels and so sings accordingly. dick said that she had some great trouble in her life which turned her mind to nursing that she might help others who suffer. oh, i think her life must be so grand. i know that i shall like her, and i hope that she will let me help her in the hospital. so you see, daddy, i will be of some use in the world, and be right near you at the same time." martin made no reply to these words, for his mind was strangely disturbed. the description nance had given of nurse marion made him think of beryl. yes, she, too, was beautiful, had a sweet face, wonderful eyes, a rich voice, and her life had been a troubled one. tom had said that she had become a trained nurse after she had recovered from her illness. there was such a strong resemblance between nurse marion and beryl that martin felt that they must be one and the same person. only the name puzzled him somewhat. but perhaps she had changed it when she entered the nursing profession as she had changed the whole manner of her life. and was it possible that she was coming, the only woman in the whole world whom he longed to see, and yet the only woman he dreaded to meet face to face? yes, he knew something about those wonderful eyes of which nance had spoken. with what a loathing scorn would they be turned upon him if he should ever see her again. but, then, that must never be. if the nurse proved to be beryl she must not know that he lived at quaska. a sudden impulse seized him to leave the place, such as had come over him when dick russell and the miners had arrived. then it was for nance's sake he had remained. now this sudden longing to flee was restrained by a strong desire to behold once more the face of the woman who, during all the years of his voluntary exile, had been so much in his mind. he wondered if she had changed much since he last saw her at the church in the city years before. would she recognise him if she met him now? he mused. it was hardly likely, for she would not associate a rough bearded man with the trim martin rutland she had known so long ago. but one thing was certain: she must never be allowed to cross the threshold of his house. if she did come to quaska, and nance should become acquainted with her it was only natural that nance should wish to bring her home. no, such a thing must not happen. "nance," and martin lifted his eyes to the place where she had been sitting. he was surprised to find that she was not there. "what is it, daddy?" was her cheery response, as she came to his side. "i am looking after pete, getting his breakfast." "why, i didn't know that you had moved. i did not hear a sound." "and didn't you hear pete and me talking?" "no, not a word," at which remark both pete and nance laughed heartily. martin also smiled at what he called his own foolishness. "nance, come close, i want to speak to you," he commanded. "promise me," and here his voice dropped to a whisper, "that if any white woman comes to quaska you will never invite her to this house without speaking to me first." seeing the surprised look upon nance's face, he caught both of her hands in his, and held them firm. "promise me," he ordered. "i promise, daddy," was the somewhat faltering reply. "there, that will do," and martin released her hands. "you have never told me a falsehood, nor disobeyed me, so i know that i can trust you." nance was deeply puzzled over martin's words and manner. never before had he spoken to her so sternly and mysteriously. she was disappointed as well, for she had been revolving in her mind of late what a great pleasure it would be to have nurse marion come over to their house very often. they would be such friends, so she had planned. and now she must always ask her father's permission, and even then he might not grant her request. a form bulking large in the doorway caused her to cease her meditation, and look keenly at a thickset man standing there. without knocking he entered, followed by another man. the night prowlers had arrived to take formal possession of the claims they had staked. martin rose to meet them, and looked inquiringly into their faces. they were strangers to him, and he thought that perhaps they had come to see the invalid. "are you looking for pete?" he asked. "he's over there," and he pointed toward the bunk. "naw. we've come to see you," dave replied. "we wish to inform you that you're settled upon our claims, an' we're here to give you notice to quit." martin looked first at the one and then at the other, uncertain whether they were in earnest or only joking. but the expression upon their faces, and the look in their eyes told him that they meant business. "i don't understand you," he at length replied. "what do you mean by 'claims,' and 'notice to quit'?" "ye don't? well, ye damn soon will," was the gruff response. "we've staked our claims upon the ground where your shanty is pitched. the land is ours, so you get out at once. see?" at these words martin straightened himself up with a sudden jerk. "don't you know that i own this place?" he asked. "i cleared this land, and built this house years and years ago. i hold it by possession. why should you wish to take it from me? there is all the land on this side of the river unstaked. can you not let me live here in peace? why do you need my small piece of ground?" "that's nothin' to do with it," sam retorted. "we've staked this spot, an' we want it, so that's all there is about it." "but suppose i am not willing to give it up, what then?" "oh, we'll soon settle that," and the men laughed as they clapped their hands to their hip-pockets. "we've something here which speaks pretty loud, an' to the point." "but is this legal?" martin insisted. "i have the land surely by possession, so it is mine by right of ownership." "might is right in this country," and dave spat contemptuously upon the floor. "that is the only law we know here, or pay any attention to." "is that so?" these three brief words caused the twins to look quickly to the right, and at once their faces underwent a marvellous change. nance was standing there, with her lithe figure as straight as a reed. she was looking quietly along the barrel of martin's rifle, and the slight forefinger of her right hand was gently pressing the trigger. the visitors had paid no attention to her before, so engrossed had they been with martin. but now they suddenly realised that here was a new force to be reckoned with upon which they had not counted. nance stood before them transformed. her face was very pale, but her eyes glowed with the light of determination, which the two baffled men were not slow to notice. "i will shoot the first one of you that moves a hand," nance warningly remarked. "fer god's sake ye wouldn't, miss," dave faltered. "ye don't mean it, surely?" "indeed she does," martin replied. "don't fool with her if you value your lives. she's a dead shot, as many a grizzly has found out to his cost." in the silence which followed these words it was almost possible to hear the heart-beats of the two confounded men. "are you going to leave this place?" nance asked slowly and deliberately. "will you promise never to come here to bother us again?" no response coming to this request, nance continued: "i am going to count ten, and while i am doing it you can think over what i have said. that is all the time i shall give you. one--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine----" "hold, hold, miss," sam interrupted. "i'll leave. i'm not going to have my brains blown out." "so will i," dave assented. "and you will never trouble us again?" "no, no," came simultaneously from both men. "wait a minute," nance commanded. "i am not through with you yet. might is right, so you say. just put your hands above your heads. there, that's better. now, daddy, please take those weapons out of their pockets; they are not safe things for such men to carry." never before had the twins been in such a fix. it was bad enough to be held up, but to be held up by a woman was gall and wormwood to their reckless natures. yet they had great respect for the blank frowning muzzle of that rifle, and the determined figure holding it so confidently in her hands. they did not dare to lower their arms, and they were forced to submit to the ignominy of having their revolvers removed from their hip-pockets. "nice weapons these," martin calmly remarked, as he held the two revolvers in his hands. "suppose we keep them, nance, as souvenirs. they might come in handy some other time. and perhaps they'll be useful now," he continued, after a pause. "you say that you staked claims here last night, eh?" "yes," was dave's surly response. "well, then, you can just go out and pull them up. nance, keep the rifle upon them until they finish the job, and i'll bring these weapons along, too, in case they are needed." "yes, daddy," nance replied. "i am not going to lower this rifle until the stakes are all up, and these men have cleared out." the feelings of the two scoundrels were by no means enviable as they were ordered out of the house, and then commanded to undo their work of the past night. not only were their hearts bursting with rage, but they felt very deeply the humiliation of their position. to be driven by a woman from stake to stake like slaves before a taskmaster upon whom they could not wreak their revenge was something they had never before experienced. then, while in the midst of their work, the arrival of dick, tom, and the rest of the band, filled their cup of shame to overflowing. the miners took the whole situation in at a glance, and derisive shouts of laughter burst from their lips. "hard at it, boys?" tom shouted. "it's rather early, isn't it, to be workin' so hard?" "when did ye make up yer minds to obey a woman?" dad asked. "ye've changed yer tune since last winter about being bossed by any female, ha, ha!" "got yer claims all worked?" sneered another. "yer pullin' up yer stakes mighty soon. where's yer clean-up?" to all of these jibes the two wretched men made no response. they hurried from stake to stake, and when the last had been torn out and thrown savagely upon the ground, they turned and faced their fair young captor. "now, will ye let us go?" sam snarled. he longed to express his feelings in more vehement words, but his courage was not equal to the occasion. "yes, you may go now," nance replied, as she dropped the butt of the rifle upon the ground. "my! that tired my arms." the twins were about to scuttle away, when tom stopped them. "hold on a minute," he commanded. "i want a word with ye. ye may consider yerselves mighty lucky to git clear of this job with whole skins. the lassie an' her dad have been mighty good to ye. mebbe it wouldn't have been the same if we'd happened along a little sooner. ye might as well know first as last, dave pelchie, and sam purvis, that if ye interfere with this property agin ye won't git off as easy as ye have this time. so git out of this as quick as ye kin, fer the sight of yer measly faces makes me sick." the miners watched for a while two defeated and crestfallen men as they skulked down to the river. then, with tom leading, they all shook hands with the heroine of the day. "we're proud of ye, miss, that's what we are," tom exclaimed. "hear, hear!" agreed his companions. but dick, as he took her hand, held it a little longer than the rest. their eyes met, and though no word fell from their lips, a language which the others could not understand passed between them--the language of the heart. chapter xxii heart searchings dad seddon was delighted with the part nance had taken in the drama which had just been enacted. his eyes beamed with admiration, and the somewhat surly expression vanished entirely from his face. "by the horns of a moose!" he exclaimed, turning toward the young woman, "i did feel mighty sore that first night ye beat me at chess. it was a great come-down, so i thought, to be licked by a woman. but i fergive ye now, fer ye've done a deed this mornin' which makes us all proud of ye." "how would you like another game?" nance laughingly replied. "we haven't had one for some time." "what! this mornin'?" "certainly. right away." "it's a go. i'm there every time. bring on the weapons of war, an' we'll have a royal battle." tom and the rest smiled good naturedly at the old prospector's enthusiasm. they stayed for a while watching the two facing each other across the little deal table. then, after a few words with pete, they swung away from the cabin toward the river. "we've important business over yon," tom had explained. "we may be needed there jist at present." all through the day martin's mind was much concerned about the incident of the morning. he tried to reason out why the twins should wish to take possession of his property when there was so much unclaimed land lying all around on that side of the river. he thought of the gold buried behind the house, and wondered if in any way the secret had become known. but who was there to tell the white men? he asked himself. nance had not done so, he was quite sure of that. then the indians suddenly flashed into his mind. perhaps they had been questioned as to the old diggings up the quaska. the natives, no doubt, well remembered how he had dug there years ago. he at once thought of taku. this indian had been down the river among the miners at the time of the great stampede, and he might have told them something. acting upon the impulse of the moment, he seized his hat and hurried over to the indian encampment, straight toward taku's house. he found the native and his wife at work upon the fish they had recently taken from the lake. "doing a good business, taku, eh?" martin asked, sitting down upon a stone nearby. "ah, ah," was the reply. "white men take all you catch, eh?" "ah, ah." "did the white men pay you well for your trip down the heena this spring?" martin further questioned. "ah, ah. good. tobac, tea, gun, coat." "you were there when they got back from the quaska?" "ah, ah. beeg tam." "what did they say about the gold, taku?" the native paused at his work, and mused for a while. "talk moche," he at length slowly replied. "no savvey beeg hole." "what hole?" "up quaska." "they asked you, did they? you told them?" "ah, ah." "that i made the holes?" "ah, ah." "and did you tell them where i put the gold?" "ah, ah. me tell two," and the indian held up the fore and middle fingers of his left hand. "oh, i see!" martin responded, more to himself than to the native. he now comprehended everything, and how the twins had learned about the hidden treasure. but how could he blame taku? the indian had not been told to keep the matter a secret. in fact, it had been of little importance to him then, as at that time he had no idea of the value of the gold the white man had unearthed. leaving the encampment, martin walked slowly back to his own house. he now understood the purpose of the two men who had staked their claims upon his land. it was the gold they wanted and nothing else. he was surprised, too, for he had often heard of the code of honour among miners and prospectors. gold was seldom meddled with, and cabins were always left unlocked. a sneak-thief was looked upon with contempt, and considered the very essence of abomination. martin stayed close around the house all day. he discussed with nance what he had learned from taku. "i do not feel safe, little one," he said. "our house will be watched day and night." "never fear, daddy," nance replied. "those two men will hardly venture back again. most likely when the other miners hear of it they will drive them out of the place." it was only when dick came over in the evening that they first learned what had happened in the mining town. the young man was much animated this evening, and told in an amusing way the whole story. "tom is really a brick," he declared. "i knew that he was all gold, as the miners say, but it takes something out of the ordinary to stir him up. then when he is once aroused it will be well for his opponents to be on their guard." "what has he been doing now?" nance queried, unable to restrain her eagerness to hear about what had taken place over the river. "well, as soon as we had left here this morning tom got busy, and gathered most of the men together, and told them in his own quaint way about what had happened to the twins." "were they present?" martin asked. "indeed they were not. they kept pretty close to themselves all through the day, and didn't show their mean faces in public once. tom was the orator, and the impression that he left upon his hearers was wonderful. he told in a most graphic manner how the twins had pulled up the stakes at the point of a rifle, and how back of the rifle was a woman. you should have heard the miners laugh and jeer. some were for stringing the twins up to the nearest tree; while others wished to drive them out of the place at once. but tom thought it best for all to agree to ask the twins whenever they met them about the claims they had staked, and when they intended to begin work upon them. he suggested that they might mention as well about the beautiful moonlight nights, what shy creatures women are, and so on. he certainly did set it off in glowing colours, and the men were wildly excited over the idea. they agreed that it would be greater fun for themselves, and a severer punishment for the two rascals than driving them away from quaska." "but will it be safe, do you think?" nance asked. "the twins might be so angry that they might do some harm." "where are their revolvers?" and dick's eyes twinkled. "oh, they are safe," martin laughed. "no; they won't shoot," dick continued; "they are too cowardly for that. they are not only cowards but idiots as well to do what they did last night. now, if some men had been in their place i doubt whether you would have got off as easily as you did. they would have done some mischief. but the twins were too much afraid of their skins after you got the rifle levelled upon them." "where did they stay while the meeting was going on?" nance asked. "in their own tents. they must have known that something was astir, and that it was better for them to keep close." "and they didn't venture out for the rest of the day?" "no; stuck close at home. when the meeting was over several of the miners strolled by their tent and made some pretty pointed remarks, which the twins must have heard and understood. it is evident that they can't stay hidden all the time, and they will certainly receive a bombardment when they do come out." "has tom gone back up river?" martin asked. "yes; on special business." "special business? of what nature?" "it concerns the building of a hospital. it will mean quite a cost in money and labour, and tom and i have had several long serious talks over it of late. before the miners dispersed this morning tom sprang a surprise upon them as well as upon me. he told in a few plain words how very necessary it is that there should be a hospital built at quaska for the sick and injured men. he referred to what you have been doing over here, and at that the miners gave a rousing cheer. i wish you could have heard them, it would have done you good. all agreed that tom's suggestion was an excellent one, and they at once volunteered to help with the hospital as much as they could." dick did not tell martin and nance of the little speech he had made, in which he had promised to give his services free, and how a nurse was expected on one of the incoming steamers. all this appealed strongly to the miners, and they had expressed their approval in no uncertain manner. martin listened to all that dick had to say about the hospital which was to be built, and his plans for the future. he noted the animated look upon the young man's face, and the old longing came back into his own heart to be up and doing at a similar undertaking. the missionary had much to live for, and the love which he had for his work was great. but what was there for him to do? he asked himself. always a voice whispered in his ear, "thou shalt not!" there was a barrier which separated him from that field of sacred work to which he had pledged himself years before. as the days passed this longing instead of subsiding increased. the fire of anger and rebellion, which for years had burned so fiercely in martin's heart, died down. no longer did he look upon the church as his great enemy, and all clergymen as bound menials. he saw things in a different light, and realised as never before that the beam was in his own eyes which had distorted his vision. in the past he had the spirit of pride and anger to sustain him. these were the crutches upon which he had depended. though wounded, he had held up his head and stood upon his feet. the church then was the overbearing monster, and there was a certain grim satisfaction in the thought that he had cast it off forever, and that it could affect him no longer. but now that these props had been removed, upon what could he depend? if at times during the past years of his exile he had suffered, it was as nothing to what he now endured. he fled to the hills under the pretence of hunting the mountain-sheep, and there he wrestled with the spectres of his shame and despair, which were his constant companions. at night he would return to his home, creeping along the trail with head bent, and face drawn and haggard. but as he neared his house his form would always straighten, his step quicken, and his eyes brighten as nance came forth to greet him. in her presence he always tried to be cheerful. but at times he would forget himself, and while at supper he would slip back into the old mood which had held him in thrall throughout the day. then as he crouched there with the wan dejected look upon his face nance would watch him with apprehension, and sometimes would speak to him, asking if he felt ill. this would always startle martin from his reverie, and with an effort he would make some excuse for his strange behaviour. although nance pretended not to see anything amiss with her father, she was, nevertheless, much concerned. why did he leave her so often? she asked herself, and why those strange spells of absent-mindedness, and the haggard expression upon his face? after supper martin would sit quietly by himself listening to the story of the hospital, for dick came every evening, and he always had much to tell about his work during the day. nance's eyes beamed with interest as he told of the cutting of the logs, floating them down the quaska, and the struggle they had in dragging them up the bank to the right spot near the river where they were to erect the building. dick worked as hard, if not harder, in fact, than any one else. he not only chopped, hewed, tugged and lifted all day, but he did all the planning as well, besides encouraging his co-workers. the miners took turns at the work, and every day there were several new volunteers. how full of thankfulness was the missionary's heart when at length the exterior of the building was almost completed. of course there was much work still ahead of him. there were the walls to be chinked with moss and mudded; there were doors and windows to be made; the floor to be built; partitions to be put up; cots, tables, shelves, and other things to be constructed, which would take weeks of steady work. all this he expected to do himself, except for the occasional assistance he was sure to receive from tom, dad, and a few others. but what pleased the missionary more than anything else was the good will of the miners, and the hearty spirit in which they assisted him. he had been brought into close contact with a number of them, and they had all voted him a real good fellow. as dick talked each night of the work done throughout the day, and what he hoped to do on the morrow, nance would listen with the deepest interest. martin would sit and smoke without saying a word. it was impossible for him not to like the young man, who was so thoroughly in love with his work. but the more martin heard of the progress of the hospital, the deeper the iron entered into his soul. he did not actually envy the missionary, but how he longed to be full of such enthusiasm, and to be doing a work of a like nature. but this he knew could never be. not for him could there be a return through that door which had closed to him forever. and as he watched the two happy ones before him he felt like a monster of deception. he presented to them the life of trust and honour, but they could not remove the veil and behold that other old life, which was ever grinning horribly upon him, giving him no rest day or night. how long could he keep this up? he asked himself. would some one unmask him, or would he be forced to do it himself, that he might find the peace of mind which he so ardently desired? chapter xxiii the meeting every evening the missionary brought the news over the river as to the progress he was making upon the hospital. one room he had reserved for the nurse who should come, so he said, and he was fitting it up as comfortably as he could. this would be her home, and nance when alone often wondered what it was like, and how it would look when the stranger arrived. "how are the twins getting along?" martin asked, as they sat one evening outside the door. "oh, they left several days ago," dick replied. "the place got too hot for them." "in what way? did the miners threaten them with bodily injury?" "no, not a bit of it. they simply carried out the suggestion which tom made at the meeting. on all sides, and at every opportunity the twins were assailed with questions about the claims they had staked, when they intended to work them, and if they expected to get good results. to these they would either reply with oaths, or remain silent and slink away. if they happened to be present at the saloon, or where several men were gathered, the conversation was always sure to drift off to revolvers, and whether a woman could handle a rifle. then some one was certain to ask the twins for their opinion. i cannot tell you exactly how the whole thing was managed, but there was really nothing the twins could do, though they were always boiling over with rage. the miners would talk of nothing else while they were present. then one night the two scoundrels vanished, where to no one knows. the place is well rid of them. it will teach others to leave you alone after this." "i am so glad," nance replied, "but i cannot help feeling sorry for those men. they did look so funny, though, pulling up the stakes, while tom and the rest were making all kinds of remarks." "you have been a heroine among the miners ever since," dick returned. "there is nothing that they would not do for you now. you are under their special protection, and they have vowed to lynch the first man who ever interferes with you or this place again." a blush suffused nance's cheeks at these words, while martin gave a sigh of relief. he had been worried and annoyed over the affray, but now he felt thankful that they were to be left undisturbed in the future. one morning, just a week after this conversation, martin and nance were aroused by several raucous blasts of a steamer. rushing outside, they saw the _northern light_ ploughing across the lake, straight toward the new mining town. her decks were black with people, and as the two watchers hurried to the shore they could see a number of women among the passengers. there was considerable excitement on board, and much cheering as well both on the steamer and on land, where the miners had gathered on the bank. there was no wharf, but the boat curved gracefully around, and as the water was deep, she was able to swing close to the shore. when tied up, and the gang-planks run out a great scramble took place, while the hum of voices fell strangely upon the ears of the two silent ones over the river. nance was all excitement now. never before had she beheld the forms of white women in the quaska region, and she was most anxious for a closer inspection. "oh, daddy!" she exclaimed, "those women must be nurses. dick didn't expect so many, i am sure. isn't it too bad that he is up at the diggings with tom? suppose we go over and tell them where he is?" but martin laid a heavy hand upon her shoulder, which caused her to look up into his face in surprise. he surmised only too well who the women were, and the object of their visit into the country. but how should he tell nance? how could he explain? "they are not nurses, little one," he at length answered, and then remained silent, uncertain how to proceed. "not nurses! then who are they?" and nance looked her astonishment. "they are bad women who flock into every camp such as this. they drink, gamble, and--lead men astray." "oh! i thought that all women were good, daddy." "unfortunately not all. and look, nance, you are not to have anything to do with those women, see?" "yes, daddy," but a note of disappointment was apparent in nance's voice. "but there may be nurses among them," and her face brightened at the thought. "not likely. they would hardly have time to get the message from the _northern packet_, and return on this boat." nance made no reply to these words, but stood silently watching the anxious crowd near the steamer. she was sorely grieved that she could not go over to the place, for she longed to look upon the white women, hear them talk, and to see how they were dressed. "when the nurse comes may i see her, and talk with her, daddy?" she presently asked. "ye-s," was the somewhat reluctant assent. "i have no objection to your meeting with good respectable women, but not with such as have come on that steamer to-day." nothing more was said about the matter then, and ere long they both went back to the house. but nance was more restless than usual. the outside world of which she had so often dreamed was being brought to their very door, and her blood was being stirred as never before. she wanted to see, hear, and learn how people, and especially women, acted who had lived in the great world of civilisation. she wished to know of things of which she had been ignorant so long. about the middle of the afternoon nance picked up her violin, and strolled over to the indian encampment. she could express her feelings better upon the violin than in any other way, and quabee was always so pleased to listen to her. she found the indian woman near the shore, and received a hearty welcome. quabee was squatting with several other native women upon the ground, watching with much interest the steamer lying against the opposite bank. "come in canoe on water?" she asked, as nance drew near. "what, over there?" and the latter pointed to the farther side of the lake. "ah, ah. go by beeg canoe, eh?" nance was quite ready for the trip, as she would thus be able to go quite close to the steamer, and obtain a better view of the women. in a few moments the canoe was skimming over the surface of the lake, straight toward the steamer. nance as well as quabee wielded a paddle, and a pretty sight she presented, seated well astern, and guiding the craft as wilfully as she pleased. she saw several women standing near the bow of the _northern light_, and heard one exclaim: "oh, look at the indians in the canoe! how pretty!" during the brief space of time in which they were passing nance was able to get a fairly good view of the women, and nothing escaped her eyes. they were young, good-looking, and their shapely figures were clad in neatly-fitting dresses, such as she had never seen before. she glanced at her own rough clothes, and for the first time realised how mean and humble they were. what must dick think of her? she mused. surely he had often compared her poor dresses with the handsome ones he had seen outside. she was now glad that her father had not consented to go over to the steamer that morning. what would the women have thought of her? she would have caused them no end of amusement. nance was as eager to get away from the steamer as a few minutes before she had been anxious to be near it. heading the canoe diagonally across the lake, she drove her paddle into the water with a sudden swish. in a short time she ran the craft around a sharp point into a little cove where the trees came close to the water's edge. laying her paddle by her side she let quabee run the canoe gently ashore, and then looked back over the route they had just traversed. the steamer was hidden from view, and she breathed a sigh of relief. a new mood was now upon her such as she had never experienced before. she longed to get away and hide from everybody, except her father and the indians. she did not even wish to see dick, for she could not bear for him to look upon her dressed in such humble clothes. her heart beat fast as she thought of the many times they had been together, and she did not know that she was dressed differently from other white women. nance, in fact, was wrong in thinking that her clothes made her look ridiculous. the material was rough, but the dress she wore was neat, and fitted to perfection her lithe figure. had she only known that her simply-made garments seemed to dick's eyes most becoming, she would not have felt so badly. there was nothing artificial or bizarre about them such as he had often seen upon women of her age. in fact, anything that she wore would have appeared appropriate to him, for she herself added the charm which was all essential. knowing nothing of this, and considering herself a disgraceful and ungainly creature, nance sat for some time in the canoe lost in thought. quabee wondered at her unusual silence, and at length, turning, she pointed to the violin. "mak' music, eh?" she nodded. almost mechanically nance picked up the instrument, tuned it, and began to play. after a few moments the old-time spirit came upon her. the music acted like a tonic. the heavy mood of depression disappeared, and her natural buoyant self reasserted itself. tune after tune she played, and the sweet strains sounded out over the water. presently quabee touched nance upon the arm, and motioned her to look to the right. coming toward them was a canoe, containing a woman, and a white woman at that. nance laid her violin carefully in the bottom of the canoe, and then fixed her gaze upon the approaching stranger. her eyes grew large with wonder as the woman drew near. never before had she beheld such a person. this must be one of the women who had come on the _northern light_, she thought. and yet she did not look bad. surely her father must have been somewhat mistaken. that face with the large, expressive, pathetic eyes and sweet mouth could have no connection with evil. she noted the noble poise of her head, the erectness of her body, and the skilful manner in which she handled the craft. a sunny smile illumined the stranger's face, as she drew in the paddle and laid it across the canoe. "pardon me," she began, noting the looks of astonishment upon the faces of the two women before her. "i heard the music floating across the water, and thought that there must be fairies hidden in this cove, and now i have found that i was right." then an expression of sadness came into her eyes as she looked keenly upon nance. she believed that this was one of the women who had come in on the _northern light_. "i didn't hear you playing on the steamer," she continued after a brief pause. "where did you keep yourself and your violin hidden all the way up the river?" then nance knew that this stranger had mistaken her for one of the bad women of whom her father had spoken. at once her face flushed with resentment. no doubt this is one of them, she considered, and so she must not speak to her. she turned away her eyes and spoke to quabee in the indian tongue. the latter roused herself, seized her paddle and dipped it into the water. the stranger saw that in some way she had offended the young white woman, and she hastened to rectify her mistake. "forgive me!" she cried. "i am afraid that i have made a foolish blunder. let us introduce ourselves, and then perhaps we shall be able to understand each other better. i am nurse marion, and have come to this place to take charge of the new hospital. but the lake is so calm this afternoon that i could not resist the temptation of a ride over its glassy surface in this canoe which i borrowed from an indian." nance's face cleared instantly, and a sigh of relief escaped her lips. "then you are not one of those women over there?" and she motioned toward the steamer. "no, no!" was the emphatic reply. "and neither am i. this is my home, and my name is nance. this is quabee, my indian friend from childhood." "and have you really lived in this country all your life!" the stranger exclaimed in surprise. "yes, ever since i was a little child. i live over there with my father," and she pointed to the right. "you cannot see the house as that point hides it from view." nurse marion was not slow in noting the correctness of nance's speech, the beauty of her face, as well as her quiet dignity and natural refinement of manner. she was much impressed, and longed to know more about her. "is your mother living here, too?" she asked. "i should like to meet her. i am so pleased that i shall have such nice neighbours." "my father and mother are both dead," nance replied. "they were drowned when i was very little." "oh! but you said that you lived with your father." "he is not my real father, though he has been one to me all my life, and i have known no other. he took me from the indians after my parents were drowned, and we have lived here ever since." "and how did you learn to play the violin so well?" "my father taught me. he plays much better than i do. if you once heard him you would not wish to listen to me." "i should certainly like to hear him," the nurse returned, "and i hope to do so shortly, that is, if i may visit your home sometime. but how lonely you must have been in this country before the miners arrived." "why no, i didn't mind it one bit. the indians have always been very good friends to us, and quabee here is almost like a mother to me. then, there are so many beautiful things everywhere, the trees, birds, flowers, mountains, and this lake. i love them all." "but didn't you get lonely during the long winters, especially in the evenings?" "not at all. we had our violins, and it was so nice to sit and play before the bright open fire. we had our books, too, and often a game of chess." "books!" the nurse exclaimed in surprise. "do you mean that you read them yourself?" "certainly," and nance laughed at the other's astonishment. "but how did you learn to read?" "my father taught me, as he taught me everything else." "he must be a remarkable man, and i should like to meet him." "indeed he is, and he has always been so good to me." "you haven't told me his name yet, have you?" "it is martin." "martin what?" "rutland--martin rutland." at these words nurse marion gave a slight start, but recovered herself immediately. her cheeks, flushed by the exercise of paddling, became very white, while her eyes looked straight before her among the trees on the shore. that name brought back memories which she believed had long since been buried. her brain throbbed as she endeavoured to piece together the things she had just heard. but for the name it would all have passed as a matter of general interest only. now, however, it was different. she pictured to herself martin rutland as she had known him years ago. the last time they had been together he had played for her upon his violin. then came the terrible blow, and she had not heard one word from him since. could it be possible, she asked herself, that this was he? had he fled away into the wilderness, and lived ever since among the indians, caring for this orphan girl? she longed to ask more questions, but could not trust herself to do so just now. but she was determined to find out the whole truth, and nance was the one who could help her. and suppose it really was martin! her heart beat wildly as she thought of it, and a sudden weakness came upon her. had the people at the mission station down river been able at this moment to look upon nurse marion, who always was so calm and self-possessed, they would have been greatly surprised. but nance and quabee saw nothing unusual, so delighted were they in having this wonderful white woman near them. "would you like to come with me to the hospital?" the nurse at length asked. "oh, may i?" nance replied. "it would be so nice." "we will go at once, then. perhaps you would like to help me to fix up my room." the look in nance's eyes told their own story of joy, as she dropped her paddle into the water, swung the canoe about, and headed it for the opposite shore. chapter xxiv within the little room nance's eyes were big with wonder as she walked by nurse marion's side from the shore of the lake up to the hospital. they did not go by way of the river, but landed near the steamer, and thus passed through the busiest part of the town. quabee kept close behind nance, and seemed to pay no attention to the curious glances which were cast upon her. never before had nance been brought into contact with so many people. when the stampede had taken place, and the prospectors and miners passed into the quaska region, she had been astonished at the number of men she saw. but this crowd around her now was most bewildering. the natural timidity which she possessed with the creatures of the wild came upon her. she moved closer to the nurse, and the latter, noting that she was trembling with apprehension, placed her right arm caressingly around her. "there is nothing to fear, nance," she soothed, speaking the maiden's name for the first time. "the men know who i am, and, see, some of them are lifting their hats. though they are rough at times outwardly, they always respect a nurse from our mission." and not only did some of the men know nurse marion, but those who had come on the first steamer recognised nance. they knew that it was the first time she had been over to the town, and they now showed their appreciation of her courage in defeating the twins by lifting their hats to her as well as to the nurse. they were not slow to see the difference between the women who had entered the country merely for evil gain, and the one who had come to care for the miners. for the former they had uncouth remarks and jests, but for the latter only the highest regard. nance was greatly relieved when at last the hospital was reached. the large room, which was to be used for patients, was all finished except the fitting up of the cots. the place was fresh and new, just as the workmen had left it. everything was rough, from the walls and the roof to the floor of whip-sawn planks, and the rude standees where the patients would be placed. several large well-filled canvas sacks were lying upon the floor, which nance eyed curiously. "they are all filled with bedding, and things to brighten up the room," the nurse explained. "we had to work almost night and day to get things ready to catch the _northern light_. we had such a short time in which to do it after we received mr. russell's letter calling for a nurse." "it is too bad that dick isn't here now," nance replied. "he didn't know that you were coming to-day, or i am sure he would not have gone up river." "who is dick?" the nurse asked. "i never heard of him before." "why, the missionary, of course. the men all call him dick here, and he told me to do the same." "oh, i see," nurse marion mused. she nevertheless looked keenly into the face of the young woman before her, but she saw only the perfect innocence of a child in her clear blue eyes. after a while they passed into the room where the nurse was to live. this was a bright cosy place, and nance was delighted as she looked eagerly around. "and this will be your home!" she exclaimed. "how nice it will be!" "yes, when it is fitted up," was the reply. "you will help me, will you not? i have unpacked some of my things, but there is much to do yet." nance was greatly pleased to be of any assistance, so, directed by the nurse, she at once set to work, while quabee, squatted upon the floor, watched with great interest all that was going on around her. nurse marion was pleased and also surprised as she observed the deft way in which nance busied herself about the room. she did everything so quietly, and yet speedily. at times the nurse found herself neglecting her own work and watching the movements of the girl in whom she was becoming so much interested. where did she learn all these things? she asked herself. her foster-father must surely be a most remarkable man. she thought, too, of his name, and wondered how she was going to find out more about him, and whether he was the same man she had known years before. an idea came suddenly into her mind as she knelt by the side of a small bag she was unpacking. she hesitated at first, but at length she drew forth a package, carefully tied with a faded blue ribbon. she held it in her hand for a while before opening it. how well she remembered the sad day after her illness when, with trembling hands, she had tied up that little package. she had never opened it since, although she had carried it with her wherever she went. slowly now her fingers loosened the knotted ribbon, and smoothed out the paper wrapping. nance saw what she was doing, and with the impetuosity of a child knelt by her side. "what are they?" she asked, observing several pieces of cardboard. nurse marion lifted up the one on top, and turned it over. "why, it's the picture of a man!" nance cried. "he is young, too, and so good looking. doesn't he wear a funny collar? is he your brother?" "no, no, not my brother, nance. he is some one i knew long ago, but i haven't seen him for years." she then picked up another photograph, showing the same young man clad in his robes of office. it was a good likeness, and the nurse caught her breath as she looked upon it. how often in the happy days of old she had held that picture before her and studied the fine face, the clear eyes, and the dark hair brushed back carelessly from the brow. how full was her young life then, he was her hero, and the future was very bright. "what a funny dress!" nance exclaimed. "i never knew that men wore such things." "he was a clergyman when i knew him," the nurse replied, "and during service he always wore his robes, which you see here." "do all wear them?" "no, not all." "does dick?" "yes, i suppose so when he holds service. all the clergymen of the church to which i belong do." nurse marion's little ruse had failed. she thought that perhaps nance might recognise the photographs of her foster-father. but not a sign of recognition did she give, so the nurse slowly and thoughtfully folded up the pictures, tied once more the ribbon around them, and placed them back in the bag. in her own mind nurse marion held one clear vision of the martin rutland she had known. to her he had not changed in the least, and she could not dream of him as a long-bearded man, hair streaked with grey, and hands rough and toil-worn. when, therefore, nance did not recognise him in the photographs the nurse began to think that he could not be the same man to whom she had once given her heart and hand. and yet she was not satisfied. the idea which had taken possession of her haunted her still, and while her hands were busy her mind kept constantly dwelling upon the name. the sight of the photographs had brought back memories which she could not stifle, try as she might. she talked with nance, and seemed to be in the gayest of moods as they fitted up the room, using every effort to overcome its bareness with the few meagre things she had brought with her. when they were at last through they both sat down upon the little cot, which was to be the nurse's bed. "this certainly does look more homelike now," the nurse declared, looking approvingly around the room. "you have been such a help to me, as well as company. i do not like to work alone." "it is so nice here," nance replied. "may i come often? you do not know what it means to have a white woman to talk to." "but it seems to me that you have learned many things here in the wilderness, nance. unless you had told me i could not believe that you had never been with a white woman before. i suppose it was your father who taught you so much." "yes, daddy has been so good, and he knows most everything. besides, i learned so much from the books i read, and how white women lived and talked. but there is one person who has been of such great help to me." "what, some one living here?" the nurse asked. "oh, no. i have never seen her, but i have heard much about her." "from whom?" "from daddy. when i was quite young he told me many things about her, and i have always kept her in my mind, and tried to be just like her." "indeed! tell me more, please," and the nurse settled herself in a more comfortable position. "well, when i was very small daddy used to tell me fairy tales, which were so interesting. the one i liked best of all was about the man who had a beautiful garden. there were all kinds of flowers, and he had to care for them. then one day he hurt one of the flowers, and he was not allowed to look after the garden any longer. he went away and wandered about from place to place for years. at last he went into the wilderness, and there he found a little flower, which he took with him, and they lived together for a long time. the name of that little flower was heart's ease. don't you think it is a pretty story?" "and was heart's ease the name of the woman you had in your mind all of these years?" and the nurse looked questioningly into the face of the young story teller. "oh, no. there was another. daddy told me about one of the flowers in the garden which felt so badly at what the gardener did. he said it was the most beautiful flower of all. then when i got older he told me that this flower was a woman, very lovely, with wonderful eyes, and that she could sing so beautifully." "oh!" this involuntary exclamation came from nurse marion's lips as she sat erect upon the cot. her form trembled, and her face was white. she now began to read this story in its true light, and what was merely a fairy tale to nance, to her was terribly real. "yes," nance continued, "the flower was a woman, and daddy told me so much about her that i wanted to be like her. i would sit hour after hour thinking about her, and wondering how she looked and talked. she seemed very real to me. isn't it funny," and nance turned toward the nurse, "that when i look at you and listen to you i imagine that you are my beryl?" "beryl!" the word came from the nurse's lips like a startled cry. she grasped nance's arm, and looked into her eyes. "did you say the woman's name was beryl?" "yes, that was her name. but are you sick?" she asked, noting the other's white face and excited manner. "no, no, i am all right now," and the nurse gave a little hollow laugh. "i was so much interested in your story that i forgot myself for the moment." all doubt was now removed from nurse marion's mind as to the identity of nance's foster-father. it could be no one else, she felt sure of that. she rose to her feet and looked out of the little window at the east side of the house, but saw nothing beyond. her brain was throbbing, and her hands were firmly clenched. what was she to do? she asked herself. would it be possible for her to remain in this place, so near to the man, the history of whose life she so well knew, and who had almost broken her heart? would it not be better for her to go back on the _northern light_, and send some one else in her place? but how could she explain such a move on her part to the people at the mission station down river? would it not appear cowardly as well? no, she must stay and face whatever might come. this decision once reached a sense of peace stole into her heart. strive as she might she could not banish the desire to see martin rutland once more. but she did not wish to see him face to face and thus have him recognise her. no, that would never do, the gulf was too deep and wide between them ever to be bridged again. if she could see him and not be known herself that would be a degree of satisfaction. she longed to know if he had changed much, and how the years of his remorse had dealt with him. an exclamation of surprise startled her and caused her to turn quickly around. there in the doorway stood the missionary with an expression of intense wonder stamped upon his face. his eyes swept the room in one swift comprehensive glance, resting upon quabee, nance, and, last of all, the woman standing before the window. "why, nurse marion," he began, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from his astonishment, "i had no idea that you were here. it is too bad that i happened to be away when the steamer arrived. i am so sorry that i was not on hand to welcome you. but if it is not too late, allow me to do so now," and stepping across the room he held out his hand. "oh, don't worry, mr. russell," the nurse laughingly replied. "i have been well looked after, and have been having such an interesting time." "i am glad of that," and dick turned and looked fondly upon nance, whose face was now beaming with joy. "i might have known that everything would be all right." nurse marion saw the look of complete understanding which passed between the two, and she needed no words to explain its significance. "you have made a very cosy room for me here, mr. russell," she remarked, "and i wish to thank you for what you have done. i am sure that i shall be comfortable." "it is not so bad, considering what has been done," and dick glanced approvingly around. "my, i am glad that you are here. a poor chap got badly hurt out at the diggings, and several miners are bringing him in over the trail. i hurried on ahead to see if i couldn't fit up a place in here to keep him." nurse marion was all alert now. "we can fix up a cot at once," she replied. "if you will open the bales, nance will help me to get ready, won't you?" and she turned to the interested girl at her side. "oh, may i?" nance responded, eager to be of any service to this woman, who seemed such a wonderful person in her eyes. chapter xxv the river flows between "where have you been, nance? i was getting uneasy about you." martin was standing in the door as nance approached. he noted the expression of happiness upon her face and the buoyancy of her step. "oh, daddy, i have had such a great time!" was the reply. "i have been over to the hospital." "to the hospital! what in the world took you there?" "it was nurse marion. i have met her, and she is wonderful." at these words martin started, and glanced across the river to the log building perched upon the opposite bank. he then turned to nance. "come, little one; supper is ready. i have been waiting for you for some time." nance was too greatly excited to eat much. seldom had martin seen her so animated, as she described in detail her afternoon's experience. "i wish you could see her, daddy," and nance's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she turned them upon martin's face. "you really must. won't you take me over this evening? i know she would like to see you. she asked me many things about you." "she did?" martin questioned with averted face. "yes, several times, and i told her how you taught me to play the violin, to read, and, in fact, all i know is due to you. she was greatly interested, and said that you must be a wonderful man." "did she ask you what my name was?" "oh, yes. i told her, too, that you were not my real father, but that you had brought me here when i was a very little child." "what did she say?" "she seemed surprised, and asked if i didn't find the life here very lonely." "go on," was martin's only comment as nance paused. "it was so nice in her room, and she let me help her fix it up. daddy, i wonder if all white women--i mean good ones--are like nurse marion." "why do you ask, nance?" "i hardly know how to explain," the girl replied, looking thoughtfully before her. "nurse marion is very beautiful, but there is something about her i cannot understand. her eyes are wonderful. they seem to be always seeing things far away. even when she was smiling there was a sad expression in her eyes. do you know, daddy, i believe that she has had some great trouble in her life." "what makes you think so, nance?" "it was the way she stood at times, and looked just at nothing. she wondered how i knew so many things, having lived all my life in the wilderness. i told her that you taught me, and that i got help from the books i read. i told her, too, about beryl, and----" "you did!" martin exclaimed. "what did she say?" "she listened until i was through, and then she went and looked out of the window for some time." "oh!" "yes, it seemed to make her sad. but that wasn't all. when we were unpacking her things she came to a small package, wrapped in paper, and tied with a piece of faded blue ribbon. she opened it and showed me two pictures of a clergyman, so she said." "what! but go on, nance. don't stop." "in one picture the man was dressed in a funny way, 'in his robes of office,' so nurse marion said. i thought he must be her brother, but she told me that he was a man she knew years ago. he was young, fine-looking, and----" "you wash up the dishes, nance," martin interrupted. "i am going outside for a while." with that he strode to the door, leaving nance sitting at the table, thinking over what she had seen and heard, and dreaming, of the time when she would be a nurse like the woman over the river. she noticed nothing strange about her father's sudden departure. if she had thought of it at all she would have attributed it to a lack of interest in what she had been talking about. she had barely got the dishes washed and put away, when martin returned, bringing with him tom and dad seddon. hearty were the greetings which fell from the lips of the two prospectors when their eyes rested upon nance. "we couldn't stay away any longer," tom remarked, as he gave the young woman's hand a hearty shake. "we've been jist dyin' to see ye. dad's got several chess problems up his sleeve all ready to hand out." "that's good," nance laughingly replied. "i haven't had a game for some time. would you like to have one now?" "sure thing; that's if you have time." soon the board was spread out, the chessmen arranged, and the two players faced each other, while martin and tom sat near at hand smoking and watching the game. "how did you happen to come in to-day?" nance asked, turning to tom, as she waited for dad to make a move. "we brought in tim cyr, who got knocked out at the diggin's, an' a mighty surprise was waitin' fer us when we got to town, i can tell ye that." "oh, i know," nance eagerly replied. "you found nurse marion there, didn't you? isn't she lovely?" "indeed she is, miss. she's all gold, if i don't mistake. ye should have seen the way she looked after tim an' helped the doctor. why, i never saw anything like it." "and didn't she have things fixed up in great shape," dad remarked, taking his eyes for the first time from off the game. "oh, i guess somebody helped her with that," tom chuckled. "she told me all about it." "did she?" and the look on nance's face showed her delight. "it was so nice to be there. she is the first white woman i ever met, and i hope to see her often." "ye won't find all like her, remember, miss," and tom's voice had a note of pathos in it. "she is one in a thousand. not many would be willin' to come in here to help us poor critters. now, them other women, they're here fer no good, an' they're bound to cause a lot of trouble. something has got to be done, an' i believe that the parson'll take a hand in the matter to save the boys. before the women came there was the whiskey. now, with both women an' whiskey things are bound to be pretty lively. the saloon is goin' full blast, an' the parson has been worryin' a good deal. it was in kernection with this matter that he visited us at the diggin's to-day. he outlined his plan, an', by jiminey! we're goin' to help him." "sure thing," dad assented, as he swung up his queen, in an effort to corner nance's king. "we'll stand by the parson. check!" "mate!" nance triumphantly cried, bringing up a knight, and completely cornering dad's king. "well, i'll be jiggered!" the prospector exclaimed, as he studied the clever trap into which his opponent had led him. "i didn't see what you were up to till the last. my! that was well done, an' you certainly do deserve the game," and he lifted his eyes, filled with admiration, to the flushed face of his fair young woman, who had outwitted him so cleverly. "i hope the parson'll do as well at his game over yon," tom quietly remarked. "i'm afraid there'll be many checks before it's mate in his case. but he's got good grit, an' that's a great thing in his favour. he's made a fair start so fer in gittin' the hospital built, an' havin' a nurse brought in. as soon as the boys see that he goes in fer practical religion, an' if they've eyes at all they must surely see it by now, then they'll be with him. i think that next sunday 'ill tell the tale." "what's going to happen next sunday?" martin quietly asked. "didn't i tell ye? no? well, that's queer," and tom ran the fingers of his right hand through his long hair. "to think that we fergot to mention sich an important piece of news, an' it was what took the parson all the way out to the diggin's fer, too." "quit yer croaking, tom, and come to the point," dad growled. "if you don't i'll have to." "feelin' sore over yer lickin', are ye?" tom bantered. "well, the parson has been doin' some serious thinkin' of late, an' so he wanted our advice. he knew that the miners at quaska an' on the creeks need some attraction to keep them away from the saloon, an' to give 'em 'an' uplift,' as he calls it. he, therefore, suggested that we hold a bang-up service next sunday night in the hospital. we agreed that it was a fine idea, an' promised that we'd do all we could to round up the boys. i don't think there will be any trouble in gittin' 'em, especially if there's plenty of music an' singin'. with two fiddles a-playin' the boys 'ill do the rest." this mention of the violins was a little ruse on tom's part in order to see how martin would take it. but the latter made no comment. he sat very still, looking straight before him, and tom alone noted the expression upon his face, from which he surmised that the quiet man was fighting a fierce, stubborn battle. "ye'll play, lassie, won't ye?" tom asked, turning to nance. "i know that the boys would like it great, an' the parson--well, he'll about stand on his head." "i should dearly love to play," nance laughingly replied, "that is, if daddy will let me. but perhaps i might break down in the presence of so many men. i am sure to get nervous, and will hardly know what i am doing." "don't let that trouble ye, miss," tom hastened to reply. "ye have the nurse with ye. maybe she sings, an' if she does so much the better. then, if everything goes off well at the first service, the boys 'ill be sure to flock back ag'in, an' the saloon will be a heavy loser." martin sat for a long time outside the door of his house after the two prospectors had gone home. nance, tired out, was asleep. sounds from the mining camp fell upon his ears. he could hear the loud talking and laughing, mingled occasionally with the voices of women. lights twinkled here and there throughout the town, while the saloon down by the lake was ablaze with numerous candles. a hilarious time was being held there, he well knew. he compared the scene now with what it was before the miners came. then peace and quiet dwelt over the entire place instead of the discords which were making the night hideous. one small light, trailing out into the darkness, held martin's attention. it came from the hospital, and he thought of the woman there who was keeping watch over the patient. this was her first night at quaska, and he realised how lonely she must be. he had no doubt now that it was beryl. the description which nance had given, and what she had told him, made him certain that it could be no one else. he marvelled how strangely it had come to pass that she of all women should come to quaska. he thought, too, how differently their lives would have been but for his own terrible fall. no doubt they would be living in their own happy home, respected by all. but oh, how opposite the reality. there was beryl, lonely in that building over yonder, and he himself a dejected outcast, with the future holding not a ray of hope, and the past only gall and wormwood. what would beryl think and do, he wondered, if she knew that he was so near, with only the river flowing between? but she must never know, so he told himself. then a great longing came upon him to see her, to look upon her face once more. it would be so easy, he mused, to slip over the river, and peer in through the window from which the light was streaming. he banished this idea, however, as unmanly, and so contented himself with thinking about beryl as he knew her in the sweet old days before they were separated. and so on this night while martin sat and dreamed, a lonely, tear-stained-faced woman stood at the little window of her room and gazed out into the night, thinking of him, who was so near, and yet so far away. and between these two flowed the silent river, dark and swift on its way to the deep lake below. chapter xxvi the face at the door next morning nance was up earlier than usual. her step was light as she moved about the room preparing breakfast. she was happier than she had been for many a day, for the meeting with nurse marion had a wonderful effect upon her young life. she was thinking now of everything the nurse had said. she wanted to be like her, and then she was sure that dick would not be ashamed of her. she thought, too, of the hospital, and how delightful it would be to assist with the patients. she was very anxious to be over there, for she felt certain that the nurse would need her. the idea of a service on sunday night interested her very much. she had some doubt about her ability to play. she felt sure that she would be nervous, and perhaps break down. but then she knew that dick and the nurse would help her out, so everything would be all right. she wondered if her father would go over to the service. if so, and he consented to play, it would make it so much easier for her. while these thoughts were running through nance's mind martin drew near. he had taken his early morning walk as usual, after having made on the fire and called nance. he heard her humming a tune before he reached the door, and he was not slow in detecting the note of happiness which could only come from a heart overflowing with peace and joy. he paused upon the threshold to look upon her. though always fair and graceful to his eyes she seemed to excel in loveliness as she stood before him this morning. nance greeted him with a bright smile as he entered the room. "breakfast is all ready, daddy. you must be hungry." "indeed i am," was the reply. "my walk has sharpened my appetite." together over the meal the two discussed the affairs at the mining town. the scraps of news they had heard were of much interest. but nance's mind was upon nurse marion, and about her she talked. she told her father over again what had happened at the hospital on the previous day. martin did not attempt to restrain her. in fact, he did not wish to do so now. he listened attentively to every word she uttered, and at times found himself leaning eagerly forward that he might not miss anything. "and only think, daddy!" she cried, "nurse marion wants me to help her whenever i can. she said she was so pleased to have me, and i told her that i would go if you would let me. and you will, daddy, won't you?" "yes, little one, if it will make you happy. i can trust you with--with nurse marion." "but i will look after our house, daddy, just the same. i will cook, wash, and do all the house work. i shall get up very, very early, and attend to it. then i can spend the afternoons at the hospital, and learn so many things from nurse marion. i long more and more to be a nurse, and i know that she will teach me. won't it be strange, daddy, to see the hospital full of miners next sunday?" "it certainly will, nance. but perhaps not many of them will be there." "you will go, daddy, will you not?" nance asked. "i don't see how i can play alone. if you are there i shall not mind it one bit." "nance?" and martin looked straight into the maiden's eyes as he uttered her name. "yes, daddy." "i want you to promise me two things." "yes, daddy." "you are never again to ask me to go to any service across the river, neither are you to inquire as to the reason why i wish you to promise me this." "yes, daddy, i promise," was the faltering response. "that's good. now don't forget, little one." martin's mind was now doubly agitated. he became exceedingly restless, and spent most of his time out on the hills. here, and alone, he could brood over the strange events which had come so recently into his life. besides the deep stirring of his heart, owing to beryl's arrival, he was face to face with the question of the service to be held at the hospital sunday night. his thoughts went back to the days when he would have looked forward with joy for the time to arrive when he could take part in the beautiful service of the church to which he had once belonged. but now an outcast, not only by his bishop, but also by his own conscience, the punishment was almost more than he could endure. how truly did he understand the words of the aged bishop. he had laughed scornfully at them then, little realising how terribly true they were, and how the day would come when their fulfilment would give him such intense mental agony. often he would sit under the shade of some tree, and look down over the lake, especially upon the hospital, which appeared like a speck in the distance. he would picture beryl--not nurse marion to him--moving about the building, and attending to the wants of the patient. he knew that nance was there most of the day, talking with beryl, and looking into her face. the latter was constantly before him, not as a nurse, with hair streaked with grey, but as he had seen her seated at the piano on that christmas eve as he watched her through the window of her old home. all the love which he then had for this beautiful woman came back upon him with greater intensity now because of the smouldering fire of long years, and the thought that she could never be his, nor could he speak to her, nor listen to her voice. every night martin would come back home with face drawn and haggard, and an absent, far-away look in his eyes. nance became much worried about him, and confided her trouble to dick. "perhaps it is the arrival of the miners that is affecting him," the latter suggested. "it may be that," nance mused. "still i cannot understand him. he is away from home most of the day, and when he comes back he looks so strange. i asked him to go to service sunday night and play with me." "will he?" dick eagerly inquired. "that would be such a help." "no, he will not go, and he made me promise that i would never ask him again." "why? i wonder." "he made me promise further that i would never ask him to tell the reason why he would not go." "oh!" dick was as much puzzled as nance over martin's strange behaviour, and the next day he mentioned the matter to tom. it was sunday afternoon, and the prospector had come into town to be early for the service, and to assist in any way he could with the preparations. "so he refused to come an' play, did he?" tom questioned. "refused point-blank, so nance said, and he made her promise that she would never again ask him to go to service, nor the reason why he would not do so. now, what can you make out of that?" "he's a reason, no doubt," was the reply. "don't you remember, tom," dick continued, "how strangely he acted when we first came to his house last spring?" "i haven't fergotten, pard. he certainly did act queer. it was a problem to me." tom didn't say that it was a problem no longer. he understood now very well why martin was unwilling to attend the service, and accordingly had demanded those promises from nance. but nothing would induce him to divulge any of the knowledge of martin's past life which he himself had acquired. "what people don't know about sich things," he had said to himself, "won't do any harm, an' it might make matters very uncomfortable fer martin an' the lassie." martin was unusually quiet all day sunday. he did not go out to the hills, but sat under the shade of a large tree near the house, reading, or pretending to do so. nance was with him most of the day reading a book nurse marion had let her have. it was entitled "in the service of the king," and dealt with the work of trained nurses in all lands. several chapters told of the heroic services of devoted women in the mission fields. nance was thrilled and delighted with the book. at times she would call her father's attention to some striking passage, and read it to him. as the afternoon waned nance left home, for nurse marion had invited her to tea in her little room. "you do not mind my leaving you, daddy?" she asked, putting her arms around his neck, and giving him an affectionate kiss. "i am always pleased to see you happy, little one," martin replied with a smile. but as he watched her as she moved lightly down to the canoe, carrying her violin with her, a great loneliness swept over him. he knew that in reality nance's heart was not with him, but over the river with dick and the nurse. the thought that she could go to the service with such a free-from-care spirit pressed heavily upon his soul. he saw now that the time was not far off when she would be no longer with him to kiss him good-bye. a new life of freedom and service was opening up to her, while for him the future held only misery in store. the associations of the wilderness would attract nance but a little longer, he could see that, and then he would be left alone. martin prepared his supper, but ate little, as he missed the familiar form at the head of the table. he soon pushed back his stool, rose and went to the door. the room appeared unbearably close to-night, and he needed the freshness of the open air. he sat outside, lighted his pipe, and smoked. his eyes were fixed constantly upon the hospital across the river. he knew that it would be late before the service began, for the miners would not gather until darkness had spread over the land. thus hour after hour he remained there, and had nance looked forth she might have seen his form appearing like a speck against the log building. but she was too much engaged with other things just then to think of the lone watcher on the opposite bank. the sun swung down behind the tall mountain peaks, and twilight settled over the land. then martin rose, closed the door of his house, and walked rapidly toward the indian village. here he obtained taku's canoe, and paddled slowly out upon the lake. several times he passed by the mining town, and noted the stir about the door of the saloon. near the hospital, some distance away, scarcely a person was to be seen. was the service to be a failure after all? he asked himself. at length he saw a number of men sauntering toward the river, followed after a while by others. thus he knew that the movement for the service had begun. he continued his paddling around, keeping at the same time a close watch upon the land until he felt sure that all who were going had entered the hospital. he then headed the canoe up the river, stopping at length at the very place where nance had landed that afternoon. trees lining the bank draped the shore in deep shadows, and here martin crouched, listening with straining ears for whatever sounds might come from the building above. he had not long to wait before he heard the sweet strains of nance's violin sounding forth upon the still night air. it was the familiar tune of a well-known hymn, and soon he heard numerous voices lifted up with one accord. when the singing ceased a deep silence ensued. then some one began to speak, and martin knew that the missionary had begun the service. occasionally a few familiar words reached him, and he was thus enabled to follow what was being said without much difficulty. as he remained crouching there amid the deepening darkness, he pictured to himself what was taking place within the hospital. he could see the miners seated around the room on rough benches, and the missionary standing before them reading the service. nance, no doubt, was near, holding her violin in her hands, waiting for the next hymn. but where was beryl? he wondered. was she sitting near nance? the memory of the many times he had seen her seated at the organ in the church in his first and only parish came upon him now with a sudden stabbing intensity. he recalled, especially, one bright, beautiful july day. the windows of the church were open. bees hummed among the flowers outside, birds chirped and sang, while the perfume of fragrant fields was wafted into the building. there were sweet flowers, he remembered, upon the communion table, and on the organ. beryl, all in white, was sitting in her accustomed place, and during the service he stole an occasional glance in her direction. he noted the happiness upon her face, and the expression of love in her eyes as she played. how full of peace and joy was his heart that day. he had been lifted up to the seventh heaven of ecstasy. and yet from that state of bliss he had fallen, and had plunged into the deep abyss of hell and despair. he thought of the angels who had been driven headlong out of heaven, and of the first parents thrust out from the garden of eden. to have known the joy and peace of walking with the master made the sting of banishment all the more terribly poignant. the sound of the violin again striking up roused martin from his reverie. the tune as before was familiar, and he hummed it to himself. but this time there was no chorus of discordant voices. one alone was singing, and the crouching man started, and then sprang to his feet as the sound reached his ears. it was a woman's voice, and he at once recognised it as beryl's. "there were ninety and nine that safely lay in the shelter of the fold; but one was out on the hills away, far off from the gates of gold, away on the mountains wild and bare, away from the tender shepherd's care." martin stood there beneath the trees, every nerve alert, and his ears strained so as not to miss one note of that voice which had been silent to him for years. suddenly an over-mastering impulse seized him to behold once again the face of the singer. he accordingly moved up the hill like a man impelled forward by some unseen power. reaching the corner of the building, he paused just for an instant, and then stepped to the door, which was wide open, and looked in. his eyes roamed for an instant around the room. he saw as in a dream the miners seated there, almost breathless, with their faces turned in one direction. then his eyes rested upon beryl! as he saw her he clutched the side of the door for support, while his face went deathly white. yes, it was she, there was no mistake, the same form, the same face, though more worn than when last he beheld it, and the same sweet voice, but filled with a vibrant note of sadness. "and all through the mountains thunder riven, and up from the rocky steep, there arose a cry to the gates of heaven, 'rejoice, i have found my sheep!' and the angels, echoed around the throne, 'rejoice, for the lord brings back his own.'" when the last note had rippled forth, a silence which could be felt pervaded the room. then a sound, half sob and half wail of despair, caused the miners to look hurriedly around. those nearest the door caught a fleeting glimpse of a face white and haggard, which disappeared instantly into the night. later, when nance walked slowly homeward, with dick by her side, martin was sitting before the door of his house awaiting her return. chapter xxvii the inner impulse the success of the service showed the necessity of a church building. there might come a time when the hospital could not be used, owing to the number of patients. dick had often revolved this idea in his mind, and he believed that the time had now arrived for definite action. but it was not his intention to have a building which would be closed six days in the week and open only on sunday for service. no, it was to be used every day, and during the evenings as well. it was to be a place where the evil influence of the saloon and the dance-hall could be counteracted. he sadly noted how soon the latter had been erected after the arrival of the women, and how well it was patronised. the church building must be cosy, and serve as a place where the miners could meet in genial intercourse, play games, smoke, and relate their experiences in the northland. it was to be a reading-room as well, for he knew that by the time the building was ready he would be able to have on hand a liberal supply of magazines from the mission station down river. they would be somewhat old, to be sure, but that would make little difference, as the miners were hungry for reading matter of any kind. when dick unfolded his plan to tom and dad they became at once very enthusiastic, and promised to do all in their power to assist. they in turn mentioned the idea to a number of miners, but with little success. a few agreed to help, but most of them were indifferent. this did not discourage the missionary, however, and his little staff of workers. they very well knew that a church building would not appeal to the miners half as much as a hospital. but if it could be built it would prove as great if not a greater benefit in the end. it was nurse marion's interest and encouragement which did so much to advance the scheme. often in the evening the faithful band would gather at the hospital to talk over the whole matter and discuss plans for the building. nance could not always be present, so the nurse would talk it all over with her when they were alone during the afternoons. nance was thus enabled to carry the news to martin, who listened with great interest to the new project which was now on foot. and thus once again dick plunged into the forest, axe in hand, to prepare the logs for the little church. tom assisted him for a whole week, while dad looked after the mines. summer was passing all too rapidly, and the days were perceptibly shortening. it was a great sacrifice on tom's part to leave the diggings just at this season. but he could not see the missionary stuck. "it may be," he quietly remarked to dad, "that helpin' to build the church 'ill do me more good in the end than diggin' gold. what we dig out yon, dad, 'ill perish, but in hewin' these sticks i'm feelin' that i'm layin' treasures up yon in the world to come." besides giving of their time and labour tom and dad contributed as much as they were able of their gold. in this way several idle men were hired to work upon the building. others gave sparingly, and thus the undertaking steadily though slowly advanced. but wages were high, and at last the day came when dick found himself alone, and with no gold to employ any one to assist him. it was impossible for his two faithful friends to be with him now. a long hard winter lay ahead, and as they had recently got their mine in good working order, it was necessary for them to keep at it almost day and night, if they were to take out enough gold to last them until spring. the thought of winter had given dick considerable worry ever since the arrival of the steamer. many people had flocked into the region, and others would follow later, who had little money, and who had staked claims on creeks tributary to the quaska, where there was very little gold. what they would do when the cold weather set in was a problem which he had discussed not only with tom and dad, but with martin and nance as well. game was becoming scarce in the vicinity of quaska, as the moose and caribou were retreating farther into the hills from the presence of the white men. dick was also troubled about the church, as he feared that he would not have it finished before winter. he was doing all he possibly could, and he worked hard every day. it was always a comfort for him to slip over in the evening to see nance. her presence cheered him when most depressed. she looked upon the bright side, and he always went back to his task the next morning with renewed courage. martin was often a silent listener as dick talked about the church, and the fear which was tugging at his heart lest it would not be completed in time to be used that season. "there are men on the creeks," the missionary explained one evening, "who would be glad of a job if i only had some money to give them." he was sitting gazing absently into the fire as he spoke, with nance and martin seated near. "they have had bad luck, and are about stranded. the stores will not trust them, so i understand, and what will become of them is hard to tell. it is a pity that they didn't go out on the last steamer. they were urged to do so, but they were determined to stay to make good." "won't the rest of the miners help them?" nance asked. "the ones who have done well will surely not allow them to starve." "oh, no. i believe that they will share with them, or at least some will. but many of the men who are hard up will not ask for help. they will live in their lonely shacks far up on the creeks. they will roam the forest for game, and subsist on half a meal a day. they will brood and worry all through the winter, and when the long nights come their position will be about unbearable. i have heard of such cases before. some will starve to death, while others will go out of their minds. i fear that we shall have many sad cases on our hands before spring." "are the stores well supplied with provisions?" martin asked. "i have never been over to find out." "yes, i believe there is plenty to last all through the winter if it could be equally distributed among the miners. but those who are able to buy will get most of it, while others will get very little." "will the prices go up later, do you think?" martin queried. "i am sure they will. the storekeepers will wait until navigation closes, and then they will jump the prices. they always do that, so i understand. i call it a mean business." four days after this conversation martin returned from a trip up the creeks. nance, who was preparing supper as he entered the house, noted the buoyancy of his step, and the new expression which shone in his eyes. he appeared to her like a man who had been groping for something for a long time and at last had found it. a smile even spread over his face as nance greeted him with cheerful words of welcome. "my, that supper smells good!" he exclaimed, as he laid his rifle aside. "i am almost starved." "have you travelled far to-day, daddy?" "yes. i have been over several of the creeks. i wanted to find out how much dick knows about the condition of the miners out there." "and did you?" "partly. i've not been over all the creeks yet, but so far i have learned that he is right. there will certainly be much suffering this winter." martin said nothing more about his visit to the creeks, but that evening, much to nance's surprise, he brought forth his violin, and asked her to accompany him. it was the first time that he had done such a thing since the arrival of the miners. "what shall we play, daddy?" nance queried as she tuned up her violin. "something sweet to-night, little one. anything that strikes the fancy." he then began to play the air of "ninety and nine." "sing it, nance," he commanded. "do you know the words?" "i have them here in this book which nurse marion let me have," was the reply. "but, oh, i wish you could have heard her sing it last sunday at service. it was wonderful, and the men were so still when she got through, except one person near the door." "and what did he do?" martin inquired. "he made a strange noise, something between a sob and a cry." "did any one know who it was?" "no. we were talking about it afterwards, and tom said that the words of the hymn must have struck some poor chap pretty hard to make him cry out like that." martin made no reply, but played the tune over softly, while nance, with the book open before her, sang the words in a clear, sweet voice. the former sat for a while when the hymn was ended, with the violin resting upon his knees. "i can't play any more to-night, nance," he at length remarked. "put this away, please," and he handed the instrument to her. that night after nance had gone to bed martin sat for a long time before the dying coals of the fire. he held in his hand a sheet of note paper, on which he had traced with a lead pencil the quaska river and the various creeks running into it. on these latter he had made certain marks, which indicated where the cabins of the miners were situated. several were close together, but most of them were far apart. on a number of the creeks he had made no marks at all. "i must visit them as soon as i can," he mused. "i learned to-day that one man is a long way off, living in a cabin all by himself, without even a dog for a companion." it was after midnight when martin at length folded, up the paper, put it into his pocket, and rose to his feet. he listened attentively, until satisfied from her regular breathing that nance was asleep. then taking the candle in his hand, he went at once to the strong-room at the back of the house. unbarring the door, he opened it, entered, and closed it carefully behind him. crossing to the middle of the room, he lifted the trap-door and, holding the light in his left hand, peered down upon the treasure which he had not looked upon for years. it was all there just as he had left it, with not a gleaming grain molested. near by was a tin can which he had used in bringing the gold from up river. seizing this, he placed it near the hole and, scooping up the gold with his hand, he soon had the can filled to the brim. this accomplished, he replaced the trap-door and, passing out of the room, shut to and barred the door as it was before. picking up a piece of paper lying on a shelf, he scrawled a few words with his lead pencil. folding up the paper, he pressed it down on the inside of the can so that only a small portion was left in sight. picking up the can, and blowing out the candle, he passed out of the house, shut the door, and hurried down to the shore, where his canoe was lying. it did not take him long to cross to the opposite bank, where he landed, as he did the previous sunday night, just below the hospital. carrying the tin of gold in his hands, he moved cautiously up among the trees. the night was quite dark, but he was able to see the building rising up black before him. he did not stop now at the front of the hospital, but moved around to the side, where he knew there was a separate door leading into beryl's room. his steps were more wary than ever now, for he was afraid lest the least noise should betray him. reaching at length the door, he placed the can upon the sill so that it could without any doubt be seen when beryl opened the door in the morning. his errand completed, martin breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped back among the trees. he did not leave at once, but stood there for some time, with eyes fixed upon the room in which he knew beryl was sleeping. he looked toward the door. it was there where she passed in and out, and her feet had often touched that sill. he started suddenly forward several paces, and, stooping, he impulsively pressed his lips to the hard board sill. then he sprang hurriedly back, surprised at his own action, and, delaying no longer, plunged among the trees, and hastened to the river. after breakfast the next morning martin again went into the strong-room and, opening the trap-door, picked up a number of fine nuggets, and placed them in his pocket. he then went back to the living-room and informed nance that he was going over the river and might not be back for several hours. nance was somewhat surprised at this, for martin had always persistently refused to go with her to the town. she watched him as he paddled his canoe down the river, and then along the edge of the shore until he came to the steamboat landing, where he ran ashore. beyond this she could not follow his movements. her curiosity was now much aroused, which was by no means lessened when she saw him returning about two hours later with the canoe loaded with supplies from the store. she ran down to the shore to meet him, and was greatly excited when she saw the quantity of provisions he had on board. "why, daddy!" she exclaimed, "have you cleared the store all out?" "not at all," was the laughing reply. "i had no idea that the stores were so well stocked with provisions. they will hardly miss what i have brought away. they thought that i was a miner." "but what are you going to do with it all, daddy? we couldn't use so much flour, rice, bacon, beans, tea, and sugar in two years." "couldn't we, dearie? are you sure of that?" and martin's eyes twinkled as he looked into nance's puzzled face. "we'll store it away in the strong-room, and this winter you will see how we can use it. there will be five times as much before i am through, or else i am greatly mistaken. you need not mention to any one at the hospital what i am doing. it is just as well for people not to know too much, see?" nance helped her father to carry up the supplies and store them carefully away. she longed to know what he intended to do with such a quantity of provisions, but somehow she did not dare to question him any further. martin sat for a long time before the fire that night after nance had gone to bed. he held a book in his hand, though he read but little. his thoughts were elsewhere, and an occasional sigh escaped his lips. at length he arose and crossed the room to his cot, and drew forth from beneath it a small box. this he opened and took out a little package, carefully wrapped in an old piece of faded brown paper. carrying this back to the fire, he sat down. his hand trembled slightly as he undid the covering and looked upon the newspaper clipping which was exposed to view. long years had passed since he had last read the story of his shame and disgrace. he had never desired to do so since nance had come into his life. but now he wished to read that account once again. with the new impulse that had come to him he believed that he could do so without any of the old feeling rising in his heart to torture him as formerly. carefully he read every word, and then laid the clipping upon the book lying on the table by his side, and gave himself up to thought. his whole past life rose before him with wonderful clearness. nothing was omitted. he wished to view everything before shutting it out from his mind, as he believed, forever. a new man was rising within him, which was to cast off the old. it was late when he rose from the chair, closed the book, placed it upon the shelf, and then threw himself upon his cot. chapter xxviii the keepsake every day nurse marion was kept busy at the hospital. she had three injured men to look after now instead of one, and from early morn until late at night she cared for her patients. she found nance of great assistance, and looked forward to her arrival every afternoon. in fact, she was more drawn to this maiden of the wilderness than to any other woman she had met for years. she was charmed with her simplicity and naturalness of manner. there was nothing artificial about her. she had none of the languid veneer of many of the young women in towns and cities. she was so anxious to learn, and quick in acquiring knowledge, that the nurse was delighted. during the few weeks that they were together it was remarkable the progress nance made in the ways of house-keeping, sewing, and cooking, as well as looking after the patients. beryl needed a companion upon whom she could depend. for years her life had been a lonely one, notwithstanding her constant activity. people loved her, and the miners down river almost worshipped her. for them there had always been a ready smile and a sympathetic word of cheer or comfort. but none knew of the great sorrow which had come into her life years before, nor the heaviness of her heart at times as she went about her daily duties. try as she might she could not banish from her mind the one who had been the cause of her sorrow. hers was not a nature which could lightly put away precious memories and reach out and enjoy things which were new. her love had been too deep and sacred to be cast off at the least pretext or provocation. she had often heard young people talking about love as something that could be worn to-day like a beautiful robe and cast aside to-morrow and forgotten. of such a love she knew nothing. love to her was an inseparable attribute, constantly with her, and forming a part of her very being as the fragrance is to the rose. of her past life, and the longing which still dwelt in her heart for the one whom she had never expected to see again, she could not speak to others. the mere idea of bringing forth all of those memories for people to gaze upon and discuss was most horrible to her sensitive nature. there was nothing in common, not the slightest link, between the ones she daily met and her own past life. they could lavish their affection upon her, praise her, and admire her, but still she felt alone. she could touch the world of activity and seem to take her place naturally among men and women, but they could not enter into her life. there she had remained alone until nance crossed her path. then a marvellous change had taken place. nance was not only different from others she had met, but she was the one link between the past and the present. to no one had beryl breathed martin's name after his disgrace. but with nance it was otherwise. she could talk to her freely about him with no reserve whatsoever. during their quiet afternoon hours each day she skilfully drew from nance the story of her young life as far back as she could remember. often beryl's eyes would fill with tears as she listened to the brave, earnest struggle martin had made to care for the waif of the wild, and to develop her mind. nance told her story well, and the listener hung on every word with the most intense interest. often the nurse would watch nance as she moved about the room. she was really martin's child. he had stamped upon her his own personality. she even spoke as he did, and beryl noted that she pronounced certain words with the same accent that she knew was peculiar to martin. the more she was with nance, and learned from her lips of what her foster-father had done for her, the more deeply wrung was beryl's heart. she recalled the fierce denunciations which had been heaped upon him after his fall, while she alone had been silent. a great longing now came into her heart to publish to the world the story of what he had done for an orphan child in the northern wilderness. if those who had denounced him the most bitterly only knew, she often said to herself, would they not think of him in a different light, and judge him less harshly? "you must be very happy here, nurse," nance naã¯vely remarked one afternoon, as the two were sitting by the window. "why, what makes you think so?" was the surprised reply. "because you are so beautiful, and do so much good to others." nurse marion's cheeks flushed, and her head bent lower over her work. "do you know," and she lifted her eyes to her companion's face, "that i have often thought the same thing about you?" "about me! oh, nurse, what could make you think such a thing?" "you are pretty, happy, and you have done much." "i never knew that i was pretty until dick told me, and i am glad that i am--for his sake. but what have i done in life? i have had no chance like you." "if i am not mistaken, nance, you have done very much for a lonely man. did you ever think how strange it is that your father--i can't help calling him that--should have left the ways of civilisation to bury himself here in the wilderness?" "i have thought about it at times, and i once spoke of it to daddy." "and what did he say?" "he did not answer me, but such a sorrowful expression came into his eyes that i never had the heart to ask him again." "i have thought very much about it, nance," the nurse continued. "there surely must have been some great trouble in his past life which sent him away from his friends and relatives. did you ever think about that?" "why, no!" "it must have been something terrible, whatever it was, and his heart must have been full of the deepest despair. now, suppose you had not come into his life, what do you think would have happened?" "i do not know. do you?" "not altogether, but i can partly imagine. he might have united himself to the indians, and lived like one of them, or, what is more likely, he would have brooded over his trouble, until, on the verge of despair, he might have ended his life." "oh! do you think so?" and nance clasped her hands before her, while her eyes looked big with wonder. "would daddy have done that?" "he might have done so if he had not found you. you have been his guardian angel during his long life in this country. upon you he has lavished his affections. for you he lived and toiled. you brought out the best that was in him. you do not know, you cannot fully understand now what great things you have done for him. he might have been dead, or worse than dead, but for you." stirred by her deep emotions, nurse marion had risen to her feet, and was standing over nance. her face was flushed, and her eyes glowed with the light of excitement. she checked herself almost instantly, however, upon observing her companion's wondering look. with a slight forced laugh she straightened herself up, and resumed her former calm manner. all through the evening nance thought over what the nurse had said about her father. she quietly studied him as he sat smoking before the fire. she had always known that she owed much to him, but that she had done anything in return was an altogether new idea. if there had been great trouble in his past life, why had he not mentioned it to her? she wondered. perhaps the nurse was mistaken in what she had surmised. the thought that she knew for a certainty whereof she spoke never once entered nance's mind. but there came to her the remembrance of her father's peculiar action at times, especially since the arrival of the miners. this had often puzzled her. she had spoken of it to dick, why not mention it to nurse marion as well? it would relieve her mind, at any rate, to talk it over with a woman. she would do so the next day, so she decided. when nance crossed over to the hospital the following afternoon she found dick there. he and the nurse were both greatly excited, caused by the can of gold, which was before them on the table. "it was on the sill just outside when i opened the door this morning," nurse marion explained as nance approached. "i could not understand what was the meaning of it until i discovered this note," and she pointed to the slip of paper. "for the new church, from one who wishes to remain unknown." that was all, and as nance scanned the words she felt sure that she recognised her father's handwriting. then she glanced toward the can, and it, too, looked familiar. though she had not seen it for years she remembered now the first time she had looked upon it, when the indians had brought it over the mountains from the trading post, filled with tea. the picture of a beautiful flower on the outside had interested her greatly, and she had often looked upon it as a child as it sat upon the shelf against the wall. then it had disappeared, and she had forgotten about it until now. "i haven't the least idea who has given all this gold for the church building." nance heard dick utter these words, but his voice appeared far away, and she herself seemed to be dreaming. her father had given the gold she was quite certain. he must have taken it from the strong-room, and brought it over at night. but why did he wish his name to be unknown? why had he given all of this for the church when he himself would not attend service? she took a seat by the side of the little table and watched dick as he emptied out the gold. what beautiful nuggets there were, both large and small. "my! they look good," the missionary exclaimed. "how fascinating they are. there will be enough to finish the church, i do believe." "some one has a big heart," nurse marion replied, looking down thoughtfully upon the gleaming pile before her. "how strange that he should have left it at my door." nance listened to the conversation, but said nothing. she was unusually quiet. she longed to tell all she knew about the gold. but this she must not do. her father did not wish any one to know what he had done, so she must be true to him, and tell the secret to no one, not even to dick. the latter noted her silence, and wondered what was the matter. "what are you going to do with the can?" she at length asked. "keep the gold in it, of course. why do you ask?" "oh, i hardly know, except--that--if you were not going to use it, i should like to have it." "for a keepsake?" "yes. but if you need it, never mind." "why, you are welcome to it. i can put the gold in something else." nance said no more then, but that evening as she was leaving the hospital she picked up the can, and wrapped it up carefully in the apron she had been wearing that afternoon. dick was waiting to accompany her home, and an amused smile played about the corners of his mouth as he observed what she was doing. nurse marion watched them as they left the building, and walked slowly down to the river. they were so happy in each other's company that her own sense of loneliness sank deeper than ever into her soul. chapter xxix atonement summer passed all too soon for the miners in the valley of the quaska. the days were shortening and the nights lengthening in an alarming manner. great wedge-like battalions of wild geese honked their way southward each day until all had fled. a greyness settled over the land, and at night the northern lights flared brighter in the heavens. it was quite evident to all that winter was not far off. to the ones not prepared for its coming the outlook was not pleasant. they had but started panning out gold, and there was little prospect that they could do much more before spring. at the approach of winter martin once again resumed his rounds of the creeks. many of the miners who had cleaned up a considerable amount of gold during the summer had moved down to the mouth of the river, and settled in little shacks at quaska. these men could buy their supplies at the stores, even though the prices were exorbitant. but the ones who had met with no success could not afford such luxuries. they preferred to remain on the creeks, to hide their poverty from prying eyes, and, if possible, eke out a precarious living from any wild game they might be able to procure with their rifles. carrying with him sufficient food to last him for several days, martin halted at each cabin. he was always given a hearty welcome, and won all hearts by his brightness and his optimistic spirit. to the miners he was one of themselves, and they believed that he was in the same straitened circumstances as they were. upon leaving he was always invited to come again, and as often as possible. martin returned home at the end of each week. during his absence nance stayed with nurse marion, for her assistance was needed now at the hospital more than ever, owing to the number of patients who had been admitted. martin was always eager to hear all the news from across the river, and he would sit and listen while nance recounted everything. she told him about the church; that it was all finished, and how it was opened each night for the men to gather to play games, and to read the few books which the missionary had brought with him. "we might let some of our books go, eh?" and martin nodded toward the volumes upon the shelves. "oh, that would be so nice, daddy," nance replied. "the men will be delighted. may i take several over to-morrow?" "no, not now. it will be better to wait until winter settles in. if they read them all now they will have nothing when the evenings are long and cold. wait until then." nance was greatly pleased at the change which had come over martin. he talked more, and the worried, haunted expression had left his eyes. she often spoke about him to nurse marion, and the latter was never tired of listening to her, and she would occasionally question nance about her father. the next time that martin left his house for the creeks he carried with him his violin. at every cabin he was doubly welcomed now, and often he would play for hours to a handful of men who had drifted into the shack which he happened to be visiting. he sang, too, and at times the miners would join in when the tune and the words were familiar. he was surprised at first to find how frequently the men asked for some well-known hymn, and as they all sang it he noted the expression upon their faces. he knew that they were face to face with a hard proposition, and needed something to keep up their spirits. thus from cabin to cabin he moved, bringing cheer and comfort wherever he went. the men were loth for him to leave and always pressed him to stay longer. as the days shortened, and the long evenings became almost unbearable, the lonely men counted the days and the hours which would bring martin and his violin once again to their doors. they could not understand him now, and often discussed among themselves why he should make such regular rounds of the creeks. although they knew where he lived, and how long he had been in the country, he would never talk about himself. this added to the mystery concerning him. what can he be doing it for? they asked over and over again. some believed that it was for the enjoyment he got out of it, and the companionship of the miners. but when he spent a whole week with andy henderson, caring for him when he was sick, the miners did not know what to think. "if he was a parson," one remarked, "the whole thing would be clear." "sure thing," another replied. "but he never says a word about religion." "doesn't he, eh? that's where you are mistaken. his is a religion of deeds and not words. if he had come here and handed out a whole lot of talk about being patient under discouragements how much good would it have done us? mighty little, i can tell you that. but he drops in on us with a word of cheer, and brings along his fiddle. that's the religion which gets me every time." winter shut down unusually early, and gripped the northland in its icy embrace. every time martin made his rounds of the creeks he noticed the grim spectre of famine and despair creeping upon the miners in their desolate cabins. they scoured the land for miles around in search of game, with but meagre success, for the moose and caribou had withdrawn farther afield upon the arrival of the white men. to follow them far the miners had not the strength. they had been living upon short allowance for some time, and every day their small supplies were becoming much diminished. several, feeling the pinch of want, went to the stores in town, and asked to be supplied with food on credit until spring. their request was refused, and with hearts rankling with bitterness they marched back up the creek to bear the news to their companions. the proud spirit of this little band of men was aroused, and they swore that they would die rather than ask again for any food from quaska. they, accordingly, shared their scanty remaining supply with one another with the feeling that when this was gone there was nothing before them but death. winter was now upon them in all its fierceness. the weather was extremely cold, and snow lay thick over the land. at this critical time martin one day appeared at the cabin nearest to quaska. he was not alone this time, for he had a sled loaded with provisions, and drawn by two husky dogs he had borrowed from taku, the indian. "had more grub on hand than i needed," was his brief explanation to the miners as they stared longingly upon the loaded sled. then throughout the creeks he moved, dispensing supplies wherever he went, and when all was gone he hurried back for more. his feverish eagerness to be doing something for others was what puzzled the miners. he was now more of a mystery than ever. whereas at first they considered him as one of themselves they came at last to look upon him as some unearthly being, an angel in the form of a man, who had dropped from heaven to aid them in their distress. who else could it be? they reasoned, who would go to so much trouble for a few lonely men, hard up in a desolate region? it was no ordinary spirit, they well knew, which would drive a man out into such cruel weather for the sake of others. in a few weeks the news of what martin was doing reached quaska, and passed from man to man, causing much curious comment on every hand. in some way the refusal of the storekeepers to provide starving men with provisions leaked out, and caused considerable stir among the leading men of the place, especially tom. they went at once to the stores, and ordered supplies for their comrades up the creeks, while several volunteered to carry forward the provisions. "who will pay for these things?" the storekeepers whined. "pay!" tom fairly shouted the words. "d'ye think we'd come here an' order this stuff without holdin' ourselves responsible? ye deserve to be cleaned out an' driven from town fer yer meanness. ye've not only raised the price of yer goods beyond all reason, but ye refused to supply a few poor chaps who were starvin' to death, an' they never mentioned it to a livin' soul. that's what ye've done." so high did the feeling run in quaska over the meanness of the storekeepers that a miners' meeting was held that very night, when tom was appointed chairman. fiery speeches of indignation were made, and it was decided that the storekeepers had to come down in their prices. they would be allowed to have fair profits on all they sold, but extortion had to be stopped at once. if they would not agree to this, so it was decided, their goods would be seized, paid for at cost price, and they themselves driven out of the town. in fear and trembling the storekeepers agreed to the demands of the irate miners, and so the storm blew over. the news of martin's noble work out on the creeks was not long in reaching the hospital. it was tom who told the story in his own graphic manner. nance was delighted when she heard what her father was doing, and told how he had stored up the provisions before the winter had set in. "i didn't know what he was going to do with it," she said in conclusion, "for he would not tell me." as nurse marion listened to the story her mind was busy seeking for the cause of martin's benevolent work. at last it came to her, and she knew that there was only one reason which could prompt him to do such things. he was trying to atone for the past, and at once there came to her mind the fierce struggle which had been going on in his heart for long years. what a battle he must have fought, and how great the victory. the old self had been crushed down, and in its stead a new life of service, contrite and humble, had risen, which had driven him forth to live for others. she understood now for a certainty that though martin had fallen and could never be forgiven by the critical world which had condemned him, yet in reality he was superior to his critics. he had sadly missed the mark, and had fallen. but he had fought a brave fight, had risen from the pit, and with a courage which nothing could daunt was now plunging into a noble work for others. as she thought of all this a sweet peace stole into her heart. martin was worthy of her affection, after all, and her love had not been misplaced during the years she had been loyal to him while others had condemned. knowing nothing of the stir he was causing at quaska, martin continued his work of relief up and down the creeks. for weeks he moved from cabin to cabin, carrying food where it was most needed. but his own supply was getting low, and only one sled load now remained. he knew that to obtain more he would have to go direct to the stores, which he was now very loth to do. he was travelling late one cold afternoon far up a lonely creek, many miles from quaska. he had only a small part of his load of provisions and he wished to carry this to a man living all alone, who was in great need. of all the miners he had met tim ralston seemed the most obdurate and ungrateful. he was a man of few words, sullen and morose. his hard luck during the past summer had embittered him more than ever, and living alone he had brooded so much over his troubles that his mind became somewhat affected. he would rave long and vehemently about his hard luck, the country, and the hopelessness of the future. martin had visited him once before, and had received such a cold reception that he had been by no means anxious to return. but as the severity of the winter increased he found it difficult to get tim out of his mind. he knew that he must be hard up for food, and he could not allow the man to starve to death without making an effort to relieve his wants. it was late in the afternoon as martin at last halted before tim's cabin. it was bitterly cold, and a volume of smoke was curling up into the frosty air from the miserable stove-pipe sticking out through the roof. he knocked, but received no reply. thinking this strange, he pushed open the door, and cautiously entered. all was dark within, but very warm. feeling in his pocket, he found a piece of a candle, which he at once lighted. by means of this he saw the form of a man huddled on the floor, with some blankets wrapped around him. it was tim with beard almost to his waist, and long, matted hair streaming over his shoulders. he hardly resembled a human being as he crouched there, working his jaws, and swaying his body to and fro. "tim, tim, what's the matter?" martin cried as he strode forward and stood by the side of the poor creature. the latter lifted his shaggy head at the sound of these words, and turned his blood-shot eyes upon martin's face. "leg broke," he feebly wailed. "starving! dying!" martin lost no more time in asking questions. he hurried outside, freed the dogs, and drew the sled with its load into the wretched cabin. he set to work at once to prepare some food for the afflicted man, and then fed him like a baby. all through the night he tended him, doing everything in his power to relieve his sufferings, which were very great. he knew, however, that he needed more aid than he could give. to remain there meant death for tim. the only hope was to get him into the hospital at quaska, where he could receive proper care, and attention. martin had no intention of going straight to the hospital with the suffering man, for there he would meet beryl. he would take him to his own house, and let the missionary do the rest. at the first faint streak of dawn martin began to make preparations for the run to quaska. the injured man groaned and cursed as he was wrapped up as comfortably as possible in his blankets, and placed upon the sled. this latter was made in the form of a toboggan, and it would accordingly travel where an ordinary sled with runners could not be taken. martin was most thankful that such was the case, for he could make a short cut to quaska over a mountain-pass, and down a long valley instead of going by the much longer circuitous route he had taken on his outward trip. he believed that he could save a whole day by crossing the mountain, which would mean very much to the sufferer. the air was clear and cold when at last the two huskies, with short, sharp yelps, pulled away from the cabin on their stern run to save the life of tim ralston. martin strode on ahead, breaking down a trail with his long, narrow snow-shoes. all day they pressed forward, and when night shut down martin was satisfied with the progress they had made during the day. selecting a sheltered spot among a thick clump of fir trees, he dug away the snow, built a fire, and prepared camp. little sleep came to his eyes this night. tim was more restless than ever, and he had to be watched constantly lest he should toss aside his blankets, and thus perish. notwithstanding the fire which martin kept going, he found it very cold, for, while his face was burning, his back was freezing. only twice did he doze off, overcome by fatigue and want of sleep. but he always aroused with a start, fearful lest he had slept too long. all through the next day he plodded on ahead of the dogs, at times helping them by means of a rope around his shoulders, for the snow over the mountain was deep, and the sled dragged hard with its heavy burden. that night they camped upon the brow of the range facing quaska. far down below stretched a long valley, with towering hills on both sides. again martin was well pleased with the progress they had made, and he expected that with one day more of such travelling they would not be far from quaska, if not there. in the morning when they once more drew away from camp the sky was cloudless, and as they descended the mountain side the air became warmer. the short winter sun lifted its shining face into view, and rode along for a while close to the horizon. but toward noon a perceptible change became apparent in the atmospheric conditions. the sky grew cloudy, and the sun disappeared behind a thick haze. ere long a stiff breeze was swinging down the valley, telling martin only too plainly that a storm was rapidly brewing. the region through which they were now travelling was desolate in the extreme. fires had swept over the land years before, and nothing remained but gaunt fir trees and jack-pines, dead and devoid of every vestige of life. through their naked branches swept the ever-increasing wind, piercing the bodies of both men and dogs. no shelter was anywhere to be seen, and martin's only hope was to push on as rapidly as possible and reach the unburnt forest miles down the valley. he knew only too well what it would mean to be caught in a storm on that bleak mountain slope where everything would be blotted out from view, and where the tempest might rage all day and far on into the night. calling encouragingly to the dogs, and with the lead rope about his shoulders, martin started forward as speedily as the deep snow would permit. the huskies strained at their traces, yelped, lowered their heads, and surged onward close at their master's heels. an hour thus passed, and the wind, increasing in strength every moment, was roaring down the valley, while particles of driving snow began to fleck the bodies of the hurrying wayfarers. in another half-hour the air was filled with blinding snow, which drove down lashingly upon them, completely blotting out everything from view except the swaying, spectre-like forms of the nearest trees. as the wind was full astern, martin believed that by running straight before it he could keep his course, and at length gain the shelter beyond. he nerved himself to the task, and strained hard upon the rope. but ere long the dogs began to lag, whine, and surge back in their harness. coaxing and whipping did no good, for with the tempest upon them they refused to advance, and cowered upon the snow. hastily unhitching the discouraged animals, martin made his rope fast to the sled, and thus alone endeavoured to drag it forward. it was a hard pull, and slow progress did he make. the helpless man cursed and groaned as he felt the fierceness of the storm beating upon him, and the snow drifting in through every opening of his blankets. martin could not waste time and breath in trying to soothe him. there was too much at stake, for unless he reached the forest beyond they must both surely perish. for another hour martin tugged at the rope, with bent head, and feet shuffling the snow-shoes through the newly-fallen snow. at last tim cried aloud, saying that he was freezing. then martin paused, stripped off his own jacket, and wrapped it around the sufferer's body. he then carefully replaced the blankets which he had removed, and once again took up his weary task. the wind now pierced him cruelly, and chilled him to the bone. his hands became numb, although he pounded them together in an effort to keep the blood in circulation. at times his brain reeled, and he felt that he could go no farther. but each time he thought of nance. how could she get along without him? he asked himself. beryl, too, came to his mind. she seemed to come to him through the storm, and he saw her, not at the hospital, but as he used to see her in the happy days of old. the sight of her had always inspired him then, as it did now in his fight with death. he must not give up, he said to himself. anyway, if he was to die, it should be with his face to the front, and shoulders to his task. then if beryl should ever learn of the struggle he had made, it might do something to atone for the past. she might not think of him so bitterly, as no doubt she had done ever since his fall. and still the storm continued to wrap around him its cold winding-sheet, entangling his feet, and endeavouring to win him for a victim. martin was a stern antagonist, however, and fought off his relentless foe with the courage of desperation. he would fight; he would win; he would not give up. but slower and slower now he moved; fiercer and fiercer roared the tempest about him. peculiar noises sounded in his ears, and weird voices of demons mocked at his futile efforts to stand upright, and to press forward. he saw them leering before him, reaching out their horrible hands to clutch him. then his brain reeled, a fearful blackness shrouded his eyes, and with a despairing cry he fell forward full length upon the snow. chapter xxx revelation the new mission room proved a great boon to the miners at quaska. when it was first opened very few visited the place, and the missionary felt somewhat discouraged. but tom told him not to worry, as they would be sure to come later. "jist wait, pard," he said, "until the nights git long an' cold, then ye'll see 'em come, an' mighty glad they'll be to have a spot to drop into instid of sittin' in their lonely shacks." "but perhaps they'll go to the saloons instead," dick replied. "won't they feel more at home there?" "not a bit of it. some will go, to be sure. but all can't go, an' all won't want to go. jist ye wait, an' see." in due time tom's words came true, and every night saw the mission room filled with men. some came at first rather doubtfully, thinking, perhaps, that they were to get a sermon before they left. but when they found the room warm, bright, and filled with such genial company they were delighted. all they were asked to do was to obey certain rules which dick had posted up in several places. tom was the presiding genius, even though the missionary was present, and always made every man thoroughly at home by his hearty greeting. "ye're as welcome as the night is long," he would exclaim to each newcomer. "this is liberty hall, with only a few exceptions," and he would nod toward the rules. "ye're not to use any cuss words, ye mustn't fight nor gamble, nor come here with a reekin' whiskey breath." only once did a bumptious young miner attempt to ignore such instructions. his stay was brief, for as many men as could lay hands upon him hustled him out of the building, with the warning not to return until he could behave in a proper manner. dick was not only pleased at the success of the mission room, but he was very thankful to see how the men attended service every sunday evening. but there was one thing lacking. more reading matter was needed, and though he had placed his few books at the disposal of the men, they still craved for more. the papers and magazines he had expected from the mission down river, for some reason, did not arrive. he spoke about it to nance the morning after the storm. "the room would be complete if we only had something more for the men to read. they are about wild for books and magazines. they have already devoured everything in my small library, and some of the men are reading the books all over again." nance glanced at dick's worried face, and her eyes dropped as they met his. an idea came into her mind, and she was on the point of speaking when she checked herself. no, she would surprise dick, and that would make it all the more interesting. they were standing close to each other, and as dick looked upon nance he thought that she never seemed so beautiful. there was such a simplicity about her manner, combined with a deep interest in any of his undertakings. her hands were clasped before her as she stood there looking around the room. how he longed to take those hands in his, and tell her of all that was in his heart. it was not the first time that he had desired to do so, but he had always desisted. he believed that she cared for him, but he wanted her to do more than that. he wished to be sure that she loved him. he was so happy in her presence that he feared if he told her all that his heart prompted him to tell it might break the spell, and cause her to avoid him. dick russell was not much acquainted with the ways of women. hitherto little time or opportunity had been his to devote to the tender affections. and in truth he had but slight inclination to do so until he met nance. he could not, therefore, read the look of love in her eyes, nor comprehend the flush which suffused her face whenever he approached. could he have done so he would not have hesitated about telling her of his over-mastering love. all that afternoon nance remained with nurse marion at the hospital. she thought much about her father, and wondered if he was safely sheltered in some miner's cabin. he was in her mind more than usual, and during the night as she listened to the storm she felt uneasy as to his welfare. even after she had fallen asleep she awoke with a start, thinking that he was holding out his hands to her, and calling to her for aid. such an impression did the vision make upon her that she could not free herself from the idea that something had happened to her father. during the morning she was more quiet than the nurse had ever seen her. the storm had cleared in the night, and after dinner nance put on her snow-shoes, and left the hospital. it was saturday, the day her father always came home, and it was her custom to have a cheerful fire awaiting him, and supper ready. she found the house more cold and desolate than it had ever appeared to her before. but when she had a bright fire blazing up, the room looked more comfortable and homelike. nance sat near the fire warming herself, for she was cold. she thought of the many times she had sat there with martin by her side. then for the first time the sense of loneliness came upon her. she felt home-sick, and longed for martin. she wanted to have him near her, and listen to his voice. she wished to be a child once again, and to sit upon his knee while he told her stories. she had fondly imagined that she would be supremely happy to be away from the log house, and out into the great world beyond. but now she realised that no matter where she might go, no place could ever be so dear to her as this rude home where she had spent so many happy years. she looked about the room upon all that martin had done, and the various things that he had made for her comfort. she had always appreciated his efforts on her behalf, but now a different feeling stole into her heart, and tears came into her eyes. how she longed to see him again, that she might tell him what he was to her, and to thank him for so much kindness. at length, brushing away her tears, she rose to her feet, and crossed the room to the book-shelves. standing there, she looked for a while upon the volumes which martin had read with such enjoyment through the long winter evenings. he had said that she might take them over to the reading-room when the miners needed them most. surely now was the time, and when her father came home she would speak to him about them. how surprised and delighted dick would be when she carried an armful over the next day. reaching up her hand, she brought down a volume which was lying on top of several others. as she looked at the title, she believed that the miners would like it. it had been years since she had read it, but she remembered how delighted she had been with it at the time. the hero in the book had appealed to her very strongly. she had not met dick russell then, and she mused for a while about the difference between her present idea of a hero to that of years ago. then martin was the only white man she knew, and she had never looked upon him as a hero. her heroes were like those mentioned in books, men of war and action, who had accomplished great things. going back to the fire, nance ensconced herself in martin's big chair, and opened the book. as she did so a newspaper clipping lying between the leaves attracted her attention. wondering what it could be, she laid the book upon her lap, unfolded the paper, and began to read. she had not proceeded far when her face went white as death, and her hand trembled violently. she rubbed her eyes to make sure that she was not dreaming. the printed columns fascinated her, and she read on and on until she came to the end of the sad tale of shame and disgrace. the whole truth now flashed into nance's mind with a startling intensity. her brain reeled, her heart seemed numbed at the shock, and the light of life, with all its joy, went out. she stared long and hard at the heading of the article. "deposed by his bishop." how terrible seemed those words. and there was the name of the man who had fallen, "the rev. martin rutland." again she read through the entire story, every word of criticism, scorn, and condemnation searing her heart like red-hot iron. could it be possible that this was some one else? she asked herself. she knew very well that it could not be, for why then should her father have the clipping in his possession? a groan escaped her parched lips as she endeavoured to view calmly the whole situation. many things which had hitherto puzzled her were instantly cleared up, and she understood for the first time the reason of martin's peculiar actions since the arrival of the miners. she knew why he had fled away from the ways of civilisation to live alone in the wilderness. he did not wish to meet people who knew of his disgrace. this, too, was why he would not go to service on sunday. and to think that for years he had been deceiving her. while she believed him to be so true and noble, he was in reality a man utterly disgraced, an outcast from the church and society. a feeling of bitter resentment rushed into her heart. why had he treated her thus? why had he pretended to be so good when all the time he was evil, and his whole life a sham? how could she ever face him again, knowing everything, and what he really was? he might return at any moment, and find her sitting there with the clipping in her hand. she did not want to meet him, for she felt that she could not bear to do so. she must get away, and hurry back to the hospital. carefully replacing the paper in the book, nance went back to the shelf from which she had taken it. she paused and looked around the room, thinking that perhaps this would be the last time that she should ever see it again. everywhere she beheld the work of martin's hands: the tables, chairs, and decorations on the walls. she turned and walked to her own little room, which she entered. there, too, she saw how he had fitted up everything for her comfort. then in an instant there came to her a great reversal of feeling. martin, the outcast, disappeared, and in his stead she beheld a man strong, patient, and gentle, who had been to her both a father and a mother during her whole life. she thought of what he had done for her, how he had striven for her welfare, and cared for her when she would have been left to the uncertain mercy of the indians. a love deep and strong filled her heart for this man. she pictured to herself how he must have suffered during his exile in the wilderness, knowing that nothing could ever undo the past, and that he would never be forgiven by the church which had cast him out. if she turned against him would it not break his heart entirely? no, she would be faithful, and he should never know that she had seen the paper, or had the least idea of his past life. it would remain a secret with her, and she would never breathe a word to any one, not even to dick. nance was standing erect in her room as this resolve firmly fixed itself upon her mind. her face became radiant with a new light, and her eyes shone with the intensity of her great purpose. for a while she stood there, thinking deep, earnest thoughts. a new sense of responsibility came to her. she now saw that life was not all joy and happiness. there was a tragic depth beneath into which for the first time she had been permitted a brief glimpse. and while standing there she heard some one calling her by name. hurrying forth from her room, she saw dick coming to meet her. there was no smile upon his face, but instead an expression of deep concern was depicted there, such as nance had never seen before. something had happened, she felt certain, for what else could make dick look at her in that way? "what is it?" she gasped. "there's something the matter, i'm sure." "you are wanted at the hospital, nance," was the reply. "is nurse marion ill?" "no. it's your father." chapter xxxi the valley of the shadows outwardly nance was very calm as she closed the door and swiftly put on her snow-shoes. but her heart was heating rapidly, and she was filled with grave apprehensions. "what is it?" she asked as she moved along over the snow by dick's side. "don't hide anything from me. i want to know all." "there is but little to tell, nance," the young man replied. "it seems that the indian taku was awakened last night by the whining of one of his dogs outside the cabin door. when he had let the animal in he found that it was one of the two your father had taken with him. the poor creature was almost exhausted. it was carrying its harness and dragging its traces. taku surmised that something was wrong and he at once started forth in the direction from which the dog had come. the storm had ceased, and the moon was full when he set out, so it was easy for him to follow the dog's tracks. they led away from quaska, up the river, and then off to the left through that long wooded valley. he had passed only a short distance out of the woods on the upper side into a desolate region, when he found a miner, tim ralston, with a broken leg, lying on a sled. by his side was your father, unconscious, and to all appearance dead. with much difficulty taku brought both men into the woods, made a small fire, and started off in post-haste for help. as luck would have it, he overtook tom, who had been storm-stayed up the creek, and together they brought the two helpless men to the hospital. that, in brief, is the story." as dick ended, nance stopped, laid her hand lightly upon his arm, and looked searchingly into his face. "will he live?" she gasped. "i can't say. he has been terribly exposed. i am afraid it will go hard with him." "and he did it for tim!" nance murmured. "he gave his life to save another." her thoughts flashed to the newspaper clipping, and her heart rebuked her for her harsh judgment but a short time before. now she understood the motive of her father's unceasing efforts on behalf of the miners, especially this last and greatest sacrifice of all. she did not, however, reveal her knowledge to dick, but hastened on, anxious to reach martin's side as soon as possible. arriving at length at the hospital door, she and dick laid aside their snow-shoes, and quietly entered. all was still within as they passed through the main ward into nurse marion's room. here martin was lying upon the one cot the room contained, and by his side sat the nurse. she did not hear the steps at the door, for her thoughts were upon the unconscious man before her. in her eyes was an expression which had not been seen there since the days when he so often visited her in her old home years before. she was thinking of that time now, and she was picturing martin as she then knew him. at first it was hard for her to believe that this bronzed and bearded man was the same as she had known then and cherished in her memory ever since. she studied his face and saw there something of the terrible struggle through which he had passed. she imagined his agony of mind after his fall, and what it must have meant for him to live away in the wilderness, cut off from all the benefits of civilised life. no sense of anger or reproach came to her mind now as she sat there, but only a pity and a love, such as she had never known, possessed her heart. nance paused but for an instant at the door, and then with a cry hurried forward, and knelt by the side of the bed. she seized martin's right hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips. "daddy! daddy!" she cried. "i am here. speak to me. it is nance." but no sign of recognition came from the unconscious form upon the cot. as nance continued to press the outstretched hand, nurse marion rose and walked over to the window, and looked out upon the world of snow beyond. tumultuous thoughts surged suddenly through her mind as she saw nance kneeling by the bed and listened to her wailing cry. what right had this girl to supplant her? had she been all sufficient to martin, and had he forgotten beryl, to whom he had given his heart and hand? for the first time in years a revulsion of feeling swept upon her. she had been a fool to believe that martin had remembered her. he cared only for nance, and his first love had grown cold. years of separation had done it, and what vain fancy had led her to imagine that he still cared for her? she saw it now as never before. she must get away from the place. but where should she go, with the rivers frozen and the land snow-locked on every side? those few moments had wrought a marvellous transformation in nurse marion's face. it was calm--terribly calm--when at last she went back to martin's side. she was the professional nurse now, ready to do her duty to the utmost, but no more. she had other patients in the hospital to care for, and she busied herself with them during most of the day. she had little to say to the watchers by martin's side, and they, occupied with their deep anxiety, did not notice her unusual silence. then, when all her other tasks were done, she sat with nance and dick through the long hours of the night. she had to be doing something, so she brought her needle-work, and though her fingers were busy, and at times her head drooped, she hardly realised what she was doing. since he had been brought into the hospital martin had not shown the least sign of consciousness. he had lain as one in a deep sleep. but as the night wore away, and the dawn of a new day was breaking he began to move, and then to toss restlessly upon the cot. at last he opened his eyes and stared vacantly around the room. "tim! tim!" he called. "are you cold? here's my jacket. it'll keep you warm." his eyes next roved to the watchers near by until they rested upon the nurse's face. he did not seem at all surprised to see her there. "beryl." at that word the needle-work dropped from the nurse's hand, her face went white as death, though she uttered not a sound. "are the hymns all ready, beryl?" martin continued. "it's almost church time, and i can't wait any longer." "he thinks you are beryl," nance whispered. but the nurse made no reply. she sat erect, rigid, with staring eyes fixed full upon the man before her. a troubled expression now came into martin's eyes, and his fingers moved over the blanket as if in search of something. "i can't find them," he murmured. "the bread--the wine--some one has hidden them. ah, ah, here they are," and his fingers closed eagerly upon some imaginary objects. then a semblance of a smile flickered about the corners of his mouth, and his voice was low and reverent as his lips moved--"take--and eat--this--in remembrance--that christ--died--for thee--and feed--on him----" his voice trailed off into silence, and for a while he lay very still. "ah, ah!" he cried, starting suddenly up, while a fierce light glowed in his eyes, "i defy you! the church is nothing to me, and i will live without it! get out of my house, you impostor," he roared, looking now at dick. "you come here to steal nance from me! but you won't get her! no, by heavens! she shall never be yours! the church! the church! i don't care for the church! it has cast me out. i will live without it! get out, i say. don't torture me! for god's sake, go!" to say that the missionary was surprised at the remarks of this raving man is putting it too mildly. he was astounded. what could be the meaning of it all? he asked himself. why did he refer to the hymns, repeat those words of the communion service, and speak so fiercely about the church? was it possible that this man had once been a clergyman? the idea came to him now with a startling intensity. in an instant there flashed into his mind martin's peculiar actions ever since he had known him, his strange behaviour and fitful moods. was this the reason, then, why this educated man had lived for long years in the wilderness? had he been deposed by the church in which he had once been a clergyman? dick knew now that such must have been the case, and a feeling such as he had never before experienced came upon him. he sank into the chair he had recently vacated, and buried his face in his hands. he had at times heard of men who had left the ministry through some misdemeanour, but never until now did he understand what it really meant. as he listened to martin's ravings he comprehended something of the agony of mind which had been his through his long wilderness life. and thus the three sat, watched, and waited, as the unconscious man tossed upon the cot. there was little that they could do except think. the missionary understood a little now of the past history of the man before him, while nance knew more. but neither realised that nurse marion, sitting near with hands tightly clasped upon her lap, knew all, and yet remained silent. chapter xxxii refined gold for days the raging fever held martin in its terrible grip. never once was he conscious of his surroundings, and most trying was it for the patient watchers to listen to his wild ravings. every night tom came to the hospital to take his turn by the side of the sick man. in fact, he would have remained part of each day as well if he had been permitted to do so, and he always grumbled when he was ordered by dick to go and get some sleep. nurse marion sat at times with tom. she found it difficult to rest, as she did not know at what moment martin might need more help than the miner could give. one day she was sitting alone by the bed, with her needle-work, as usual, in her hands. the sufferer was still and to all appearance asleep. sounds of the violin came from the outer room, where nance was playing softly for the benefit of the few patients who were there. the strains brought a restful feeling into the nurse's heart, for it had been weeks since she had heard the sound of music. presently her work dropped into her lap, and her hands remained idle. her eyes gazed off through the window before her, though she saw nothing. she was startled from her reverie by a light touch upon her hand. glancing down, great was her surprise to see martin looking intently into her face. in his eyes was the light of reason, mingled with surprise. the nurse was on her feet in an instant, bending over the cot. "hush," she soothed, as if martin were a child awaking from sleep. "don't speak now." "i must," martin feebly breathed. "are you beryl? i woke, and thought i was dreaming, and so i touched your hand to be sure." "yes, i am beryl," was the reply. "but you must not talk any more. you are very weak." with a deep sigh, whether of regret or contentment the nurse could not tell, martin closed his eyes, and in a few moments passed into a restful and a natural sleep. nurse marion stood very still for a while watching him. just what her thoughts were she alone knew, but her eyes were moist as she presently turned and walked softly into the large ward outside. as the days passed martin rapidly improved, and at length he was able to sit up. the miners came often to see him, for they all held him in high regard for what he had done for tim. but martin was never so happy as when beryl was in the room. neither had once mentioned the days years ago, and to outward eyes they were friends and nothing more. but little did people realise what was taking place in the hearts of both patient and nurse alike. beryl was ever on her guard lest she should let slip the slightest word which might betray her inmost feelings. the bitterness of that day when nance had first knelt by the cot had passed away. but she did not know what martin thought of her, though at times she found his eyes fixed upon her in a puzzled way. martin, in fact, did not know what to make of beryl's quiet constrained manner. if she had expressed surprise, or even upbraided him, he could have understood it. but she never alluded to the past. she waited upon him, and talked about ordinary things, but that was all. this estrangement was hard for him to endure. he began to feel that she no longer cared for him. she knew what he had done, and so was determined to treat him as any other patient. such was the situation between the two. each believed that the other did not care, and so both made every effort not to reveal the real feelings enshrined within their hearts. one bright afternoon nance and dick crossed over the river to the lonely house to bring back some books for the reading room. beryl watched them as they sped down to the river on their show-shoes--for there was no path in the deep snow. a sigh escaped her lips as she saw how happy they were. laughingly they waved their hands to her as they reached the river, and saw her still at the window. what perfect understanding there is between them, she mused. could any two people be more suited to each other than they? she remained gazing after them for a while, and then went into the room where martin was sitting. she found him near the window facing the river. his eyes were filled with an inexpressible sadness as they followed nance and dick until they reached the log building beyond. beryl stood watching him for a few heart beats, and then moved softly to his side. but martin did not look up. instead, his whole body drooped, his head bent forward, and he buried his face in his hands as if trying to shut out something from his view. "what is it?" beryl asked, in a voice tremulous with emotion. "are you not feeling well? is there anything i can do for you?" "beryl," and martin lifted his face, which was now drawn and haggard. "yes--martin," was the faint reply. "sit down, beryl. there, that's better."' a deep silence now reigned in the room. martin's gaze wandered out through the window, but the nurse saw nothing. neither did she hear anything, except the wild beating of her own heart. she longed to do something to comfort the visibly distressed man nearby. but she felt powerless, and no words could she utter. "why must i suffer like this, beryl?" burst at last from martin's lips. "there, there!" he cried, lifting a thin warning hand. "don't speak until i am through. i know why i suffer. it's just, and what else could i expect. but, my god! is there to be no end? is this suffering of mind--this hell, never to cease? why did they not let me die out there in the snow?" "hush, hush! martin," and beryl rose to her feet, and laid her hand lightly upon his shoulder. "don't talk that way! i can't stand it!" "i must talk. don't try to stop me. did you see them going over the river?" he asked. "how happy they are. i am nothing to nance now. dick is everything, and i am only in the way. what have i to live for?" these words caused beryl to straighten up suddenly. the trembling emotion which had possessed her departed, leaving her very white and calm. then it was nance he alone cared for, she told herself. of her only he thought. yes, she knew now, and why had she expected anything else? "beryl," martin continued, after a pause, "do you see how happy they are? they are everything to each other. we, too, might have been as happy--but--but for my----how can you look at me, or speak to me, beryl? you know what i did, and what an outcast i am to-day from god and the church. is there any one in the whole world so vile as i?" "but you have atoned for the past," beryl soothed. "think of what you have done." "done! done! good lord! what have i done that can ever merit forgiveness from an avenging god? is there any pardon for one who disgraced his sacred office, broke his parents' hearts, and denounced his church? men may talk lightly of sin. but they know not what they are saying, nor its terrible consequences. nothing can wipe out such a stain as mine, which is so great. there is murder on my hands!" "the blood of jesus christ cleanseth us from all sin," beryl gently quoted, with tears now streaming down her cheeks. "don't you, oh, don't you believe it?" "i believe it, but i don't feel it. it doesn't give me peace. what can wash away _my_ sins, which are so great?" "'if any man sin we have an advocate with the father, jesus christ, the righteous, and he is the propitiation for our sins,'" beryl once more quoted. "ah, ah," and martin slightly raised his head. "there is comfort in those words. 'if any man sin,' and 'jesus' blood cleanseth us from all sin,' beryl," and he now looked up full into her face. "you know how great are my sins, do you really think that they can ever be forgiven?" beryl at once leaned forward and caught his right hand in hers. "martin," she cried, "i forgave you long ago, and will not he, whose love and mercy are so great, be more ready to forgive?" into martin's eyes came an expression of surprise, mingled with hope. "do you mean it, beryl?" he asked, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "that you forgive me? i can't believe it!" "yes, yes; it's true. i forgave you long ago. even when every one denounced you i still believed in you." "is it possible? is it possible?" and martin gazed absently out of the window. "what reason had you to forgive me?" "perhaps there was none," beryl gently replied. "when a woman loves she doesn't seek for a reason; she never thinks of it. true love is of the heart, and not of the head." "and i believed that you had forgotten!" martin murmured. "so you thought of me--sometimes, then?" beryl questioned. "thought of you!" martin passionately cried, seizing both of her hands in his. "day and night during those long terrible years you were never out of my mind. but for the thought of you i would not be here to-day." he paused suddenly, and the woman standing by his side could feel his form tremble as if shaken by some violent emotion. "beryl," came at last low and tense from his lips, "is it too late? you know what i mean. do you care enough for me to--to----" "to take up life where we laid it down years ago? is that what you mean?" "yes, that's it, beryl. oh, can we?" "what is there to hinder?" was the quiet response. "why should we be separated any longer when we mean so much to each other?" the only reply martin made was to reach out and enfold beryl in his arms as she sank into the chair by his side. her face was close to his, and their lips met. at last the struggle, doubt, and uncertainty were ended. a peace such as they had not known for years came into their hearts. their lives, like two turbulent streams long parted, were at last reunited, to flow on as one, strong and deep. for over an hour they sat and talked about the future. time was as nothing to them now, and they were surprised when the door opened and nance and dick entered. beryl rose instantly to her feet, while a flush mantled her cheeks and brow. but nance did not notice her agitation, so engrossed was she with her own affairs. hurrying across the room, she threw her arms about the nurse's neck, and gave her an affectionate kiss. she then knelt by martin's side, and looked up into his face. "daddy, oh, daddy!" she cried, "i am so happy!" then words failed her, and she hid her blushing face in her hands. dick, who had been standing in the middle of the room, now came forward, and stood before martin. "may i have her?" he simply asked. "nance has promised to be my wife if you will give your consent." for a few heart beats there was a tense silence, while martin sat gazing off into space. he was thinking of the past, and of a little child he had rescued from the indians on the bank of the mackenzie river years before. presently his eyes sought those of the young man before him. "do you know that nance is not my child?" he asked in a hesitating voice. "i do not even know her parents' names." "yes, i know," dick replied. "but that doesn't make any difference." "if you had asked me for nance a month, nay, even an hour ago," martin continued, "i should have refused you. she was all i had in the world. but now it is different. you may have her, for i have one to take her place. i have found my beryl. she has come back to me." at these words nance sprang to her feet, and looked eagerly and curiously around the room. seeing only the nurse standing there with a happy smile upon her face, she was much puzzled, and turned to martin for an explanation. "oh, daddy!" she exclaimed, "how you startled me! what did you mean by saying that beryl had come back?" "and so she has, dear. this is my long lost beryl you see before you." for an instant only nance stood there, her eyes filled with wonder. then they brightened, with complete understanding, and with a glad cry she sprang toward the nurse, who caught her in her arms, and showered kisses upon the fair, fresh face turned up to hers. during the remainder of the afternoon all was excitement within that little room. there was so much to talk about that it was supper time before they were half through. while beryl and nance were preparing the simple repast the two men discussed plans for the future. "you must stay right here," dick told martin. "we can work so much better together." "but only as a helper," was the low reply. "remember i am an outcast, and----" "hush," dick interrupted, "don't speak of that again. let the past be buried forever." scarcely had the four sat down to supper ere a knock sounded upon the door. when it was opened tom and old dad entered. they were given a hearty welcome, and room was made for them at the table. soon the whole story was told, and nothing would do the visitors but they must rise and grasp the hands of the happy couples, and wish them much joy. tom was so excited that he could eat but little, and for once his tongue seemed tied. when the meal was ended he pushed back from the table, and ran his fingers thoughtfully through his hair. "if i only had a smoke," he remarked, "it 'ud certainly relieve my feelin's." "smoke to your heart's content," beryl laughingly replied. "what! here?" "yes. make yourself perfectly at home." "i guess a game of chess would relieve _my_ feelin's," and dad looked eagerly into nance's face as he spoke. "d'ye feel equal fer the battle after all this excitement?" "why, yes," was the cheerful response. "just as soon as these dishes are washed we shall have a game." what an evening that was on the bank of the quaska river in that room in the hospital. happiness reigned supreme, for the black clouds had all disappeared. when the game was ended they talked about the visit which would be made next summer to the great world outside of which nance had heard so much, but had never seen. then the two newly-wedded couples would return to carry on the work in the place which was so dear to their hearts. "an' we'll be here to give yez a house-warmin', hey, dad?" tom exclaimed, with joy depicted upon his honest, rugged face. "sure thing," was the reply. "an' mebbe ye'll git a few new wrinkles at chess," he slyly added, turning to nance, at which they all laughed. then just before they parted for the night, martin asked for his violin. nance brought hers, too, and together they played, the first time in months. there were no sad wailing notes now, but only such music as wells freely from hearts full of love, gratitude, and happiness. the end zane grey's novels _the light of western stars_ a new york society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. a surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. _the rainbow trail_ the story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands--until at last love and faith awake. _desert gold_ the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. _riders of the purple sage_ a picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago when mormon authority ruled. the prosecution of jane withersteen is the theme of the story. _the last of the plainsmen_ this is the record of a trip which the author took with buffalo jones, known as the preserver of the american bison, across the arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines." _the heritage of the desert_ a lovely girl, who has been reared among mormons, learns to love a young new englander. the mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the mormons--well, that's the problem of this great story. _the short stop_ the young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. his hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. _betty zane_ this story tells of the bravery and heroism of betty, the beautiful young sister of old colonel zane, one of the bravest pioneers. _the lone star ranger_ after killing a man in self defense buck duane becomes an outlaw along the texas border. in a camp on the mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. _the border legion_ joan randle, in a spirit of anger, sent jim cleve out to a lawless western mining camp, to prove his mettle. then realizing that she loved him--she followed him out. on her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots kells, the leader--and nurses him to health again. here enters another romance when joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes jim, in the throes of dissipation. a gold strike, a thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. * * * * * _the last of the great scouts._ by helen cody wetmore and zane grey the life story of colonel william f. cody, "buffalo bill," as told by his sister and zane grey. it begins with his boyhood in iowa and his first encounter with an indian. we see "bill" as a pony express rider, then near fort sumter as chief of the scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous indian campaigns. there is also a very interesting account of the travels of "the wild west" show. no character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of america than "buffalo bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous. booth tarkington's novels _seventeen._ illustrated by arthur william brown. no one but the creator of penrod could have portrayed the immortal young people of this story. its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was seventeen. _penrod._ illustrated by gordon grant. this is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. it is a finished, exquisite work. _penrod and sam._ illustrated by worth brehm. like "penrod" and "seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. _the turmoil._ illustrated by g. e. chambers. bibbs sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. the love of a fine girl turns bibb's life from failure to success. _the gentleman from indiana._ frontispiece. a story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country editor's life in indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love interest. _the flirt._ illustrated by clarence f. underwood. the "flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. the novels of george barr mccutcheon _graustark._ illustrated with scenes from the play. with the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type of story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. it is the story of love behind a throne in a new and strange country. _beverly of graustark._ illustrations by harrison fisher. this is a sequel to "graustark." a bewitching american girl visits the little principality and there has a romantic love affair. _prince of graustark._ illustrations by a. i. keller. the prince of graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of "graustark." beverly's daughter, and an american multimillionaire with a brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story. _brewster's millions._ illustrated with scenes from the photo-play. a young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year, in order to inherit _seven_, accomplishes the task in this lively story. _cowardice court._ illus. by harrison fisher and decorations by theodore hapgood. a romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud in the adirondacks in which an english girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young american. _the hollow of her hand._ illustrated by a. i. keller. a story of modern new york, built around an ancient enmity, born of the scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth. _what's-his-name._ illustrations by harrison fisher. "what's-his-name" is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress who is billboarded on broadway under an assumed name. the very opposite manner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax to the story. the novels of mary roberts rinehart _"k."_ illustrated. k. lemoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, and goes to live in a little town where beautiful sidney page lives. she is in training to become a nurse. the joys and troubles of their young love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made the author famous. _the man in lower ten._ illustrated by howard chandler christy. an absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the "man in lower ten." the strongest elements of mrs. rinehart's success are found in this book. _when a man marries._ illustrated by harrison fisher and mayo bunker. a young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him; finds that his aunt is soon to visit him. the aunt, who contributes to the family income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. how the young man met the situation is humorously and most entertainingly told. _the circular staircase._ illus. by lester ralph. the summer occupants of "sunnyside" find the dead body of arnold armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. following the murder a bank failure is announced. around these two events is woven a plot of absorbing interest. _the street of seven stars._ illustrated (photo play edition.) harmony wells, studying in vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly realizes that her money is almost gone. she meets a young ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with world-worn dr. anna and jimmie, the waif, they share their love and slender means. stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter _michael o'halloran._ illustrated by frances rogers. michael is a quick-witted little irish newsboy, living in northern indiana. he adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. he also assumes the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and onward. _laddie._ illustrated by herman pfeifer. this is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in indiana. the story is told by little sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. chief among them is that of laddie and the princess, an english girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. _the harvester._ illustrated by w. l. jacobs. "the harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. _freckles._ illustrated. freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment. _a girl of the limberlost._ illustrated. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. _at the foot of the rainbow._ illustrations in colors. the scene of this charming love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. _the song of the cardinal._ profusely illustrated. a love ideal of the cardinal bird and big mate, told with delicacy and humor. kathleen norris' stories _mother._ illustrated by f. g. yohn. this book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's experiences. _saturday's child._ frontispiece by f. graham cootes. out on the pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a quest for happiness. she passes through three stages--poverty, wealth and service--and works out a creditable salvation. _the rich mrs. burgoyne._ illustrated by lucius h. hitchcock. the story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied interests, and has her own romance. _the story of julia page._ frontispiece by allan gilbert. how julia page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life. _the heart of rachael._ frontispiece by charles e. chambers. rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most appealing characters. jack london's novels _john barleycorn._ illustrated by h. t. dunn. this remarkable book is a record of the author's own amasing experiences. this big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against john barleycorn. it is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetable idea and makes a typical jack london book. _the valley of the moon._ frontispiece by george harper. the story opens in the city slums where billy roberts, teamster and ex-prize fighter, and saxon brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. they tramp from one end of california to the other, and in the valley of the moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. _burning daylight._ four illustrations. the story of an adventurer who went to alaska and laid the foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. bringing his fortunes to the states he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. he then starts out as a merciless exploiter on his own account. finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. about this time he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story! _a son of the sun._ illustrated by a. o. fischer and c.w. ashley. david grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from england to the south seas in search of adventure. tanned like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. the life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. _the call of the wild._ illustrations by philip r. goodwin and charles livingston bull. decorations by charles e. hooper. a book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes. _the sea wolf._ illustrated by w. j. aylward. told by a man whom fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. a novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with delight. _white fang._ illustrated by charles livingston bun. "white fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. thereafter he is man's loving slave. sewell ford's stories _shorty mccabe._ illustrated by francis vaux wilson. a very humorous story. the hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. _side-stepping with shorty._ illustrated by francis vaux wilson. twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. sympathy with human nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites "side-stepping with shorty." _shorty mccabe on the job._ illustrated by francis vaux wilson. shorty mccabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to the minute. he aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," and gives joy to all concerned. _shorty mccabe's odd numbers._ illustrated by francis vaux wilson. these further chronicles of shorty mccabe tell of his studio for physical culture, and of his experiences both on the east side and at swell yachting parties. _torchy._ illus. by geo. biehm and jas. montgomery flagg. a red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the youths reared on the sidewalks of new york, tells the story of his experiences. _trying out torchy._ illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the previous book. _on with torchy._ illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations. _torchy, private sec._ illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for the corrugated iron company. the story is full of humor and infectious american slang. _wilt thou torchy._ illus. by f. snapp and a. w. brown. torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the florida west coast, in company with a group of friends of the corrugated trust and with his friend's aunt, on which trip torchy wins the aunt's permission to place an engagement ring on vee's finger. john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains _the trail of the lonesome pine._ illustrated by f. c. yohn. the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the _foot-prints of a girl_. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." _the little shepherd of kingdom come_ illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad." the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. _a knight of the cumberland._ illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners' fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. b. m. bower's novels thrilling western romances _chip, of the flying u_ a breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of chip and delia whitman are charmingly and humorously told. chip's jealousy of dr. cecil grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. a clever, realistic story of the american cow-puncher. _the happy family_ a lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted montana cowboys. foremost amongst them, we find ananias green, known as andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. _her prairie knight_ a realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of easterners who exchange a cottage at newport for the rough homeliness of a montana ranch-house. the merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating beatrice, and the effusive sir redmond, become living, breathing personalities. _the range dwellers_ here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page. _the lure of dim trails_ a vivid portrayal of the experience of an eastern author, among the cowboys of the west, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "bud" thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. _the lonesome trail_ "weary" davidson leaves the ranch for portland, where conventional city life palls on him. a little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. a wholesome love story. _the long shadow_ a vigorous western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a mountain ranch. its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. it is a fine love story from start to finish. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) the ancient law by the same author the wheel of life the deliverance the battle-ground the freeman, and other poems the voice of the people phases of an inferior planet the descendant the ancient law by ellen glasgow new york doubleday, page & company 1908 copyright, 1908, by doubleday, page & company published, january, 1908 all rights reserved including that of translation into foreign languages including the scandinavian to my good friend effendi contents book first--the new life chapter page i. the road 3 ii. the night 15 iii. the return to tappahannock 31 iv. the dream of daniel smith 42 v. at tappahannock 54 vi. the pretty daughter of the mayor 62 vii. shows the graces of adversity 72 viii. "ten commandment smith" 90 ix. the old and the new 101 x. his neighbour's garden 111 xi. bullfinch's hollow 123 xii. a string of coral 135 book second--the day of reckoning i. in which a stranger appears 147 ii. ordway compromises with the past 162 iii. a change of lodging 174 iv. shows that a laugh does not heal a heartache 185 v. treats of a great passion in a simple soul 196 vi. in which baxter plots 209 vii. shows that politeness, like charity, is an elastic mantle 222 viii. the turn of the wheel 234 ix. at the cross-roads 248 x. between man and man 256 xi. between man and woman 268 book third--the larger prison i. the return to life 281 ii. his own place 290 iii. the outward pattern 303 iv. the letter and the spirit 317 v. the will of alice 329 vi. the iron bars 341 vii. the vision and the fact 353 viii. the weakness in strength 363 book fourth--liberation i. the inward light 379 ii. at tappahannock again 392 iii. alice's marriage 409 iv. the power of the blood 420 v. the house of dreams 434 vi. the ultimate choice 443 vii. flight 454 viii. the end of the road 469 ix. the light beyond 482 book first the new life chapter i the road though it was six days since daniel ordway had come out of prison, he was aware, when he reached the brow of the hill, and stopped to look back over the sunny virginia road, that he drank in the wind as if it were his first breath of freedom. at his feet the road dropped between two low hills beyond which swept a high, rolling sea of broomsedge; and farther still--where the distance melted gradually into the blue sky--he could see not less plainly the new york streets through which he had gone from his trial and the walls of the prison where he had served five years. between this memory and the deserted look of the red clay road there was the abrupt division which separates actual experience from the objects in a dream. he felt that he was awake, yet it seemed that the country through which he walked must vanish presently at a touch. even the rough march wind blowing among the broomsedge heightened rather than diminished the effect of the visionary meeting of earth and sky. as he stood there in his ill-fitting clothes, with his head bared in the sun and the red clay ground to fine dust on his coarse boots, it would have been difficult at a casual glance to have grouped him appropriately in any division of class. he might have been either a gentleman who had turned tramp or a tramp who had been born to look a gentleman. though he was barely above medium height, his figure produced even in repose an impression of great muscular strength, and this impression was repeated in his large, regular, and singularly expressive features. his face was square with a powerful and rather prominent mouth and chin; the brows were heavily marked and the eyes were of so bright a blue that they lent an effect which was almost one of gaiety to his smile. in his dark and slightly coarsened face the colour of his eyes was intensified until they appeared to flash at times like blue lights under his thick black brows. his age was, perhaps, forty years, though at fifty there would probably be but little change recorded in his appearance. at thirty one might have found, doubtless, the same lines of suffering upon his forehead and about his mouth. as he went on over some rotting planks which spanned a stream that had gone dry, the road he followed was visible as a faded scar in a stretch of impoverished, neutral-toned country--the least distinctive and most isolated part of what is known in virginia as "the southside." a bleached monotony was the one noticeable characteristic of the landscape--the pale clay road, the dried broomsedge, and even the brownish, circular-shaped cloud of smoke, which hung over the little town in the distance, each contributing a depressing feature to a face which presented at best an unrelieved flatness of colour. the single high note in the dull perspective was struck by a clump of sassafras, which, mistaking the mild weather for a genial april, had flowered tremulously in gorgeous yellow. the sound of a wagon jolting over the rough road, reached him presently from the top of the hill, and as he glanced back, he heard a drawling curse thrown to the panting horses. a moment later he was overtaken by an open spring wagon filled with dried tobacco plants of the last season's crop. in the centre of the load, which gave out a stale, pungent odour, sat a small middle-aged countryman, who swore mild oaths in a pleasant, jesting tone. from time to time, as the stalks beneath him were jostled out of place, he would shift his seat and spread out his short legs clad in overalls of blue jean. behind him in the road the wind tossed scattered and damaged leaves of tobacco. when the wagon reached ordway, he glanced over his shoulder at the driver, while he turned into the small grass-grown path amid the clumps of sassafras. "is that bernardsville over there?" he asked, pointing in the direction of the cloud of smoke. the wagon drew up quickly and the driver--who showed at nearer view to be a dirty, red-bearded farmer of the poorer class--stared at him with an expression which settled into suspicion before it had time to denote surprise. "bernardsville! why, you've come a good forty miles out of your road. that thar's tappahannock." "tappahannock? i hadn't heard of it." "mebbe you ain't, but it never knowed it." "anything going on there? work, i mean?" "the biggest shippin' of tobaccy this side o' danville is goin' on thar. ever heard o' danville?" "i know the name, but the tobacco market is about closed now, isn't it? the season's over." the man's laugh startled the waiting horses, and lifting their heads from a budding bush by the roadside, they moved patiently toward tappahannock. "closed? bless you, it never closes--whoa! thar, won't you, darn you? to be sure sales ain't so brisk to-day as they war a month back, but i'm jest carryin' in my leetle crop to baxter's warehouse." "it isn't manufactured, then--only bought and sold?" "oh, it's sold quick enough and bought, too. baxter auctions the leaf off in lots and it's shipped to the factories in richmond an' in danville. you ain't a native of these parts, i reckon?" "a native--no? i'm looking for work." "what sort of work? thar's work an' work. i saw a man once settin' out in an old field doin' a picture of a pine tree, an' he called it work. wall, wall, if you're goin' all the way to tappahannock, i reckon i kin give you a lift along. mebbe you kin pick up an odd job in baxter's warehouse--thar's a sayin' that he feeds all the crows in tappahannock." he drove on with a chuckle, for ordway had declined the proffered "lift," and the little cloud of dust raised by the wagon drifted slowly in the direction of the town. a mile farther on ordway found that as the road approached tappahannock, the country lost gradually its aspect of loneliness, and the colourless fields were dotted here and there with small negro cabins, built for the most part of unbarked pine logs laid roughly cross-wise to form square enclosures. before one of these primitive dwellings a large black woman, with a strip of checked blue and white gingham bound about her head, was emptying a pail of buttermilk into a wooden trough. when she saw ordway she nodded to him from the end of the little path, bordered by rocks, which led from the roadside to the single stone step before her cabin door. as he watched the buttermilk splash into the trough, ordway remembered, with a spasm of faintness, that he had eaten nothing since the day before, and turning out of the road, he asked the woman for a share of the supper that she gave the pigs. "go 'way, honey, dis yer ain' fit'n fur you," she replied, resting the pail under her arm against her rolling hip, "i'se des' thowin' hit ter de hawgs." but when he had repeated his request, she motioned to a wooden bench beside a scrubby lilac bush on which a coloured shirt hung drying, and going into the single room inside, brought him a glass of buttermilk and a piece of corn bread on a tin plate. while he ate hungrily of the coarse food a half-naked negro baby, covered with wood ashes, rolled across the threshold and lay sprawling in the path at his feet. after a little rambling talk the woman went back into the cabin, where she whipped up cornmeal dough in an earthenware bowl, turning at intervals to toss a scrap or two to a red and white cock that hovered, expectant, about the doorway. in the road a covered wagon crawled by, and the shadow it threw stretched along the path to the lilac bush where the coloured shirt hung drying. the pigs drank the buttermilk from the trough with loud grunts; the red and white cock ventured, alert and wary, across the threshold; and the negro baby, after sprawling on its stomach in the warm earth, rolled over and lay staring in silence at the blue sky overhead. there was little beauty in the scene except the beauty which belongs to all things under the open sky. road and landscape and cabin were bare even of any chance effect of light and shadow. yet there was life--the raw, primal life of nature--and after his forty years of wasted experience, ordway was filled with a passionate desire for life. in his careless pursuit of happiness he had often found weariness instead, but sitting now homeless and penniless, before the negro's cabin, he discovered that each object at which he looked--the long road that led somewhere, the smoke hanging above the distant town, the deep-bosomed negro mother and the half-naked negro baby--that each of these possessed an interest to which he awakened almost with a start of wonder. and yielding to the influence of his thought, his features appeared to lose gradually their surface coarseness of line. it was as if his mouth grew vague, enveloped in shadow, while the eyes dominated the entire face and softened its expression to one of sweetness, gaiety and youth. the child that is in every man big enough to contain it looked out suddenly from his altered face. he was thinking now of a day in his boyhood--of an early autumn morning when the frost was white on the grass and the chestnuts dropped heavily from the spreading boughs and the cider smelt strong and sweet as it oozed from the crushed winesaps. on that morning, after dressing by candlelight, he had gone into town with his maiden aunt, a lady whom he remembered chiefly by her false gray curls which she wore as if they had been a halo. at the wayside station, while they had waited for the train to the little city of botetourt, he had seen a convict brought in, handcuffed, on his way to the penitentiary, and in response to the boy's persistent questioning, his aunt had told him that the man was wicked, though he appeared to the child's eyes to be only miserable--a thin, dirty, poorly clad labourer with a red cotton handkerchief bound tightly about his jaw. a severe toothache had evidently attacked him, for while he had stared sullenly at the bare planks of the floor, he had made from time to time a suffering, irritable movement with his head. at each gesture the guard had called out sharply: "keep still there, won't you?" to which the convict had responded by a savage lowering of his heavy brows. for the first time it had occurred to the child that day that there must be a strange contradiction--a fundamental injustice in the universal scheme of nature. he had always been what his father had called impatiently "a boy with ideas," and it had seemed to him then that this last "idea" of his was far the most wonderful of them all--more wonderful than any he had found in books or in his own head at night. at the moment he had felt it swell so large in his heart that a glow of happiness had spread through his body to his trembling hands. slipping from his aunt's hold he had crossed the room to where the convict sat sullenly beside his guard. "i'll give you all my money," he had cried out joyously, "because i am so much happier than you." the convict had started and looked up with an angry flash in his eyes; the guard had burst into a loud laugh while he spat tobacco juice through the window; the silver had scattered and rolled under the benches on the plank floor; and the child's aunt, rustling over in her stiff brocade, had seized his arm and dragged him, weeping loudly, into the train. so his first mission had failed, yet at this day he could remember the joy with which he had stretched out his little hand and the humiliation in which he had drawn it back. that was thirty years ago, but he wondered now if the child's way had been god's way, after all? for there had come an hour in his life when the convict of his boyhood had stood in closer relationship to his misery than the people whom he had touched in the street. his childish memories scattered like mist, and the three great milestones of his past showed bare and white, as his success, his temptation and his fall. he remembered the careless ambition of his early youth, the brilliant promise of his college years, and the day on which he had entered as a younger member the great banking house of amos, bonner, and amos. between this day and the slow minutes when he had stood in his wife's sitting-room awaiting his arrest, he could find in his thoughts no gradation of years to mark the terrible swiftness of his descent. in that time which he could not divide wall street had reached out and sucked him in; the fever of speculation had consumed like disease the hereditary instincts, the sentiments of honour, which had barred its way. one minute he had stood a rich man on the floor of the stock exchange--and was it an instant or a century afterwards that he had gone out into the street and had known himself to be a beggar and a criminal? other men had made millions with the use of money which they held in trust; but the star of the gambler had deserted him at the critical hour; and where other men had won and triumphed, he had gone down, he told himself, dishonoured by a stroke of luck. in his office that day a mirror over the mantel had showed him his face as he entered, and he had stopped to look at it almost with curiosity--as if it were the face of a stranger which repelled him because it bore some sinister likeness to his own. after this there had come days, weeks, months, when at each sudden word, at each opening of the door, he had started, half sickened, by fear of the discovery which he knew must come. his nerves had quivered and given way under the pressure; he had grown morose, irritable, silent; and in some half-insane frenzy, he had imagined that his friends, his family, his wife, even his young children, had begun to regard him with terror and suspicion. but at last the hour had come, and in the strength with which he had risen to meet it, he had won back almost his old self--for courage, not patience, was the particular virtue of his temperament. he had stood his trial bravely, had heard his sentence without a tremor, and had borne his punishment without complaint. the world and he were quits now, and he felt that it owed him at least the room for a fair fight. the prison, he had said once, had squared him with his destiny, yet to-day each act of his past appeared to rivet, not itself, but its result upon his life. though he told himself that he was free, he knew that, in the reality of things, he was still a prisoner. from the lowest depths that he had touched he was reached even now by the agony of his most terrible moment when, at the end of his first hopeless month, he had found awaiting him one day a letter from his wife. it was her final good-bye, she had written; on the morrow she would leave with her two children for his father's home in virginia; and the single condition upon which the old man had consented to provide for them was that she should separate herself entirely from her husband. "the condition is hard," she had added, "made harder, too, by the fact that you are his son and my only real claim upon him is through you--yet when you consider the failure of our life together, and that the children's education even is unprovided for, you will, i feel sure, admit that my decision has been a wise one." the words had dissolved and vanished before his eyes, and turning away he had flung himself on his prison bed, while the hard, dry sobs had quivered like blows in his chest. yet she was right! his judgment had acquitted her in the first agony of his reproach, and the unerring justice in her decision had convicted him with each smooth, calm sentence in her letter. as he lay there he had lost consciousness of the bare walls and the hot sunshine that fell through the grating, for the ultimate desolation had closed over him like black waters. a little later he had gone from his cell and taken up his life again; but all that he remembered of it now was a voice that had called to him in the prison yard. "you look so darn sunk in the mouth i'll let you have my last smoke--damn you!" turning sullenly he had accepted the stranger's tobacco, unaware at the moment that he was partaking of the nature of a sacrament--for while he had smoked there in his dogged misery, he had felt revive in his heart a stir of sympathy for the convict he had seen at the wayside station in virginia. as if revealed by an inner illumination the impressions of that morning had started, clear as light, into his brain. the frost on the grass, the dropping chestnuts, the strong sweet smell of the crushed winesaps--these things surrounded in his memory the wretched figure of the man with the red cotton handkerchief bound tightly about his swollen jaw. but the figure had ceased now to stand for itself and for its own degradation alone--haunting, tragic, colossal, it had become in his thoughts the image of all those who suffer and are oppressed. so through his sin and his remorse, ordway had travelled slowly toward the vision of service. with a word of thanks to the woman, he rose from the bench and went down the little path and out into the road. the wind had changed suddenly, and as he emerged from the shelter of a thicket, it struck against his face with a biting edge. where the sun had declined in the western sky, heavy clouds were driving close above the broken line of the horizon. the night promised to be cold, and he pushed on rapidly, urged by a feeling that the little town before him held rest and comfort and the new life beneath its smoking chimneys. walking was less difficult now, for the road showed signs of travel as it approached the scattered houses, which appeared thrust into community by the surrounding isolation of the fields. at last, as he ascended a slight elevation, he found that the village, screened by a small grove of pines, lay immediately beneath the spot upon which he stood. chapter ii the night the scattered houses closed together in groups, the road descended gradually into a hollow, and emerging on the opposite side, became a street, and the street slouched lazily downhill to where a railroad track ran straight as a seam across the bare country. quickening his steps, ordway came presently to the station--a small wooden building newly painted a brilliant yellow--and pushed his way with difficulty through a crowd of negroes that had gathered closely beside the waiting train. "thar's a good three hundred of the critters going to a factory in the north," remarked a man behind him, "an' yit they don't leave more'n a speck of white in the county. between the crows an' the darkies i'll be blamed if you can see the colour of the soil." the air was heavy with hot, close smells--a mingling of smoke, tobacco, dust and humanity. a wailing sound issued from the windows of the cars where the dark faces were packed tightly together, and a tall negro, black as ebony, in a red shirt open at the throat, began strumming excitedly upon a banjo. near him a mulatto woman lifted a shrill soprano voice, while she stood beating the air distractedly with her open palms. on the other side of the station a dog howled, and the engine uttered an angry whistle as if impatient of the delay. after five years of prison discipline, the ugly little town appeared to ordway to contain an alluring promise of freedom. at the instant the animation in the scene spoke to his blood as if it had been beauty, and movement seemed to him to possess some peculiar ã¦sthetic quality apart from form or colour. the brightly dyed calicos on the negro women; the shining black faces of the men, smooth as ebony; the tragic primitive voices, like voices imprisoned in the soil; the strumming of the rude banjo; the whistling engine and the howling dog; the odours of smoke and dust and fertilisers--all these things blended in his senses to form an intoxicating impression of life. nothing that could move or utter sounds or lend a spot of colour appeared common or insignificant to his awakened brain. it was all life, and for five years he had been starved in every sense and instinct. the main street--warehouse street, as he found later that it was called--appeared in the distance as a broad river of dust which ran from the little station to where the warehouses and small shops gave place to the larger dwellings which presided pleasantly over the neighbouring fields. as ordway followed the board sidewalk, he began idly reading the signs over the shops he passed, until "kelly's saloon," and "baker's general store" brought him suddenly upon a dark oblong building which ran back, under a faded brick archway. before the entrance several men were seated in cane chairs, which they had tilted conveniently against the wall, and at ordway's approach they edged slightly away and sat regarding him over their pipes with an expression of curiosity which differed so little in the different faces that it appeared to result from some internal automatic spring. "i beg your pardon," he began after a moment's hesitation, "but i was told that i might find work in baxter's warehouse." "well, it's a first-rate habit not to believe everything you're told," responded an enormous man, in half-soiled clothes, who sat smoking in the middle of the archway. "i can't find work myself in baxter's warehouse at this season. ain't that so, boys?" he enquired with a good-natured chuckle of his neighbours. "are you mr. baxter?" asked ordway shortly. "i'm not sure about the mister, but i'm baxter all right." he had shifted his pipe to the extreme corner of his mouth as he spoke, and now removing it with what seemed an effort, he sat prodding the ashes with his stubby thumb. his face, as he glanced down, was overspread by a flabbiness which appeared to belong to expression rather than to feature. "then there's no chance for me?" enquired ordway. "you might try the cotton mills--they's just down the next street. if there's a job to be had in town you'll most likely run up against it there." "it's no better than a wild goose chase you're sending him on, baxter," remarked a smaller member of the group, whose head protruded unexpectedly above baxter's enormous shoulder; "i was talking to jasper trend this morning and he told me he was turning away men every day. whew! but this wind is getting too bitter for me, boys." "oh, there's no harm can come of trying," insisted the cheerful giant, pushing back his chair as the others retreated out of the wind, "if hope doesn't fill the stomach it keeps the heart up, and that's something." his great laugh rolled out, following ordway along the street as he went in pursuit of the fugitive opportunity which disported itself now in the cotton factory at the foot of the hill. when he reached the doors the work of the day was already over, and a crowd of operatives surged through the entrance and overflowed into the two roads which led by opposite ways into the town. drawing to one side of the swinging doors, he stood watching the throng a moment before he could summon courage to enter the building and inquire for the office of the manager. when he did so at last it was with an almost boyish feeling of hesitation. the manager--a small, wiry man with a wart on the end of his long nose--was hurriedly piling papers into his desk before closing the factory and going home to supper. his hands moved impatiently, almost angrily, for he remembered that he had already worked overtime and that the muffins his wife had promised him for supper would be cold. at any other hour of the day he would have received ordway with politeness--for he was at heart a well-disposed and even a charitable person--but it happened that his dinner had been unsatisfactory (his mutton had been served half raw by a new maid of all-work) and he had particularly set his hopes upon the delicious light muffins in which his wife excelled. so when he saw ordway standing between him and his release, his face grew black and the movements of his hands passed to jerks of frantic irritation. "what do you want? say it quick--i've no time to talk," he began, as he pushed the last heap of papers inside, and let the lid of his desk fall with a bang. "i'm looking for work," said ordway, "and i was told at baxter's warehouse----" "darn baxter. what kind of work do you want?" "i'll take anything--i can do bookkeeping or----" "well, i don't want a bookkeeper." he locked his desk, and turning to take down his hat, was incensed further by discovering that it was not on the hook where he had placed it when he came in. finding it at last on a heap of reports in the corner, he put it on his head and stared at ordway, with his angry eyes. "you must have come a long way--haven't you? mostly on foot?" "a good distance." "why did you select tappahannock? was there any reason?" "i wanted to try the town, that was all." "well, i tell you what, my man," concluded the manager, while his rage boiled over in the added instants of his delay; "there have been a blamed sight too many of your kind trying tappahannock of late--and the best thing you can do is to move on to a less particular place. when we want bookkeepers here we don't pick 'em up out of the road." ordway swallowed hard, and his hands clinched in a return of one of his boyish spasms of temper. his vision of the new life was for an instant defaced and clouded; then as he met the angry little eyes of the man before him, he felt that his rage went out of him as suddenly as it had come. turning without a word, he passed through the entrance and out into the road, which led back, by groups of negro hovels, into the main street of the town. his anger gave place to helplessness; and it seemed to him, when he reached presently the larger dwellings upon the hill, and walked slowly past the squares of light that shone through the unshuttered windows, that he was more absolutely alone than if he had stood miles away from any human habitation. the outward nearness had become in his thoughts the measure of the inner distance. he felt himself to be detached from humanity, yet he knew that in his heart there existed a stronger bond than he had ever admitted in the years of his prosperity. the generous impulses of his youth were still there, but had not sorrow winnowed them from all that was base or merely selfish? was the lesson that he had learned in prison to be wholly lost? did the knowledge he had found there count for nothing in his life--the bitterness of shame, the agony of remorse, the companionship with misery? he remembered a sunday in the prison when he had listened to a sermon from a misshapen little preacher, whose face was drawn sideways by a burn which he had suffered during an epileptic seizure in his childhood. in spite of his grotesque features the man had drawn ordway by some invisible power which he had felt even then to be the power of faith. crippled, distorted, poorly clad, the little preacher, he felt, had found the great possession which he was still seeking--this man believed with a belief that was larger than the external things which he had lost. when he shut his eyes now he could still see the rows of convicts in the chapel, the pale, greenish light in which each face resembled the face of a corpse, the open bible in its black leather binding, and beside it the grotesque figure of the little preacher who had come, like his master, to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance. the sun had dropped like a ball below the gray horizon, and the raw march wind, when it struck him now, brought no longer the exhilaration of the afternoon. a man passed him, comfortable, well-fed, wheezing slightly, with his fat neck wrapped in a woollen muffler, and as he stopped before a whitewashed gate, which opened into the garden surrounding a large, freshly painted house, ordway touched his arm and spoke to him in a voice that had fallen almost to a whisper. at his words, which were ordinary enough, the man turned on him a face which had paled slightly from surprise or fear. in the twilight ordway could see his jaw drop while he fumbled awkwardly with his gloved hands at the latch of the gate. "i don't know what you mean--i don't know" he repeated in a wheezing voice, "i'm sorry, but i really don't know," he insisted again as if in a helpless effort to be understood. once inside the garden, he closed the gate with a bang behind him, and went rapidly up the gravelled walk to the long piazza where the light of a lamp under a red shade streamed through the open door. turning away ordway followed the street to the end of the town, where it passed without distinct change of character into the country road. on this side the colour of the soil had paled until it looked almost blanched under the rising moon. though the twilight was already in possession of the fields a thin red line was still visible low in the west, and beneath this the scattered lights in negro cabins shone like obscure, greenish glow-worms, hidden among clumps of sassafras or in stretches of dried broomsedge. as ordway looked at these humble dwellings, it seemed to him that they might afford a hospitality denied him by the more imposing houses of the town. he had already eaten of the negro's charity, and it was possible that before dawn he might be compelled to eat of it again. beneath his feet the long road called to him as it wound a curving white line drawn through the vague darkness of the landscape. somewhere in a distant pasture a bull bellowed, and the sound came to him like the plaintive voice of the abandoned fields. while he listened the response of his tired feet to the road appeared to him as madness, and stopping short, he turned quickly and looked back in the direction of tappahannock. but from the spot on which he stood the lights of the town offered little promise of hospitality, so after an uncertain glance, he moved on again to a bare, open place where two roads met and crossed at the foot of a blasted pine. a few steps farther he discovered that a ruined gate stood immediately on his right, and beyond the crumbling brick pillars, he made out dimly the outlines of several fallen bodies, which proved upon nearer view to be the prostrate forms of giant cedars. an avenue had once led, he gathered, from the gate to a house situated somewhere at the end of the long curve, for the great trees lying across the road must have stood once as the guardians of an estate of no little value. whether the cedars had succumbed at last to age or to the axe of the destroyer, it was too dark at the moment for him to ascertain; but the earth had claimed them now, magnificent even in their ruin, while under the dim tent of sky beyond, he could still discern their living companions of a hundred years. so impressive was the past splendour of this approach that the house seemed, when he reached it, almost an affront to the mansion which his imagination had reared. broad, low, built of brick, with two long irregular wings embedded in english ivy, and a rotting shingled roof that sloped over dormered windows, its most striking characteristic as he first perceived it under the moonlight was the sentiment which is inevitably associated with age and decay. never imposing, the dwelling was now barely habitable, for the roof was sagging in places over the long wings, a chimney had fallen upon one of the moss-covered eaves, the stone steps of the porch were hollowed into dangerous channels, and the ground before the door was strewn with scattered chips from a neighbouring wood pile. the air of desolation was so complete that at first ordway supposed the place to be uninhabited, but discovering a light presently in one of the upper windows, he ascended the steps and beat with the rusted knocker on the panel of the door. for several minutes there was no answer to his knock. then the sound of shuffling footsteps reached him from the distance, drawing gradually nearer until they stopped immediately beyond the threshold. "i ain' gwine open dis yer do' ef'n hits oner dem ole hants," said a voice within, while a sharp point of light pierced through the keyhole. an instant later, in response to ordway's assurance of his bodily reality, the bolt creaked back with an effort and the door opened far enough to admit the slovenly head and shoulders of an aged negress. "miss meely she's laid up en she cyar'n see ner comp'ny, marster," she announced with the evident intention of retreating as soon as her message was delivered. her purpose, however, was defeated, for, slipping his heavy boot into the crack of the door, ordway faced her under the lamp which she held high above her head. in the shadows beyond he could see dimly the bare old hall and the great winding staircase which led to the painted railing of the gallery above. "can you give me shelter for the night?" he asked, "i am a stranger in the county, and i've walked thirty miles to-day." "miss meely don' wan'ner comp'ny," replied the negress, while her head, in its faded cotton handkerchief, appeared to swing like a pendulum before his exhausted eyes. "who is miss meely?" he demanded, laying his hand upon her apron as she made a sudden terrified motion of flight. "miss meely brooke--marse edward's daughter. he's daid." "well, go and ask her. i'll wait here on the porch until you return." her eyelids flickered in the lamplight, and he saw the whites of her eyes leap suddenly into prominence. then the door closed again, the bolt shot back into place, and the shuffling sound grew fainter as it passed over the bare floor. a cold nose touched ordway's hand, and looking down he saw that an old fox-hound had crept into the porch and was fawning with pleasure at his feet. he was conscious of a thrill of gratitude for the first demonstrative welcome he had received at tappahannock; and while he stood there with the hound leaping upon his chest, he felt that, in spite of "miss meely," hidden somewhere behind the closed door, the old house had not lost utterly the spirit of hospitality. his hand was still on the dog's head when the bolt creaked again and the negress reappeared upon the threshold. "miss meely she sez she's moughty sorry, suh, but she cyarn' hev ner strange gent'mun spendin' de night in de house. she reckons you mought sleep in de barn ef'n you wanter." as the door opened wider, her whole person, clad in a faded woollen dress, patched brightly in many colours, emerged timidly and followed him to the topmost step. "you des go roun' ter de back en den thoo' de hole whar de gate used ter be, en dar's de barn. nuttin' ain' gwine hu't you lessen hits dat ar ole ram 'lejab." "well, he shall not find me unprepared," responded ordway, with a kind of desperate gaiety, and while the old hound still leaped at his side, he found his way into a little path which led around the corner of the house, and through the tangled garden to the barn just beyond the fallen gateposts. here the dog deserted him, running back to the porch, where a woman's voice called; and stumbling over a broken ploughshare or two, he finally reached the poor shelter which miss meely's hospitality afforded. it was very dark inside, but after closing the door to shut out the wind, he groped his way through the blackness to a pile of straw in one corner. the place smelt of cattle, and opposite to the spot on which he lay, he distinguished presently a soft, regular sound which he concluded to be caused by the breathing of a cow. evidently the barn was used as a cattleshed also, though his observation of the mansion did not lead him to suppose that "miss meely" possessed anything approaching a herd. he remembered the old negress's warning allusion to the ram, but so far at least the darkness had revealed nothing that could prove hostile to his company. his head ached and his will seemed suddenly benumbed, so stretching himself at full length in the straw he fell, after a few troubled moments, into the deep and dreamless sleep of complete physical exhaustion. an instant afterwards, it seemed to him, he was aroused by a light which flashed into his face from the opening door. a cold wind blew over him, and as he struggled almost blindly back into consciousness, he saw that a girl in a red cape stood holding a lantern above her head in the centre of the barn. at his first look the red cape warmed him as if it had been flame; then he became aware that a voice was speaking to him in a peculiar tone of cheerful authority. and it seemed to him that the red cape and the rich voice expressed the same dominant quality of personality. "i thought you must be hungry," said the voice with energy, "so i've brought your supper." even while he instinctively grasped the tray she held out, he observed with quickened attention that the hands which offered him the food had toiled out of doors in good and bad weather--though small and shapely they were chapped from cold and roughened by marks of labour. "you'd better drink your coffee while it's hot," said the voice again. the practical nature of her advice put him immediately at his ease. "it's the first hot thing i've had for a week," he responded. "then it will be all the better for you," replied the girl, while she reached up to hang the lantern from a rusted nail in the wall. as the light fell over her, the red cape slipped a little from her shoulder and she put up her hand to catch it together on her bosom. the movement, slight as it was, gave ordway a chance to observe that she possessed a kind of vigorous grace, which showed in the roundness of her limbs and in the rebellious freedom of her thick brown hair. the airy little curls on her temples stood out, he noticed, as if she had been walking bareheaded in the wind. at his first look it did not occur to him that she was beautiful; what impressed him most was the quality of radiant energy which revealed itself in every line of her face and figure--now sparkling in her eyes, now dimpling in her cheek, now quickening her brisk steps across the floor, and now touching her eyes and mouth like an edge of light. it may have been merely the effect of the red cape on a cold night, but as she moved back and forth into the dark corners of the barn, she appeared to him to gather both warmth and animation out of the gloom. as she did not speak again during her work, he found himself forced to observe the same friendly silence. the ravenous hunger of the afternoon had returned to him with the odour of the food, and he ate rapidly, sitting up on his straw bed, while she took up a bucket and a piece of wood sharpened at one end and prepared a bran mash for the cow quartered in a stall in one corner. when a little later she gathered up an armful of straw to replenish the animal's bed, ordway pushed the tray aside and made a movement as if to assist her; but stopping an instant in her task, she waved him aside with the easy dignity of perfect capability. "i can do it myself, thank you," she said, smiling; and then, glancing at his emptied plate, she added carelessly, "i'll send back presently for the tray and lantern--good-night!" her tone had changed perceptibly on the last word, for its businesslike authority had given place to the musical southern drawl so familiar to his ears in childhood. in that simple phrase, accompanied by the gracious bend of her whole person, she had put unconsciously generations of social courtesy--of racial breeding. "thank you--good-night," he answered, rising, and drawing back with his hand on the heavy latch. then before she could reach the door and pass through, a second lantern flashed there out of the blackness beyond, and the terrified face of a negro urchin was thrust into the full glare of light. "fo' de good lawd, miss em'ly, dat ar ole ram done butt sis mehitable clean inter de smoke 'us." perfectly unruffled by the news the girl looked at ordway, and then held out her small, strong hand for the lantern. "very well, i'll come and shut him up," she responded quietly, and holding the red cape together on her bosom, she stepped over the threshold and followed the negro urchin out into the night. chapter iii the return to tappahannock at sunrise he came out of the barn, and washed his face and hands at the well, where he found a coarse towel on the moss-covered trough. the day was breaking clear, but in the fine golden light the house and lawn appeared even more desolate than they had done under the full moon. before the war the place had been probably a comfortable, unpretentious country mansion. some simple dignity still attached to its bowers of ivy and its ancient cedars, but it was easy to imagine that for thirty years no shingle had been added to its crumbling roof, and hardly a ship gathered from the littered walk before the door. at the end of the avenue six great trees had fallen a sacrifice, he saw now, to the mere lust for timber--for freshly cut and still odorous with sap, the huge trunks lay directly across the approach over which they had presided through the tragic history of the house. judged by what it must have been in a fairly prosperous past, the scene was sad enough even to the eyes of a stranger; and as ordway walked slowly down the dim, fragrant curve of the avenue, he found it difficult to place against so sombre a background, a figure as full of life and animation as that of the girl he had seen in the barn on the evening before. she appeared to his imagination as the embodiment of youth amid surroundings whose only remaining beauties were those of age. though he had resolved yesterday not to return to tappahannock, he found himself presently retracing, almost without an effort of will, the road which he had travelled so heavily in the night. something between sunrise and sunset had renewed his courage and altered his determination. was it only the wasted strength which had returned to him in his sleep? or was it--he hesitated at the thought--the flush of shame which had burned his face when the girl's lantern had flashed over him out of the darkness? in that pitiless illumination it was as if not only his roughened surface, but his secret sin was laid bare; and he had felt again all the hideous publicity that had touched him and put him as one apart in the court-room. though he had outgrown the sin, he knew now that he must carry the scar of it until his death; and he knew, also, that the reality of his punishment had been in the spirit and not in the law. for a while he walked rapidly in the direction of tappahannock; then sitting down in the sunshine upon the roadside, he ate the piece of cornbread he had saved last night from his supper. it would be several hours at least before he might hope to find the warehouses open for the day, so he sat patiently eating his bread under the bared boughs of a young peach-tree, while he watched the surface of the long white road which appeared to hold for him as much despondency as freedom. a farmer driving a spotted cow to market spoke to him presently in a friendly voice; and rising to his feet, he overtook the man and fell into the jogging pace which was rendered necessary by the reluctance of the animal to proceed. "i declar' the sense in them thar critters do beat all," remarked the farmer, after an ineffectual tug at the rope he held. "she won't be drove no more 'n a woman will--her head is what she wants no matter whar it leads her." "can you tell me," inquired ordway, when they had started again upon the advance, "the name of the old house i passed a mile or so along the road?" "oh, you mean cedar hill, i reckon!--thar now, betsey, that thar toad ain't a turnip!" "cedar hill, is it? well, they appear to be doing their level best to get rid of the cedars." "mr. beverly did that--not miss em'ly. miss em'ly dotes on them trees jest the same as if they were made of flesh and blood." "but the place belongs to mr. beverly, i presume?" "if thar's a shingle of it that ain't mortgaged, i reckon it does--though for that matter miss em'ly is overseer and manager, besides teachin' every day in the public school of tappahannock. mr. beverly's got a soft heart in his body--all the brookes had that they say--but the lord who made him knows that he ain't overblessed with brains. he used to speculate with most of the family money, but as luck would have it he always speculated wrong. then he took to farmin', but he's got such a slow gentlemanly way about him that nothin' he puts in the ground ever has spirit enough to come up agin. his wife's just like him--she was miss amelia meadows, his second cousin from the up-country, and when the children kept on comin' so thick and fast, as is the lord's way with po' folks, people said thar warn't nothin' ahead of 'em but starvation. but miss em'ly she come back from teachin' somewhar down south an' undertook to run the whole place single-handed. things are pickin' up a little now, they say--she's got a will of her own, has miss em'ly, but thar ain't anybody in these parts that wouldn't work for her till they dropped. she sent for me last monday to help her mend her henhouse, and though i was puttin' a new roof over my wife's head, i dropped everything i had and went. that was the day mr. beverly cut down the cedars." "so miss emily didn't know of it?" "she was in school, suh--you see she teaches in tappahannock from nine till three, so mr. beverly chose that time to sell the avenue to young tom myers. he's a sly man, is mr. beverly, for all his soft, slow ways, and if young tom had been on time he'd have had half the avenue belted before miss em'ly got back from school. but he got in some mess or other at the store, and he was jest hewin' like thunder at his sixth cedar, when up come miss em'ly on that old white horse she rides. good lord! i hope i'll never see anybody turn so white agin as she did when her eyes lighted on them fallen trees. 'beverly,' she called out in a loud, high voice, 'have you dared to sell the cedars?' mr. beverly looked a little sick as if his stomach had gone aginst him of a sudden, but he stood right up on the trunk of a tree, and mumbled something about presarvin' useless timber when the children had no shoes an' stockings to thar feet. then miss em'ly gave him a look that scorched like fire, and she rode straight up to myers on her old horse and said as quiet as death: 'put up your axe, tom, i'll give you back your money. how much have you paid him down?' when young tom looked kind of sheepish and said: 'a hundred dollars,' i saw her eyelids flicker, but she didn't hesitate an instant. 'you shall have it within an hour on my word of honour,' she answered, 'can you wait?' 'i reckon i can wait all day, miss,' said young tom--and then she jumped down from her horse, and givin' me the bridle, caught up her skirt and ran indoors. in a minute she came flying out agin and before we had time to catch our breath she was ridin' for dear life back to town. 'you'd better go on with yo' work,' said mr. beverly in his soft way, but young tom picked up his axe, and sat down on the big stump behind him. 'i reckon i can take her word better 'n yours, mr. beverly,' he answered, 'an' 'i reckon you can, too, young tom,' said i----." "but how did she raise the money?" inquired ordway. "that's what nobody knows, suh, except her and one other. some say she sold a piece of her mother's old jewelry--a locket or something she had put by--and some believe still that she borrowed it from robert baxter or jasper trend. whichever way it was, she came ridin' up within the hour on her old white horse with the notes twisted tight in her handkerchief. she was mighty quiet, then, but when it was over, great lord, what a temper she was in. i declar' she would have struck mr. beverly with the sour gum twig she used for a whip if i hadn't slipped in between 'em an' caught her arm. then she lashed him with her tongue till he seemed to wither and shrink all over." "and served him right, god bless her!" said ordway. "that's so, suh, but mr. beverly ain't a bad man--he's jest soft." "yet your miss emily still sticks to him, it seems?" "if she didn't the farm wouldn't hold together a week. what she makes from teachin' is about all they have to live on in my opinion. last summer, too, she started raisin' garden things an' poultry, an' she'd have got quite a thrivin' business if she had had any kind of help. then in july she tried her hand at puttin' up preserves and jellies to send to them big stores in the north." ordway remembered the cheerful authority in her voice, the little cold red hands that had offered him his supper; and his heart contracted as it did at the memory of his daughter alice. yet it was not pity alone that moved him, for mingled with the appeal to his sympathy there was something which awoke in him the bitter agony of remorse. so the girl in the red cape could endure poverty such as this with honour! at the thought his past sin and his present disgrace appeared to him not only as crime but as cowardliness. he recalled the angry manager of the cotton mills, but there was no longer resentment in his mind either against the individual or against society. instead it seemed to him that all smaller emotions dissolved in a tenderness which placed this girl and alice apart with the other good and inspiring memories of his life. as he walked on in silence a little incident of ten years before returned to his thoughts, and he remembered the day he had found his child weeping beside a crippled beggar on his front steps. when, a little later, they reached tappahannock, the farmer turned with his reluctant cow into one of the smaller paths which led across the common on the edge of the town. as it was still too early to apply for work, ordway sat down on a flat stone before an iron gate and watched the windows along the street for any signs of movement or life within. at length several frowsy negro maids leaned out while the wooden shutters swung slowly back against the walls; then a milk wagon driven by a small boy clattered noisily round the corner, and in response to the shrill whistle of the driver, the doors opened hurriedly and the negro maids rushed, with outstretched pitchers, down the gravelled walks to the iron gates. presently an appetising odour of bacon reached ordway's nostrils; and in the house across the street a woman with her hair done up on pins, came to the window and began grinding coffee in a wooden mill. not until eight o'clock did the town open its gates and settle itself to the day's work. when the doors of the warehouses were fastened back, ordway turned into the main street again, and walked slowly downhill until he came to the faded brick archway where the group of men had sat smoking the evening before. now there was an air of movement in the long building which had appeared as mere dim vacancy at the hour of sunset. men were passing in and out of the brick entrance, from which a thin coat of whitewash was peeling in splotches; covered wagons half filled with tobacco were standing, unhitched, along the walls; huge bags of fresh fertilisers were thrown carelessly in corners; and in the centre of the great floor, an old negro, with a birch broom tied together with coloured string, was sweeping into piles the dried stems left after yesterday's sales. as he swept, a little cloud of pungent dust rose before the strokes of his broom and floated through the brick archway out into the street. this morning there was even less attention paid to ordway's presence than there had been at the closing hour. planters hurried back and forth preparing lots for the opening sale; a wagon drove into the building, and the driver got down over the muddy wheel and lifted out several willow crates through which ordway could catch a glimpse of the yellow sun-cured leaf. the old negro swept briskly, piling the trash into heaps which would finally be ground into snuff or used as a cheap grade of fertiliser. lean hounds wandered to and fro, following the covered wagons and sniffing suspiciously at the loose plants arranged in separate lots in the centre of the floor. "is baxter here this morning?" ordway asked presently of a countryman who lounged on a pile of bags near the archway. "i reckon you'll find him in his office," replied the man, as he spat lazily out into the street; "that thar's his door," he added, pointing to a little room on the right of the entrance--"i seed him go in an' i ain't seed him come out." nodding his thanks for the information, ordway crossed the building and rapped lightly on the door. in response to a loud "come in," he turned the knob and stood next instant face to face with the genial giant of the evening before. "good-morning, mr. baxter, i've come back again," he said. "good-morning!" responded baxter, "i see you have." in the full daylight baxter appeared to have increased in effect if not in quantity, and as ordway looked at him now, he felt himself to be in the presence less of a male creature than of an embodied benevolent impulse. his very flabbiness of feature added in a measure to the expansive generosity of mouth and chin; and slovenly, unwashed, half-shaven as he was, baxter's spirit dominated not only his fellow men, but the repelling effect of his own unkempt exterior. to meet his glance was to become suddenly intimate; to hear him speak was to feel that he had shaken you by the hand. "i hoped you might have come to see things differently this morning," said ordway. baxter looked him over with his soft yet penetrating eyes, his gaze travelling slowly from the coarse boots covered with red clay to the boyish smile on the dark, weather-beaten face. "you did not tell me what kind of work you were looking for," he observed at last. "do you want to sweep out the warehouse or to keep the books?" ordway laughed. "i prefer to keep the books, but i can sweep out the warehouse," he replied. "you can--can you?" said baxter. his pipe, which was never out of his hand except when it was in his mouth, began to turn gray, and putting it between his teeth, he sucked hard at the stem for a minute. "you're an educated man, then?" "i've been to college--do you mean that?" "you're fit for a clerk's position?" "i am sure of it." "where did you work last?" ordway's hesitation was barely perceptible. "i've been in business," he answered. "on your own hook?" inquired baxter. "yes, on my own hook." "but you couldn't make a living at it?" "no; i gave it up for several reasons." "well, i don't know your reasons, my man," observed baxter, drily, "but i like your face." "thank you," said ordway, and he laughed again with the sparkling gaiety which leaped first to his blue eyes. "and so you expect me to take you without knowing a darn thing about you?" demanded baxter. ordway nodded gravely. "yes, i hope that is what you will do," he answered. "i may ask your name, i reckon, mayn't i?--if you have no particular objection." "i don't mind telling you it's smith," said ordway, with his gaze on a huge pamphlet entitled "smith's almanac" lying on baxter's desk. "daniel smith." "smith," repeated baxter. "well, it ain't hard to remember. if i warn't a blamed fool, i'd let you go," he added thoughtfully, "but there ain't much doubt, i reckon, about my being a blamed fool." he rose from his chair with difficulty, and steadying his huge body, moved to the door, which he flung open with a jerk. "if you've made up your mind dead sure to butt in, you might as well begin with the next sale," he said. chapter iv the dream of daniel smith he had been recommended for lodging to a certain mrs. twine, and at five o'clock, when the day's work at baxter's was over, he started up the street in a bewildered search for her house, which he had been told was situated immediately beyond the first turn on the brow of the hill. when he reached the corner there was no one in sight except a small boy who sat, crying loudly, astride a little whitewashed wooden gate. beyond the boy there was a narrow yard filled with partly dried garments hung on clothes lines, which stretched from a young locust tree near the sidewalk to the front porch, where a man with a red nose was reading the local newspaper. as the man with the red nose paid no attention to the loud lamentations of the child, ordway stopped by the gate and inquired sympathetically if he could be of help. "oh, he ain't hurt," remarked the man, throwing a side glance over his paper, "he al'ays yells like that when his ma's done scrubbed him." "she's washed me so clean that i feel naked," howled the boy. "well, you'll get over that in a year's time," observed ordway cheerfully, "so suppose you leave off a minute now and show me the way to mrs. twine's." at his request the boy stopped crying instantly, and stared up at him while the dirty tearmarks dried slowly on his cheeks. "thar ain't no way," he replied solemnly, "'cause she's my ma." "then jump down quickly and run indoors and tell her i'd like to see her." "'t ain't no use. she won't come." "well, go and ask her. i was told to come here to look for board and lodging." he glanced inquiringly at the man on the porch, who, engrossed in the local paper, was apparently oblivious of the conversation at the gate. "she won't come 'cause she's washin' the rest of us," returned the boy, as he swung himself to the ground, "thar're six of us an' she ain't done but two. that's lemmy she's got hold of now. can't you hear him holler?" he planted his feet squarely on the board walk, looked back at ordway over his shoulder, and departed reluctantly with the message for his mother. at the end of a quarter of an hour, when ordway had entered the gate and sat down in the cold wind on the front steps, the door behind him opened with a jar, and a large, crimson, untidy woman, splashed with soapsuds, appeared like an embodied tempest upon the threshold. "canty says you've come to look at the dead gentleman's room, suh," she began in a high voice, approaching her point with a directness which lost none of its force because of the panting vehemence with which she spoke. "baxter told me i might find board with you," explained ordway in her first breathless pause. "to be sure he may have the dead gentleman's room, mag," put in the man on the porch, folding his newspaper, with a shiver, as he rose to his feet. "i warn't thinkin' about lettin' that room agin'," said mrs. twine, crushing her husband's budding interference by the completeness with which she ignored his presence. "but it's jest as well, i reckon, for a defenceless married woman to have a stranger in the house. though for the matter of that," she concluded in a burst of domestic confidence, "the woman that ain't a match for her own husband without outside help ain't deservin' of the pleasure an' the blessin' of one." then as the man with the red nose slunk shamefacedly into the passage, she added in an undertone to ordway, "and now if you'll jest step inside, i'll show you the spare room that i've got to let." she led the way indoors, scolding shrilly as she passed through the hall, and up the little staircase, where several half-dressed children were riding, with shrieks of delight, down the balustrade. "you needn't think you've missed a scrubbing because company's come," she remarked angrily, as she stooped to box the ears of a small girl lying flat on her stomach upon the landing. "such is my taste for cleanness," she explained to ordway, "that when my hands once tech the soap it's as much as i can do to keep 'em back from rubbin' the skin off. thar 're times even when the taste is so ragin' in my breast that i can hardly wait for saturday night to come around. yet i ain't no friend to license whether it be in whiskey or in soap an' water. temperance is my passion and that's why, i suppose, i came to marry a drunkard." with this tragic confession, uttered in a matter of fact manner, she produced a key from the pocket of her blue gingham apron, and ushered ordway into a small, poorly furnished room, which overlooked the front street and the two bared locust trees in the yard. "i kin let you have this at three dollars a week," she said, "provided you're content to do yo' own reachin' at the table. thar ain't any servant now except a twelve year old darkey." "yes, i'll take it," returned ordway, almost cheerfully; and when he had agreed definitely as to the amount of service he was to receive, he closed the creaking door behind her, and looked about the crudely furnished apartment with a sense of ownership such as he had not felt since the afternoon upon which he had stood in his wife's sitting-room awaiting his arrest. he thought of the florentine gilding, the rich curtains, the long mirrors, the famous bronze mercury and the corot landscape with the sunlight upon it--and then of the terrible oppression in which these familiar objects had seemed closing in upon him and smothering him into unconsciousness. the weight was lifted now, and he breathed freely while his gaze rested on the common pine bedstead, the scarred washstand, with the broken pitcher, the whitewashed walls, the cane chairs, the rusted scuttle, filled with cheap coal, and the unpainted table holding a glass lamp with a smoked chimney. from the hall below he could hear the scolding voice of mrs. twine, but neither the shrill sound nor the poor room produced in him the smothered anguish he felt even to-day at the memory of the corot landscape bathed in sunlight. an hour later, when he came upstairs again as an escape from the disorder of mrs. twine's supper table, he started a feeble blaze in the grate, which was half full of ashes, and after lighting the glass lamp, sat watching the shadows flicker to and fro on the whitewashed wall. his single possession, a photograph of his wife taken with her two children, rested against the brick chimney piece, and as he looked at it now it seemed to stand in no closer relationship to his life than did one of the brilliant chromos he had observed ornamenting the walls of mrs. twine's dining-room. his old life, indeed, appeared remote, artificial, conjured from unrealities--it was as if he had moved lightly upon the painted surface of things, until at last a false step had broken through the thin covering and he had plunged in a single instant against the concrete actuality. the shock had stunned him, yet he realised now that he could never return to his old sheltered outlook--to his pleasant fiction--for he had come too close to experience ever to be satisfied again with falsehood. the photograph upon the mantel was the single remaining link which held him to-day to his past life--to his forfeited identity. in the exquisite, still virgin face of his wife, draped for effect in a scarf of italian lace--he saw embodied the one sacred memory to which as daniel smith he might still cling with honour. the face was perfect, the expression of motherhood which bent, flamelike, over the small boy and girl, was perfect also; and the pure soul of the woman seemed to him to have formed both face and expression after its own divine image. in the photograph, as in his memory, her beauty was touched always by some rare quality of remoteness, as if no merely human conditions could ever entirely compass so ethereal a spirit. the passion which had rocked his soul had left her serenity unshaken, and even sorrow had been powerless to leave its impress or disfigurement upon her features. as the shadows flickered out on the walls, the room grew suddenly colder. rising, he replenished the fire, and then going over to the bed, he flung himself, still dressed, under the patchwork quilt from which the wool was protruding in places. he was thinking of the morning eighteen years ago when he had first seen her as she came, with several girl companions, out of the old church in the little town of botetourt. it was a christmas during his last year at harvard, when moved by a sudden interest in his southern associations, he had gone down for two days to his childhood's home in virginia. though the place was falling gradually to ruin, his maiden great-aunt still lived there in a kind of luxurious poverty; and at the sight of her false halo of gray curls, he had remembered, almost with a start of surprise, the morning when he had seen the convict at the little wayside station. the station, the country, the muddy roads, and even the town of botetourt were unchanged, but he himself belonged now to another and what he felt to be a larger world. everything had appeared provincial and amusing to his eyes--until as he passed on christmas morning by the quaint old churchyard, he had seen lydia preston standing in the sunshine amid the crumbling tombstones of several hundred years. under the long black feather in her hat, her charming eyes had dwelt on him kindly for a minute, and in that minute it had seemed to him that the racial ideal slumbering in his brain had responded quickly to his startled blood. afterward they had told him that she was only nineteen, a southern beauty of great promise, and the daughter of old adam preston, who had made and lost a fortune in the last ten years. but these details seemed to him to have no relation to the face he had seen under the black feather against the ivy-covered walls of the old church. the next evening they had danced together at a ball; he had carried her fan, a trivial affair of lace and satin, away in his pocket, and ten days later he had returned, flushed with passion, to finish his course at harvard. love had put wings to his ambition; the following year he had stood at the head of his class, and before the summer was over he had married her and started brilliantly in his career. there had been only success in the beginning. when had the tide turned so suddenly? he wondered, and when had he begun to drift into the great waters where men are washed down and lost? lying on the bed now in the firelight, he shivered and drew the quilt closer about his knees. she had loved beauty, riches, dignity, religion--she had loved her children when they came; but had she ever really loved him--the daniel ordway whom she had married? were all pure women as passionless--as utterly detached--as she had shown herself to him from the beginning? and was her coldness, as he had always believed, but the outward body of that spiritual grace for which he had loved her? he had lavished abundantly out of his stormy nature; he had spent his immortal soul upon her in desperate determination to possess her utterly at her own price; and yet had she ever belonged to him, he questioned now, even in the supreme hours of their deepest union? had her very innocence shut him out from her soul forever? in the end the little world had closed over them both; he had felt himself slipping further--further--had made frantic efforts to regain his footing; and had gone down hopelessly at last. those terrible years before his arrest crowded like minutes into his brain, and he knew now that there had been relief--comfort--almost tranquillity in his life in prison. the strain was lifted at last, and the days when he had moved in dull hope or acute despair through the crowd in wall street were over forever. to hold a place in the little world one needed great wealth; and it had seemed to him in the time of temptation that this wealth was not a fugitive possession, but an inherent necessity--a thing which belonged to the inner structure of lydia's nature. a shudder ran over him, while he drew a convulsive breath like one in physical pain. the slow minutes in which he had waited for a rise in the market were still ticking in agony somewhere in his brain. time moved on, yet those minutes never passed--his memory had become like the face of a clock where the hands pointed, motionless, day or night, to the same hour. then hours, days, weeks, months, years, when he lived with ruin in his thoughts and the sound of merriment, which was like the pipe of hollow flutes, in his ears. at the end it came almost suddenly--the blow for which he had waited, the blow which brought something akin to relief because it ended the quivering torture of his suspense, and compelled, for the hour at least, decisive action. he had known that before evening he would be under arrest, and yet he had walked slowly along fifth avenue from his office to his home; he recalled now that he had even joked with a club wit, who had stopped him at the corner to divulge the latest bit of gossip. at the very instant when he felt himself to be approaching ruin in his house, he remembered that he had complained a little irritably of the breaking wrapper of his cigar. yet he was thinking then that he must reach his home in time to prevent his wife from keeping a luncheon engagement, of which she had spoken to him at breakfast; and ten minutes later it was with a sensation of relief that he met the blank face of his butler in the hall. on the staircase his daughter ran after him, her short white, beruffled skirts standing out stiffly like the skirts of a ballet dancer. she was taking her music lesson, she cried out, and she called to him to come into the music room and hear how wonderfully she could run her scales! her blue eyes, which were his eyes in a child's face, looked joyously up at him from under the thatch of dark curls which she had inherited from him, not from her blond mother. "not now, alice," he answered, almost impatiently, "not now--i will come a little later." then she darted back, and the stumbling music preceded him up the staircase to the door of his wife's dressing-room. when he entered lydia was standing before her mirror, fastening a spotted veil with a diamond butterfly at the back of her blond head; and as she turned smilingly toward him, he put out his hand with a gesture of irritation. "take that veil off, lydia, i can't see you for the spots," he said. complaisant always, she unfastened the diamond butterfly without a word, and taking off the veil, flung it carelessly across the golden-topped bottles upon her dressing-table. "you look ill," she said with her charming smile; "shall i ring for marie to bring you whiskey?" at her words he turned from her, driven by a torment of pity which caused his voice to sound harsh and constrained in his own ears. "no--no--don't put that on again," he protested, for while she waited she had taken up the spotted veil and the diamond pin. something in his tone startled her into attention, and moving a step forward, she stood before him on a white bearskin rug. her face had hardly changed, yet in some way she seemed to have put him at a distance, and he felt all at once that he had never known her. from the room downstairs he heard alice's music lesson go on at broken intervals, the uncertain scales she ran now stopping, now beginning violently again. the sound wrought suddenly on his nerves like anger, and he felt that his voice was querulous in spite of the torment of pity at his heart. "there's no use putting on your veil," he said, "a warrant is out for my arrest and i must wait here till it comes." * * * * * his memory stopped now, as if it had snapped suddenly beneath the strain. after this there was a mere blank of existence upon which people and objects moved without visible impression. from that minute to this one appeared so short a time that he started up half expecting to hear alice's scales filling mrs. twine's empty lodgings. then his eyes fell on the whitewashed walls, the smoking lamp, the bare table, and the little square window with the branches of the locust tree frosted against the pane. rising from the bed, he fell on his knees and pressed his quivering face to the patchwork quilt. "give me a new life, o god--give me a new life!" chapter v at tappahannock after a sleepless night, he rose as soon as the dawn had broken, and sitting down before the pine table wrote a letter to lydia, on a sheet of paper which had evidently been left in the drawer by the former lodger. "it isn't likely that you'll ever want me," he added at the end, "but if you should happen to, remember that i am yours, as i have always been, for whatever i am worth." when he had sealed the envelope and written her name above that of the town of botetourt, he put it into his pocket and went down to the dining-room, where he found mrs. twine pouring steaming coffee into a row of broken cups. a little mulatto girl, with her hair plaited in a dozen fine braids, was placing a dish of fried bacon at one end of the walnut-coloured oil-cloth on the table, around which the six children, already clothed and hungry, were beating an impatient tattoo with pewter spoons. bill twine, the father of the family, was evidently sleeping off a drunken headache--a weakness which appeared to afford his wife endless material for admonition and philosophy. "thar now, canty," she was remarking to her son, "yo' po' daddy may not be anything to be proud of as a man, but i reckon he's as big an example as you'll ever see. he's had sermons p'inted at him from the pulpit; they've took him up twice to the police court, an' if you'll believe me, suh," she added with a kind of outraged pride to ordway, "thar's been a time when they've had out the whole fire department to protect me." the coffee though poor was hot, and while ordway drank it, he listened with an attention not unmixed with sympathy to mrs. twine's continuous flow of speech. she was coarse and shrewish and unshapely, but his judgment was softened by the marks of anxious thought on her forehead and the disfigurements of honest labour on her hands. any toil appeared to him now to be invested with peculiar dignity; and he felt, sitting there at her slovenly breakfast table, that he was closer to the enduring heart of humanity than he had been among the shallow refinements of his past life. mrs. twine was unpleasant, but at her worst he felt her to be the real thing. "not that i'm blamin' bill, suh, as much as some folks," she proceeded charitably, while she helped her youngest child to gravy, "for it made me downright sick myself to hear them carryin' on over his beatin' his own wife jest as much as if he'd been beatin' somebody else's. an' i ain't one, when it comes to that, to put up with a white-livered, knock-kneed, pulin' sort of a critter, as i told the jedge a-settin' upon his bench. when a woman is obleeged to take a strappin' thar's some real satisfaction in her feelin' that she takes it from a man--an' the kind that would lay on softly with never a broken head to show for it--well, he ain't the kind, suh, that i could have helt in any respect an' honour. and as to that, as i said to 'em right then an' thar, take the manly health an' spirit out o' bill, an' he's jest about as decent an' law abidin' as the rest. why, when he was laid up with malaria, he never so much as rized his hand agin me, an' it'll be my belief untwel my dyin' day that chills an' fever will keep a man moral when all the sermons sence moses will leave him unteched. feed him low an' work him hard, an' you kin make a saint out of most any male critter, that's my way of thinkin'." while she talked she was busily selecting the choicest bit of bacon for bill's plate, and as ordway left the house a little later, he saw her toiling up the staircase with her husband's breakfast on a tin tray in her hands. "if you think i'm goin' to set an' wait all day for you to get out o' bed, you've jest about clean lost yo' wits, bill twine," she remarked in furious tones, as she flung open a door on the landing above. out of doors ordway found that the wind had died down, though a sharp edge of frost was still in the air. the movement of the day had already begun; and as he passed the big house on the brow of the hill he saw a pretty girl, with her hair tied back with a velvet ribbon, run along the gravelled walk to meet the postman at the gate. a little farther, when he had reached the corner, he turned back to hand his letter to the postman, and found to his surprise that the pretty girl was still gazing after him. no possible interest could attach to her in his thoughts; and with a careless acknowledgment of her beauty, she faded from his consciousness as rapidly as if she had been a ray of sunshine which he had admired as he passed along. then as he turned into the main street at the corner, he saw that emily brooke was riding slowly up the hill on her old white horse. she still wore her red cape, which fell over the saddle on one side, and completely hid the short riding-skirt beneath. on her head there was a small knitted tam-o'-shanter cap, and this, with the easy freedom of her seat in the saddle, gave her an air which was gallant rather than graceful. the more feminine adjective hardly seemed to apply to her at the moment; she looked brave, strong, buoyant, a creature that had not as yet become aware of its sex. yet she was older, he discovered now, than he had at first imagined her to be. in the barn he had supposed her age to be not more than twenty years; seen in the morning light it was impossible to decide whether she was a year younger or ten years older than he had believed. the radiant energy in her look belonged, after all, less to the accident of youth than to some enduring quality of spirit. as she neared him, she looked up from her horse's neck, rested her eyes upon him for an instant, and smiled brightly, much as a charming boy might have done. then, just as she was about to pass on, the girth of her saddle slipped under her, and she was thrown lightly to the ground, while the old horse stopped and stood perfectly motionless above her. "my skirt has caught in the stirrup," she said to ordway, and while he bent to release her, he noticed that she clung, not to his arm, but to the neck of the horse for support. to his surprise there was neither embarrassment nor amusement in her voice. she spoke with the cool authority which had impressed him during the incident of the ram's attack upon "sis mehitable." "i don't think it is quite safe yet," he said, after he had drawn the rotten girth as tight as he dared. "it looks as if it wouldn't last, you see." "well, i dare say, it may be excused after forty years of service," she returned, smiling. "what? this saddle? it does look a little quaint when one examines it." "oh, it's been repaired, but even then one must forgive an old servant for growing decrepit." "then you'll ride it again?" he asked, seeing that she was about to mount. "of course--this isn't my first tumble--but major expects them now and he knows how to behave. so do i," she added, laughing, "you see it doesn't take me by surprise." "yes, i see it doesn't," he answered gaily. "then if you chance to be about the next time it happens, i hope it won't disturb you either," she remarked, as she rode up the hill. the meeting lingered in ordway's mind with a freshness which was associated less with the incident itself than with some vivid quality in the appearance of the girl. her face, her voice, her carriage--even the little brown curls blowing on her temples, all united in his thoughts to form a memory in which alice appeared to hold a place. why should this country girl, he wondered, bring back to him so clearly the figure of his daughter? but there was no room for a memory in his life just now, and by the time he reached baxter's warehouse, he had forgotten the interest aroused in him a moment before. baxter had not yet appeared in his office, but two men, belonging evidently to the labouring class, were talking together under the brick archway. when ordway joined them they did not interrupt their conversation, which he found, after a minute, to concern the domestic and financial troubles of the one whom he judged to be the poorer of the two. he was a meanly clad, wretched looking workman, with a shock of uncombed sandy hair, a cowed manner, and the expression of one who has been beaten into apathy rather than into submission. a sordid pathos in his voice and figure brought ordway a step closer to his side, and after a moment's careless attention, he found his mind adjusting itself to the small financial problems in which the man had become entangled. the workman had been forced to borrow upon his pathetic personal securities; and in meeting from year to year the exorbitant rate of interest, he had paid back several times the sum of the original debt. now his wife was ill, with an incurable cancer; he had no hope, as he advanced beyond middle age, of any increase in his earning capacity, and the debt under which he had struggled so long had become at the end an intolerable burden. his wife had begged him to consult a lawyer--but who, he questioned doggedly, would take an interest in him since he had no money for a fee? he was afraid of lawyers anyway, for he could give you a hundred cases where they had stood banded together against the poor. as ordway listened to the story, he felt for an instant a return of his youthful enthusiasm, and standing there amid the tobacco stems in baxter's warehouse, he remembered a great flour trust from which he had withdrawn because it seemed to him to bear unjustly upon the small, isolated farmers. beyond this he went back still further to his college days, when during his vacation, he had read virginia law in the office of his uncle, richard ordway, in the town of botetourt. he could see the shining rows of legal volumes in the walnut bookcases, the engraving of latane's burial, framed in black wood above the mantel, and against this background the silent, gray haired, self-righteous old man so like his father. through the window, he could see still the sparrows that built in the ivied walls of the old church. with a start he came back to the workman, who was unfolding his troubles in an abandon of misery under the archway. "if you'll talk things over with me to-night when we get through work, i think i may be able to straighten them out for you," he said. the man stared at him out of his dogged eyes with a helpless incredulity. "but i ain't got any money," he responded sullenly, as if driven to the defensive. "well, we'll see," said ordway, "i don't want your money." "you want something, though--my money or my vote, and i ain't got either." ordway laughed shortly. "i?--oh, i just want the fun," he answered. the beginning was trivial enough, the case sordid, and the client only a dull-witted labourer; but to ordway it came as the commencement of the new life for which he had prayed--the life which would find its centre not in possession, but in surrender, which would seek as its achievement not personal happiness, but the joy of service. chapter vi the pretty daughter of the mayor the pretty girl whom ordway had seen on the gravelled walk was milly trend, the only child of the mayor of tappahannock. people said of jasper trend that his daughter was the one soft spot in a heart that was otherwise as small and hard as a silver dollar, and of milly trend the same people said--well, that she was pretty. her prettiness was invariably the first and the last thing to be mentioned about her. whatever sterner qualities she may have possessed were utterly obscured by an exterior which made one think of peach blossoms and spring sunshine. she had a bunch of curls the colour of ripe corn, which she wore tied back from her neck with a velvet ribbon; her eyes were the eyes of a baby; and her mouth had an adorable little trick of closing over her small, though slightly prominent teeth. the one flaw in her face was this projection of her teeth, and when she looked at herself in the glass it was her habit to bite her lips closely together until the irregular ivory line was lost. it was this fault, perhaps, which kept her prettiness, though it was superlative in its own degree, from ever rising to the height of beauty. in milly's opinion it had meant the difference between the glory of a world-wide reputation and the lesser honour of reigning as the acknowledged belle of tappahannock. she remembered that the magnificent manager of a theatrical company, a gentleman who wore a fur-lined coat and a top hat all day long, had almost lost his train while he stopped to look back at her on the crowded platform of the station. her heart had beat quickly at the tribute, yet even in that dazzling minute she had felt a desperate certainty that her single imperfection would decide her future. but for her teeth, she was convinced to-day, that he might have returned. if a woman cannot be a heroine in reality, perhaps the next best thing is to look as if she might have been one in the age of romance; and this was what milly trend's appearance suggested to perfection. her manner of dressing, the black velvet ribbon on her flaxen curls, her wide white collars open at her soft throat, her floating sky-blue sashes and the delicate peach bloom of her cheeks and lips--all these combined to produce a poetic atmosphere about an exceedingly poetic little figure. being plain she would probably have made currant jelly for her pastor, and have taught sedately in the infant class in sunday school: being pretty she read extravagant romances and dreamed strange adventures of fascinating highwaymen on lonely roads. but many a woman who has dreamed of a highwayman at eighteen has compromised with a bank clerk at twenty-two. even at tappahannock--the veriest prose piece of a town--romance might sometimes bud and blossom, though it usually brought nothing more dangerous than respectability to fruit. milly had read longfellow and _lucille_, and her heroic ideal had been taken bodily from one of bulwer's novels. she had played the graceful part of heroine in a hundred imaginary dramas; yet in actual life she had been engaged for two years to a sandy-haired, freckled face young fellow, who chewed tobacco, and bought the dry leaf in lots for a factory in richmond. from romance to reality is a hard distance, and the most passionate dreamer is often the patient drudge of domestic service. and yet even to-day milly was not without secret misgivings as to the wisdom of her choice. she knew he was not her hero, but in her short visits to larger cities she had met no one who had come nearer her ideal lover. to be sure she had seen this ideal, in highly coloured glimpses, upon the stage--though these gallant gentlemen in trunks had never so much as condescended to glance across the foot-lights to the little girl in the dark third row of the balcony. then, too, all the ladies upon the stage were beautiful enough for any hero, and just here she was apt to remember dismally the fatal projection of her teeth. so, perhaps, after all, harry banks was as near olympus as she could hope to approach; and there was a mild consolation in the thought that there was probably more sentiment in the inner than in the outward man. whatever came of it, she had learned that in a prose age it is safer to think only in prose. on the morning upon which ordway had first passed her gate, she had left the breakfast table at the postman's call, and had run down the gravelled walk to receive a letter from mr. banks, who was off on a short business trip for his firm. with the letter in her hand she had turned to find ordway's blue eyes fixed in careless admiration upon her figure; and for one breathless instant she had felt her insatiable dream rise again and clutch at her heart. some subtle distinction in his appearance--an unlikeness to the masculine portion of tappahannock--had caught her eye in spite of his common and ill-fitting clothes. though she had known few men of his class, the sensitive perceptions of the girl had made her instantly aware of the difference between him and harry banks. for a moment her extravagant fancy dwelt on his figure--on this distinction which she had noticed, on his square dark face and the singular effect of his bright blue eyes. then turning back in the yard, she went slowly up the gravelled walk, while she read with a vague feeling of disappointment the love letter written laboriously by mr. banks. it was, doubtless, but the average love letter of the average plain young man, but to milly in her rosy world of fiction, it appeared suddenly as if there had protruded upon her attention one of the great, ugly, wholesome facts of life. what was the use, she wondered, in being beautiful if her love letters were to be filled with enthusiastic accounts of her lover's prowess in the tobacco market? at the breakfast table jasper trend was pouring maple syrup on the buckwheat cakes he had piled on his plate, and at the girl's entrance he spoke without removing his gaze from the plated silver pitcher in his hand. "any letters, daughter?" he inquired, carefully running his knife along the mouth of the pitcher to catch the last drop of syrup. "one," said milly, as she sat down beside the coffee pot and looked at her father with a ripple of annoyance in her babyish eyes. "i reckon i can guess about that all right," remarked jasper with his cackling chuckle, which was as little related to a sense of humour as was the beating of a tin plate. he was a long, scraggy man, with drab hair that grew in scallops on his narrow forehead and a large nose where the prominent red veins turned purple when he became excited. "there's a stranger in town, father," said milly as she gave him his second cup of coffee. "i think he is boarding at mrs. twine's." "a drummer, i reckon--thar're a plenty of 'em about this season." "no, i don't believe he is a drummer--he isn't--isn't quite so sparky looking. but i wish you wouldn't say 'thar,' father. you promised me you wouldn't do it." "well, it ain't stood in the way of my getting on," returned jasper without resentment. had milly told him to shave his head, he might have protested freely, but in the end he would have gone out obediently to his barber. yet people outside said that he ground the wages of his workers in the cotton mills down to starvation point, and that he had been elected mayor not through popularity, but through terror. it was rumoured even that he stood with his wealth behind the syndicate of saloons which was giving an ugly local character to the town. but whatever his public vices may have been, his private life was securely hedged about by the paternal virtues. "i can't place him, but i'm sure he isn't a 'buyer,'" repeated milly, after a moment's devotion to the sugar bowl. "well, i'll let you know when i see him," responded jasper as he left the table and got into his overcoat, while milly jumped up to wrap his neck in a blue spotted muffler. when he had gone from the house, she took out her lover's letter again, but it proved, on a second trial, even more unsatisfactory than she had found it to be at her first reading. as a schoolgirl milly had known every attribute of her divinity from the chivalry of his soul to the shining gloss upon his boots--but to-day there remained to her only the despairing conviction that he was unlike banks. banks appeared to her suddenly in the hard prosaic light in which he, on his own account, probably viewed his tobacco. even her trousseau and the lace of her wedding gown ceased to afford her the shadow of consolation, since she remembered that neither of these accessories would occupy in marriage quite so prominent a place as banks. the next day ordway passed at the same hour, still on the opposite side of the street. after this she began to watch regularly for his figure, looking for it when it appeared on mrs. twine's little porch, and following it wistfully until it was lost beyond the new brick church at the corner. she was not aware of cultivating a facile sentiment about the stranger, but place a riotous imagination in an empty house and it requires little effort to weave a romance from the opposite side of the street. distance, that subtle magnifier of attachments, had come to her aid now as it had failed her in the person of harry banks. even from across the street it was impossible to invest mr. banks with any quality which might have suggested an historic background or a mysterious past. he was flagrantly, almost outrageously himself; in no fictitious circumstances could he have appeared as anything except the unvarnished fact that he was. no legendary light could have glorified his features or improved the set of his trousers--which had taken their shape and substance from the legs within. with these features and in these trousers, she felt that he must usurp the sacred precincts where her dream had dwelt. "it would all be so easy if one could only be born where one belongs," she cried out hopelessly, in the unconscious utterance of a philosophy larger than her own. and so as the week went by, she allowed her rosy fancies to surround the figure that passed three times daily along the sidewalk across the way. in the morning he walked by with a swinging stride; at midday he passed rapidly, absorbed in thought; in the evening he came back slowly, sometimes stopping to watch the sunset from the brow of the hill. not since the first morning had he turned his blue eyes toward milly's gate. at the end of the month mr. banks returned to tappahannock from a business trip through the tobacco districts. he was an ugly, freckled face, sandy-haired young fellow--an excellent judge of tobacco--with a simple soul that attired itself in large checks, usually of a black and white variety. on the day of his first visit to milly he wore a crimson necktie pierced by a scarf-pin bearing a turtle-dove in diamonds. "who's that fellow over there?" he inquired as ordway came up the hill to his dinner. "i wonder if he's the chap hudge was telling me about at breakfast?" "oh, i don't know," answered milly, in a voice that sounded flat in her own ears. "nobody knows anything about him, father says. but what was hudge telling you?" she asked, impelled by a devouring yet timid curiosity. "well, if he's the man i mean, he seems to be a kind of revivalist out of a job--or something or other queer. hudge says he broke up a fight last saturday evening in kelly's saloon--that's the place you've never heard the name of, i reckon," he added hesitatingly, "it's where all the factory hands gather after work on saturday to drink up their week's wages." for once milly's interest was stronger than her modesty. "and did he fight?" she demanded in a suspense that was almost breathless. "he wasn't there, you know--only passing along the street outside, at least that's what they say--when the rumpus broke out. then he went in through the window and----" "and?" repeated milly, with an entrancing vision of heroic blows, for beneath her soft exterior the blood of the primitive woman flowed. "and preached!" finished banks, with a prodigious burst of merriment. "preached?" gasped milly, "do you mean a sermon?" "not a regular sermon, but he spoke just like a preacher for a solid hour. before he'd finished the men who were drunk were crying like babies and the men who weren't were breaking their necks to sign the pledge--at any rate that's something like the tale they tell. there was never such speaking (hudge says he was there) heard before in tappahannock, and kelly is as mad as a hornet because he swears the town is going dry." "and he didn't strike a single blow?" asked milly, with a feeling of disappointment. "why, he had those drunken fools all blubbering like kids," said banks, "and then when it was over he got hold of kit berry (he started the row, you know) and carried him all the way home to the little cottage in the hollow across the town where kit lives with his mother. next sunday if it's fine there's going to be an open air meeting in baxter's field." there was a sore little spot in milly's heart, a vague sentiment of disenchantment. her house of dreams, which she had reared so patiently, stood cold and tenantless once more. "did you ever find out his name?" she asked, with a last courageous hope. "smith," replied banks, with luminous simplicity. "the boys have nick-named him 'ten commandment smith.'" "ten commandment smith?" echoed milly in a lifeless voice. her house of dreams had tottered at the blow and fallen from its foundation stone. chapter vii shows the graces of adversity on the morning after the episode in the barroom which banks had described to milly, ordway found baxter awaiting him in a condition which in a smaller person would have appeared to be a flutter of excitement. "so you got mixed up in a barroom row last night, i hear, smith?" "well, hardly that," returned ordway, smiling as he saw the other's embarrassment break out in drops of perspiration upon his forehead. "i was in it, i admit, but i can't exactly say that i was 'mixed up.'" "you got kit berry out, eh?--and took him home." "nothing short of a sober man could have done it. he lives on the other side of the town in bullfinch's hollow." "oh, i've been there," said baxter, "i've taken him home myself." the boyish sparkle had leaped to ordway's eyes which appeared in the animation of the moment to lend an expression of gaiety to his face. as baxter looked at him he felt something of the charm which had touched the drunken crowd in the saloon. "his mother was at my house before breakfast," he said, in a tone that softened as he went on until it sounded as if his whole perspiring person had melted into it. "she was in a great state, poor creature, for it seemed that when kit woke up this morning he promised her never to touch another drop." "well, i hope he'll keep his word, but i doubt it," responded ordway. he thought of the bare little room he had seen last night, of the patched garments drying before the fire, of the scant supper spread upon the table, and of the gray-haired, weeping woman who had received his burden from him. "he may--for a week," commented baxter, and he added with a big, shaking laugh, "they tell me you gave 'em a sermon that was as good as a preacher's." "nonsense. i got angry and spoke a few words, that's all." "well, if they were few, they seem to have been pretty pointed. i hear kelly closed his place two hours before midnight. even william cotton went home without falling once, he said." "there was a good reason for that. i happened to have some information cotton wanted." "i know," said baxter, drawing out the words with a lingering emphasis while his eyes searched ordway's face with a curiosity before which the younger man felt himself redden painfully. "cotton told me you got him out of a scrape as well as a lawyer could have done." "i remembered the law and wrote it down for him, that's all." "have you ever practised law in virginia?" "i've never practised anywhere, but i intended to when--" he was going to add "when i finished college," but with a sudden caution, he stopped short and then selected his words more carefully, "when i was a boy. i read a good deal then and some of it still sticks in my memory." "i see," commented baxter. his heart swelled until he became positively uncomfortable, and he coughed loudly in the effort to appear perfectly indifferent. what was it about the chap, he questioned, that had pulled at him from the start? was it only the peculiar mingling of pathos and gaiety in his look? "well, i wouldn't set about reforming things too much if i were you," he said at last, "it ain't worth it, for even when people accept the reforms they are pretty likely to reject the reformer. a man's got to have a mighty tough stomach to be able to do good immoderately. but all the same," he concluded heartily, "you're the right stuff and i like you. i respect pluck no matter whether it comes out in preaching or in blows. i reckon, by the way, if you'd care to turn bookkeeper, you'd be worth as good as a hundred a month to me." there was a round coffee stain, freshly spilled at breakfast, on his cravat, and ordway's eyes were fixed upon it with a kind of fascination during the whole of his speech. the very slovenliness of the man--the unshaven cheeks, the wilted collar, the spotted necktie, the loosely fitting alpaca coat he wore, all seemed in some inexplicable way, to emphasise the large benignity of his aspect. strangely enough his failures as a gentleman appeared to add to his impressiveness as a man. one felt that his faults were merely virtues swelled to abnormal proportions--as the carelessness in his dress was but a degraded form of the lavish generosity of his heart. "to tell the truth, i'd hoped for that all along," said ordway, withdrawing his gaze with an effort from the soiled cravat. "do you want me to start in at the books to-day?" for an instant baxter hesitated; then he coughed and went on as if he found difficulty in selecting the words that would convey his meaning. "well, if you don't mind there's a delicate little matter i'd like you to attend to first. being a stranger i thought it would be easier for you than for me--have you ever heard anybody speak of beverly brooke?" the interest quickened in ordway's face. "why, yes. i came along the road one day with a farmer who gave me his whole story--adam whaley, i heard afterward, was his name." baxter whistled. "oh, i reckon, he hardly told you the whole story--for i don't believe there's anybody living except myself who knows what a darn fool mr. beverly is. that man has never done an honest piece of work in his life; he's spent every red cent of his wife's money, and his sister's too, in some wild goose kind of speculation--and yet, bless my soul, he has the face to strut in here any day and lord it over me just as if he were his grandfather's ghost or george washington. it's queer about those old families, now ain't it? when they begin to peter out it ain't just an ordinary petering, but a sort of mortal rottenness that takes 'em root and branch." "and so i am to interview this interesting example of degeneration?" asked ordway, smiling. "you've got to make him understand that he can't ship me any more of his worthless tobacco," exclaimed baxter in an outburst of indignation. "do you know what he does, sir?--well, he raises a lazy, shiftless, worm-eaten crop of tobacco in an old field--plants it too late, tops it too late, cuts it too late, cures it too late, and then lets it lie around in some leaky smokehouse until it isn't fit for a hog to chew. after he has left it there to rot all winter, he gathers the stuff up on the first pleasant day in spring and gets an old nigger to cart it to me in an open wagon. the next day he lounges in here with his palavering ways, and demands the highest price in the market--and i give it to him! that's the damned outrage of it, i give it to him!" concluded baxter with an excitement in which his huge person heaved like a shaken mountain. "i've bought his trash for twenty years and ground it into snuff because i was afraid to refuse a brooke--but brooke or no brooke there's an end to it now," he turned and waved his hand furiously to a pile of tobacco lying on the warehouse floor, "there's his trash and it ain't fit even for snuff!" he led ordway back into the building, picked up several leaves from the pile, smelt them, and threw them down with a contemptuous oath. "worm-eaten, frost-bitten, mildewed. i want you to go out to cedar hill and tell the man that his stuff ain't fit for anything but fertiliser," he went on. "if he wants it he'd better come for it and haul it away." "and if he refuses?" "he most likely will--then tell him i'll throw it into the ditch." "oh, i'll tell him," responded ordway, and he was aware of a peculiar excitement in the prospect of an encounter with the redoubtable mr. beverly. "i'll do my best," he added, going through the archway, while baxter followed him with a few last words of instruction and advice. the big man's courage had evidently begun to ebb, for as ordway passed into the street, he hurried after him to suggest that he should approach the subject with as much delicacy as he possessed. "i wouldn't butt at mr. beverly, if i were you," he cautioned, "just edge around and work in slowly when you get the chance." but the advice was wasted upon ordway, for he had started out in an impatience not unmixed with anger. who was this fool of a brooke? he wondered, and what power did he possess that kept tappahannock in a state of slavery? he was glad that baxter had sent him on the errand, and the next minute he laughed aloud because the big man had been too timid to come in person. he had reached the top of the hill, and was about to turn into the road he had taken his first night in tappahannock, when a woman, wrapped in a shawl, hurried across the street from one of the smaller houses fronting upon the green. "i beg your pardon, sir, but are you the man that helped william cotton?" clearly william cotton was bringing him into notice. at the thought ordway looked down upon his questioner with a sensation that was almost one of pleasure. "he needed business advice and i gave it, that was all," he answered. "but you wrote down the whole case for him so that he could understand it and speak for himself," she said, catching her breath in a sob, as she pulled her thin shawl together. "you got him out of his troubles and asked nothing, so i hoped you might be willing to do as much by me. i am a widow with five little children, and though i've paid every penny i could scrape together for the mortgage, the farm is to be sold over our heads and we have nowhere to go." again the glow that was like the glow of pleasure illuminated ordway's mind. "there's not one chance in a hundred that i can help you," he said; "in the case of william cotton it was a mere accident. still if you will tell me where you live, i will come to you this evening and talk matters over. if i can help you, i promise you i will with pleasure." "and for nothing? i am very poor." he shook his head with a laugh. "oh, i get more fun out of it than you could understand!" after writing down the woman's name in his notebook, he passed into the country road and bent his thoughts again upon the approaching visit to mr. beverly. when he reached cedar hill, which lay a sombre shadow against the young green of the landscape, he saw that the dead cedars still lay where they had fallen across the avenue. evidently the family temper had assumed an opposite, though equally stubborn form, in the person of the girl in the red cape, and she had, he surmised, refused to allow beverly to profit by his desecration even to the extent of selling the trees he had already cut down. was it from a sentiment, or as a warning, he wondered, that she left the great cedars barring the single approach to the house? in either case the magnificent insolence of her revenge moved him to an acknowledgment of her spirit and her justice. in the avenue a brood of young turkeys were scratching in the fragrant dust shed by the trees; and at his approach they scattered and fled before him. it was long evidently since a stranger had penetrated into the melancholy twilight of the cedars; for the flutter of the turkeys, he discovered presently, was repeated in an excited movement he felt rather than saw as he ascended the stone steps and knocked at the door. the old hound he had seen the first night rose from under a bench on the porch, and came up to lick his hand; a window somewhere in the right wing shut with a loud noise; and through the bare old hall, which he could see from the half open door, a breeze blew dispersing an odour of hot soapsuds. the hall was dim and empty except for a dilapidated sofa in one corner, on which a brown and white setter lay asleep, and a rusty sword which clanked against the wall with a regular, swinging motion. in response to his repeated knocks there was a sound of slow steps on the staircase, and a handsome, shabbily dressed man, holding a box of dominoes, came to the door and held out his hand with an apologetic murmur. "i beg your pardon, but the wind makes such a noise i did not hear your knock. will you come inside or do you prefer to sit on the porch where we can get the view?" as he spoke he edged his way courteously across the threshold and with a hospitable wave of his hand, sat down upon one of the pine benches against the decaying railing. in spite of the shabbiness of his clothes he presented a singularly attractive, even picturesque appearance, from the abundant white hair above his forehead to his small, shapely feet encased now in an ancient pair of carpet slippers. his figure was graceful and well built, his brown eyes soft and melancholy, and the dark moustache drooping over his mouth had been trained evidently into an immaculate precision. his moustache, however, was the one immaculate feature of his person, for even his carpet slippers were dirty and worn threadbare in places. yet his beauty, which was obscured in the first view by what in a famous portrait might have been called "the tone of time," produced, after a closer and more sympathetic study, an effect which, upon ordway at least, fell little short of the romantic. in his youth beverly had been, probably, one of the handsomest men of his time, and this distinction, it was easy to conjecture, must have been the occasion, if not the cause, of his ruin. even now, pompous and slovenly as he appeared, it was difficult to resist a certain mysterious fascination which he still possessed. when he left tappahannock ordway had felt only a humorous contempt for the owner of cedar hill, but sitting now beside him on the hard pine bench, he found himself yielding against his will to an impulse of admiration. was there not a certain spiritual kinship in the fact that they were both failures in life? "you are visiting tappahannock, then?" asked beverly with his engaging smile; "i go in seldom or i should perhaps have seen you. when a man gets as old and as much of an invalid as i am, he usually prefers to spend his days by the fireside in the bosom of his family." the bloom of health was in his cheeks, yet as he spoke he pressed his hand to his chest with the habitual gesture of an invalid. "a chronic trouble which has prevented my taking an active part in the world's affairs," he explained, with a sad, yet cheerful dignity as of one who could enliven tragedy with a comic sparkle. "i had my ambitions once, sir," he added, "but we will not speak of them for they are over, and at this time of my life i can do little more than try to amuse myself with a box of dominoes." as he spoke he placed the box on the bench between them and began patiently matching the little ivory blocks. ordway expressed a casual sympathy, and then, forgetting baxter's warning, he attempted to bring the conversation to a practical level. "i am employed now at baxter's warehouse," he began, "and the object of my call is to speak with you about your last load of tobacco." "ah!" said beverly, with warming interest, "it is a sufficient recommendation to have come from robert baxter--for that man has been the best, almost the only, friend i have had in life. it is impossible to overestimate either his character or my admiration. he has come to my assistance, sir, when i hardly knew where to turn for help. if you are employed by him, you are indeed to be envied." "i am entirely of your opinion," observed ordway, "but the point this morning----" "well, we'll let that rest a while now," interrupted beverly, pushing the dominoes away, and turning his beautiful, serious face upon his companion. "when there is an opportunity for me to speak of baxter's generosity, i feel that i cannot let it escape me. something tells me that you will understand and pardon my enthusiasm. there is no boy like an old boy, sir." his voice broke, and drawing a ragged handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroy coat, he blew his nose and wiped away two large teardrops from his eyes. after such an outburst of sentiment it seemed a positive indecency to inform him that baxter had threatened to throw his tobacco into a ditch. "he regrets very much that your crop was a failure this year," said ordway, after what he felt to be a respectable pause. "and yet," returned beverly, with his irrepressible optimism, "if things had been worse it might even have rotted in the ground. as it was, i never saw more beautiful seedlings--they were perfect specimens. had not the tobacco worms and the frost and the leak in the smokehouse all combined against me, i should have raised the most splendid crop in virginia, sir." the spectacle of this imaginary crop suffused his face with a glow of ardour. "my health permits me to pay little attention to the farm," he continued in his eloquent voice, "i see it falling to rains about me, and i am fortunate in being able to enjoy the beauty of its decay. yes, my crop was a failure, i admit," he added, with a touching cheerfulness, "it lay several months too long in the barn before i could get it sent to the warehouse--but this was my misfortune, not my fault, as i am sure robert baxter will understand." "he will find it easier to understand the case than to sell the tobacco, i fancy." "however that may be, he is aware that i place the utmost confidence in his judgment. what he does will be the right thing, sir." this confession of artless trust was so overpowering that for a moment ordway hung back, feeling that any ground would be dangerous ground upon which to proceed. the very absorption in which beverly arranged the dominoes upon the bench added to the childlike simplicity of his appearance. then a sudden irritation against the man possessed him, for he remembered the girl in the red cape and the fallen cedars. from where he sat now they were hidden by the curve of the avenue, but the wonderful trees, which shed their rich gloom almost upon the roof of the house, made him realise afresh the full extent of beverly's folly. in the fine spring sunshine whatever beauties were left in the ruined place showed in an intenser and more vernal aspect. every spear of grass on the lawn was tipped with light, and the young green leaves on the lilacs stood out as if illuminated on a golden background. in one of the ivy-covered eaves a wren was building, and he could see the flutter of a bluebird in an ancient cedar. "it is a beautiful day," remarked beverly, pensively, "but the lawn needs trimming." his gaze wandered gently over the tangled sheep mint, orchard grass and ailantus shoots which swept from the front steps to the fallen fence which had once surrounded the place, and he added with an outburst of animation, "i must tell micah to turn in the cattle." remembering the solitary cow he had seen in a sheltered corner of the barn, ordway bit back a smile as he rose and held out his hand. "after all, i haven't delivered my message," he said, "which was to the effect that the tobacco is practically unfit for use. baxter told me to request you to send for it at your convenience." beverly gathered up his dominoes, and rising with no appearance of haste, turned upon him an expression of suffering dignity. "such an act upon my part," he said, "would be a reflection upon baxter's ability as a merchant, and after thirty years of friendship i refuse to put an affront upon him. i would rather, sir, lose every penny my tobacco might bring me." his sincerity was so admirable, that for a moment it obscured even in ordway's mind the illusion upon which it rested. when a man is honestly ready to sacrifice his fortune in the cause of friendship, it becomes the part of mere vulgarity to suggest to him that his affairs are in a state of penury. "then it must be used for fertilisers or thrown away," said ordway, shortly. "i trust myself entirely in baxter's hands," replied beverly, in sad but noble tones, "whatever he does will be the best that could be done under the circumstances. you may assure him of this with my compliments." "well, i fear, there's nothing further to be said," remarked ordway; and he was about to make his final good-bye, when a faded lady, wrapped in a paisley shawl, appeared in the doorway and came out upon the porch. "amelia," said beverly, "allow me to present mr. smith. mr. smith, mrs. brooke." mrs. brooke smiled at him wanly with a pretty, thin-lipped mouth and a pair of large rather prominent eyes, which had once been gray but were now washed into a cloudy drab. she was still pretty in a hopeless, depressed, ineffectual fashion; and though her skirt was frayed about the edges and her shoes run down at the heel, her pale, fawn-coloured hair was arranged in elaborate spirals and the hand she held out to ordway was still delicately fine and white. she was like a philosopher, who, having sunk into a universal pessimism of thought, preserves, in spite of himself, a small belief or so in the minor pleasures of existence. out of the general wreck of her appearance she had clung desperately to the beauties of her hair and hands. "i had hoped you would stay to dinner," she remarked in her listless manner to ordway. fate had whipped her into submission, but there was that in her aspect which never permitted one for an instant to forget the whipping. if her husband had dominated by his utter incapacity, she had found a smaller consolation in feeling that though she had been obliged to drudge she had never learned to do it well. to do it badly, indeed, had become at last the solitary proof that by right of birth she was entitled not to do it at all. at ordway's embarrassed excuse she made no effort to insist, but stood, smiling like a ghost of her own past prettiness, in the doorway. behind her the bare hall and the dim staircase appeared more empty, more gloomy, more forlornly naked than they had done before. again ordway reached for his hat, and prepared to pick his way carefully down the sunken steps; but this time he was arrested by the sound of smothered laughter at the side of the house, which ran back to the vegetable garden. a moment later the girl in the red cape appeared running at full speed across the lawn, pursued by several shrieking children that followed closely at her skirts. her clear, ringing laugh--the laugh of youth and buoyant health--held ordway motionless for an instant upon the porch; then as she came nearer he saw that she held an old, earth-covered spade in her hands and that her boots and short woollen skirt were soiled with stains from the garden beds. but the smell of the warm earth that clung about her seemed only to increase the vitality and freshness in her look. her vivid animation, her sparkling glance, struck him even more forcibly than they had done in the street of tappahannock. at sight of ordway her laugh was held back breathlessly for an instant; then breaking out again, it began afresh with redoubled merriment, and sinking with exhaustion on the lowest step, she let the spade fall to the ground while she buried her wind-blown head in her hands. "i beg your pardon," she stammered presently, lifting her radiant brown eyes, "but i've run so fast that i'm quite out of breath." stopping with an effort she sought in vain to extinguish her laughter in the curls of the smallest child. "emily," said beverly with dignity, "allow me to present mr. smith." the girl looked up from the step; and then, rising, smiled brightly upon ordway over the spade which she had picked up from the ground. "i can't shake hands," she explained, "because i've been spading the garden." if she recognised him for the tramp who had slept in her barn there was no hint of it in her voice or manner. "do you mean, emily," asked beverly, in his plaintive voice, "that you have been actually digging in the ground?" "actually," repeated emily, in a manner which made ordway suspect that the traditional feminine softness was not included among her virtues, "i actually stepped on dirt and saw--worms." "but where is micah?" "micah has an attack of old age. he was eighty-two yesterday." "is it possible?" remarked beverly, and the discovery appeared to afford him ground for cheerful meditation. "no, it isn't possible, but it's true," returned the girl, with good-humoured merriment. "as there are only two able-bodied persons on the place, the mare and i, it seemed to me that one of us had better take a hand at the spade. but i had to leave off after the first round," she added to ordway, showing him her right hand, from the palm of which the skin had been rubbed away. she was so much like a gallant boy that ordway felt an impulse to take the hand in his own and examine it more carefully. "well, i'm very much surprised to hear that micah is so old," commented beverly, dwelling upon the single fact which had riveted his attention. "i must be making him a little present upon his birthday." the girl's eyes flashed under her dark lashes, but remembering ordway's presence, she turned to him with a casual remark about the promise of the spring. he saw at once that she had achieved an indignant detachment from her thriftless family, and the ardent, almost impatient energy with which she fell to labour was, in itself, a rebuke to the pleasant indolence which had hastened, if it had not brought about, the ruin of the house. was it some temperamental disgust for the hereditary idleness which had spurred her on to take issue with the worn-out traditions of her ancestors and to place herself among the labouring rather than the leisure class? as she stood there in her freshness and charm, with the short brown curls blown from her forehead, the edge of light shining in her eyes and on her lips, and the rich blood kindling in her vivid face, it seemed to ordway, looking back at her from the end of his forty years, that he was brought face to face with the spirit of the future rising amid the decaying sentiment of the past. chapter viii "ten commandment smith" when ordway had disappeared beyond the curve in the avenue, emily went slowly up the steps, her spade clanking against the stone as she ascended. "did he come about the tobacco, beverly?" she asked. beverly rose languidly from the bench, and stood rubbing his hand across his forehead with an exhausted air. "my head was very painful and he talked so rapidly i could hardly follow him," he replied; "but is it possible, emily, that you have been digging in the garden?" "there is nobody else to do it," replied emily, with an impatient flash in her eyes; "only half the garden has been spaded. if you disapprove so heartily, i wish you'd produce someone to do the work." mrs. brooke, who had produced nothing in her life except nine children, six of whom had died in infancy, offered at this a feeble and resigned rebuke. "i am sure you could get salem," she replied. "we owe him already three months' wages," returned the girl, "i am still paying him for last autumn." "all i ask of you, emily, is peace," remarked beverly, in a gentle voice, as he prepared to enter the house. "nothing--no amount of brilliant argument can take the place of peace in a family circle. my poor head is almost distracted when you raise your voice." the three children flocked out of the dining-room and came, with a rush, to fling themselves upon him. they adored him--and there was a live terrapin which they had brought in a box for him to see! in an instant his depression vanished, and he went off, his beautiful face beaming with animation, while the children clung rapturously to his corduroy coat. "amelia," said emily, lowering her voice, "don't you think it would improve beverly's health if he were to try working for an hour every day in the garden?" mrs. brooke appeared troubled by the suggestion. "if he could only make up his mind to it, i've no doubt it would," she answered, "he has had no exercise since he was obliged to give up his horse. walking he has always felt to be ungentlemanly." she spoke in a softly tolerant voice, though she herself drudged day and night in her anxious, tearful, and perfectly ineffectual manner. for twenty years she had toiled patiently without, so far as one could perceive, achieving a single definite result--for by some unfortunate accident of temperament, she was doomed to do badly whatever she undertook to do at all. yet her intention was so admirable that she appeared forever apologising in her heart for the incompetence of her hands. emily placed the spade in the corner of the porch, and desisting from her purpose, went upstairs to wash her hands before going in to dinner. as she ascended the wide, dimly lighted staircase, upon which the sun shone with a greenish light from the gallery above, she stopped twice to wonder why beverly's visitor had slept in the barn like a tramp only six weeks ago. before her mirror, a minute later, she put the same question to herself while she braided her hair. the room was large, cool, high-ceiled, with a great brick fireplace, and windows which looked out on the garden, where purple and white lilacs were blooming beside the gate. on the southern side the ivy had grown through the slats of the old green shutters, until they were held back, crumbling, against the house, and in the space between one of the cedars brushed always, with a whispering sound, against the discoloured panes. in emily's absence a curious melancholy descended on the old mahogany furniture, the greenish windows and the fireless hearth; but with the opening of the door and the entrance of her vivid youth, there appeared also a light and gracious atmosphere in her surroundings. she remembered the day upon which she had returned after ten years' absence, and how as she opened the closed shutters, the gloom of the place had resisted the passage of the sunshine, retreating stubbornly from the ceiling to the black old furniture and then across the uncarpeted floor to the hall where it still held control. for months after her return it had seemed to her that the fight was between her spirit and the spirit of the past--between hope and melancholy, between growth and decay. the burden of debt, of poverty, of hopeless impotence had fallen upon her shoulders, and she had struggled under it with impetuous gusts of anger, but with an energy that never faltered. to keep the children fed and clothed, to work the poor farm as far as she was able, to stay clear of any further debts, and to pay off the yearly mortgage with her small income, these were the things which had filled her thoughts and absorbed the gallant fervour of her youth. her salary at the public school had seemed to beverly, though he disapproved of her position, to represent the possibility of luxury; and in some loose, vague way he was never able to understand why the same amount could not be made to serve in several opposite directions at the same time. "that fifty dollars will come in very well, indeed, my dear," he would remark, with cheerfulness, gloating over the unfamiliar sight of the bank notes, "it's exactly the amount of wilson's bill which he's been sending in for the last year, and he refuses to furnish any groceries until the account is settled. then there's the roof which must be repaired--it will help us there--then we must all have a supply of shoes, and the wages of the hands are due to-morrow, i overlooked that item." "but if you pay it all to wilson," emily would ask, as a kind of elementary lesson in arithmetic, "how is the money going to buy all the other things?" "ah, to be sure," beverly would respond, as if struck by the lucidity of the idea, "that is the question." and it was likely to remain the question until the end of beverly--for he had grown so accustomed to the weight of poverty upon his shoulders that he would probably have felt a sense of loss if it had been suddenly removed. but it was impossible to live in the house with him, to receive his confidences and meet his charming smile and not to entertain a sentiment of affection for him in one's heart. his unfailing courtesy was his defence, though even this at times worked in emily an unreasonable resentment. he had ruined his family, and she felt that she could have forgiven him more easily if he had ruined it with a less irreproachable demeanour. after her question he had said nothing further about the tobacco, but a chance meeting with adam whaley, as she rode into tappahannock on the sunday after ordway's visit, made clear to her exactly what the purpose of that visit had been. "it's a pity mr. beverly let his tobacco spoil, particular' arter his wheat turned out to be no account," remarked adam. "i hope you don't mind my sayin', miss em'ly, that mr. beverly is about as po' a farmer as he is a first rate gentleman." "oh, no, i don't mind in the least, adam," said emily. "do you know," she asked presently, "any hands that i can get to work the garden this week?" whaley shook his head. "they get better paid at the factories," he answered; "an' them that ain't got thar little patch to labour in, usually manage to git a job in town." emily was on her old horse--an animal discarded by mr. beverly on account of age--and she looked down at his hanging neck with a feeling that was almost one of hopelessness. beverly, who had never paid his bills, had seldom paid his servants; and of the old slave generation that would work for its master for a song, there were only micah and poor half-demented aunt mehitable now left. "the trouble with mr. beverly," continued adam, laying his hand on the neck of the old horse, "is that he was born loose-fingered jest as some folks are born loose-moraled. he's never held on to anything sense he came into the world an' i doubt if he ever will. why, bless yo' life, even as a leetle boy he never could git a good grip on his fishin' line. it was always a-slidin' an' slippin' into the water." they had reached tappahannock in the midst of adam's philosophic reflection; and as they were about to pass an open field on the edge of the town, emily pointed to a little crowd which had gathered in the centre of the grass-grown space. "is it a sunday frolic, do you suppose?" she inquired. "that? oh no--it's 'ten commandment smith,' as they call him now. he gives a leetle talk out thar every fine sunday arternoon." "a talk? about what?" "wall, i ain't much of a listener, miss, when it comes to that. my soul is willin' an' peart enough, but it's my hands an' feet that make the trouble. i declar' i've only got to set down in a pew for 'em to twitch untwel you'd think i had the saint vitus dance. it don't look well to be twitchin' the whole time you are in church, so that's the reason i'm obleeged to stay away. as for 'ten commandment smith,' though, he's got a voice that's better than the doxology, an' his words jest boom along like cannon." "and do the people like it?" "some, of 'em do, i reckon, bein' as even sermons have thar followers, but thar're t'others that go jest out of the sperit to be obleegin', an' it seems to them that a man's got a pretty fair licence to preach who gives away about two-thirds of what he gits a month. good lord, he could drum up a respectable sized congregation jest from those whose back mortgages he's helped pay up." while he spoke emily had turned her horse's head into the field, and riding slowly toward the group, she stopped again upon discovering that it was composed entirely of men. then going a little nearer, she drew rein just beyond the outside circle, and paused for a moment with her eyes fixed intently upon the speaker's face. in the distance a forest, still young in leaf, lent a radiant, springlike background to the field, which rose in soft green swells that changed to golden as they melted gradually into the landscape. ordway's head was bare, and she saw now that the thick locks upon his forehead were powdered heavily with gray. she could not catch his words, but his voice reached her beyond the crowd; and she found herself presently straining her ears lest she miss the sound which seemed to pass with a peculiar richness into the atmosphere about the speaker. the religious significance of the scene moved her but little--for she came of a race that scorned emotional conversions or any faith, for that matter, which did not confine itself within four well-built walls. yet, in spite of her convictions, something in the voice whose words she could not distinguish, held her there, as if she were rooted on her old horse to the spot of ground. the unconventional preacher, in his cheap clothes, aroused in her an interest which seemed in some vague way to have its beginning in a mystery that she could not solve. the man was neither a professional revivalist nor a member of the salvation army, yet he appeared to hold the attention of his listeners as if either their money or their faith was in his words. and it was no uncultured oratory--"ten commandment smith," for all his rough clothes, his muddy boots and his hardened hands, was beneath all a gentleman, no matter what his work--no matter even what his class. though she had lived far out of the world in which he had had his place, she felt instinctively that the voice she heard had been trained to reach another audience than the one before him in the old field. his words might be simple and straight from the heart--doubtless they were--but the voice of the preacher--the vibrant, musical, exquisitely modulated voice--was not merely a personal gift, but the result of generations of culture. the atmosphere of a larger world was around him as he stood there, bare-headed in the sunshine, speaking to a breathless crowd of factory workers as if his heart went out to them in the words he uttered. perfectly motionless on the grass at his feet his congregation sat in circles with their pathetic dumb eyes fixed on his face. "what is it about, adam? can't you find out?" asked emily, stirred by an impulsive desire to be one of the attentive group of listeners--to come under the spell of personality which drew its magic circle in the centre of the green field. adam crossed the space slowly, and returned after what was to emily an impatient interval. "it's one of his talks on the ten commandments--that's why they gave him his nickname. i didn't stay to find out whether 'twas the top or the bottom of 'em, miss, as i thought you might be in a hurry." "but they can get that in church. what makes them come out here?" "oh, he tells 'em things," said adam, "about people and places, and how to get on in life. then he's al'ays so ready to listen to anybody's troubles arterward; and he's taken over martha frayley's mortgage--you know she's the widow of mike frayley who was a fireman and lost his life last january in the fire at bingham's wall--i reckon, a man's got a right to talk big when he lives big, too." "yes, i suppose he has," said emily. "well, i must be going now, so i'll ride on ahead of you." touching the neck of the horse with her bare hand, she passed at a gentle amble into one of the smaller streets of tappahannock. her purpose was to call upon one of her pupils who had been absent from school for several days, but upon reaching the house she found that the child, after a slight illness, had recovered sufficiently to be out of doors. this was a relief rather than a disappointment, and mounting again, she started slowly back in the direction of cedar hill. a crowd of men, walking in groups along the roadside, made her aware that the gathering in the field had dispersed, and as she rode by she glanced curiously among them in the hope of discovering the face of the speaker. he was walking slightly behind the crowd, listening with an expression of interest, to a man in faded blue overalls, who kept a timid yet determined hold upon his arm. his face, which had appeared grave to emily when she saw it at cedar hill, wore now a look which seemed a mixture of spiritual passion and boyish amusement. he impressed her as both sad and gay, both bitter and sympathetic, and she was struck again by the contrast between his hard mouth and his gentle eyes. as she met his glance, he bowed without a smile, while he stepped back into the little wayside path among the dusty thistles. unconsciously, she had searched his face as milly trend had done before her, and like her, she had found there only an impersonal kindliness. chapter ix the old and the new when she reached home she found beverly, seated before a light blaze in the dining-room, plunged in the condition of pious indolence which constituted his single observance of the sabbath. to do nothing had always seemed to him in its way as religious as to attend church, and so he sat now perfectly motionless, with the box of dominoes reposing beside his tobacco pouch on the mantel above his head. the room was in great confusion, and the threadbare carpet, ripped up in places, was littered with the broken bindings of old books and children's toys made of birchwood or corncob, upon which beverly delighted to work during the six secular days of the week. at his left hand the table was already laid for supper, which consisted of a dish of batter-bread, a half bared ham bone and a pot of coffee, from which floated a thin and cheap aroma. a wire shovel for popping corn stood at one side of the big brick fireplace, and on the hearth there was a small pile of half shelled red and yellow ears. between the two long windows a tall mahogany clock, one of the few pieces left by the collector of old furniture, ticked with a loud, monotonous sound, which seemed to increase in volume with each passage of the hands. "did you hear any news, my dear?" inquired beverly, as emily entered, for in spite of the fact that he rarely left his fireside, he was an insatiable consumer of small bits of gossip. "i didn't see anybody," answered emily in her cheerful voice. "shall i pour the coffee?" she went to the head of the table, while her brother, after shelling an ear of corn into the wire shovel, began shaking it slowly over the hickory log. "i thought you might have heard if milly trend had really made up her mind to marry that young tobacco merchant," he observed. before emily could reply the door opened and the three children rushed in, pursued by aunt mehitable, who announced that "miss meely" had gone to bed with one of her sick headaches and would not come down to supper. the information afforded beverly some concern, and he rose to leave the room with the intention of going upstairs to his wife's chamber; but observing, as he did so, that the corn was popping finely, he sat down again and devoted his attention to the shovel, which he began to shake more rapidly. "the terrapin's sick, papa," piped one of the children, a little girl called lila, as she pulled back her chair with a grating noise and slipped into her seat. "do you s'pose it would like a little molasses for its supper?" "terrapins don't eat molasses," said the boy, whose name was blair. "they eat flies--i've seen 'em." "my terrapin shan't eat flies," protested bella, the second little girl. "it ain't your terrapin!" "it is." "it ain't her terrapin, is it, papa?" beverly, having finished his task, unfastened the lid of the shovel with the poker, and suggested that the terrapin might try a little popcorn for a change. as he stood there with his white hair and his flushed face in the red firelight, he made a picture of beautiful and serene domesticity. "i shouldn't wonder if he'd get quite a taste for popcorn if you could once persuade him to try it," he remarked, his mind having wandered whimsically from his wife to the terrapin. emily had given the children batter-bread and buttermilk, and she sat now regarding her brother's profile as it was limned boldly in shadow against the quivering flames. it was impossible; she discovered, to survey beverly's character with softness or his profile with severity. "don't you think," she ventured presently, after a wholesome effort to achieve diplomacy, "that you might try to-morrow to spade the seed rows in the garden. adam can't find anybody, and if the corn isn't dropped this week we'll probably get none until late in the summer." "'i cannot dig, to beg i am ashamed,'" quoted beverly, as he drank his coffee. "it would lay me up for a week, emily, i am surprised that you ask it." she was surprised herself, the moment after she had put the question, so hopeless appeared any attempt to bend beverly to utilitarian purposes. "well, the tomatoes which i had counted on for the market will come too late," she said with a barely suppressed impatience in her voice. "i shouldn't worry about it if i were you," returned beverly, "there's nothing that puts wrinkles in a pretty face so soon as little worries. i remember uncle bolingbroke (he used to be my ideal as a little boy) told me once that he had lived to be upward of ninety on the worries from which he had been saved. as a small child i was taken to see him once when he had just come to absolute ruin and had been obliged to sell his horses and his house and even his wife's jewellery for debt. a red flag was flying at the gate, but inside sat uncle bolingbroke, drinking port wine and cracking nuts with two of his old cronies. 'yes, i've lost everything, my boy,' he cried, 'but it doesn't worry me a bit!' at that instant i remember noticing that his forehead was the smoothest i had ever seen." "but his wife had to take in dressmaking," commented emily, "and his children grew up without a particle of education." "ah, so they did," admitted beverly, with sadness, "the details had escaped me." as they had escaped him with equal success all his life, the fact seemed to emily hardly deserving of comment, and leaving him to his supper, she went upstairs to find mrs. brooke prostrate, in a cold room, with her head swathed in camphor bandages. in answer to emily's inquiries, she moaned plaintively that the pantry shelves needed scouring and that she must get up at daybreak and begin the work. "i've just remembered lying here that i planned to clean them last week," she said excitedly, "and will you remind me, emily, as soon as i get up that beverly's old brown velveteen coat needs a patch at the elbow?" "don't think of such things now, amelia, there's plenty of time. you are shivering all over--i'll start the fire in a moment. it has turned quite cool again." "but i wanted to save the pine knots until beverly came up," sighed mrs. brooke, "he is so fond of them." without replying to her nervous protest, emily knelt on the hearth and kindled a blaze which leaped rosily over the knots of resinous pine. of the two family failings with which she was obliged to contend, she had long ago decided that beverly's selfishness was less harmful in its results than amelia's self-sacrifice. inordinate at all times, it waxed positively violent during her severe attacks of headache, and between two spasms of pain her feverish imagination conjured up dozens of small self-denials which served to increase her discomfort while they conferred no possible benefit upon either her husband or her children. her temperament had fitted her for immolation; but the character of the age in which she lived had compelled her to embrace a domestic rather than a religious martyrdom. the rack would have been to her morally a bed of roses, and some exalted grace belonging to the high destiny that she had missed was visible at times in her faded gray eyes and impassive features. "mehitable brought me an egg," she groaned presently, growing more comfortable in spite of her resolve, as the rosy fire-light penetrated into the chill gloom where she lay, "but i sent it down to blair--i heard him coughing." "he didn't want it. there was plenty of batter-bread." "yes, but the poor boy is fond of eggs and he so seldom has one. it is very sad. emily, have you noticed how inert and lifeless mr. brooke has grown?" "it's nothing new, amelia, he has always been that way. can't you sleep now?" "oh, but if you could have seen him when we became engaged, emily--such life! such spirits! i remember the first time i dined at your father's--that was before beverly's mother died, so, of course, your mother wasn't even thought of in the family. i suppose second marriages are quite proper, since the lord permits them, but they always seem to me like trying to sing the same hymn over again with equal fervour. well, i was going to say that when your father asked me what part of the fowl i preferred and i answered 'dark meat, sir,' he fairly rapped the table in his delight: 'oh, amelia, what a capital wife you'll make for beverly,' he cried, 'if you will only continue to prefer dark meat!'" she stopped breathlessly, lay silent for a moment, and then began to moan softly with pain. emily swept the hearth, and after putting on a fresh log, went out, closing the door after her. there was no light in her room, but she reflected with a kind of desperation that there was no beverly and no amelia. the weight of the family had left her bruised and helpless, yet she knew that she must go downstairs again, remove the supper things, and send the three resisting children off to bed. she was quite equal to the task she had undertaken, yet there were moments when, because of her youth and her vitality, she found it harder to control her temper than to accomplish her work. at ten o'clock, when she had coaxed the children to sleep, and persuaded amelia to drink a cup of gruel, she came to her room again and began to undress slowly by the full moonlight which streamed through the window. outside, beyond the lilac bushes, she could see the tangled garden, with the dried stubble of last year's corn protruding from the unspaded rows. this was the last sight upon which her eyes turned before she climbed into the high tester bed and fell into the prompt and untroubled sleep of youth. awaking at six o'clock she went again to the window, and at the first glance it seemed to her that she must have slipped back into some orderly and quiet dream--for the corn rows which had presented a blighted aspect under the moonlight were now spaded and harrowed into furrows ready for planting. the suggestion that beverly had prepared a surprise for her occurred first to her mind, but she dismissed this the next instant and thought of adam, micah, even of the demented aunt mehitable. the memory of the fairy godmother in the story book brought a laugh to her lips, and as she dressed herself and ran downstairs to the garden gate, she half expected to see the pumpkin chariot disappearing down the weed-grown path and over the fallen fence. the lilac blossoms shed a delicious perfume into her face, and leaning against the rotting posts of the gate, she looked with mingled delight and wonder upon the freshly turned earth, which flushed faintly pink in the sunshine. a heavy dew lay over the landscape and as the sun rose slowly higher the mist was drawn back from the green fields like a sheet of gauze that is gathered up. "beverly? micah? mehitable?" each name was a question she put to herself, and after each she answered decisively, "no, it is impossible." micah, who appeared at the moment, doting, half blind and wholly rheumatic, shook his aged head helplessly in response to her eager inquiries. there was clearly no help to be had from him except the bewildered assistance he rendered in the afternoon by following on her footsteps with a split basket while she dropped the grains of corn into the opened furrows. his help in this case even was hardly more than a hindrance, for twice in his slow progress he stumbled and fell over a trailing brier in the path, and emily was obliged to stop her work and gather up the grain which he had scattered. "dese yer ole briers is des a-layin' out fur you," he muttered as he sat on the ground rubbing the variegated patch on his rheumatic knee. when the planting was over he went grumbling back to his cabin, while emily walked slowly up and down the garden path and dreamed of the vegetables which would ripen for the market. in the midst of her business calculations she remembered the little congregation in the green field on sunday afternoon and the look of generous enthusiasm in the face of the man who passed her in the road. why had she thought of him? she wondered idly, and why should that group of listeners gathered out of doors in the faint sunshine awake in her a sentiment which was associated with some religious emotion of which she had been half unconscious? the next night she awoke from a profound sleep with the same memory in her mind, and turning on her pillow, lay wide awake in the moonlight, which brought with it a faint spring chill from the dew outside. on the ivy the light shone almost like dawn, and as she could not fall asleep again, she rose presently, and slipping into her flannel dressing-gown, crossed to the window and looked out upon the shining fields, the garden and the blossoming lilacs at the gate. the shadow of the lilacs lay thick and black along the garden walk, and her eyes were resting upon them, when it seemed to her that a portion of the darkness detached itself and melted out into the moonlight. at first she perceived only the moving shadow; then gradually a figure was outlined on the bare rows of the garden, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the light, she saw that the figure had assumed a human shape, though it was still followed so closely by its semblance upon the ground that it was impossible at a distance to distinguish the living worker from his airy double. yet she realised instantly that her mysterious gardener was at work before her eyes, and hastening into her clothes, she caught up her cape from a chair, and started toward the door with an impulsive determination to discover his identity. with her hand on the knob, she hesitated and stopped, full of perplexity, upon the threshold. since he had wished to remain undiscovered was it fair, she questioned, to thrust recognition upon his kindness? on the other hand was it not more than unfair--was it not positively ungrateful--to allow his work to pass without any sign of acceptance or appreciation? in the chill white moonlight outside she could see the pointed tops of the cedars rising like silver spires. as the boughs moved the wind entered, bringing mingled odours of cedar berries, lilacs and freshly turned soil. for an instant longer her hesitation lasted; then throwing aside her cape, she undressed quickly, without glancing again down into the garden. when she fell asleep now it was to dream of the shadowy gardener spading in the moonlight among the lilacs. chapter x his neighbour's garden in his nightly work in the brookes' garden, ordway was prompted at first by a mere boyish impulse to repay people whose bread he had eaten and in whose straw he had slept. but at the end of the first hour's labour the beauty of the moonlight wrought its spell upon him, and he felt that the fragrance of the lilacs went like strong wine to his head. so the next night he borrowed mrs. twine's spade again and went back for the pure pleasure of the exercise; and the end of the week found him still digging among the last year's plants in the loamy beds. by spading less than two hours a night, he had turned the soil of half the garden before sunday put a stop to his work. on his last visit, he paused at the full of the moon, and stood looking almost with sadness at the blossoming lilacs and the overgrown path powdered with wild flowers which had strayed in through the broken fence. for the hours he had spent there the place had given him back his freedom and his strength and even a reminiscent sentiment of his youth. while he worked lydia had been only a little farther off in the beauty of the moonlight, and he had felt her presence with a spiritual sense which was keener than the sense of touch. as he drew his spade for the last time from the earth, he straightened himself, and standing erect, faced the cool wind which tossed the hair back from his heated forehead. at the moment he was content with the moonlight and the lilacs and the wind that blew over the spring fields, and it seemed easy enough to let the future rest with the past in the hands of god. swinging the spade at his side, he lowered his eyes and moved a step toward the open gate. then he stopped short, for he saw that emily brooke was standing there between the old posts under the purple and white lilacs. "it seemed too ungrateful to accept such a service and not even to say 'thank you,'" she remarked gravely. there was a drowsy sound in her voice; her lids hung heavily like a child's over her brown eyes, and her hair was flattened into little curls on one side by the pressure of the pillow. "it has been a pleasure to me," he answered, "so i deserve no thanks for doing the thing that i enjoyed." drawing nearer he stood before her with the spade on his shoulder and his head uncovered. the smell of the earth hung about him, and even in the moonlight she could see that his blue eyes looked almost gay. she felt all at once that he was younger, larger, more masculine than she had at first believed. "and yet it is work," she said in her voice of cheerful authority, "and sorely needed work at that. i can thank you even though i cannot understand why you have done it." "let's put it down to my passion to improve things," he responded with a whimsical gravity, "don't you think the garden as i first saw it justified that explanation of my behaviour?" "the explanation, yes--but not you," she answered, smiling. "then let my work justify itself. i've made a neat job of it, haven't i?" "it's more than neat, it's positively ornamental," she replied, "but even your success doesn't explain your motive." "well, the truth is--if you will have it--i needed exercise." "you might have walked." "that doesn't reach the shoulders--there's the trouble." she laughed with an easy friendliness which struck him as belonging to her gallant manner. "oh, i assure you i shan't insist upon a reason, i'm too much obliged to you," she returned, coming inside the gate. "indeed, i'm too good a farmer, i believe, to insist upon a reason anyway. providence disposes and i accept with thanks. i may wish, though, that the coloured population shared your leaning toward the spade. by the way, i see it isn't mine. it looks too shiny." "i borrowed it from mrs. twine, and it is my suspicion that she scrubs it every night." "in that case i wonder that she lets it go out to other people's gardens." "she doesn't usually," he laughed as he spoke, "but you see i am a very useful person to mrs. twine. she talks at her husband by way of me." "oh, i see," said emily. "well, i'm much obliged to her." "you needn't be. she hadn't the remotest idea where it went." her merriment, joining with his, brought them suddenly together in a feeling of good fellowship. "so you don't like divided thanks," she commented gaily. "not when they are undeserved," he answered, "as they are in this case." for a moment she was silent; then going slowly back to the gate, she turned there and looked at him wonderingly, he thought. "after all, it must have been a good wind that blew you to tappahannock," she observed. her friendliness--which impressed him as that of a creature who had met no rebuffs or disappointments from human nature, made an impetuous, almost childlike, appeal to his confidence. "do you remember the night i slept in your barn?" he asked suddenly. she bent down to pick up a broken spray of lilac. "yes, i remember." "well, i was at the parting of the ways that night--i was beaten down, desperate, hopeless. something in your kindness and--yes, and in your courage, too, put new life into me, and the next morning i turned back to tappahannock. but for you i should still have followed the road." "it is more likely to have been the cup of coffee," she said in her frank, almost boyish way. "there's something in that, of course," he answered quietly. "i _was_ hungry, god knows, but i was more than hungry, i was hurt. it was all my fault, you understand--i had made an awful mess of things, and i had to begin again low down--at the very bottom." it was in his mind to tell her the truth then, from the moment of his fall to the day that he had returned to tappahannock; but he was schooling himself hard to resist the sudden impulses which had wrecked his life, so checking his words with an effort, he lowered the spade from his shoulder, and leaning upon the handle, stood waiting for her to speak. "then you began again at baxter's warehouse the morning afterward?" she asked. "i had gone wrong from the very base of things, you see," he answered. "and you are making a new foundation now?" "i am trying to. they're decent enough folk in tappahannock, aren't they?" he added cheerfully. "perhaps they are," she responded, a little wistfully, "but i should like to have a glimpse of the world outside. i should like most, i think, to see new york." "new york?" he repeated blankly, "you've never been there?" "i? oh, no, i've never been out of virginia, except when i taught school once in georgia." the simple dignity with which she spoke caused him to look at her suddenly as if he had taken her in for the first time. perfectly unabashed by her disclosure, she stood before him as calmly as she would have stood, he felt, had he possessed a thousand amazed pairs of eyes. her confidence belonged less to personal experience, he understood now, than to some inherited ideal of manner--of social values; and it seemed to him at the moment that there was a breadth, a richness in her aspect which was like the atmosphere of rare old libraries. "you have, i dare say, read a great many books," he remarked. "a great many--oh, yes, we kept our books almost to the last. we still have the entire south wall in the library--the english classics are there." "i imagined so," he answered, and as he looked at her he realised that the world she lived in was not the narrow, provincial world of tappahannock, with its dusty warehouses, its tobacco scented streets, its red clay roads. she had turned from the gate, but before moving away she looked back and bowed to him with her gracious southern courtesy, as she had done that first night in the barn. "good-night. i cannot thank you enough," she said. "good-night. i am only paying my debt," he answered. as he spoke she entered the house, and with the spade on his shoulder he passed down the avenue and struck out vigorously upon the road to tappahannock. when he came down to breakfast some hours later, mrs. twine informed him that a small boy had come at daybreak with a message to him from bullfinch's hollow. "of course it ain't any of my business, suh," she continued impressively, "but if i were you i wouldn't pay any attention to kit berry or his messages. viciousness is jest as ketchin' as disease, that's what i say, an' you can't go steppin' aroun' careless whar it is in the air an' expect to git away with a whole morality. 'tain't as if you were a female, either, for if i do say it who should not, they don't seem to be so thin-skinned whar temptation is concerned. 'twas only two weeks ago last saturday when i went to drag bill away from that thar low lived saloon (the very same you broke into through the window, suh) that timmas kelly had the imperence to say to me, 'this is no place for respectable women, mrs. twine.' 'an, indeed, i'd like to know, mr. kelly,' said i to him, 'if it's too great a strain for the women, how the virtue of the men have stood it? for what a woman can't resist, i reckon, it's jest as well for a man not to be tempted with.' he shet up then tight as a keg--i'd wish you'd have seen him." "in his place i should probably have done the same," admitted ordway, as he took his coffee from her hands. he was upon excellent terms with mrs. twine, with the children, and even with the disreputable bill. "wall, i've done a lot o' promisin', like other folks," pursued mrs. twine, turning from the table to pick up a pair of canty's little breeches into which she was busily inserting a patch, "an' like them, i reckon, i was mostly lyin' when i did it. thar's a good deal said at the weddin' about 'love' and 'honour' and 'obey', but for all the slick talk of the parson, experience has taught me that sich things are feelin's an' not whalebones. now if thar's a woman on this earth that could manage to love, honour and obey bill twine, i'd jest like for her to step right up an' show her face, for she's a bigger fool than i'd have thought even a female could boast of bein'. as for me, suh, a man's a man same as a horse is a horse, an' if i'm goin' to set about honourin' any animal on o'count of its size i reckon i'd as soon turn roun' an' honour a whale." "but you mustn't judge us all by our friend bill," remarked ordway, picking up the youngest child with a laugh, "remember his weakness, and be charitable to the rest of us." mrs. twine spread the pair of little breeches upon her knee and slapped them into shape as energetically as if they had contained the person of their infant wearer. "as for that, suh," she rejoined, "so far as i can see one man differs from another only in the set of his breeches--for the best an' the worst of 'em are made of the same stuff, an' underneath thar skin they're all pure natur. i've had three of 'em for better or for worse, an' i reckon that's as many specimens as you generally jedge things by in a museum. a weak woman would have kept a widow after my marriage with bob cotton, the brother of william, suh--but i ain't weak, that's one thing can be said for me--so when i saw my opportunity in the person of mike frazier, i up an' said: 'wall, thar's this much to be said for marriage--whether you do or whether you don't you'll be sure to regret it, an' the regret for things you have done ain't quite so forlorn an' impty headed a feelin' as the regret for things you haven't.' then i married him, an' when he died an' bill came along i married him, too. sech is my determination when i've once made up my mind, that if bill died i'd most likely begin to look out for another. but if i do, suh, i tell you now that i'd try to start the next with a little pure despisin'--for thar's got to come a change in marriage one way or another, that's natur, an' i reckon it's as well to have it change for the better instead of the worst." a knock at the door interrupted her, and when she had answered it, she looked back over her shoulder to tell ordway that mr. banks had stopped by to walk downtown with him. with a whispered promise to return with a pocket-full of lemon drops, ordway slipped the child from his knee, and hurriedly picking up his hat, went out to join banks upon the front steps. since the day upon which the two men had met at a tobacco auction banks had attached himself to ordway with a devotion not unlike that of a faithful dog. at his first meeting he had confided to the older man the story of his youthful struggles, and the following day he had unburdened himself with rapture of his passion for milly. "i've just had breakfast with the trends," he said, "so i thought i might as well join you on your way down. mighty little doing in tobacco now, isn't there?" "well, i'm pretty busy with the accounts," responded ordway. "by the way, banks, i've had a message from bullfinch's hollow. kit berry wants me to come over." "i like his brass. why can't he come to you?" "he's sick it seems, so i thought i'd go down there some time in the afternoon." they had reached trend's gate as he spoke, to find milly herself standing there in her highest colour and her brightest ribbon. as banks came up with her, he introduced ordway, who would have passed on had not milly held out her hand. "father was just saying how much he should like to meet you, mr. smith," she remarked, hoping while she uttered the words that she would remember to instruct jasper trend to live up to them when the opportunity afforded. "perhaps you will come in to supper with us to-night? mr. banks will be here." "thank you," said ordway with the boyish smile which had softened the heart of mrs. twine, "but i was just telling banks i had to go over to bullfinch's hollow late in the afternoon." "somebody's sick there, you know," explained banks in reply to milly's look of bewilderment. "he's the greatest fellow alive for missionarying to sick people." "oh, you see it's easier to hit a man when he's down," commented ordway, drily. he was looking earnestly at milly trend, who grew prettier and pinker beneath his gaze, yet at the moment he was only wondering if alice's bright blue eyes could be as lovely as the softer ones of the girl before him. as they went down the hill a moment afterward banks asked his companion, a little reproachfully, why he had refused the invitation to supper. "after all i've told you about milly," he concluded, "i hoped you'd want to meet her when you got the chance." ordway glanced down at his clothes. "my dear banks, i'm a working man, and to tell the truth i couldn't manufacture an appearance--that's the best excuse i have." "all the same i wish you'd go. milly wouldn't care." "milly mightn't, but you would have blushed for me. i couldn't have supported a comparison with your turtle-dove." banks reddened hotly, while he put his hand to his cravat with a conscious laugh. "oh, you don't need turtle-doves and things," he answered, "there's something about you--i don't know what it is--that takes the place of them." "the place of diamond turtle-doves and violet stockings?" laughed ordway with good-humoured raillery. "you wouldn't be a bit better looking if you wore them--milly says so." "i'm much obliged to milly and on the whole i'm inclined to think she's right. do you know," he added, "i'm not quite sure that you are improved by them yourself, except for the innocent enjoyment they afford you." "but i'm such a common looking chap," said banks, "i need an air." "my dear fellow," returned ordway, while his look went like sunshine to the other's heart, "if you want to know what you are--well, you're a downright trump!" he stopped before the brick archway of baxter's warehouse, and an instant later, banks, looking after him as he turned away, vowed in the luminous simplicity of his soul that if the chance ever came to him he "would go to hell and back again for the sake of smith." chapter xi bullfinch's hollow at five o'clock ordway followed the uneven board walk to the end of the main street, and then turning into a little footpath which skirted the railroad track, he came presently to the abandoned field known in tappahannock as bullfinch's hollow. beyond a disorderly row of negro hovels, he found a small frame cottage, which he recognised as the house to which he had brought kit berry on the night when he had dragged him bodily from kelly's saloon. in response to his knock the door was opened by the same weeping woman--a small withered person, with snapping black eyes and sparse gray hair brushed fiercely against her scalp, where it clung so closely that it outlined the bones beneath. at sight of ordway a smile curved her sunken mouth; and she led the way through the kitchen to the door of a dimly lighted room at the back, where a boy of eighteen years tossed deliriously on a pallet in one corner. it was poverty in its direst, its most abject, results, ordway saw at once as his eyes travelled around the smoke stained, unplastered walls and rested upon the few sticks of furniture and the scant remains of a meal on the kitchen table. then he looked into mrs. berry's face and saw that she must have lived once amid surroundings far less wretched than these. "kit was taken bad with fever three days ago," she said, "an' the doctor told me this mornin' that the po' boy's in for a long spell of typhoid. he's clean out of his head most of the time, but whenever he comes to himself he begs and prays me to send for you. something's on his mind, but i can't make out what it is." "may i see him now?" asked ordway. "i think he's wanderin', but i'll find out in a minute." she went to the pallet and bending over the young man, whispered a few words in his ear, while her knotted hand stroked back the hair from his forehead. as ordway's eyes rested on her thin shoulders under the ragged, half soiled calico dress she wore, he forgot the son in the presence of the older and more poignant tragedy of the mother's life. yet all that he knew of her history was that she had married a drunkard and had brought a second drunkard into the world. "he wants to speak to you, sir--he's come to," she said, returning to the doorway, and fixing her small black eyes upon ordway's face. "you are the gentleman, ain't you, who got him to sign the pledge?" ordway nodded. "did he keep it?" her sharp eyes filled with tears. "he hasn't touched a drop for going on six weeks, sir, but he hadn't the strength to hold up without it, so the fever came on and wore him down." swallowing a sob with a gulp, she wiped her eyes fiercely on the back of her hand. "he ain't much to look at now," she finished, divided between her present grief and her reminiscent pride, "but, oh, mr. smith, if you could have seen him as a baby! when he was a week old he was far and away the prettiest thing you ever laid your eyes on--not red, sir, like other children, but white as milk, with dimples at his knees and elbows. i've still got some of his little things--a dress he wore and a pair of knitted shoes--and it's them that make me cry, sir. i ain't grievin' for the po' boy in there that's drunk himself to death, but for that baby that used to be." still crying softly, she slunk out into the kitchen, while ordway, crossing to the bed, stood looking down upon the dissipated features of the boy who lay there, with his matted hair tossed over his flushed forehead. "i'm sorry to see you down, kit. can i do anything to help you?" he asked. kit opened his eyes with a start of recognition, and reaching out, gripped ordway's wrist with his burning hand, while he threw off the ragged patchwork quilt upon the bed. "i've something on my mind, and i want to get it off," he answered. "when it's once off i'll be better and get back my wits." "then get it off. i'm waiting." "do you remember the night in the bar-room?" demanded the boy in a whisper, "the time you came in through the window and took me home?" "go on," said ordway. "well, i'd walked up the street behind you that afternoon when you left baxter's, and i got drunk that night on a dollar i stole from you." "but i didn't speak to you. i didn't even see you." "of course you didn't. if you had i couldn't have stolen it, but baxter had just paid you and when you put your hand into your pocket to get out something, a dollar bill dropped on the walk." "go on." "i picked it up and got drunk on it, there's nothing else. it was a pretty hard drunk, but before i got through you came in and dragged me home. twenty cents were left in my pockets. mother found the money and bought a fish for breakfast. "well, i did that much good at least," observed ordway with a smile, "have you finished, kit?" "it's been on my mind," repeated kit deliriously, "and i wanted to get it off." "it's off now, my boy," said ordway, picking up the ragged quilt from the floor and laying it across the other's feet, "and on the whole i'm glad you told me. you've done the straight thing, kit, and i am proud of you." "proud of me?" repeated kit, and fell to crying like a baby. in a minute he grew delirious again, and ordway, after bathing the boy's face and hands from a basin of water on a chair at the bedside, went into the kitchen in search of mrs. berry, whom he found weeping over a pair of baby's knitted shoes. the pathos of her grief bordered so closely upon the ridiculous that while he watched her he forced back the laugh upon his lips. "kit is worse again," he said. "do you give him any medicine?" mrs. berry struggled with difficulty to her feet, while her sobs changed into a low whimpering sound. "did you sit up with him last night?" asked ordway, following her to the door. "i've been up for three nights, sir. he has to have his face and hands bathed every hour." "what about medicine and food?" "the doctor gives him his medicine free, every drop of it, an' they let me have a can of milk every day from cedar hill. i used to live there as a girl, you know, my father was overseer in old mr. brooke's time--before he married miss emily's mother----" ordway cut short her reminiscences. "well, you must sleep to-night," he said authoritatively, "i'll come back in an hour and sit up with kit. where is your room?" she pointed to a rickety flight of stairs which led to the attic above. "kit slept up there until he was taken ill," she answered. "he's been a hard son to me, sir, as his father was a hard husband because of drink, but to save the life of me i can't forgit how good he used to be when he warn't more'n a week old. never fretted or got into tempers like other babies----" again ordway broke in drily upon her wandering recollections. "now i'll go for an hour," he said abruptly, "and by the way, have you had supper or shall i bring you some groceries when i come?" "there was a little milk left in the pitcher and i had a piece of cornbread, but--oh, mr. smith," her small black eyes snapped fiercely into his, "there are times when my mouth waters for a cup of coffee jest as po' kit's does for whiskey." "then put the kettle on," returned ordway, smiling, as he left the room. it was past sunset when he returned, and he found kit sleeping quietly under the effect of the medicine the doctor had just given him. mrs. berry had recovered sufficient spirit, not only to put the kettle on the stove, but to draw the kitchen table into the square of faint light which entered over the doorstep. the preparations for her supper had been made, he saw, with evident eagerness, and as he placed his packages upon the table, she fell upon them with an excited, childish curiosity. a few moments later the aroma of boiling coffee floated past him where he sat on the doorstep smoking his last pipe before going into the sick-room for the night. turning presently he watched the old woman in amazement while she sat smacking her thin lips and jerking her shrivelled little hands over her fried bacon; and as he looked into her ecstatic face, he realised something of the intensity which enters into the scant enjoyments of the poor. the memory of his night in the brookes' barn returned to him with the aroma of the coffee, and he understood for the first time that it is possible to associate a rapture with meat and drink. then, in spite of his resolve to keep his face turned toward his future, he found himself contrasting the squalid shanty at his back with the luxurious surroundings amid which he had last watched all night by a sick-bed. he could see the rich amber-coloured curtains, the bowls of violets on the inlaid table between the open windows, the exquisite embroidered coverlet upon the bed, and the long pale braid of lydia's hair lying across the lace ruffles upon her nightgown. before his eyes was the sunken field filled with negro hovels and refuse heaps in which lean dogs prowled snarling in search of bones; but his inward vision dwelt, in a luminous mist, on the bright room, scented with violets, where lydia had slept with her baby cradled within her arm. he could see her arm still under the falling lace, round and lovely, with delicate blue veins showing beneath the inside curve. in the midst of his radiant memory the acrid voice of mrs. berry broke with a shock, and turning quickly he found that his dream took instant flight before the aggressive actuality which she presented. "i declare i believe i'd clean forgot how good things tasted," she remarked in the cheerful tones of one who is full again after having been empty. picking up a chip from the ground, ordway began scraping carelessly at the red clay on his boots. "it smells rather nice anyway," he rejoined good-humouredly, and rising from the doorstep, he crossed the kitchen and sat down in the sagging split-bottomed chair beside the pallet. at sunrise he left kit, sleeping peacefully after a delirious night, and going out of doors for a breath of fresh air, stood looking wearily on the dismal prospect of bullfinch's hollow. the disorderly road, the dried herbage of the field, the negro hovels, with pig pens for backyards, and the refuse heaps piled with tin cans, old rags and vegetable rinds, appeared to him now to possess a sordid horror which had escaped him under the merciful obscurity of the twilight. even the sun, he thought, looked lean and shrunken, as it rose over the slovenly landscape. with the first long breath he drew there was only dejection in his mental outlook; then he remembered the enraptured face of mrs. berry as she poured out her coffee, and he told himself that there were pleasures hardy enough to thrive and expand even in the atmosphere of bullfinch's hollow. as there was no wood in the kitchen, he shouldered an old axe which he found leaning in one corner, and going to a wood-pile beyond the doorstep, split up the single rotting log lying upon a heap of mould. returning with his armful of wood, he knelt on the hearth and attempted to kindle a blaze before the old woman should make her appearance from the attic. the sticks had just caught fire, when a shadow falling over him from the open door caused him to start suddenly to his feet. "i beg your pardon," said a voice, "but i've brought some milk for mrs. berry." at the words his face reddened as if from shame, and drawing himself to his full height, he stood, embarrassed and silent, in the centre of the room, while emily brooke crossed the floor and placed the can of milk she had brought upon the table. "i didn't mean to interrupt you," she added cheerfully, "but there was no one else to come, so i had to ride over before breakfast. is kit better?" "yes," said ordway, and to his annoyance he felt himself flush painfully at the sound of his own voice. "you spent last night with him?" she inquired in her energetic tones. "yes." as he stood there in his cheap clothes, with his dishevelled hair and his unwashed hands, she was struck by some distinction of personality, before which these surface roughnesses appeared as mere incidental things. was it in his spare, weather-beaten face? or was it in the peculiar contrast between his gray hair and his young blue eyes? then her gaze fell on his badly made working clothes, worn threadbare in places, on his clean striped shirt, frayed slightly at the collar and cuffs, on his broken fingernails, and on the red clay still adhering to his country boots. "i wonder why you do these things?" she asked so softly that the words hardly reached him. "i wonder why?" though she had expected no response to her question, to her surprise he answered almost impulsively as he stooped to pick up a bit of charred wood from the floor. "well, one must fill one's life, you know," he said. "i tried the other thing once but it didn't count--it was hardly better than this, when all is said." "what 'other thing' do you mean?" "when i spoke i was thinking of what people have got to call 'pleasure,'" he responded, "getting what one wants in life, or trying to get it and failing in the end." "and did you fail?" she asked, with a simplicity which saved the blunt directness of the question. he laughed. "do you think if i had succeeded, i'd be splitting wood in bullfinch's hollow?" "and you care nothing for kit berry?" "oh, i like him--he's an under dog." "then you are for the under dog, right or wrong, as i am?" she responded with a radiant look. "well, i don't know about that," he answered, "but i have at least a fellow feeling for him. i'm an under dog myself, you see." "but you won't stay one long?" "that's the danger. when i come out on top i'll doubtless stop splitting wood and do something worse." "i don't believe it," she rejoined decisively. "you have never had a chance at the real thing before." "you're right there," he admitted, "i had never seen the real thing in my life until i came to tappahannock." "do you mind telling me," she asked, after an instant's hesitation, "why you came to tappahannock? i can't understand why anyone should ever come here." "i don't know about the others, but i came because my road led here. i followed my road." "not knowing where it would end?" he laughed again. "not _caring_ where it would end." her charming boyish smile rippled across her lips. "it isn't necessary that i should understand to be glad that you kept straight on," she said. "but the end isn't yet," he replied, with a gaiety beneath which she saw the seriousness in his face. "it may lead me off again." "to a better place i hope." "well, i suppose that would be easy to find," he admitted, as he glanced beyond the doorway, "but i like tappahannock. it has taken me in, you know, and there's human nature even in bullfinch's hollow." "oh, i suppose it's hideous," she remarked, following his look in the direction of the town, "but i can't judge. i've seen so little else, you know--and yet my city beautiful is laid out in my mind." "then you carry it with you, and that is best." as she was about to answer the door creaked above them and mrs. berry came down the short flight of steps, hastily fastening her calico dress as she descended. "well, i declare, who'd have thought to see you at this hour, miss emily," she exclaimed effusively. "i thought you might need the milk early," replied the girl, "and as micah had an attack of rheumatism i brought it over on horseback." while the old woman emptied the contents of the can into a cracked china pitcher, emily held out her hand to ordway with an impulsive gesture. "we shall have a flourishing kitchen garden," she said, "thanks to you." then taking the empty can from mrs. berry, she crossed the threshold, and remounted from the doorstep. chapter xii a string of coral as emily rode slowly up from bullfinch's hollow, it seemed to her that the abandoned fields had borrowed an aspect which was almost one of sentiment. in the golden light of the sunrise even the negro hovels, the refuse heaps and the dead thistles by the roadside, were transfigured until they appeared to lose their ordinary daytime ugliness; and the same golden light was shining inwardly on the swift impressions which crowded her thoughts. this strange inner illumination surrounded, she discovered now, each common fact which presented itself to her mind, and though the outward form of life was not changed, her mental vision had become suddenly enraptured. she did not stop to ask herself why the familiar events of every day appear so full of vivid interests--why the external objects at which she looked swam before her gaze in an atmosphere that was like a rainbow mist? it was sufficient to be alive to the finger tips, and to realise that everything in the great universe was alive around one--the air, the sky, the thistles along the roadside and the dust blowing before the wind, all moved, she felt, in harmony with the elemental pulse of life. on that morning she entered for the first time into the secret of immortality. and yet--was it only the early morning hour? she asked herself, as she rode back between the stretches of dried broomsedge. or was it, she questioned a moment later, the natural gratification she had felt in a charity so generous, so unassuming as that of the man she had seen at mrs. berry's? "it's a pity he isn't a gentleman and that his clothes are so rough," she thought, and blushed the next instant with shame because she was "only a wretched snob." "whatever his class he _is_ a gentleman," she began again, "and he would be quite--even very--good-looking if his face were not so drawn and thin. what strange eyes he has--they are as blue as blair's and as young. no, he isn't exactly good-looking--not in beverly's way, at least--but i should know his face again if i didn't see it for twenty years. it's odd that there are people one hardly knows whom one never forgets." her bare hands were on major's neck, and as she looked at them a displeased frown gathered her brows. she wondered why she had never noticed before that they were ugly and unwomanly, and it occurred to her that aunt mehitable had once told her that "ole miss" washed her hands in buttermilk to keep them soft and white. "they're almost as rough as mr. smith's," she thought, "perhaps he noticed them." the idea worried her for a minute, for she hated, she told herself, that people should not think her "nice"--but the golden light was still flooding her thoughts and these trivial disturbances scattered almost before they had managed to take shape. nothing worried her long to-day, and as she dismounted at the steps, and ran hurriedly into the dining-room, she remembered beverly and amelia with an affection which she had not felt for years. it was as if the mere external friction of personalities had dissolved before the fundamental relation of soul to soul; even poor half-demented aunt mehitable wore in her eyes, at the minute, an immortal aspect. a little later when she rode in to the public school at tappahannock, she discovered that the golden light irradiated even the questions in geography and arithmetic upon the blackboard; and coming out again, she found that it lay like sunshine on the newly turned vegetable rows in the garden. that afternoon for the first time she planted in a discarded pair of buck-skin gloves, and as soon as her work was over, she went upstairs to her bedroom, and regarded herself wistfully by the light from a branched candlestick which she held against the old greenish mirror. her forehead was too high, she admitted regretfully, her mouth was too wide, her skin certainly was too brown. the blue cotton dress she wore appeared to her suddenly common and old-fashioned, and she began looking eagerly through her limited wardrobe in the hopeless quest for a gown that was softened by so much as a fall of lace about the throat. then remembering the few precious trinkets saved from the bartered heirlooms of her dead mother, she got out the old black leather jewel case and went patiently over the family possessions. among the mourning brooches and hair bracelets that the box contained there was a necklace of rare pink coral, which she had meant to give bella upon her birthday--but as her gaze was arrested now by the cheerful colour, she sat for a moment wondering if she might not honestly keep the beads for her own. still undecided she went to the bureau again and fastened the string of coral around her firm brown throat. "i may wear it for a week or two at least," she thought. "why not?" it seemed to her foolish, almost unfeminine that she had never cared or thought about her clothes until to-day. "i've gone just like a boy--i ought to be ashamed to show my hands," she said; and at the same instant she was conscious of the vivid interest, of the excitement even, which attached to this new discovery of the importance of one's appearance. before going downstairs she brushed the tangles out of her thick brown hair, and spent a half hour arranging it in a becoming fashion upon her neck. the next day micah was well enough to carry the milk to mrs. berry's, but three mornings afterward, when she came from the dairy with the can, the old negro was not waiting for her on the porch, and she found, upon going to his cabin, that the attack of rheumatism had returned with violence. there was nothing for her to do but carry the milk herself, so after leading major from his stall, she mounted and rode, almost with a feeling of shyness, in the direction of bullfinch's hollow. the door was closed this morning, and in answer to her knock, mrs. berry appeared, rubbing her eyes, beyond the threshold. "i declare, miss emily, you don't look like yourself at all," she exclaimed at the girl's entrance, "it must be them coral beads you've got on, i reckon. they always was becomin' things--i had a string once myself that i used to wear when my po' dead husband was courtin' me. lord! lord!" she added, bursting into sobs, "who'd have thought when i wore those beads that i'd ever have come to this? my po' ma gave 'em to me herself--they were her weddin' present from her first husband, and when she made up her mind to marry again, she kind of thought it warn't modest to go aroun' wearin' what she'd got from her first marriage. she was always powerful sensitive to decency, was po' ma. i've seen her scent vulgarity in the most harmless soundin' speech you ever heard--such as when my husband asked her one day if she was afflicted with the budges in her knee, and she told me afterward that he had made a sneakin' allusion to her leg. ten years from that time, when all my trouble came upon me, she held that over me as a kind of warnin'. 'if you'd listened to me, sarindy,' she used to say, 'you'd never have got into this scrape of marryin' a man who talked free befo' women. for a man who is indecent in his language can't be decent in his life,' she said." as she talked she was pouring the milk into the cracked pitcher, and emily breaking in at the first pause, sought to hasten the washing of the can, by bringing the old woman's rambling attention back to kit. "has he had a quiet night?" she asked. "well, yes, miss, in a way, but then he always was what you might call a quiet sleeper from the very hour that he was born. i remember old aunt jemima, his monthly nurse, tellin' me that she had never in all her experience brought a more reliable sleeper into the world. he never used to stir, except to whimper now and then for his sugar rag when it slipped out of his mouth." hurriedly seizing the half-washed can, emily caught up her skirt and moved toward the door. "did you sit up with him last night?" she asked, turning upon the step. "that was mr. smith's night, miss--he's taken such a fancy to kit that he comes every other night to watch by him--but he gets up and leaves now a little before daybreak. i heard him choppin' wood before the sun was up." "he has been very kind about it, hasn't he?" "lord, miss, he's been a son and a brother as far as work goes, but i declare i can't help wishin' he wasn't quite so shut mouthed. every blessed sound he utters i have to drag out of him like a fox out of a burrow. he's a little cranky, too, i reckon, for he is so absent-minded that sometimes when you call his name he never even turns aroun'. but the lord will overlook his unsociable ways, i s'pose, for he reads his bible half the night when he sets up, jest as hard as if he was paid to do it. that's as good a recommendation, i reckon, as i need to have." "i should think his charity would be a better one," rejoined emily, with severity. "well, that's as it may be, miss," returned mrs. berry, "i'm not ungrateful, i hope, and i'm much obliged for what he gives me--particularly for the coffee, which ain't as thin as it might be seein' it's a present. but when all's said i ain't so apt to jedge by things like that because charity is jest a kind of saint vitus dance with some folks--it's all in the muscles. thank you, miss, yes, kit is doin' very well." mounting from the step, emily turned back into the tappahannock road, aware as she passed through the deserted fields that her exaltation of the morning had given way before a despondency which seemed to change the face of nature. the day was oppressive, the road ugly, mrs. berry more tiresome than usual--each of these things suggested itself as a possible reason for the dissatisfaction which she could not explain. not once during her troubled mood did the name or the face of ordway appear as the visible cause of her disturbance. so far, indeed, was his individual aspect from her reflections, that some hours later, when she rode back to school, it was with a shock of surprise that she saw him turn the corner by the new brick church, and come rapidly toward her from the brow of the long hill. that he had not at first seen her was evident, for he walked in an abstracted reverie with his eyes on the ground, and when he looked up at last, she had drawn almost within speaking distance. at sight of his face her heart beat so quickly that she dropped the reins on major's neck, and raised her free hand to her bosom, while she felt the blood mount joyously to her cheeks; but, to her amazement, in the first instant of recognition, he turned abruptly away and entered the shop of a harness maker which happened to be immediately on his right. the action was so sudden that even as she quickened her horse's pace, there flashed into her mind the humiliating conviction that he had sought purposely to avoid her. the throbs of her heart grew faster and then seemed to die utterly away, yet even as the warm blood turned cold in her cheeks, she told herself with spirit that it was all because she "could not bear to be disliked." "why should he dislike me?" she questioned presently; "it is very foolish of him, and what have i done?" she searched her memory for some past rudeness of which she had been guilty, but there was nothing she could recall which would justify, however slightly, his open avoidance of a chance meeting. "perhaps he doesn't like the colour of my hair. i've heard men were like that," she thought, "or the freckles on my face? or the roughness of my hands?" but the instant afterward she saw how ridiculous were her surmises, and she felt angry with herself for having permitted them to appear in her mind. she remembered his blue eyes with the moonlight upon them, and she wondered why he had seemed to her more masculine than any man that she had ever known. with the memory of his eyes and his smile she smelt again the odour of the warm earth that had clung about him, and she was conscious that this and everything about him was strange and new as if she had never looked into a pair of blue eyes or smelt the odour of the soil before. after this meeting she did not see ordway again for several weeks, and then it was only to pass him in the road one sunday afternoon when he had finished his sermon in the old field. as he drew back among the thistles, he spoke to her gravely, with a deference, she noticed, which had the effect of placing him apart from her as a member of the working class. since kit berry's recovery she had not gone again to bullfinch's hollow; and she could not fail to observe that even when an opportunity appeared, ordway made no further effort to bridge the mere casual acquaintance which divided rather than united them. if it were possible to avoid conversation with her he did so by retiring into the background; if the event forced him into notice, he addressed her with a reserve which seemed at each meeting to widen the distance between them. though she hardly confessed it to herself, her heart was wounded for a month or two by his frank indifference to her presence. then one bright afternoon in may, when she had observed him turn out of his path as she rode up the hill, she saved the situation in her mind by the final triumph of her buoyant humour. "everybody is privileged to be a little fool," she said with a laugh, "but when there's the danger of becoming a great big one, it's time to stop short and turn round. now, emily, my dear, you're to stop short from this minute. i hope you understand me." that the emily she addressed understood her very clearly was proved a little later in the afternoon, when going upstairs to her bedroom, she unfastened the coral beads and laid them away again among the mourning brooches and the hair bracelets in the leather case. book second the day of reckoning chapter i in which a stranger appears on a bright june morning, when ordway had been more than two years at tappahannock, he came out upon mrs. twine's little porch as soon as breakfast was over, and looked down the board walk for harry banks, who had fallen into the habit of accompanying him to the warehouse. from where he stood, under the hanging blossoms of the locust trees, he could see the painted tin roofs and the huddled chimneys of the town, flanked by the brazen sweep of the cornfields along the country roads. as his eyes rested on the familiar scene, they softened unconsciously with an affection which was almost paternal--for in the last two years tappahannock had become a different place from the tappahannock he had entered as a tramp on that windy afternoon in march. the town as it stood to-day was the town which he had helped to make, and behind each roll of progress there had been the informing purpose of his mind, as well as the strength of his shoulder at the wheel. behind the law which had closed the disreputable barrooms; behind the sentiment for decency which had purified the filthy hollows; behind the spirit of charity which had organised and opened, not only a reading room for the factory workers, but an industrial home for the poorer classes--behind each of these separate movements there had been a single energy to plan and act. in two years he had watched the little town cover the stretch of ten years' improvement; in two years he had aroused and vitalised the community into which he had come a stranger. tappahannock was the child of his brain--the life that was in her to-day he had given her out of himself, and the love he felt for her was the love that one bestows upon one's own. standing there his eyes followed the street to the ugly brick church at the corner, and then as his mental vision travelled down the long, hot hill which led to the railroad, he could tell himself, with a kind of exultation, that there was hardly a dwelling along the way which had not some great or little reason to bless his name. even kelly, whose saloon he had closed, had been put upon his feet again and started, with a fair chance, in the tobacco market. yes, a new life had been given him, and he had made good his promise to himself. the clothes he wore to-day were as rough as those in which he had chopped wood in bullfinch's hollow; the room he lived in was the same small, bare lodging of mrs. twine's; for though his position at baxter's now assured him a comfortable income, he had kept to his cramped manner of life in order that he might contribute the more generously to the lives of others. out of his little he had given abundantly, and he had gained in return the happiness which he had ceased to make the object of his search. in looking back over his whole life, he could honestly tell himself that his happiest years since childhood were the ones that he had spent in tappahannock. the gate closed with a slam, and banks came up the short brick walk inside, mopping his heated face with a pink bordered handkerchief. "i'm a minute late," he said, "but it doesn't matter, does it? the trends asked me to breakfast." "it doesn't matter in the least if you spent that minute with milly," replied ordway, with a laugh, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and descended the steps. "the hot weather has come early, hasn't it?" "oh, we're going in for a scorcher," responded banks, indifferently. there was a heavy gloom in his manner which was hardly to be accounted for by the temperature in which he moved, and as they closed the gate behind them and passed under the shade of the locust trees on the board walk, he turned to ordway in an outburst which was little short of desperation. "i don't know how it is--or whether it's just a woman's way," he said, "but i never can be sure of milly for ten minutes at a time. a month ago i was positive that she meant to marry me in the autumn, but now i'm in a kind of blue funk about her doing it at all. she's never been the same since she went north in april." "my dear chap, these things will vary, i suppose--though, mind you, i make no claim to exact knowledge of the sex." "it isn't the sex," said banks, "it's milly." "well, i certainly can't claim any particular knowledge of milly. it would be rather presumptuous if i did, considering i've only seen her about a dozen times--mostly at a distance." "i wish you knew her better, perhaps you could help me," returned banks in a voice of melancholy. "to save the life of me i don't see how it is--i've done my best--i swear i've done my best--yet nothing somehow seems to suit her. she wants to make me over from the skin and even that doesn't satisfy her. when my hair is short she wants it long, and when it's long she says she wants it short. she can't stand me in coloured cravats and when i put on a black tie she calls me an undertaker. i had to leave off my turtle-dove scarf-pin and this morning," he rolled his innocent blue eyes, like pale marbles, in the direction of ordway, "she actually got into a temper about my stockings." "it seems to be a case for sympathy," commented ordway seriously, "but hardly, i should say, for marriage. imagine, my dear banks, what a hell you'd make out of your domesticity. suppose you give her up and bear it like a man?" "give her up? to what?" "well, to her own amiability, we'll say." "i can't," said banks, waving his pink bordered handkerchief before his face in an effort either to disperse the swarming blue flies or to conceal the working of his emotion. "i'd die--i'd kill myself--that's the awful part of it. the more she bangs me over the head, the more i feel that i can't live without her. is that natural, do you s'pose?" he inquired uneasily, "or have i gone clean crazy?" checking his smile severely, ordway turned and slipped his left arm affectionately through his companion's. "i've heard of similar cases," he remarked, "though i confess, they sounded a little strained." "do you think i'd better see a doctor? i will if you say so." "by no means. go off on a trip." "and leave milly here? i'd jump out of the train--and, i reckon, she'd bang my head off for doing it." "but if it's as bad as that, you couldn't be much more miserable without her." "i know it," replied banks obstinately, "but it would be a different sort of miserableness, and that happens to be the sort that i can't stand." "then i give it up," said ordway, cheerfully, "there's no hope but marriage." with his words they turned under the archway of baxter's warehouse, and banks's passionate confidences were extinguished in the odour of tobacco. a group of men stood talking loudly in the centre of the building, and as ordway approached, baxter broke away, with his great rolling laugh, and came to join him at the door of his private office. "catesby and frazier have got into a squabble about that lot of tobacco they brought in last february," he said, "and they have both agreed to accept your decision in the matter." ordway nodded, without replying, as he followed the other through the doorway. such judicial appeals to him were not uncommon, and his power of pacification, as his employer had once remarked, was one of his principal qualifications for the tobacco market. "shall i hear them now? or would it be as well to give them time to cool off?" he asked presently, while baxter settled his great person in a desk chair that seemed a size too small to contain it. "if they can cool off on a day like this they're lucky dogs," returned baxter, with a groan, "however, i reckon you might as well get it over and let 'em go home and stew in peace. by the way, smith, i forgot to tell you that major leary--he's the president of the southside bank, you know, was asking me yesterday if i could tell him anything about you before you came to work for me." "of the southside bank," repeated ordway, while his hand closed tightly over a paper weight, representing a gambolling kitten, which lay on baxter's desk. with the words he was conscious only of the muffled drumming of his pulses, and above the discord in his ears, the cheerful tones of baxter sounded like an echo rather than a real voice. at the instant he was back again in his room in the great banking house of amos, bonner & amos, in the midst of the pale brown walls, the black oak furniture and the shining leather covered volumes behind the glass doors of the bookcases. with peculiar vividness he remembered the eccentric little bird on the bronze clock on the mantel, which had hopped from its swinging perch to strike the hour with its beak; and through the open windows he could hear still the din of traffic in the street below and the ceaseless, irregular tread of footsteps upon the pavement. "oh, i didn't mean to raise your hopes too high," remarked baxter, rising from his chair to slap him affectionately upon the shoulder, "he isn't going to make you president of the bank, but of the citizen's improvement league, whose object is to oust jasper trend, you know, in the autumn. the major told me before he left that you'd done as much for tappahannock in two years as any other man had done in a lifetime. i said i thought he'd hit the nail pretty squarely, which is something he doesn't generally manage to do." "so i'm to fight jasper trend, am i?" asked ordway, with sudden interest. the sound of his throbbing arteries was no longer in his ears, and as he spoke, he felt that his past life with his old identity had departed from him. in the swift renewal of his confidence he had become again "ten commandment smith" of tappahannock. "well, you see, jasper has been a precious bad influence around here," pursued baxter, engrossed in the political scheme he was unfolding. "the only thing on earth he's got to recommend him is his pretty daughter. now, i've a soft enough heart, as everybody knows, when the ladies come about--particularly if they're pretty--but i'm ready to stand up and say that jasper trend can't be allowed to run this town on the platform of pure chivalry. there's such a thing as fairness, suh, even where women are concerned, and i'll back my word with my oath that it ain't fair!" "and i'll back your word with another that it isn't," rejoined ordway. "there's no doubt, i reckon," continued baxter, "that jasper has connived with those disorderly saloons that you've been trying to shut up, and for all his money and the men he employs in the cotton mills there's come a considerable reaction against him in public sentiment. now, i ain't afraid to say, smith," he concluded with an ample flourish of his dirty hand, "that the fact that there's any public sentiment at all in tappahannock is due to you. until you came here there weren't six decent men you could count mixed up in the affairs of this town. jasper had everything his own way, that's why he hates you." "but i wasn't even aware that he did me so much honour." "you mean he hasn't told you his feelings to your face. well, he hasn't gone so far as to confide them to me either--but even if i ain't a woman, i can hear some things that ain't spoke out in words. he's made a dirty town and you're sweepin' it clean--do you think it likely that it makes him love you?" "he's welcome to feel about me anyway he pleases, but do you know, baxter," he added with his whimsical gravity, "i've a pretty strong conviction that i'd make a jolly good street sweeper." "i reckon you're right!" roared baxter, "and when you're done, we'll shoot off some sky-rockets over the job--so there you are, ain't you?" "all right--but there's jasper trend also," retorted ordway. "oh, he can afford to send off his own sky-rockets. we needn't bother about him. he won't be out of a job like kelly, you know. great scott!" he added, chuckling, "i can see your face now when you marched in here the day after you closed kelly's saloon, and told me you had to start a man in tobacco because you'd taken him out of whiskey." his laugh shook through his figure until ordway saw his fat chest heave violently beneath his alpaca coat. custom had made the younger man almost indifferent to the external details which had once annoyed him in his employer, and he hardly noticed now that baxter's coat was turning from black to green and that the old ashes from his pipe had lodged in the crumpled bosom of his shirt. baxter was--well, baxter, and tolerance was a virtue which one acquired sooner or later in tappahannock. "i suppose i might as well get at catesby and frazier now," remarked ordway, watching the other disinter a tattered palm leaf fan from beneath a dusty pile of old almanacs and catalogues. "wait a minute first," said baxter, "there's something i want to say as soon as i get settled. i ain't made for heat, that's certain," he pursued, as he pulled off his coat, and hung it from a nail in the wall, "it sweats all my morals out of me." detaching the collar from his shirt, he placed it above his coat on the nail, and then rolling up his shirt sleeves, sank, with a panting breath, back into his chair. "if i were you i'd get out of this at night anyway, smith," he urged. "why don't you try boarding for the next few months over at cedar hill. it would be a godsend to the family, now that miss emily's school has stopped." "but i don't suppose they'd take me in," replied ordway, staring out into the street, where the dust rose like steam in the air, and the rough-coated country horses toiled patiently up the long hill. across the way he saw the six stale currant buns and the three bottles of pale beer behind the fly-specked window panes of a cheap eating house. in front of them, a negro woman, barefooted, with her ragged calico dress tucked up about her waist, was sousing the steaming board walk with a pailful of dirty water. from his memory of two years ago there floated the mingled odours of wild flowers and freshly turned earth in the garden of cedar hill, and emily appeared in his thoughts only as an appropriate figure against the pleasant natural background of the lilacs and the meadows. in the past year he had seen her hardly more than a dozen times--mere casual glimpses for the most part--and he had almost forgotten his earlier avoidance of her, which had resulted from an instinctive delicacy rather than from any premeditated purpose. his judgment had told him that he had no right to permit a woman to become his friend in ignorance of his past; and at the same time he was aware of a terrible shrinking from intruding his old self, however remotely, into the new life at tappahannock. when the choice came between confessing his sin and sacrificing the chance acquaintance, he had found it easier simply to keep away from her actual presence. yet his interest in her had been so closely associated with his larger feeling for humanity, that he could tell himself with sincerity that it was mere folly which put her forward as an objection to his boarding for the summer at cedar hill. "the truth is," admitted baxter, after a pause, "that mrs. brooke spoke to me about having to take a boarder or two, when i went out there to pay mr. beverly for that tobacco i couldn't sell." "so you bought it in the end," laughed ordway, "as you did last year after sending me out there on a mission?" "yes, i bought it," replied baxter, blushing like a boy under the beads of perspiration upon his face. "i may as well confess it, though i tried to keep it secret. but i ask you as man to man," he demanded warmly, "was there another blessed thing on god's earth for me to do?" "let mr. beverly go about his business--that's what i'd have done." "oh, no, you wouldn't," protested baxter softly, "not when he'd ruin himself for you to-morrow if you were to walk out and ask him." "but he couldn't," insisted ordway with the brutality of the naked fact, "he did that little job on his own account too long ago." "but that ain't the point, smith," replied baxter in an awed and solemn accent. "the point ain't that he couldn't, but that he _would_. as i make it out that's the point which has cost me money on him for the last thirty years." "oh, well, i suppose it's a charity like any other, only the old fool is so pompous about his poverty that it wears me out." "it does at tappahannock, but it won't when you get out to cedar hill, that's the difference between mr. beverly in the air and mr. beverly in the flesh. the one wears you out, the other rests you for all his darnation foolishness. now, you can board out there for twenty-five dollars a month and put a little ready money where it ought to be in mrs. brooke's pocket." "of course i'd like it tremendously," said ordway, after a moment in which the perfume of the lilacs filled his memory. "it would be like stepping into heaven after that stifling little room under the tin roof at mrs. twine's. do you know i slept out in the fields every hot night last summer?" "you see you ain't a native of these parts," remarked baxter with a large resigned movement of his palm leaf fan, "and your skin ain't thick enough to keep out the heat. i'll speak to 'em at cedar hill this very day, and if you like, i reckon, you can move out at the beginning of the week. i hope if you do, smith, that you'll bear with mr. beverly. there's nothing in the universe that he wouldn't do for me if he had the chance. it ain't his fault, you see, that he's never had it." "oh, i promise you i'll bear with him," laughed ordway, as he left the office and went out into the warehouse. the knot of men was still in the centre of the building, and as ordway walked down the long floor in search of catesby and frazier, he saw that a stranger had drifted in during his half hour in baxter's office. with his first casual glance all that he observed of the man was a sleek fair head, slightly bald in the centre, and a pair of abnormally flat shoulders in a light gray coat, which had evidently left a clothing shop only a day or two before. then as frazier--a big, loud voiced planter--turned toward him with the exclamation, "here's smith, himself, now!"--he saw the stranger wheel round abruptly and give vent the next instant to a sharp whistle of surprise. "well, i'll be damned!" he said. for a minute the tobacco dust filled ordway's throat and nostrils, and he felt that he was stifling for a breath of air. the dim length of the warehouse and the familiar shadowy figures of the planters receded before his eyes, and he saw again the bare walls of the prison chapel, with the rows of convicts seated in the pale, greenish light. with his recognition of the man before him, it seemed to him suddenly that the last year in tappahannock was all a lie. the prison walls, the grated windows, and the hard benches of the shoe shop were closer realities than were the open door of the warehouse and the free, hot streets of the little town. "i am very happy to meet you, mr. smith," said the stranger, as he held out his hand with a good-humoured smile. "i beg your pardon," returned ordway quietly, "but i did not catch your name." at the handshake a chill mounted from his finger tips to his shoulder, but drawing slightly away he stood his ground without so much as the perceptible flicker of an eyelash. "my name is brown--horatio brown, very much at your service," answered the other, with a manner like that of a successful, yet obsequious commercial traveller. it was on ordway's tongue to retort: "you lie--it's gus wherry!"--but checking the impulse with a frown, he turned on his heel and asked the two men for whom he was looking to come with him to settle their disagreement in baxter's office. as he moved down the building an instant later, it was with an effort that he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead through the archway, for he was aware that every muscle in his body pricked him to turn back and follow wherry to the end. that the man would be forced, in self-defence, to keep his secret for a time at least, he had caught in the smiling insolence of his glance; but that it was possible to enter into a permanent association or even a treaty with gus wherry, he knew to be a supposition that was utterly beyond the question. the crime for which the man had been sentenced he could not remember; but he had a vague recollection that something morbidly romantic in his history had combined with his handsome face to give him an ephemeral notoriety as the adonis of imaginative shop-girls. even in prison wherry had attained a certain prominence because of his beauty, which at the time when ordway first saw him had been conspicuous in spite of his convict's clothes. in the years since then his athletic figure had grown a trifle too heavy, and his fair hair had worn a little thin on the crown of his head; yet these slight changes of time had left him, ordway admitted reluctantly, still handsome in the brawny, full-blooded style, which had generally made fools of women. his lips were still as red, his features as severely classic, and his manner was not less vulgar, and quite as debonnair as in the days when the newspapers had clamoured for his pictures. even the soft, girlish cleft in his smooth-shaven chin, ordway remembered now, with a return of the instinctive aversion with which it had first inspired him. yet he was obliged to confess, as he walked ahead of catesby and frazier down the dusty floor of the warehouse, that if wherry had been less of an uncompromising rascal, he would probably have made a particularly amiable acquaintance. chapter ii ordway compromises with the past when ordway came out of baxter's office, he found that gus wherry had left the warehouse, but the effect upon him of the man's appearance in tappahannock was not to be overcome by the temporary withdrawal of his visible presence. not only the town, but existence itself seemed altered, and in a way polluted, by the obtrusion of wherry's personality upon the scene. though he was not in the building, ordway felt an angry conviction that he was in the air. it was impossible to breathe freely lest he might by accident draw in some insidious poison which would bring him under the influence of his past life and of gus wherry. as he went along the street at one o'clock to his dinner at mrs. twine's, he was grateful for the intensity of the sun, which rendered him, while he walked in it, almost incapable of thought. there was positive relief in the fact that he must count the uneven lengths of board walk which it was necessary for him to traverse, and the buzzing of the blue flies before his face forced his attention, at the minute, from the inward to the outward disturbance. when he reached the house, mrs. twine met him at the door and led him, with an inquiry as to his susceptibility to sunstroke, into the awful gloom of her tightly shuttered parlour. "i declar' you do look well nigh in yo' last gasp," she remarked cheerfully, bustling into the dining-room for a palm leaf fan. "thar, now, come right in an' set down an' eat yo' dinner. hot or cold, glad or sorry, i never saw the man yit that could stand goin' without his dinner at the regular hour. sech is the habit in some folks that i remember when old mat fawling's second wife died he actually hurried up her funeral an hour earlier so as to git back in time for dinner. 'it ain't that i'm meanin' any disrespect to sary, mrs. twine,' he said to me right whar i was layin' her out, 'but the truth is that i can't even mourn on an empty stomach. the undertaker put it at twelve,' he said, 'but i reckon we might manage to git out to the cemetery by eleven.'" "all the same if you'll give me a slice of bread and a glass of milk, i'll take it standing," remarked ordway. "i'm sorry to leave you, mrs. twine, even for a few months," he added, "but i think i'll try to get board outside the town until the summer is over." "well, i'll hate to lose you, suh, to be sure," responded mrs. twine, dealing out the fried batter with a lavish hand despite his protest, "for i respect you as a fellow mortal, though i despise you as a sex." her hard eyes softened as she looked at him; but his gaze was on the walnut coloured oilcloth, where the flies dispersed lazily before the waving elm branch in the hands of the small negro, and so he did not observe the motherly tenderness which almost beautified her shrewish face. "you've been very kind to me," he said, as he put his glass and plate down, and turned toward the door. "whatever happens i shall always remember you and the children with pleasure." she choked violently, and looking back at the gasping sound, he saw that her eyes had filled suddenly with tears. lifting a corner of her blue gingham apron, she mopped her face in a furious effort to conceal the cause of her unaccustomed emotion. "i declar' i'm all het up;" she remarked in an indignant voice, "but if you should ever need a friend in sickness, mr. smith," she added, after a moment in which she choked and coughed under the shelter of her apron, "you jest send for me an' i'll drop every thing i've got an' go. i'll leave husband an' children without a thought, suh, an' thar's nothin' i won't do for you with pleasure, from makin' a mustard plaster to layin' out yo' corpse. when i'm a friend, i'm a friend, if i do say it, an' you've had a way with me from the very first minute that i clapped eyes upon you. 'he may not have sech calves as you've got,' was what i said to bill, 'but he's got a manner of his own, an' i reckon it's the manner an' not the calves that is the man.' not that i'm meaning any slur on yo' shape, suh," she hastened to explain. "well, i'll come to see you now and then," said ordway, smiling, "and i shan't forget to take the children for a picnic as i promised." but with the words he remembered gus wherry, as he had seen him standing in the centre of baxter's warehouse, and it seemed to him that even his promise to the children was rendered vain and worthless. the next day was sunday, and immediately after dinner he walked over to baxter's house, where he learned that mrs. brooke had expressed her willingness to receive him upon the following afternoon. "we had to talk mr. beverly over," said baxter, chuckling. "at first he didn't like the idea because of some notion he'd got out of his great-grandfather's head about the sacredness of the family circle. however, he's all right now, though if you take my advice, smith, you'll play a game of dominoes with him occasionally just to keep him kind of soft. the chief thing he has against you is your preachin' in the fields, for he told me he could never bring himself to countenance religion out of doors. he seems to think that it ought to be kept shut up tight." "well, i'm glad he doesn't have to listen to me," responded ordway. "by the way, you know i'm speaking in catlett's grove of pines now. it's pleasanter away from the glare of the sun." then as baxter pressed him to come back to supper, he declined the oppressive hospitality and went back to mrs. twine's. that afternoon at five o'clock he went out to the grove of pines on the southern edge of the town, to find his congregation gathered ahead of him on the rude plank benches which had been placed among the trees. the sunshine fell in drops through the tent of boughs overhead, and from the southwest a pleasant breeze had sprung up, blowing the pine needles in eddies about his feet. at sight of the friendly faces gathered so closely around him, he felt his foreboding depart as if it had been blown from him by the pure breeze; and beginning his simple discourse, he found himself absorbed presently in the religious significance of his subject, which chanced to be an interpretation of the parable of the prodigal son. not until he was midway of his last sentence did he discover that gus wherry was standing just beyond the little wildrose thicket on the edge of the grove. in the instant of recognition the words upon his lips sounded strangely hollow and meaningless in his ears, and he felt again that the appearance of the man had given the lie, not only to his identity, but to his life. he knew himself at the instant to have changed from daniel smith to daniel ordway, and the name that he had worn honestly in tappahannock showed to him suddenly as a falsehood and a cheat. even his inward motive was contemptible in his eyes, and he felt himself dragged back in a single minute to the level upon which wherry stood. as he appeared to wherry, so he saw himself now by some distorted power of vision, and even his religion seemed but a convenient mask which he had picked up and used. when he went on a moment later with his closing words, he felt that the mockery of his speech must be evident to the ears of the congregation that knew and loved him. the gathering broke up slowly, but after speaking to several men who stood near him, ordway turned away and went out into the road which led from tappahannock in the direction of cedar hill. only after he had walked rapidly for a mile, did the sound of footsteps, following close behind him, cause him to wheel round abruptly with an impatient exclamation. as he did so, he saw that wherry had stopped short in the road before him. "i wanted to tell you how much obliged i am for your talk, mr. smith," he said, with a smile which appeared to flash at the same instant from his eyes and his teeth. "i declare you came pretty near converting me--by jove, you did. it wouldn't be convenient to listen to you too often." whatever might be said of the effusive manner of his compliments, his good humour was so evident in his voice, in his laugh, and even in his conspicuously flashing teeth, that ordway, who had been prepared for a quarrel, was rendered almost helpless by so peaceable an encounter. turning out of the road, he stepped back among the tall weeds growing in the corner of the old "worm" fence, and rested his tightly clinched hand on the topmost rail. "if you have anything to say to me, you will do me a favour by getting it over as soon as possible," he rejoined shortly. wherry had taken off his hat and the red disc of the setting sun made an appropriate frame for his handsome head, upon which his fair hair grew, ordway noticed, in the peculiar waving circle which is found on the heads of ancient statues. "well, i can't say that i've anything to remark except that i congratulate you on your eloquence," he replied, with a kind of infernal amiability. "if this is your little game, you are doing it with a success which i envy from my boots up." "since this is your business with me, there is no need for us to discuss it further," returned ordway, at white heat. "oh, but i say, don't hurry--what's the use? you're afraid i'm going to squeeze you, now, isn't that it?" "you'll get nothing out of me if you try." "that's as much as i want, i guess. have i asked you for as much as a darned cent? haven't i played the gentleman from the first minute that i spotted you?" ordway nodded. "yes, i suppose you've been as fair as you knew how," he answered, "i'll do you the justice to admit that." "well, i tell you now," said wherry, growing confidential as he approached, "my object isn't blackmail, it's human intercourse. i want a decent word or two, that's all, on my honour." "but i won't talk to you. i've nothing further to say, that's to be understood." "you're a confounded bully, that's what you are," observed wherry, in the playful tones which he might have used to a child or an animal. "now, i don't want a blooming cent out of you, that's flat--all i ask for is a pleasant word or two just as from man to man." "then why did you follow me? and what are you after in tappahannock?" wherry laughed hilariously, while his remarkably fine teeth became the most prominent feature in his face. "the reply to your question, smith," he answered pleasantly, "is that i followed you to say that you're an all-fired, first rate sort of a preacher--there's not harm in that much, is there? if you don't want me to chaff you about it, i'll swear to be as dead serious on the subject as if it were my wife's funeral. what i want is your hand down, i say--no matter what is trumps!" "my hand down for what?" demanded ordway. "just for plain decency, nothing more, i swear. you've started on your road, and i've started on mine, and the square thing is to live and let live, that's as i see it. leave room for honest repentance to go to work, but don't begin to pull back before it's had a chance to begin. ain't we all prodigals, when it comes to that, and the only difference is that some of us don't get a bite at the fatted calf." for a moment ordway stared in silence to where the other stood with his face turned toward the red light of the sunset. "we're all prodigals," repeated wherry, as if impressed by the ethical problem he had uttered unawares, "you and me and the president and every man. we've all fallen from grace, ain't we?--and it's neither here nor there that you and i have got the swine husks while the president has stuffed and eaten the fatted calf." "if you've honestly meant to begin again, i have certainly no wish to interfere," remarked ordway, ignoring the other's excursion into the field of philosophy. as he spoke, however, it occurred to him that wherry's reformation might have had better chance of success if it had been associated with fewer physical advantages. "well, i'm much obliged to you," said wherry, "and i'll say the same by you, here's my hand on it. rise or fall, we'll play fair." "you haven't told me yet why you came to tappahannock," rejoined ordway, shortly. "oh, a little matter of business. are you settled here now?" "at the moment you can answer that question better than i." "you mean when i come, you quit?" ordway nodded. "that's something like it." "well, i shan't drive you out if i can help it--i hate to play the sneak. the truth is if you'd only get to believe it, there's not a more peaceable fellow alive if i don't get backed up into a place where there's no way out. when it comes to that i like the clean, straight road best, and i always have. from first to last, though, it's the women that have been dead against me, and i may say that a woman--one or more of 'em--has been back of every single scrape i ever got into in my life. if i'd had ten thousand a year and a fine looking wife, i'd have been a pillar in the church and the father of a family. my tastes all lean that way," he added sentimentally. "i've always had a weakness for babies, and i've got it to this day." as he could think of nothing to reply to this touching confession, ordway picked up a bit of wood from the ground, and taking out his knife, began whittling carelessly while he waited. "i suppose you think i want to work you for that fat old codger in the warehouse," observed wherry suddenly, passing lightly from the pathetic to the facetious point of view, "but i'll give you my word i haven't thought of it a minute." "i'm glad you haven't," returned ordway, quietly, "for you would be disappointed." "you mean you wouldn't trust me?" "i mean there's no place there. whether i trust you or not is another question--and i don't." "do you think i'd turn sneak?" "i think if you stay in tappahannock that i'll clear out." "well, you're a darn disagreeable chap," said wherry, indignantly, "particularly after all you've had to say about the prodigal. but, all the same," he added, as his natural amiability got the better of his temper, "it isn't likely that i'll pitch my tent here, so you needn't begin to pack for a day or two at least." "do you expect to go shortly?" "how about to-morrow? would that suit you?" "yes," said ordway, gravely, "better than the day afterward." he threw the bit of wood away and looked steadily into the other's face. "if i can help you live honestly, i am ready to do it," he added. "ready? how?" "however i can." "well, you can't--not now," returned wherry, laughing, "because i've worked that little scheme already without your backing. honesty is going to be my policy from yesterday on. did you, by the way," he added abruptly, "ever happen to run up against jasper trend?" "jasper trend?" exclaimed ordway, "why, yes, he owns the cotton mills." "he makes a handsome little pile out of 'em too, i guess?" "i believe he does. are you looking for a job with him?" at this wherry burst again into his hilarious humour. "if i am," he asked jokingly, "will you promise to stand off and not spoil the game?" "i have nothing to do with trend," replied ordway, "but the day you come here is my last in tappahannock." "well, i'm sorry for that," remarked wherry, pleasantly, "for it appears to be a dull enough place even with the addition of your presence." he put on his hat and held out his hand with a friendly gesture. "are you ready to walk back now?" he inquired. "when i am," answered ordway, "i shall walk back alone." even this rebuff wherry accepted with his invincible good temper. "every man to his company, of course," he responded, "but as to my coming to tappahannock, if it is any comfort to you to know it, you needn't begin to pack." chapter iii a change of lodging when ordway awoke the next morning, it seemed to him that wherry had taken his place among the other nightmares, which, combined with the reflected heat from the tin roof, had rendered his sleep broken and distracted. with the sunrise his evil dreams and his recollections of wherry had scattered together, and when, after the early closing at baxter's warehouse, he drove out to cedar hill, with the leather bag containing his few possessions at his feet, he felt that there had been something morbid, almost inhuman, in the loathing aroused in him by the handsome face of his fellow prisoner. in any case, for good or for evil, he determined to banish the man utterly from his thoughts. the vehicle in which he sat was an ancient gig driven by a decrepit negro, and as it drew up before the steps at cedar hill, he was conscious almost of a sensation of shame because he had not approached the ruined mansion on foot. then descending over the dusty wheel, he lifted out his bag, and rapped twice upon the open door with the greenish knocker which he supposed had once been shining brass. through the hall a sleepy breeze blew from the honeysuckle arbour over the back porch, and at his right hand the swinging sword still clanked against the discoloured plaster. so quiet was the house that it seemed as if the movement of life within had been suspended, and when at last the figure of mrs. brooke floated down the great staircase under the pallid light from the window above, she appeared to him as the disembodied spirit of one of the historic belles who had tripped up and down in trailing brocades and satin shoes. instead of coming toward him, she completed her ghostly impression by vanishing suddenly into the gloom beyond the staircase, and a moment afterward his knock was answered by a small, embarrassed darky in purple calico. entering the dining-room by her invitation, he stumbled upon beverly stretched fast asleep, and snoring slightly, upon a horsehair sofa, with the brown and white setter dozing on a mat at his feet. at the approach of footsteps, the dog, without lifting its head, began rapping the floor heavily with its tail, and aroused by the sound, beverly opened one eye and struggled confusedly into an upright position. "i was entirely overcome by the heat," he remarked apologetically, as he rose from the sofa and held out his hand, "but it is a pleasure to see you, mr. smith. i hope you did not find the sun oppressive on your drive out. amelia, my dear," he remarked courteously, as mrs. brooke entered in a freshly starched print gown, "i feel a return of that strange dizziness i spoke of, so if it will not inconvenience you, may i beg for another of your refreshing lemonades?" mrs. brooke, who had just completed the hasty ironing of her dress, which she had put on while it was still warm, met his request with an amiable but exhausted smile. "don't you think six lemonades in one day too many?" she asked anxiously, when she had shaken hands with ordway. "but this strange dizziness, my dear? an iced drink, i find far more effective than a bandage." "very well, i'll make it of course, if it gives you any relief," replied his wife, wondering if she would be able to bake the bread by the time beverly demanded supper. "if you'll come up stairs now, mr. smith," she added, "malviny will show you to the blue room." malviny, who proved upon further acquaintance to be the eldest great-grandchild of aunt mehitable, descended like a hawk upon his waiting property, while mrs. brooke led the procession up the staircase to an apartment upon the second floor. the blue room, as he discovered presently, contained a few rather fine pieces of old mahogany, a grandfather's chair, with a freshly laundered chintz cover, and a rag carpet made after the "log cabin" pattern. of the colour from which it had taken its name, there was visible only a faded sampler worked elaborately in peacock blue worsteds, by one "margaret, aged nine." beyond this the walls were bare of decoration, though an oblong streak upon the plaster suggested to ordway that a family portrait had probably been removed in the hurried preparations for his arrival. after remarking that she hoped he would "make himself quite at home," mrs. brooke was glancing inquiringly about the room with her large, pale, rather prominent eyes, when a flash of purple in the doorway preceded the announcement that "marse beverly done turn right green wid de dizziness, en wus axin' kinder faintlike fur his lemonade." "my poor husband," explained the exhausted wife, "contracted a chronic heart trouble in the war, and he suffers so patiently that at times we are in danger of forgetting it." pressing her aching head, she hurried downstairs to prepare beverly's drink, while ordway, after closing the broken latch of the door, walked slowly up and down the large, cool, barely furnished room. after his cramped chamber at mrs. twine's his eyes rested with contentment upon the high white ceiling overhead, and then descended leisurely to the stately bedstead, with its old french canopy above, and to the broad, red brick hearth freshly filled with odorous boughs of cedar. the cleanly quiet of the place restored to him at once the peace which he had missed in the last few days in tappahannock, and his nerves, which had revolted from mrs. twine's scolding voice and slovenly table, became composed again in the ample space of these high white walls. even "margaret, aged nine," delivered a soothing message to him in the faded blues of her crewel work. when he had unpacked his bag, he drew the chintz-covered chair to the window, and leaning his elbow on the sill, looked out gratefully upon the overgrown lawn filled with sheepmint and clover. though it was already twilight under the cedars, the lawn was still bright with sunshine, and beyond the dwindling clump of cabbage roses in the centre, he saw that the solitary cow had not yet finished her evening meal. as he watched her, his ears caught the sound of light footsteps on the porch below, and a moment afterward, he saw emily pass from the avenue to the edge of the lawn, where she called the cow by name in a caressing voice. lifting her head, the animal started at a slow walk through the tangled weeds, stopping from time to time to bite a particularly tempting head of purple clover. as the setting sun was in emily's eyes, she raised her bared arm while she waited, to shield her forehead, and ordway was struck afresh by the vigorous grace which showed itself in her slightest movement. the blue cotton dress she wore, which had shrunk from repeated washings until it had grown scant in the waist and skirt, revealed the firm rounded curve of her bosom and her slender hips. standing there in the faint sunshine against the blue-black cedars, he felt her charm in some mysterious way to be akin to the beauty of the hour and the scene. the sight of her blue gown was associated in his mind with a peculiar freshness of feeling--an intensified enjoyment of life. when the cow reached her side, the girl turned back toward the barnyard, and the two passed out of sight together beyond the avenue. as he followed them with his gaze, ordway had no longer any thought of gus wherry, or of his possible presence in tappahannock upon the morrow. the evil association was withdrawn now from his consciousness, and in its place he found the tranquil pleasure which he had felt while he watched the sunshine upon the sheepmint and clover--a pleasure not unlike that he had experienced when emily's blue cotton dress was visible against the cedars. the faces of the men who had listened to him yesterday returned to his memory; and as he saw them again seated on the rude benches among the pines, his heart expanded in an emotion which was like the melting of his will into the divine will which contained and enveloped all. a knock at the door startled him back to his surroundings, and when he went to answer it, he found the small frightened servant standing outside, with an old serving tray clutched desperately to her bosom. from her excited stutter he gathered that supper awaited him upon the table, and descending hastily, he found the family already assembled in the dining-room. beverly received him graciously, emily quietly, and the children assured him enthusiastically that they were glad he had come to stay because now they might eat ham every night. when they had been properly suppressed by emily, her brother took up the conversation which he carried on in a polite, rambling strain that produced upon ordway the effect of a monologue delivered in sleep. "i hope the birds won't annoy you at daybreak, mr. smith," he remarked, "the ivy at your windows harbours any number of wrens and sparrows." "oh, i like them," replied ordway, "i've been sleeping under a tin roof in tappahannock which no intelligent bird or human being would approach." "i remember," said mr. beverly pensively, "that there was a tin roof on the hotel at richmond i stayed at during the war when i first met my wife. do you recall how very unpleasant that tin roof was, amelia? or were you too young at the time to notice it? you couldn't have been more than fifteen, i suppose? yes, you must have been sixteen, because i remember when i marched past the door with my regiment, i noticed you standing on the balcony, in a long white dress, and you couldn't have worn long dresses before you were sixteen." mrs. brooke glanced up calmly from the coffee-pot. "the roof was slate," she remarked with the rigid adherence to a single idea, which characterised her devoted temperament. "ah, to be sure, it was slate," admitted beverly, turning his genial face upon ordway, "and i remember now it wasn't the roof that was unpleasant, but the food--the food was very unpleasant indeed, was it not, amelia?" "i don't think we ever got enough of it to test its quality," replied mrs. brooke, "poor mama was so reduced at the end of a month that she had to take up three inches of her bodice." "it's quite clear to me now," observed beverly, delightedly, "it was not that the food was unpleasant, but that it was scarce--very scarce." he had finished his supper; and when he had risen from the table with his last amiable words, he proceeded to install himself, without apparent selection, into the only comfortable chair which the room contained. drawing out his pipe a moment afterward, he waved ordway, with a hospitable gesture, to a stiff wooden seat, and invited him in a persuasive tone, to join him in a smoke. "my tobacco is open to you," he observed, "but i regret to say that i am unable to offer you a cigar. yet a cigar, i maintain, is the only form in which a gentleman should use tobacco." ordway took out the leather case he carried and offered it to him with a smile. "i'm afraid they are not all that they might be," he remarked, as beverly supplied himself with a murmured word of thanks. mrs. brooke brought out her darning, and emily, after disappearing into the pantry, sent back the small servant for the dishes. the girl did not return again before ordway took his candle from the mantel-piece and went upstairs; and he remembered after he had reached his bedroom that she had spoken hardly two words during the entire evening. had she any objection, he asked himself now, to his presence in the household? was it possible, indeed, that mrs. brooke should have taken him in against her sister-in-law's inclination, or even without her knowledge? in the supposition there was not only embarrassment, but a sympathetic resentment; and he resolved that if such proved to be the case, he was in honour bound to return immediately to tappahannock. then he remembered the stifling little room under the tin roof with a feeling of thankfulness for at least this one night's escape. awaking at dawn he lay for a while contentedly listening to the flutter of the sparrows in the ivy, and watching the paling arch of the sky beyond the pointed tops of the cedars. a great peace seemed to encompass him at the moment, and he thought with gratitude of the quiet evening he had spent with beverly. it was dull enough probably, when one came to think of it, yet the simple talk, the measured courtesies, returned to him now as a part of the pleasant homeliness of his surroundings. the soft starlight on the sheepmint and clover, the chirp of the small insects in the trees, the refreshing moisture which had crept toward him with the rising dew, the good-night kisses of the children, delivered under protest and beneath mrs. brooke's eyes--all these trivial recollections were attended in his thoughts by a train of pensive and soothing associations. across the hall he heard the soft opening and closing of a door, and immediately afterward the sound of rapid footsteps growing fainter as they descended the staircase. already the room was full of a pale golden light, and as he could not sleep again because of the broken shutter to the window which gave on the lawn, he rose and dressed himself with an eagerness which recalled the early morning risings of his childhood. a little later when he went downstairs, he found that the front door was still barred, and removing the heavy iron fastenings, he descended the steps into the avenue, where the faint sunbeams had not yet penetrated the thick screen of boughs. remembering the garden, while he stood watching the sunrise from the steps, he turned presently into the little footpath which led by the house, and pushing aside the lilacs, from which the blossoms had all dropped, he leaned on the swinging gate before the beds he had spaded on those enchanted nights. now the rank weeds were almost strangling the plants, and it occurred to him that there was still work ready for his hand in the brooke's garden. he was telling himself that he would begin clearing the smothered rows as soon as his morning at the warehouse was over, when the old hound ran suddenly up to him, and turning quickly he saw emily coming from the springhouse with a print of golden butter in her hand. "so it was you i heard stirring before sunrise!" he exclaimed impulsively, as his eyes rested on her radiant face, over which the early mist had scattered a pearly dew like the fragrant moisture upon a rose. "yes, it was i. at four o'clock i remembered there was no butter for breakfast, so i got up and betook myself to the churn." "and this is the result?" he asked, glancing down at the delicious creamy mould she had just worked into shape and crowned with a printed garland of thistles. "it makes me hungry enough for my muffins upon the minute." "you shall have them shortly," she said, smiling, "but do you prefer pop-overs or plain?" he met the question with serious consideration. "well, if the choice is mine i think i'll have pop-overs," he replied. before his unbroken gravity her quick humour rippled forth. "then i must run to aunt mehitable," she responded merrily, "for i suspect that she has already made them plain." with a laughing nod she turned from him, and following the little path entered the house under the honeysuckle arbour on the back porch. chapter iv shows that a laugh does not heal a heartache when emily entered the dining-room, she found that beverly had departed from his usual custom sufficiently to appear in time for breakfast. "i hardly got a wink of sleep last night, my dear," he remarked, "and i think it was due entirely to the heavy supper you insisted upon giving us." "but, beverly, we must have hot things now," said emily, as she arranged the crocheted centrepiece upon the table. "mr. smith is our boarder, you know, not our guest." "the fact that he is a boarder," commented beverly, with dignity, "entirely relieves me of any feeling of responsibility upon his account. if he were an invited guest in the house, i should feel as you do that hot suppers are a necessity, but when a man pays for the meals he eats, we are no longer under an obligation to consider his preferences." "his presence in the household is a great trial to us all," observed his wife, whose attitude of general acceptance was modified by the fact that she accepted everything for the worst. her sense of tragic values had been long since obliterated by a gray wash of melancholy that covered all. "well, i don't see that he is very zealous about interfering with us," remarked emily, almost indignantly, "he doesn't appear to be of a particularly sociable disposition." "yes, i agree with you that he is unusually depressing," rejoined mrs. brooke. "it's a pity, perhaps, that we couldn't have secured a blond person--they are said to be of a more sanguine temperament, and i remember that the blond boarder at miss jennie colton's, when i called there once, was exceedingly lively and entertaining. but it's too late, of course, to give advice now; i can only hope and pray that his morals, at least, are above reproach." as the entire arrangement with baxter had been made by mrs. brooke herself upon the day that wilson, the grocer, had sent in his bill for the fifth time, emily felt that an impatient rejoinder tripped lightly upon her tongue; but restraining her words with an effort, she observed cheerfully an instant later that she hoped mr. smith would cause no inconvenience to the family. "well, he seems to be a respectable enough person," admitted beverly, in his gracious manner, "but, of course, if he were to become offensively presuming it would be a very simple matter to drop him a hint." "it reminds me of a case i read of in the newspaper a few weeks ago," said mrs. brooke, "where a family in roanoke took a stranger to board with them and shortly afterward were all poisoned by a powder in the soup. no, they weren't all poisoned," she corrected herself thoughtfully, "for i am positive now that the boarder was the only one who died. it was the cook who put the poison into the soup and the boarder who ate all of it. i remember the coroner remarked at the inquest that he had saved the lives of the entire family." "all the same i hope mr. smith won't eat all the soup," observed emily. "it terrifies me at times," murmured amelia, "to think of the awful power that we place so carelessly in the hands of cooks." "in that case, my dear, it might be quite a safeguard always to have a boarder at the table," suggested beverly, with his undaunted optimism. "but surely, amelia," laughed emily, "you can't suppose that after she has lived in the family for seventy years, aunt mehitable would yield at last to a passing temptation to destroy us?" "i imagine the poor boarder suspected nothing while he ate his soup," returned mrs. brooke. "no, i repeat that in cases like that no one is safe, and the only sensible attitude is to be prepared for anything." "well, if i'm to be poisoned, i think i'd prefer to take it without preparation," rejoined emily. "there is mr. smith now in the hall, so we may as well send malviny to bring in breakfast." when ordway entered an instant later with his hearty greeting, even mrs. brooke unbent a trifle from her rigid melancholy and joined affably in the conversation. by a curious emotional paradox she was able to enjoy him only as an affliction; and his presence in the house had served as an excuse for a continuous parade of martyrdom. from the hour of his arrival, she had been perfectly convinced not only that he interfered with her customary peace of mind, but that he prevented her as surely from receiving her supply of hot water upon rising and her ordinary amount of food at dinner. but as the days went by he fell so easily into his place in the family circle that they forgot at last to remark either his presence or his personal peculiarities. after dinner he would play his game of dominoes with beverly in the breezy hall, until the sunlight began to slant across the cedars, when he would go out into the garden and weed the overgrown rows. emily had seen him but seldom alone during the first few weeks of his stay, though she had found a peculiar pleasure in rendering him the small domestic services of which he was quite unconscious. how should he imagine that it was her hand that arranged the flowers upon his bureau, that placed his favourite chair near the window, and that smoothed the old-fashioned dimity coverlet upon his bed. still less would he have suspected that the elaborate rag carpet upon his floor was one which she had contributed to his comfort from her own room. had he known these things he would probably have been melancholy enough to have proved congenial company even to mrs. brooke, though, in reality, there was, perhaps, nothing he could have offered emily which would have exceeded the pleasure she now found in these simple services. ignorant as she was in all worldly matters, in grasping this essential truth, she had stumbled unawares upon the pure philosophy of love--whose satisfaction lies, after all, not in possession, but in surrender. she was still absorbed in the wonder of this discovery, when going out into the garden one afternoon to gather tomatoes for a salad, she found him working among the tall, green corn at the end of the long walk. as he turned toward her in the late sunshine, which slanted across the waving yellow tassels, she noticed that there was the same eager, youthful look in his face that she had seen on the night when she had come down to find him spading by the moonbeams. in response to her smile he came out from among the corn, and went with her down the narrow space which separated two overgrown hills of tomato plants. he wore no coat and his striped cotton shirt was open at the throat and wrists. "it's delicious in the corn now," he said; "i can almost fancy that i hear the light rustle along the leaves." "you love the country so much that you ought to have been a farmer," she returned, "then you might have raised tobacco." "that reminds me that i worked yesterday in your brother's crop--but it's too sticky for me. i like the garden better." "then you ought to have a garden of your own. is all your chopping and your digging merely for the promotion of the general good?" "isn't it better so?" he asked, smiling, "particularly when i share in the results as i shall in this case? who knows but that i shall eat this wonderful tomato to-night at supper?" she took it from his hand and placed it on the lettuce leaves in the bottom of the basket upon her arm. "you make a careful choice, i see," she observed, "it is a particularly fine one." "i suppose your philosophy would insist that after plucking it i should demand the eating of it also?" "i don't know about my philosophy--i haven't any--but my common sense would." "i'm not sure," he returned half seriously, "that i have much opinion of common sense." "but you would have," she commented gravely, "if you had happened to be born with beverly for a brother. i used to think that all men were alike," she added, "but you don't remind me of beverly in the very least." as she spoke she turned her face slightly toward him, and still leaning over the luxuriant tomato row, looked up at him joyously with her sparkling eyes. her breath came quickly and he saw her bosom rise and fall under the scant bodice of her blue cotton gown. almost unconsciously he had drifted into an association with her which constituted for him the principal charm of his summer at cedar hill. "on the other hand i've discovered many points of resemblance," he retorted in his whimsical tone. "well, you're both easy to live in the house with, i admit that." "and we're both perfectly amiable as long as everybody agrees with us and nobody crosses us," he added. "i shouldn't like to cross you," she said, laughing, "but then why should i? isn't it very pleasant as it is now?" "yes, it is very pleasant as it is now," he repeated slowly. turning away from her he stood looking in silence over the tall corn to the amber light that fell beyond the clear outline of a distant hill. the association was, as she had just said, very pleasant in his thoughts, and the temptation he felt now was to drift on with the summer, leaving events to shape themselves as they would in the future. what harm, he demanded, could come of any relation so healthful, so simple as this? "i used to make dolls of ears of corn when i was little," said emily, laughing; "they were the only ones i had except those beverly carved for me out of hickory nuts. the one with yellow tassels i named princess goldylocks until she began to turn brown and then i called her princess fadeaway." at her voice, which sounded as girlish in his imagination as the voice of alice when he had last heard it, he started and looked quickly back from the sunset into her face. "has it ever occurred to you," he asked, "how little--how very little you know of me? by you i mean all of you, especially your brother and mrs. brooke." her glowing face questioned him for a moment. "but what is knowledge," she demanded, "if it isn't just feeling, after all?" "i wonder why under heaven you took me in?" he went on, leaving her words unanswered. had mrs. brooke stood in emily's place, she would probably have replied quite effectively, "because the grocer's bill had come for the fifth time"; but the girl had learned to wear her sincerity in a less conspicuous fashion, so she responded to his question merely by a polite evasion. "we have certainly had no cause to regret it," was what she said. "what i wanted to say to you in the beginning and couldn't, was just this," he resumed, choosing his words with a deliberation which sounded strained and unnatural, "i suppose it can't make any difference to you--it doesn't really concern you, of course--that's what i felt--but," he hesitated an instant and then went on more rapidly, "my daughter's birthday is to-day. she is fifteen years old and it is seven years since i saw her." "seven years?" repeated emily, as she bent over and carefully selected a ripe tomato. "doubtless i shouldn't know her if i were to pass her in the street," he pursued, after a minute. "but it's worse than that and it's harder--for it's as many years since i saw my wife." she had not lifted her head from the basket, and he felt suddenly that her stillness was not the stillness of flesh, but of marble. "perhaps i ought to have told you all this before," he went on again, "perhaps it wasn't fair to let you take me in in ignorance of this and of much else?" raising her head, she stood looking into his face with her kind, brown eyes. "but how could these things possibly affect us?" she asked, smiling slightly. "no," he replied slowly, "they didn't affect you, of course--they don't now. it made no difference to any of you, i thought. how could it make any?" "no, it makes no difference to any of us," she repeated quietly. "then, perhaps, i've been wrong in telling you this to-day?" she shook her head. "not in telling me, but," she drew a long breath, "it might be as well not to speak of it to beverly or amelia--at least for a while." "you mean they would regret their kindness?" "it would make them uncomfortable--they are very old-fashioned in their views. i don't know just how to put it, but it seems to them--oh, a terrible thing for a husband and wife to live apart." "well, i shan't speak of it, of course--but would it not be better for me to return immediately to tappahannock?" for an instant she hesitated. "it would be very dreadful at mrs. twine's." "i know it," he answered, "but i'm ready to go back, this minute if you should prefer it." "but i shouldn't," she rejoined in her energetic manner. "why should i, indeed? it is much wiser for you to stay here until the end of the summer." when she had finished he looked at her a moment without replying. the light had grown very faint and through the thin mist that floated up from the fields her features appeared drawn and pallid. "what i can't make you understand is that even though it is all my fault--every bit my fault from the beginning--yet i have never really wanted to do evil in my heart. though i've done wrong, i've always wanted to do right." if she heard his words they made little impression upon her, for going out into the walk, she started, without speaking, in the direction of the house. then, when she had moved a few steps from him, she stopped and looked back as if she had forgotten something that had been in her thoughts. "i meant to tell you that i hope--i pray it will come right again," she said. "i thank you," he answered, and drew back into the corn so that she might go on alone. a moment later as emily walked rapidly down the garden path, it seemed to her that the distance between the gate and the house covered an immeasurable space. her one hope was that she might go to her room for at least the single hour before supper, and that there, behind a locked door with her head buried in the pillows, she might shed the hot tears which she felt pressing against her eyelids. entering the hall, she had started swiftly up the staircase, with the basket of tomatoes still on her arm, when mrs. brooke intercepted her by descending like a phantom from the darkened bend. "o emily, i've been looking for you for twenty minutes," she cried in despairing tones. "the biscuits refused to rise and aunt mehitable is in a temper. will you run straight out to the kitchen and beat up a few quick muffins for supper." drawing back into the corner of the staircase, emily glanced down upon the tomatoes lying in the bottom of the basket; then without raising her eyes she spoke in a voice which might have uttered appropriately a lament upon the universal tragedy of her sex. "i suppose i may as well make them plain?" she said. chapter v treats of a great passion in a simple soul for several weeks in august ordway did not go into tappahannock, and during his vacation from the warehouse he made himself useful in a number of small ways upon the farm. the lawn was trimmed, the broken fences mended, the garden kept clear of wiregrass, and even mrs. brooke's "rockery" of portulaca, with which she had decorated a mouldering stump, received a sufficient share of his attention to cause the withered plants to grow green again and blossom in profusion. when the long, hot days had drawn to a close, he would go out with a watering-pot and sprinkle the beds of petunias and geraniums which emily had planted in the bare spots beside the steps. "the truth is i was made for this sort of thing, you know," he remarked to her one day. "if it went on forever i should never get bored or tired." something candid and boyish in his tone caused her to look up at him quickly with a wondering glance. since the confession of his marriage her manner to him had changed but little, yet she was aware, with a strange irritation against herself, that she never heard his voice or met his eyes without remembering instantly that he had a wife whom he had not seen for seven years. the mystery of the estrangement was as great to her as it had ever been, for since that afternoon in the garden he had not referred again to the subject; and judging the marriage relation by the social code of beverly and amelia, she had surmised that some tremendous tragedy had been the prelude to a separation of so many years. as he lifted the watering-pot he had turned a little away from her, and while her eyes rested upon his thick dark hair, powdered heavily with gray above the temples, and upon the strong, sunburnt features of his profile, she asked herself in perplexity where that other woman was and if it were possible that she had forsaken him? "i wonder what she is like and if she is pretty or plain?" she thought. "i almost hope she isn't pretty, and yet it's horrid of me and i wonder why i hope so? what can it matter since he hasn't seen her for seven years, and if he ever sees her again, she will probably be no longer young. i suppose he isn't young, and yet i've never thought so before and somehow it doesn't seem to matter. no, i'm sure his wife is beautiful," she reflected a moment later, as a punishment for her uncharitable beginning, "and she has fair hair, i hope, and a lovely white skin and hands that are always soft and delicate. yes, that is how it is and i am very glad," she concluded resolutely. and it seemed to her that she could see distinctly this woman whom she had imagined and brought to life. "i can't help believing that you would tire of it in time," she said presently aloud. "do you tire of it?" he asked in a softened voice, turning his gaze upon her. "i?" she laughed, with a bitterness he had never heard in her tone before, "oh, yes, but i suppose that doesn't count in the long run. did there ever live a woman who hasn't felt at times like railing against the milk pans and denying the eternal necessity of ham and eggs?" though she spoke quite seriously the simplicity of her generalisation brought a humorous light to his eyes; and in his imagination he saw lydia standing upon the white bearskin rug against the oval mirror and the gold-topped bottles upon her dressing-table. "well, if i'd made as shining a success at my job as you have at yours, i think i'd be content," was all he said. she laughed merrily, and he saw that the natural sweetness of her temper was proof against idle imaginings or vain desires. "you think then that it is better to do a small thing well than a big thing badly?" she inquired. "but it isn't a small thing," he protested, "it's a great big thing--it's the very biggest thing of all." a provoking smile quivered on her lips, and he saw the dimple come and go in her cheek. "i am glad at least that you like my ham and eggs," she retorted mockingly. "i do," he answered gravely, "i like your ham and eggs, but i admire your courage, also." she shook her head. "it's the cheapest of the virtues." "not your kind, my dear child--it's the rarest and the costliest of achievements." "oh, i don't know how serious you are," she answered lightly, "but it's a little like putting a man on a desert island and saying, 'make your bed or lie on the rocks.' he's pretty apt to make his bed, isn't he?" "not in the least. he usually puts up a flag of distress and then sits down in the sand and looks out for a ship." her voice lost its merriment. "when my ship shows on the horizon, it will be time enough to hoist my flag." a reply was on his lips, but before he could utter it, she had turned away and was moving rapidly across the lawn to the house. the next morning ordway went into tappahannock, not so much on account of the little business he found awaiting him at the warehouse, as urged by the necessity of supplying beverly with cigars. to furnish beverly three times a day with the kind of cigar he considered it "worth while for a gentleman to smoke"--even though his choice fell, in ordway's opinion, upon a quite inferior brand--had become in the end a courtesy too extravagant for him to contemplate with serenity. yet he knew that almost in spite of himself this tribute to beverly was now an established fact, and that as long as he remained at cedar hill he would continue to supply with eagerness the smoke which beverly would accept with affability. the town was dull enough at mid august, he remembered from the blighting experience of last summer; and now, after a fierce drought which had swept the country, he saw the big, fan-shaped leaves on mrs. twine's evening glory hanging like dusty rags along the tin roof of the porch. banks was away, baxter was away, and the only acquaintance he greeted was bill twine, sitting half drunk, in his shirt sleeves and collarless, on the front steps. there was positive relief when, at the end of an hour, he retraced his steps, with beverly's cigars under his right arm. after this the summer declined slowly into autumn, and ordway began to count the long golden afternoons as they dropped one by one into his memory of cedar hill. an appeal to mrs. brooke, whom he had quite won over by his attentions to beverly and the children, delayed his moving back into tappahannock until the beginning of november, and he told himself with satisfaction that it would be possible to awake on frosty october mornings and look out upon the red and gold of the landscape. late in september banks returned from his vacation, and during his first visit to cedar hill, he showed himself painfully nervous and ill at ease. but coming out for a walk with ordway one afternoon, he suggested at the end of their first mile that they should sit down and have a smoke beneath a young cherry tree upon the roadside. as he lit his pipe he held the match in his hand until it burned his fingers; then throwing it into the grass, he turned upon his companion as eloquently despairing a look as it is in the power of a set of naturally cheerful features to assume. "smith," he asked in a hollow voice, "do you suppose it's really any worse to die by your own hand than by disease?" "by jove!" exclaimed ordway, and the moment afterward, "come, now, out with it, banks. how has she been behaving this time?" banks lowered his voice, while he glanced suspiciously up at the branches of the cherry tree beneath which they sat. "she hates the sight of me," he answered, with a groan. "nonsense," rejoined ordway, cheerfully. "love has before now worn the mask of scorn." "but it hasn't worn the mask of boredom," retorted the despairing banks. for a minute his answer appeared final even to ordway, who stared blankly over the ripened cornfield across the road, without, for the life of him, being able to frame a single encouraging sentence in reply. "if it's the last word i speak," pursued banks, biting desperately at the stem of his pipe, "she cannot abide the sight of me." "but how does she show it?" demanded ordway, relieved that he was not expected to combat the former irrefutable statement. "she tried to keep me away from the springs where she went, and when i would follow her, whether or no, she hardly opened her mouth to me for the first two days. then if i asked her to go to walk she would say it was too hot for walking, and if i asked her to drive she'd answer that she didn't drive with men. as if she and i hadn't been together in a dog-cart over every road within twenty miles of tappahannock!" "but perhaps the custom of the place was different?" "no, sir, it was not custom that kept her," replied banks, in a bitterness that scorned deception, "for she went with others. it was the same thing about dancing, too, for if i asked her to dance, she would always declare that she didn't have the strength to use her fan, and the minute after i went away, i'd see her floating round the ball-room in somebody else's arms. once i did get her to start, but she left off after the first round, because, she said, we could not keep in step. and yet i'd kept in step with her ever since we went on roller skates together." he broke off for an instant, knocked the cold ashes out of his pipe, and plucking a long blade of grass, began chewing it nervously as he talked. "and yet if you could only have seen her when she came down to the ball-room in her white organdie and blue ribbons," he exclaimed presently, in an agony of recollection. "well, i'm rather glad on the whole that i didn't," rejoined ordway. "you'd have fallen in love with her if you had--you couldn't have helped it." "then, thank heaven, i escaped the test. it's a pretty enough pickle as it is now." "i could have stood it all," said banks, "if it hadn't been for the other man. she might have pulled every single strand of my hair out if she'd wanted to, and i'd have grit my teeth and pretended that i liked it. i didn't care how badly she treated me. what hurt me was how well she treated the other man." "did she meet him for the first time last summer?" asked ordway. "oh no, she's known him ever since she went north in the spring--but it's worse now than it's ever been and, upon my word, she doesn't seem to have eyes or ears for anybody else." "so you're positive she means to marry him?" "she swears she doesn't--that it's only fun, you know. but in my heart i believe it is as good as settled between them." "well, if she's made up her mind to it, i don't, for the life of me, see how you're going to stop her," returned ordway, smiling. "but a year ago she'd made up her mind to marry me," groaned banks. "if she's as variable as that, my dear boy, perhaps the wind will blow her heart back to you again." "i don't believe she's got one," rejoined banks, with the merciless dissection of the pure passion; "i sometimes think that she hasn't any more heart than--than--i don't know what." "in that case i'd drag myself together and let her alone. i'd go back to my work and resolve never to give her another thought." "then," replied banks, "you might have all the good sense that there is in the business, but you wouldn't be in love. now i love her for what she is, and i don't want her changed even if it would make her kinder. when she used to be sweet i thought sweetness the most fascinating thing on earth, and now that she bangs me, i've come to think that banging is." "i begin to understand," remarked ordway, laughing, "why you are not what might be called a successful lover." "it isn't because i don't know the way," returned banks gloomily, "it's because i can't practice it even after i've planned it out. don't i lie awake at night making up all sorts of speeches i'm going to say to her in the morning? oh, i can be indifferent enough when i'm dressing before the mirror--i've even put on a purple cravat because she hated it, but i've always taken it off again before i went downstairs to breakfast. then as soon as i lay my eyes upon her, i feel my heart begin to swell as if it would burst out of my waistcoat, and instead of the flippant speeches i've planned, i crawl and whimper just as i did the day before." they were seated under a cherry tree by the side of the road which led to tappahannock, and as banks finished his confessions, a large, dust covered buggy was seen approaching them from the direction of the town. as ordway recognised baxter through the cloud of dust raised by the wheels, he waved his hat with a shout of welcome, and a minute later the buggy reached them and drew up in the patch of briars upon the roadside. "i was just on my way to see you, smith," said baxter, as he let fall the reins and held out his great dirty hand, "but i'm too heavy to get out, and if i once sat down on the ground, i reckon it would take more than the whole of tappahannock to pull me up again." "well, go ahead to cedar hill," suggested ordway, "and we'll follow you at a brisk walk." "no, i won't do that. i can say what i have got to say right here over the wheel, if you'll stand awhile in the dust. major leary was in to see me again this morning, and the notion he's got in his head now is that you're the man to run for mayor of tappahannock." "i!" exclaimed ordway, drawing back slightly as he spoke. "he forgets that i'm out of the question. i refuse, of course." "well, you see, he says you're the only man we've got strong enough to defeat jasper trend--and he's as sure as shot that you'd have something like a clean walk-over. he's already drawn up a big red flag with 'the people's candidate: ten commandment smith,' upon it. i asked him why he wouldn't put just plain 'daniel,' but he said that little biblical smack alone was worth as much as a bushel of votes to you. if you drew the line at 'ten commandment' he's going to substitute 'daniel-in-the-lions'-den smith' or something of that kind." "tell him to stop it," broke in ordway, with a smothered anger in his usually quiet voice, "he's said nothing to me about it, and i decline it absolutely and without consideration!" "you mean you won't run?" inquired baxter, in astonishment. "i mean i won't run--i can't run--put it any way you please." "i thought you'd put your whole heart and soul into defeating trend." "i have, but not that way--where's trenton whom we've been talking of all summer?" "he's out of it--consumption, the doctor says--anyway he's going south." "then there's but one other man," said ordway, decisively, "and that's baxter." "me?" said baxter softly, "you mean me, do you say?" his chuckle shook the buggy until it creaked upon its rusty wheels. "i can't," he added, with a burst of humour, "to tell the truth, i'm afraid." "afraid?" repeated ordway, "you're afraid of jasper trend?" "no," said baxter, "it ain't jasper--it's my wife." he winked slowly as he caught ordway's eyes, and then picking up the reins, made a movement as if to turn back to tappahannock. "so you're dead sure then that you can't be talked over?" he asked. "as sure as you are," returned ordway promptly; then as the buggy started back in the direction from which it had come, he went over to banks, who had risen to his feet and was leaning heavily against the cherry tree, with the long blade of grass still between his teeth. "what do you think of their wanting to make me mayor, banks?" he inquired, with a laugh. banks started from his gloomy reverie. "mayor!" he exclaimed almost with animation. "why, they've shown jolly good sense, that's what i think!" "well, you needn't begin to get excited," responded ordway, "for i didn't accept, and you won't have to quarrel either with me or with jasper trend." "there's one thing you may be sure of," said banks with energy, "and that is that i'd quarrel with jasper every time." "in spite of milly?" laughed ordway. "in spite of milly," repeated banks in an awed but determined voice; "she may manage my hair and my cravats and my life to come, but i'll be darned if she's going to manage my vote!" "all the same i'm glad you can honestly stick to jasper," said ordway, "he counts on you now, doesn't he?" "oh, i suppose so," returned banks, without enthusiasm; "at any rate, i think he'd rather she'd marry me than brown." there was a moment's silence in which the name brought no association into ordway's consciousness. then in a single flashing instant the truth leaped upon him, and the cornfields across the road surged up to meet his eyes like the waves of a high sea. "than whom?" he demanded in so loud a tone that banks fell back a step and looked at him with blinking eyelids. "than marry whom?" asked ordway for the second time, dropping his voice almost to a whisper before the blank surprise in the other's face. "oh, his name's brown--horatio brown--i thought i'd told you," answered banks, and he added a moment later, "you've met him, i believe." "yes," said ordway, with an effort, "he's the handsome chap who came here last june, isn't he?" "oh, he's handsome enough," admitted banks, and he groaned out presently. "you liked him, didn't you?" ordway smiled slightly as he met the desperation in the other's look. "i like him," he answered quietly, "as much as i like a toad." chapter vi in which baxter plots when baxter reached the warehouse the following morning, he found major leary pacing restlessly back and forth under the brick archway, with the regular military step at which, during the four years' war, he had marched into battle. "come in, sir, come in and sit down," said baxter, leading the way into his office, and sweeping a pile of newspapers from an armchair with a hospitable gesture. "have you seen smith? and is he all right?" were the major's first words, as he placed his hat upon the table and took a quick, impatient turn about the room before throwing himself into the chair which the other had emptied. he was a short, erect, nervous man, with a fiery face, a pair of small gray eyes, like steel points, and a long white moustache, discoloured where it overhung his mouth by the faint yellow stain of tobacco. "oh, i've see him," answered baxter in a soothing voice, "but he won't run--there's no use talking. he's dead set against it." "won't run?" cried the major, furiously. "nonsense, sir, he must run. there's no help for it. did you tell him that we'd decided that he should run?" "i told him," returned baxter, "but, somehow, it didn't look as if he were impressed. he was so positive that he would not even let me put in a word more on the subject. 'are you dead sure, smith?' i said, and he answered, 'i'm as dead sure as you are yourself, baxter.'" the major crossed his knees angrily, stretched himself back in his chair, and began pulling nervously at the ends of his moustache. "well, i'll have to see him myself," he said authoritatively. "you may see him as much as you please," replied baxter, with a soft, offended dignity, "but i'll be mightily surprised, sir, if you get him to change his mind." "well, i reckon you're right, bob," admitted the other, after a moment's reflection, "what he won't do for you, it isn't likely that he'll do for the rest of tappahannock--but the fact remains that somebody has got to step up and defeat jasper trend. now i ask you pointblank--where'll you get your man?" "the lord knows!" sighed baxter, and he sucked hard at the stem of his pipe. "then i tell you if you can't make smith come out, it's your duty as an honest citizen to run yourself." baxter relapsed into a depressed silence, in the midst of which his thoughts were invaded not so much by the political necessity of the occasion as by the small, but dominant figure of his wife. the big man, who had feared neither shot nor bayonet, trembled in spirit as he imagined the outraged authority that could express itself in a person that measured hardly a fraction more than five feet from her shoes to the curling gray fringe above her forehead. he remembered that once in the early days of his marriage, he had allowed himself to be seduced by the promise of political honours, and that for a whole miserable month he had gone without griddle cakes and syrup for his breakfast. "no--no, i could never tell marthy," he thought, desperately, still seeing in imagination the pretty, indignant face of mrs. baxter. "it's your duty as an honest citizen to run yourself," repeated the major, rapping the arm of his chair to enforce his words. "i can't," rejoined baxter, hopelessly, "i can't sir," and he added an instant afterward, "you see women have got the idea somehow, that politics ain't exactly moral." "women!" said the major, in the dry, contemptuous tone in which he might have uttered the word, "pshaw!" "i don't mean just 'women,'" replied baxter, "i mean my wife." "oh!" said the major, "you mean your wife would be opposed to the whole thing?" "she wouldn't hear of it, sir, she simply wouldn't hear a word of it." for a long pause the major made no answer; then rising from his chair he began pacing with his military stride up and down the floor of the little room. at the end of five minutes he turned upon baxter with an exclamation of triumph, and threw himself again into the armchair beside the desk. "i have it, bob!" he said, slapping his knee until the dust flew out of his striped trousers, "i knew i'd get it in the end and here it is. the very thing, on my word, sir, i've discovered the very thing." "then i'm out of it," said baxter, "an' i'm mighty glad of that." "oh, no, you aren't out of it--not just yet," said the major, "we're to start you in, bob, you're to start in as a candidate; and then a week before the nomination, something will crop up to make you fall out of the race, and you'll turn over all your votes to smith. it would be too late, then, for him to back out--he'd simply have to keep in to save the day." in spite of the roar of delight with which the major ended his speech, baxter sat unconvinced and unmoved, shaking his great head in a voiceless protest against the plot. "it's the only way, i tell you," urged the major, half pleased, half angry. "after smith you're by long odds the most popular man in tappahannock, and if it isn't one of you, it's jasper trend and his everlasting barrooms." "but suppose smith still declines," said baxter remembering his wife. "oh, he won't--he isn't a blamed fool," returned the major, "and if he does," he added impressively, "if he does i swear to you i'll go into the race myself." he held out his hand and baxter grasped it in token of good faith. "then i'll do it," said the big man, "provided--" he hesitated, cleared his throat, and went on bravely, "provided there's no objection to my telling my wife the scheme"--bending his ear an instant, he drew back with an embarrassed and guilty face, "that's smith's step in the warehouse. he'll be in here in less than two minutes." the major took up his hat, and flung back the door with a hurried movement. "well, good-bye, i'll see smith later about the plans," he returned, "and meanwhile, we'll go hard to work to whip our friend jasper." meeting ordway an instant later upon the threshold, he passed him with a flourish of his hat, and marched rapidly under the brick archway out into the street. as his bookkeeper entered baxter appeared to be absorbed in a newspaper which he had picked up hastily from the pile upon the floor. "good-morning," said ordway, a little surprised; "it looks as if i'd put the fiery major to flight." "smith," said baxter, dropping his paper, and lifting his big, simple face to the younger man, "smith, you've got me into a hole, and i want you to pull me out again." "a hole?" repeated ordway; then as light broke on him, he laughed aloud and held out his hand. "oh, i see, he's going to make you mayor of tappahannock!" with a groan baxter prodded fresh tobacco into his pipe, and applying a match, sat for several minutes brooding in silence amid the cloud of smoke. "he says it's got to be either you or me," he pursued presently, without noticing ordway's ejaculation, "and on my word, smith, seeing i've got a wife who's all against it, i think it would be but fair to me to let me off. you're my friend now, ain't you? well, i'm asking you, smith, as friend to friend." a flush passed slowly over ordway's face, and the unusual colour lent a peculiar animation to his glance. as baxter met his eyes, he was conscious that they pierced through him, bright blue, sparkling, as incisive as a blade. "to tell the truth, the thing is all but impossible," said ordway, after a long pause. "you don't know, i suppose, that i've never even touched politics in tappahannock." "that ain't the point, smith--it's going on three years since you came here--am i right?" "yes--three years next march, and it seems a century." "well, anyway, you've as good a right as i to be mayor, and a long sight better one than jasper trend has. come, now, smith, if you don't get me out of this hole i'm in, heaven knows how i 'm going to face the major." "give me time," said ordway, quickly, "give me time--a week from to-morrow i am to make my first speech in the town hall. may i have till then?" "till thursday week? oh, i say, smith, you've got to give in in the end--and a week sooner or later, what's the difference?" without replying, ordway walked slowly to the window and stood looking out upon the steep street that crawled up from the railroad track, where an engine whistled. he had held out till now, but with baxter's last words he had heard in his thoughts a question larger and older than any of which his employer had dreamed. "why not?" he asked himself again as he looked out upon the sunshine. "why should not daniel smith, for a good purpose, resume the rights which daniel ordway has forfeited?" and it appeared to him while he stood there that his decision involved not himself alone, and that the outcome had ceased to be merely an election to the highest office in tappahannock. infinitely deep and wide, the problem belonged not only to his individual life, but to the lives of all those who had sinned and paid the penalty of sin and asked of humanity the right and the freedom to begin anew. the impulsive daring which he had almost lived down stirred for an instant in his pulses, and turning quickly he looked at baxter with a boyish laugh. "if i go in, baxter, i go in to win!" he cried. at the moment it had seemed to him that he was obliging rather than ambitious in the choice that he had made; but several days later, when he came out of the warehouse to find the major's red flag flying in the street, he felt the thrill of his youthful enthusiasm quicken in his blood. there was a strangely martial air about the red flag in the sunshine, and the response in his pulses was not unlike the ardour of battle. "after all the world is no smaller here than it is in new york," he thought, "only the littleness of the one is different from the littleness of the other. in either place success would have meant nothing in itself, but in tappahannock i can be more than successful, i can be useful." with the words it seemed to him that his heart dissolved in happiness, and as he looked now on the people who passed him in the street--on the old negro midwife waddling down the board walk; on the italian who kept a fruit stand at the corner; on the pretty girl flirting in the door of the harness shop; and on the rough-coated, soft-eyed country horses--he felt that one and all of these must recognise and respond to the goodwill that had overflowed his thoughts. so detached from personal bitterness, indeed, was even his fight against jasper trend that he went out of his way at the top of the hill to pick up a small whip which the mayor had dropped from horseback as he rode by. the scowling thanks with which jasper received the courtesy puzzled him for a moment until he remembered that by the man in the harness shop they were regarded probably as enemies. at the recollection he stopped short in his walk and laughed aloud--no, he was not interested in fighting anything so small, so insignificant as jasper trend. it was the injustice, the social disease he combated and not the man. "i wonder if he really hates me?" he thought, for it seemed to him absurd and meaningless that one man should waste his strength in hating another. "if he'd been five years in prison he would have learned how foolish it all is," he added; and an instant afterward he asked himself almost with terror if his punishment had been, in reality, the greatest good that had come to him in life? without that terrible atonement would he have gone on like jasper trend from fraud to fraud, from selfishness to damnation? looking round him in the perfect october weather, he felt that the emotion in his heart swelled suddenly to rapture. straight ahead the sunshine sifted in drops through the red and yellow trees that bordered the roadside, while in the field on his right the brown cornricks crowded in even rows to where the arch of the hill was outlined against the deep blue sky. here was not only peace, but happiness, and his old life, as he glanced back upon it, appeared hollow, futile, a corpse without breath or animation. that was the mere outward form and body of existence; but standing here in the deserted road, with his eyes on the brilliant october fields, he could tell himself that he had come at last into the ways and the understanding of faith. as he had once walked by sight alone and stumbled, so he moved now blindly like a child that is led step by step through the dark. from the road behind him a happy laugh struck on his ears, and turning quickly he saw that a dog-cart was rolling rapidly from tappahannock. as he stepped back upon the roadside to avoid the dust raised by the wheels, he lifted his eyes to the face of milly trend, who sat, flushed and smiling, under a pink sunshade. she bowed joyfully; and it was not until a moment afterward, when the cart had gone by, that ordway realised, almost with the force of a blow struck unawares, that he had acknowledged the obsequious greeting of gus wherry. after the pink sunshade had vanished, milly's laugh was still blown back to him on the rising wind. with the happy sound of it in his ears, he watched the dust settle again in the road, the tall golden poplars close like a screen after the passing wheels, and the distance resume its aspect of radiant loneliness. nothing was changed at which he looked, yet he was conscious that the rapture had passed from his thoughts and the beauty from the october landscape. the release that he had won appeared to him as an illusion and a cheat, and lifting his face to the sunshine, he watched, like a prisoner, the flight of the swallows across the sky. at dinner beverly noticed his abstraction, and recommended a mint julep, which emily went out immediately to prepare. "the blood is easily chilled at this season," he said, "and care should be taken to keep it warm by means of a gentle stimulant. i am not a great drinker, sir, as you may have remarked, but in cases either of sickness or sorrow, i have observed that few things are more efficacious than a thimbleful of whiskey taken at the proper time. when i had the misfortune to break to my uncle colonel algernon brooke the distressing news of the death of his wife by drowning, i remember that, though he was one of the most abstemious men alive, his first articulate words were: 'bring the whiskey jug.'" even with the cheering assistance of the mint julep, however, it was impossible for ordway to eat his dinner; and making an excuse presently, he rose from the table and went out into the avenue, where he walked slowly up and down in the shadow of the cedars. at the end of his last restless turn, he went indoors for his hat, and coming out again started rapidly toward tappahannock. with his first decisive step he felt that the larger share of his burden had fallen from him. * * * * * the tappahannock hotel was a low, whitewashed frame building, withdrawn slightly from the street, where several dejected looking horses, with saddle-bags attached to them, were usually fastened to the iron rings in the hitching-rail upon the sidewalk. the place was the resort chiefly of commercial travellers or of neighbouring farmers, who drove in with wagon loads of garden produce or of sun-cured tobacco; and the number of loungers reclining on the newly painted green benches upon the porch made ordway aware that the fall trade was already beginning to show signs of life. in answer to his questions, the proprietor an unctuous person, whose mouth was distorted by a professional habit of welcome--informed him that a gentleman by the name of brown had registered there the evening before, and that he was, to the best of his belief, upstairs in number eighteen at the present moment. "to tell the truth i can't quite size him up," he concluded confidentially. "he don't seem to hev' come either to sell or to buy an' thar's precious little else that ever brings a body to tappahannock." "please add that i wish particularly to see him in private," said ordway. without turning his head the proprietor beckoned, by a movement of his thumb delivered backward over his left shoulder, to a negro boy, who sat surreptitiously eating peanuts out of a paper bag in his pocket. "tell the gentleman in number eighteen, sol, that mr. smith, the people's candidate for mayor, would like to have a little talk with him in private. i'm mighty glad to see you out in the race, suh," he added, turning again to ordway, as the negro disappeared up the staircase. "thank you," replied ordway, with a start, which brought him back from his approaching interview with gus wherry to the recollection that he was fighting to become the mayor of tappahannock. "thar's obleeged to be a scrummage, i reckon," resumed the loquacious little man, when he had received ordway's acknowledgments--"but i s'pose thar ain't any doubt as to who'll come off with the scalps in the end." his manner changed abruptly, and he looked round with a lurking curiosity in his watery eyes. "you knew mr. brown, didn't you say, suh?--before you came here?" ordway glanced up quickly. "did you tell me he got here yesterday?" he asked. "last night on the eight-forty-five, which came in two hours after time." "an accident on the road, wasn't it?" "wreck of a freight--now, mr. brown, as i was saying----" at this instant, to ordway's relief, the messenger landed with a bound on the floor of the hall, and picking himself up, announced with a cheerful grin, that "the gentleman would be powerful pleased to see mr. smith upstairs in his room." nodding to the proprietor, ordway followed the negro up to the first landing, and knocked at a half open door at the end of the long, dark hall. chapter vii shows that politeness, like charity, is an elastic mantle when ordway entered the room, he turned and closed the door carefully behind him, before he advanced to where wherry stood awaiting him with outstretched hand. "i can't begin to tell you how i appreciate the honour, mr. smith. i didn't expect it--upon my word, i didn't," exclaimed wherry, with the effusive amiability which made ordway bite his lip in anger. "i don't know that i mean it for an honour, but i hope we can get straight to business," returned ordway shortly. "ah, then there's business?" repeated the other, as if in surprise. "i had hoped that you were paying me merely a friendly call. to tell the truth i've the very worst head in the world for business, you know, and i always manage to dodge it whenever i get half a chance." "well, you can't dodge it this time, so we may as well have it out." "then since you insist upon that awful word 'business,' i suppose you mean that you've come formally to ratify the treaty?" asked wherry, smiling. "the treaty? i made no treaty," returned ordway gravely. laughing pleasantly, wherry invited his visitor to be seated. then turning away for an instant, he flung himself into a chair beside a little marble topped table upon which stood a half-emptied bottle of rye whiskey and a pitcher of iced water on a metal tray. "do you mean to tell me you've forgotten our conversation in that beastly road?" he demanded, "and the prodigal? surely you haven't forgotten the prodigal? why, i never heard anything in my life that impressed me more." "you told me then distinctly that you had no intention of remaining in tappahannock." "i'll tell you so again if you'd like to hear it. will you have a drink?" ordway shook his head with an angry gesture. "what i want to know," he insisted bluntly, "is why you are here at all?" wherry poured out a drink of whiskey, and adding a dash of iced water, tossed it down at a swallow. "i thought i told you then," he answered, "that i have a little private business in the town. as it's purely personal i hope you'll have no objection to my transacting it." "you said that afternoon that your presence was, in some way, connected with jasper trend's cotton mills." wherry gave a low whistle. "did i?" he asked politely, "well, perhaps, i did. i can't remember." "i was fool enough to believe that you wanted an honest job," said ordway; "it did not enter my head that your designs were upon trend's daughter." "didn't it?" inquired wherry with a smile in which his white teeth flashed brilliantly. "well, it might have, for i was honest enough about it. didn't i tell you that a woman was at the bottom of every mess i was ever in?" "where is your wife?" asked ordway. "dead," replied wherry, in a solemn voice. "if i am not mistaken, you had not less than three at the time of your trial." "all dead," rejoined wherry in the same solemn tone, while he drew out his pocket handkerchief and wiped his eyes with a flourish, "there ain't many men that have supported such a treble affliction on the same day." "i may as well inform you that i don't believe a word you utter." "it's true all the same. i'll take my oath on the biggest bible you can find in town." "your oath? pshaw!" "well, i always said my word was better," observed wherry, without the slightest appearance of offence. he wore a pink shirt which set off his fine colouring to advantage, and as he turned aside to pour out a second drink of whiskey, ordway noticed that his fair hair was brushed carefully across the bald spot in the centre of his head. "whether they are dead or alive," responded ordway, "i want you to understand plainly that you are to give up your designs upon milly trend or her money." "so you've had your eye on her yourself?" exclaimed wherry. "i declare i'm deuced sorry. why, in thunder, didn't you tell me so last june?" a mental nausea that was almost like a physical spasm seized ordway suddenly, and crossing to the window, he stood looking through the half-closed shutters down into the street below, where a covered wagon rolled slowly downhill, the driver following on foot as he offered a bunch of fowls to the shop-keepers upon the sidewalk. then the hot, stale, tobacco impregnated air came up to his nostrils, and he turned away with a sensation of disgust. "if you'd only warned me in time--hang it--i'd have cut out and given you the field," declared wherry in such apparent sincerity that ordway resisted an impulse to kick him out into the hall. "that's my way. i always like to play fair and square when i get the chance." "well, you've got the chance now, and what's more you've got to make it good." "and leave you the open?" "and leave me tappahannock--yes." "i don't want tappahannock. to tell the truth i'm not particularly struck by its attractions." "in that case you've no objection to leaving immediately, i suppose?" "i've no objection on earth if you'll allow me a pretty woman to keep me company. i'm a deuced lonely bird, and i can't get on by myself--it's not in my nature." ordway placed his hand upon the table with a force which started the glasses rattling on the metal tray. "i repeat for the last time that you are to leave milly trend alone," he said. "do you understand me?" "i'm not sure i do," rejoined wherry, still pleasantly enough. "would you mind saying that over again in a lower tone?" "what i want to make plain is that you are not to marry milly trend--or any other women in this town," returned ordway angrily. "so there are others!" commented wherry jauntily with his eye on the ceiling. the pose of his handsome head was so remarkably effective, that ordway felt his rage increased by the mere external advantages of the man. "what i intend you to do is to leave tappahannock for good and all this very evening," he resumed, drawing a sharp breath. the words appeared to afford wherry unspeakable amusement. "i can't," he responded, after a minute in which he had enjoyed his humour to the full, "the train leaves at seven-ten and i've an engagement at eight o'clock." "you'll break it, that's all." "but it wouldn't be polite--it's with a lady." "then i'll break it for you," returned ordway, starting toward the door, "for i may presume, i suppose, that the lady is miss trend?" "oh, come back, i say. hang it all, don't get into a fury," protested wherry, clutching the other by the arm, and closing the door which he had half opened. "here, hold on a minute and let's talk things over quietly. i told you, didn't i? that i wanted to be obliging." "then you will go?" asked ordway, in a milder tone. "well, i'll think about it. i've a quick enough wit for little things, but on serious matters my brain works slowly. in the first place now didn't we promise each other that we'd play fair?" "but you haven't--that's why i came here." "you're dead wrong. i'm doing it this very minute. i'll keep my mouth shut about you till judgment day if you'll just hold off and not pull me back when i'm trying to live honest." "honest!" exclaimed ordway, and turned on his heel. "well, i'd like to know what you call it, for if it isn't honesty, it certainly isn't pleasure. my wife's dead, i swear it's a fact, and i swear again that i don't mean the girl any harm. i was never so much gone on a woman in my life, though a number of 'em have been pretty soft on me. so you keep off and manage your election--or whatever it is--while i go about my business. great scott! after all it ain't as if a woman were a bank note, is it?" "the first question was mine. will you leave to-day or will you not?" "and if i will not what are you going to do about it?" "as soon as i hear your decision, i shall let you know." "well, say i won't. what is your next move then?" "in that case i shall go straight to the girl's father after i leave this room." "by jove you will! and what will you do when you get there?" "i shall tell him that to the best of my belief you have a wife--possibly several--now living." "then you'll lie," said wherry, dropping for the first time his persuasive tone. "that remains to be proved," rejoined ordway shortly. "at any rate if he needs to be convinced i shall tell him as much as i know about you." "and how much," demanded wherry insolently, "does that happen to be?" "enough to stop the marriage, that is all i want." "and suppose he asks you--as he probably will--how in the devil it came to be any business of yours?" for a moment ordway looked over the whiskey bottle and through the open window into the street below. "i don't think that will happen," he answered slowly, "but if it does i shall tell him the whole truth as i know it--about myself as well as about you." "the deuce you will!" exclaimed wherry. "it appears that you want to take the whole job out of my hands now, doesn't it?" the flush from the whiskey had overspread his face, and in the midst of the general redness his eyes and teeth flashed brilliantly in an angry laugh. an imaginative sympathy for the man moved ordway almost in spite of himself, and he wondered, in the long pause, what wherry's early life had been and if his chance in the world were really a fair one? "i don't want to be hard on you," said ordway at last; "it's out of the question that you should have milly trend, but if you'll give up that idea and go away i'll do what i can to help you--i'll send you half my salary for the next six months until you are able to find a job." wherry looked at him with a deliberate wink. "so you'd like to save your own skin, after all, wouldn't you?" he inquired. taking up his hat from the table, ordway turned toward the door and laid his hand upon the knob before he spoke. "is it decided then that i shall go to jasper trend?" he asked. "well, i wouldn't if i were you," said wherry, "but that's your affair. on the whole i think that you'll pay more than your share of the price." "it's natural, i suppose, that you should want your revenge," returned ordway, without resentment, "but all the same i shall tell him as little as possible about your past. what i shall say is that i have reason to believe that your wife is still living." "one or more?" enquired wherry, with a sneer. "one, i think, will prove quite sufficient for my purpose." "well, go ahead," rejoined wherry, angrily, "but before you strike you'd better be pretty sure you see a snake in the grass. i'd advise you for your own sake to ask milly trend first if she expects to marry me." "what?" cried ordway, wheeling round, "do you mean she has refused you?" "oh, ask her--ask her," retorted wherry airily, as he turned back to the whiskey bottle. in the street, a moment later, ordway passed under the red flag, which, inflated by the wind, swelled triumphantly above his head. from the opposite sidewalk a man spoke to him; and then, turning, waved his slouch hat enthusiastically toward the flag. "if he only knew," thought ordway, looking after him; and the words brought to his imagination what disgrace in tappahannock would mean in his life. as he passed the dim vacancy of the warehouse he threw toward it a look which was almost one of entreaty. "no, no, it can't be," he insisted, as if to reassure himself, "it is impossible. how could it happen?" and seized by a sudden rage against circumstances, he remembered the windy afternoon upon which he had come for the first time to tappahannock--the wide stretches of broomsedge; the pale red road, which appeared to lead nowhere; his violent hunger; and the negro woman who had given him the cornbread at the door of her cabin. a hundred years seemed to have passed since then--no, not a hundred years as men count them, but a dissolution and a resurrection. it was as if his personality--his whole inner structure had dissolved and renewed itself again; and when he thought now of that march afternoon it was with the visual distinctness that belongs to an observer rather than to an actor. his point of view was detached, almost remote. he saw himself from the outside alone--his clothes, his face, even his gestures; and these things were as vivid to him as were the negro cabin, the red clay road, and the covered wagon that threw its shadow on the path as it crawled by. in no way could he associate his immediate personality either with the scene or with the man who had sat on the pine bench ravenously eating the coarse food. at the moment it seemed to him that he was released, not only from any spiritual bondage to the past, but even from any physical connection with the man he had been then. "what have i to do with gus wherry or with daniel ordway?" he demanded. "above all, what in heaven have i to do with milly trend?" as he asked the question he flushed with resentment against the girl for whom he was about to sacrifice all that he valued in his life. he thought with disgust of her vanity, her shallowness, her insincerity; and the course that he had planned showed in this sudden light as utterly unreasonable. it struck him on the instant that in going to wherry he had been a fool. "yes, i should have thought of that before. i have been too hasty, for what, after all, have i to do with milly trend?" with an effort he put the question aside, and in the emotional reaction which followed, he felt that his spirit soared into the blue october sky. emily, looking at him at dinner, thought that she had never seen him so animated, so light-hearted, so boyishly unreserved. when his game of dominoes with beverly was over, he followed the children out into the orchard, where they were gathering apples into great straw hampers; and as he stood under the fragrant clustering boughs, with the childish laughter in his ears, he felt that his perplexities, his troubles, even his memories had dissolved and vanished into air. an irresponsible happiness swelled in his heart while he watched the golden orchard grass blown like a fringe upon the circular outline of the hill. but when night fell the joy of the sunshine went from him, and it was almost with a feeling of heaviness that he lit his lamp and sat down in the chintz-covered chair under the faded sampler worked by margaret, aged nine. without apparent cause or outward disturbance he had passed from the exhilaration of the afternoon into a pensive, almost a melancholy mood. the past, which had been so remote for several hours, had leaped suddenly to life again--not only in his memory, but in every fibre of his body as well as in every breath he drew. "no, i cannot escape it, for is it not a part of me--it is i myself," he thought; and he knew that he could no more free himself from his duty to milly trend than he could tear the knowledge of her existence from his brain. "after all, it is not milly trend," he added, "it is something larger, stronger, far more vital than she." a big white moth flew in from the dusk, and fluttered blindly in the circle of light which the lamp threw on the ceiling. he heard the soft whirring of its wings against the plaster, and gradually the sound entered into his thoughts and became a part of his reflections. "will the moth fall into the flame or will it escape?" he asked, feeling himself powerless to avert the creature's fate. in some strange way his own destiny seemed to be whirling dizzily in that narrow circle of light; and in the pitiless illumination that surrounded it, he saw not only all that was passed, but all that was present as well as all that was yet to come. at the same instant he saw his mother's face as she lay dead with her look of joyous surprise frozen upon her lips; and the face of lydia when she had lowered a black veil at their last parting; and the face of alice, his daughter; and of the girl downstairs as he had seen her through the gray twilight; and the face of the epileptic little preacher, who had preached in the prison chapel. and as these faces looked back at him he knew that the illumination in which his soul had struggled so blindly was the light of love. "yes, it is love," he thought, "and that is the meaning of the circle of light into which i have come out of the darkness." he looked up startled, for the white moth, after one last delirious whirl of ecstasy, had dropped from the ceiling into the flame of the lamp. chapter viii the turn of the wheel at eight o'clock the next morning ordway entered jasper trend's gate, and passed up the gravelled walk between borders of white and yellow chrysanthemums. in a window on his right a canary was singing loudly in a gilt cage; and a moment later, the maid invited him into a room which seemed, as he entered it, to be filled with a jubilant burst of music. as he waited here for the man he had come to see, he felt that, in spite of his terrible purpose, he had found no place in tappahannock so cheerful as this long room flooded with sunshine, in the midst of which the canary swung back and forth in his wire cage. the furniture was crude enough, the colours of the rugs were unharmonious, the imitation lace of the curtains was offensive to his eyes. yet the room was made almost attractive by the large windows which gave on the piazza, the borders of chrysanthemums and the smoothly shaven plot of lawn. his back was turned toward the door when it opened and shut quickly, and jasper trend came in, hastily swallowing his last mouthful of breakfast. "you wanted to see me, mr. smith, i understand," he said at once, showing in his manner a mixture of curiosity and resentment. it was evident at the first glance that even in his own house he was unable to overcome the political antagonism of the man of little stature. the smallest social amenity he would probably have regarded as a kind of moral subterfuge. "i must ask you to overlook the intimate nature of my question," began ordway, in a voice which was so repressed that it sounded dull and lifeless, "but i have heard that your daughter intends to marry horatio brown. is this true?" at the words jasper, who had prepared himself for a political onslaught, fell back a step or two and stood in the merciless sunlight, blinking at his questioner with his little, watery, pale gray eyes. each dull red vein in his long nose became suddenly prominent. "horatio brown?" he repeated, "why, i thought you'd come about nothing less than the nomination. what in the devil do you want anyway with horatio brown. he can't vote in tappahannock, can he?" "i'll answer that in time," replied ordway, "my motive is more serious than you can possibly realise--it is a question which involves your daughter's happiness--perhaps her life." "good lord, is that so?" exclaimed jasper, "i don't reckon you're sweet on her yourself, are you?" ordway's only reply was an impatient groan which sent the other stumbling back against a jar of goldfish on the centre table. though he had come fully prepared for the ultimate sacrifice, he was unable to control the repulsion aroused in him by the bleared eyes and sunken mouth of the man before him. "well, if you ain't," resumed jasper presently, with a fresh outburst of hilarity, "you're about the only male critter in tappahannock that don't turn his eyes sooner or later toward my door." "i've barely a speaking acquaintance with your daughter," returned ordway shortly, "but her reputation as a beauty is certainly very well deserved." mollified by the compliment, jasper unbent so far as to make an abrupt, jerky motion in the direction of a chair; but shaking his head, ordway put again bluntly the question he had asked upon the other's entrance. "am i to understand seriously that she means to marry brown?" he demanded. jasper twisted his scraggy neck nervously in his loose collar. "lord, how you do hear things!" he ejaculated. "now, as far as i can see, thar ain't a single word of truth in all that talk. just between you and me i don't believe my girl has had her mind on that fellow brown more'n a minute. i'm dead against it and that'll go a long way with her, you may be sure. why, only this morning she told me that if she had to choose between the two of 'em, she'd stick to young banks every time." with the words it seemed to ordway that the sunshine became fairly dazzling as it fell through the windows, while the song of the canary went up rapturously like a pã¦an. only by the relief which flooded his heart like warmth could he measure the extent of the ruin he had escaped. even jasper trend's face appeared no longer hideous to him, and as he held out his hand, the exhilaration of his release lent a note that was almost one of affection to his voice. "don't let her do it--for god's sake don't let her do it," he said, and an instant afterward he was out on the gravelled walk between the borders of white and yellow chrysanthemums. at the gate milly was standing with a letter in her hand, and when he spoke to her, he watched her face change slowly to the colour of a flower. never had she appeared softer, prettier, more enticing in his eyes, and he felt for the first time an understanding of the hopeless subjection of banks. "oh, it's you, mr. smith!" she exclaimed, smiling and blushing as she had smiled and blushed at wherry the day before, "i was asking harry banks yesterday what had become of you?" "what had become of me?" he repeated in surprise, while he drew back quickly with his hand on the latch of the gate. "i hadn't seen you for so long," she answered, with a laugh which bore less relation to humour than it did to pleasure. "you used to pass by five times a day, and i got so accustomed to you that i really missed you when you went away." "well, i've been in the country all summer, though that hardly counts, for you were out of town yourself." "yes, i was out of town myself." she lingered over the words, and her voice softened as she went on until it seemed to flow with the sweetness of liquid honey, "but even when i am here, you never care to see me." "do you think so?" he asked gaily, and the next instant he wondered why the question had passed his lips before it had entered into his thoughts, "the truth is that i know a good deal more about you than you suspect," he added; "i have the honour, you see, to be the confidant of harry banks." "oh, harry banks!" she exclaimed indifferently, as she turned from the gate, while ordway opened it and passed out into the street. for the next day or two it seemed to him that the lightness of his heart was reflected in the faces of those about him--that baxter, mrs. brooke, emily, beverly each appeared to move in response to some hidden spring within himself. he felt no longer either beverly's tediousness or mrs. brooke's melancholy, for these early october mornings contained a rapture which transfigured the people with whom he lived. with this unlooked for renewal of hope he threw himself eagerly into the political fight for the control of tappahannock. it was now tuesday and on thursday evening he was to deliver his first speech in the town hall. already the preparations were made, already the flags were flying from the galleries, and already baxter had been trimmed for his public appearance upon the platform. "by george, i believe the major's right and it's the ten commandment part that has done it," said the big man, settling his person with a shake in the new clothes he had purchased for the occasion. "i reckon this coat's all right, smith, ain't it? my wife wouldn't let me come out on the platform in those old clothes i've been wearing." "oh, you're all right," returned ordway, cheerfully--so cheerfully that baxter was struck afresh by the peculiar charm which belonged less to manner than to temperament, "you're all right, old man, but it isn't your clothes that make you so." "all the same i'll feel better when i get into my old suit again," said baxter, "i don't know how it is, but, somehow, i seem to have left two-thirds of myself behind in those old clothes. i just wore these down to show 'em off, but i shan't put 'em on again till thursday." it was the closing hour at the warehouse, and after a few eager words on the subject of the approaching meeting, ordway left the office and went out into the deserted building where the old negro was sweeping the floor with his twig broom. a moment later he was about to pass under the archway, when a man, hurrying in from the street, ran straight into his arms and then staggered back with a laugh of mirthless apology. "my god, smith," said the tragic voice of banks, "i'm half crazy and i must have a word with you alone." catching his arm ordway drew him into the dim light of the warehouse, until they reached the shelter of an old wagon standing unhitched against the wall. the only sound which came to them here was the scratching noise made by the twig broom on the rough planks of the floor. "speak now," said ordway, while his heart sank as he looked into the other's face, "it's quite safe--there's no one about but old abraham." "i can't speak," returned banks, preserving with an effort a decent composure of his features, "but it's all up with me--it's worse than i imagined, and there's nothing ahead of me but death." "i suppose it's small consolation to be told that you look unusually healthy at the minute," replied ordway, "but don't keep me guessing, banks. what's happened now?" "all her indifference--all her pretence of flirting was pure deception," groaned the miserable banks, "she wanted to throw dust, not only in my eyes, but in jasper's, also." "why, he told me with his own lips that his daughter had given him to understand that she preferred you to brown." "and so she did give him to understand--so she did," affirmed banks, in despair, "but it was all a blind so that he wouldn't make trouble between her and brown. i tell you, smith," he concluded, bringing his clenched fist down on the wheel of the wagon, from which a shower of dried mud was scattered into ordway's face, "i tell you, i don't believe women think any more of telling a lie than we do of taking a cocktail!" "but how do you know all this, my dear fellow? and when did you discover it?" "that's the awful part, i'm coming to it." his voice gave out and he swallowed a lump in his throat before he could go on. "oh, smith, smith, i declare, if it's the last word i speak, i believe she means to run away with brown this very evening!" "what?" cried ordway, hardly raising his voice above a whisper. a burning resentment, almost a repulsion swept over him, and he felt that he could have spurned the girl's silly beauty if she had lain at his feet. what was a woman like milly trend worth, that she should cost him, a stranger to her, so great a price? "tell me all," he said sharply, turning again to his companion. "how did you hear it? why do you believe it? have you spoken to jasper?" banks blinked hard for a minute, while a single large round teardrop trickled slowly down his freckled nose. "i should never have suspected it," he answered, "but for milly's old black mammy delphy, who has lived with her ever since she was born. aunt delphy came upon her this morning when she was packing her bag, and by hook or crook, heaven knows how, she managed to get at the truth. then she came directly to me, for it seems that she hates brown worse than the devil." "when did she come to you?" "a half hour ago. i left her and rushed straight to you." ordway drew out his watch, and stood looking at the face of it with a wondering frown. "that must have been five o'clock," he said, "and it is now half past. shall i catch milly, do you think, if i start at once?" "you?" cried banks, "you mean that you will stop her?" "i mean that i must stop her. there is no question." as he spoke he had started quickly down the warehouse, scattering as he walked, a pile of trash which the old negro had swept together in the centre of the floor. so rapid were the long strides with which he moved that banks, in spite of his frantic haste, could barely keep in step with him as they passed into the street. ordway's face had changed as if from a spasm of physical pain, and as banks looked at it in the afternoon light he was startled to find that it was the face of an old man. the brows were bent, the mouth drawn, the skin sallow, and the gray hair upon the temples had become suddenly more prominent than the dark locks above. "then you knew brown before?" asked banks, with an accession of courage, as they slackened their pace with the beginning of the hill. "i knew him before--yes," replied ordway, shortly. his reserve had become not only a mask, but a coffin, and his companion had for a minute a sensation that was almost uncanny as he walked by his side--as if he were striving to keep pace uphill with a dead man. banks had known him to be silent, gloomy, uncommunicative before now, but he had never until this instant seen that look of iron resolve which was too cold and still to approach the heat of passion. had he been furious banks might have shared his fury with him; had he shown bitterness of mood banks might have been bitter also; had he given way even to sardonic merriment, banks felt that it would have been possible to have feigned a mild hilarity of manner; but before this swift, implacable pursuit of something he could not comprehend, the wretched lover lost all consciousness of the part which he himself must act, well or ill, in the event to come. at trend's gate ordway stopped and looked at his companion with a smile which appeared to throw an artificial light upon his drawn features. "will you let me speak to her alone first," he asked, "for a few minutes?" "i'll take a turn up the street then," returned banks eagerly, still panting from his hurried walk up the long hill. "she's in the room on the right now," he added, "i can see her feeding the canary." ordway nodded indifferently. "i shan't be long," he said, and going inside the gate, passed deliberately up the walk and into the room where milly stood at the window with her mouth close against the wires of the gilt cage. at his step on the threshold the girl turned quickly toward the door with a fluttering movement. surprise and disappointment battled for an instant in her glance, and he gathered from his first look that he had come at the moment when she was expecting wherry. he noticed, too, that in spite of the mild autumn weather, she wore a dark dress which was not unsuitable for a long journey, and that her sailor hat, from which a blue veil floated, lay on a chair in one corner. a deeper meaning had entered into the shallow prettiness of her face, and he felt that she had passed through some subtle change in which she had left her girlhood behind her. for the first time it occurred to him that milly trend was deserving not only of passion, but of sympathy. at the withdrawal of the lips that had offered him his bit of cake, the canary fluttered from his perch and uttered a sweet, short, questioning note; and in milly's face, as she came forward, there was something of this birdlike, palpitating entreaty. "oh, it is you, mr. smith," she said, "i did not hear your ring." "i didn't ring," responded ordway, as he took her trembling outstretched hand in which she still held the bit of sponge cake, "i saw you at the window so i came straight in without sending word. what i have to say to you is so important that i dared not lose a minute." "and it is about me?" asked milly, with a quiver of her eyelids. "no, it is about someone else, though it concerns you in a measure. the thing i have to tell you relates directly to a man whom you know as horatio brown----" he spoke so quickly that the girl divined his meaning from his face rather than from his words. "then you know him?" she questioned, in a frightened whisper. "i know more of his life than i can tell you. it is sufficient to say that to the best of my belief he has a wife now living--that he has been married before this under different names to at least two living women----" he stopped and put out his hand with an impulsive protecting gesture, for the wounded vanity in the girl's face had pierced to his heart. "will you let me see your father?" he asked gently, "would it not be better for me to speak to him instead of to you?" "no, no!" cried milly sharply, "don't tell him--don't dare to tell him--for he would believe it and it is a lie--it is a lie! i tell you it is a lie!" "as god is my witness it is the truth," he answered, without resentment. "then you shall accuse him to his face. he is coming in a little while, and you shall accuse him before me----" she stopped breathlessly and the pity in his look made her wince sharply and shrink away. with her movement the piece of sponge cake fell from her loosened fingers and rolled on the floor at her feet. "but if it were true how could you know it?" she demanded. "no, it is not true--i don't believe it! i don't believe it!" she repeated in a passion of terror. at her excited voice the canary, swinging on his perch, broke suddenly into an ecstasy of song, and milly's words, when she spoke again, were drowned in the liquid sweetness that flowed from the cage. for a minute ordway stood in silence waiting for the music to end, while he watched the angry, helpless tremor of the girl's outstretched hands. "will you promise me to wait?" he asked, raising his voice in the effort to be heard, "will you promise me to wait at least until you find out the truth or the falsehood of what i tell you?" "but i don't believe it," repeated milly in the stubborn misery of hopeless innocence. "ask yourself, then, what possible reason i could have in coming to you--except to save you?" "wait!" cried the girl angrily, "i can't hear--wait!" picking up a shawl from a chair, she flung it with an impatient gesture over the cage, and turning immediately from the extinguished bird, took up his sentence where he had broken off. "to save me?" she repeated, "you mean from marriage?" "from a marriage that would be no marriage. am i right in suspecting that you meant to go away with him to-night?" she bowed her head--all the violent spirit gone out of her. "i was ready to go to-night," she answered, like a child that has been hurt and is still afraid of what is to come. "and you promise me that you will give it up?" he went on gently. "i don't know--i can't tell--i must see him first," she said, and burst suddenly into tears, hiding her face in her hands with a pathetic, shamed gesture. turning away for a moment, he stood blankly staring down into the jar of goldfish. then, as her sobs grew presently beyond her control, he came back to the chair into which she had dropped and looked with moist eyes at her bowed fair head. "before i leave you, will you promise me to give him up?--to forget him if it be possible?" he asked. "but it is not possible," she flashed back, lifting her wet blue eyes to his. "how dare you come to me with a tale like this? oh, i hate you! i shall always hate you! will you go?" before her helpless fury he felt a compassion stronger even than the emotion her tears had aroused. "it is not fair that i should tell you so much and not tell you all, milly," he said. "it is not fair that in accusing the man you love, i should still try to shield myself. i know that these things are true because brown's--wherry is his name--trial took place immediately before mine--and we saw each other during the terms which we served in prison." then before she could move or speak he turned from her and went rapidly from the house and out into the walk. chapter ix at the cross-roads at the corner he looked down the street and saw the red flag still swelling in the wind. a man spoke to him; the face was familiar, but he could not recall the name, until after a few congratulatory words about his political prospects, he remembered, with a start, that he was talking to major leary. "you may count on a clean sweep of votes, mr. smith--there's no doubt of it," said the major, beaming with his amiable fiery face. "there's no doubt of it?" repeated ordway, while he regarded the enthusiastic politician with a perplexed and troubled look. the major, the political campaign, the waving red flag and the noisy little town had receded to a blank distance from the moment in which he stood. he wondered vaguely what connection he--daniel ordway--had ever held with these things? yet his smile was still bright and cheerful as he turned away, with an apologetic word, and passed on into the road to cedar hill. the impulse which had driven him breathlessly into milly's presence had yielded now to the mere dull apathy of indifference, and it mattered to him no longer whether the girl was saved or lost in the end. he thought of her vanity, of her trivial pink and white prettiness with a return of his old irritation. well, he had done his part--his temperament had ruled him at the decisive instant, and the ensuing consequences of his confession had ceased now to affect or even to interest him. then, with something like a pang of thought, he remembered that he had with his own hand burned his bridges behind him, and that there was no way out for him except the straight way which led over the body of daniel smith. his existence in tappahannock was now finished; his victory had ended in flight; and there was nothing ahead of him except the new beginning and the old ending. a fresh start and then what? and afterward the few years of quiet again and at the end the expected, the inevitable recurrence of the disgrace which he had begun to recognise as some impersonal natural law that followed upon his footsteps. as the future gradually unrolled itself in his imagination, he felt that his heart sickened in the clutch of the terror that had sprung upon him. was there to be no end anywhere? could no place, no name even afford him a permanent shelter? looking ahead now he saw himself as an old man wandering from refuge to refuge, pursued always by the resurrected corpse of his old life, which though it contained neither his spirit nor his will, still triumphed by the awful semblance it bore his outward body. was he to be always alone? was there no spot in his future where he could possess himself in reality of the freedom which was his in name? without seeing, without hearing, he went almost deliriously where his road led him, for the terror in his thought had become a living presence before which his spirit rather than his body moved. he walked rapidly, yet it seemed to him that his feet were inert and lifeless weights which were dragged forward by the invincible torrent of his will. in the swiftness of his flight, he felt that he was a conscious soul chained to a body that was a corpse. when he came at last to the place where the two roads crossed before the ruined gate, he stopped short, while the tumult died gradually in his brain, and the agony through which he had just passed appeared as a frenzy to his saner judgment. looking up a moment later as he was about to enter the avenue, he saw that emily brooke was walking toward him under the heavy shadow of the cedars. in the first movement of her surprise the mask which she had always worn in his presence dropped from her face, and as she stepped from the gloom into the sunlight, he felt that the sweetness of her look bent over him like protecting wings. for a single instant, as her eyes gazed wide open into his, he saw reflected in them the visions from which his soul had shrunk back formerly abashed. nothing had changed in her since yesterday; she was outwardly the same brave and simple woman, with her radiant smile, her blown hair, and her roughened hands. yet because of that revealing look she appeared no longer human in his eyes, but something almost unearthly bright and distant, like the sunshine he had followed so often through the bars of his prison cell. "you are suffering," she said, when he would have passed on, and he felt that she had divined without words all that he could not utter. "don't pity me," he answered, smiling at her question, because to smile had become for him the easier part of habit, "i'm not above liking pity, but it isn't exactly what i need. and besides, i told you once, you know, that whatever happened to me would always be the outcome of my own failure." "yes, i remember you told me so--but does that make it any easier to bear?" "easier to bear?--no, but i don't think the chief end of things is to be easy, do you?" she shook her head. "but isn't our chief end just to make them easier for others?" she asked. the pity in her face was like an illumination, and her features were enkindled with a beauty he had never found in them before. it was the elemental motherhood in her nature that he had touched; and he felt as he watched her that this ecstasy of tenderness swelled in her bosom and overflowed her lips. confession to her would have been for him the supreme luxury of despair; but because his heart strained toward her, he drew back and turned his eyes to the road, which stretched solitary and dim beyond them. "well, i suppose, i've got what i deserved," he said, "the price that a man pays for being a fool, he pays but once and that is his whole life long." "but it ought not to be so--it is not just," she answered. "just?" he repeated, bitterly, "no, i dare say, it isn't--but the facts of life don't trouble themselves about justice, do they? is it just, for instance, that you should slave your youth away on your brother's farm, while he sits and plays dominoes on the porch? is it just that with the instinct for luxury in your blood you should be condemned to a poverty so terrible as this?" he reached out and touched the little red hand hanging at her side. "is this just?" he questioned with an ironical smile. "there is some reason for it," she answered bravely, "i feel it though i cannot see it." "some reason--yes, but that reason is not justice--not the little human justice that we can call by the name. it's something infinitely bigger than any idea that we have known." "i can trust," she said softly, "but i can't reason." "don't reason--don't even attempt to--let god run his world. do you think if we didn't believe in the meaning--in the purpose of it all that you and i could stand together here like this? it's because we believe that we can be happy even while we suffer." "then you will be happy again--to-morrow?" "surely. perhaps to-night--who knows? i've had a shock. my brain is whirling and i can't see straight. in a little while it will be over and i shall steady down." "but i should like to help you now while it lasts," she said. "you are helping me--it's a mercy that you stand there and listen to my wild talk. do you know i was telling myself as i came along the road just now that there wasn't a living soul to whom i should dare to say that i was in a quake of fear." "a quake of fear?" she looked at him with swimming eyes, and by that look he saw that she loved him. if he had stretched out his arms, he knew that the passion of her sorrow would have swept her to his breast; and he felt that every fibre of his starved soul and body cried out for the divine food that she offered. at the moment he did not stop to ask himself whether it was his flesh or his spirit that hungered after her, for his whole being had dissolved into the longing which drew him as with cords to her lips. all he understood at the instant was that in his terrible loneliness love had been offered him and he must refuse the gift. a thought passed like a drawn sword between them, and he saw in his imagination lydia lowering her black veil at their last parting. "it's a kind of cowardliness, i suppose," he went on with his eyes on the ground, "but i was thinking that minute how greatly i needed help and how much--how very much--you had given me. if i ever learn really to live it will be because of you--because of your wonderful courage, your unfailing sweetness----" for the first time he saw in her face the consciousness of her own unfulfilment. "if you only knew how often i wonder if it is worth while," she answered. at this he made a sudden start forward and then checked himself. "the chief tragedy in my life," he said, "is that i knew you twenty years too late." until his words were uttered he did not realise how much of a confession he had put into them; and with the discovery he watched her face bloom softly like a flower that opens its closed petals. "if i could have helped you then, why cannot i help you now?" she asked, while the innocence in her look humbled him more than a divine fury would have done. the larger his ideal of her became, the keener grew his sense of failure--of bondage to that dead past from which he could never release his living body. as he looked at her now he realised that the supreme thing he had missed in life was the control of the power which lies in simple goodness; and the purity of lydia appeared to him as a shining blank--an unwritten surface beside the passionate humanity in the heart of the girl before him. "you will hear things from others which i can't tell you and then you will understand," he said. "i shall hear nothing that will make me cease to believe in you," she answered. "you will hear that i have done wrong in my life and you will understand that if i have suffered it has been by my own fault." she met his gaze without wavering. "i shall still believe in you," she responded. her eyes were on his face and she saw that the wan light of the afterglow revealed the angularities of his brow and chin and filled in with shadows the deeper hollows in his temples. the smile on his lips was almost ironical as he answered. "those from whom i might have expected loyalty, fell away from me--my father, my wife, my children----" "to believe against belief is a woman's virtue," she responded, "but at least it is a virtue." "you mean that you would have been my friend through everything?" he asked quickly, half blinded by the ideal which seemed to flash so closely to his eyelids. there was scorn in her voice as she answered: "if i had been your friend once--yes, a thousand times." before his inward vision there rose the conception of a love that would have pardoned, blessed and purified. bending his head he kissed her little cold hand once and let it fall. then without looking again into her face, he entered the avenue and went on alone. chapter x between man and man when he entered tappahannock the following morning, he saw with surprise that the red flag was still flying above the street. as he looked into the face of the first man he met, he felt a sensation of relief, almost of gratitude because he received merely the usual morning greeting; and the instant afterward he flinched and hesitated before replying to the friendly nod of the harness-maker, stretching himself under the hanging bridles in the door of the little shop. entering the warehouse he glanced nervously down the deserted building, and when a moment later he opened the door into baxter's office, he grew hot at the familiar sight of the local newspaper in his employer's hands. the years had divided suddenly and he saw again the crowd in fifth avenue as he walked home on the morning of his arrest. he smelt the smoke of the great city; he heard the sharp street cries around him; and he pushed aside the fading violets offered him by the crippled flower seller at the corner. he even remembered, without effort, the particular bit of scandal retailed to him over a cigar by the club wit who had joined him. all his sensations to-day were what they had been then, only now his consciousness was less acute, as if the edge of his perceptions had been blunted by the force of the former blow. "howdy, smith, is that you?" remarked baxter, crushing the top of the paper beneath the weight of his chin as he looked over it at ordway. "did you meet banks as you came in? he was in here asking for you not two minutes ago." "banks? no, i didn't see him. what did he want?" as he put the ordinary question the dull level of his voice surprised him. "oh, he didn't tell me," returned baxter, "but it was some love-lorn whining he had to do, i reckon. now what i can't understand is how a man can be so narrow sighted as only to see one woman out of the whole bouncing sex of 'em. it would take more than a refusal--it would take a downright football to knock out my heart. good lord! in this world of fine an' middling fine women, the trouble ain't to get the one you want, but to keep on wanting the one you get. i've done my little share of observing in my time, and what i've learned from it is that the biggest trial a man can have is not to want another man's wife, but to _want_ to want his own." a knock at the door called ordway out into the warehouse, where he yielded himself immediately to the persuasive voice of banks. "come back here a minute, will you, out of hearing? i tried to get to you last night and couldn't." "has anything gone wrong?" inquired ordway, following the other to a safe distance from baxter's office. at first he had hardly had courage to lift his eyes to banks' face, but reassured by the quiet opening of the conversation, he stood now with his sad gaze fixed on the beaming freckled features of the melancholy lover. "i only wanted to tell you that she didn't go," whispered banks, rolling his prominent eyes into the dusky recesses of the warehouse, "she's ill in bed to-day, and brown left town on the eight-forty-five this morning." "so he's gone for good!" exclaimed ordway, and drew a long breath as if he had been released from an emotional tension which had suspended, while it lasted, the ordinary movement of life. since he had prepared himself for the worst was it possible that his terror of yesterday would scatter to-day like the delusions of an unsettled brain? had wherry held back in mercy or had milly trend? even if he were spared now must he still live on here unaware how widely--or how pitifully--his secret was known? would this ceaseless dread of discovery prove again, as it had proved in the past, more terrible even than the discovery itself? would he be able to look fearlessly at milly trend again?--at baxter? at banks? at emily? "well, i've got to thank you for it, smith?" said banks. "how you stopped it, i don't know for the life of me, but stop it you did." the cheerful selfishness in such rejoicing struck ordway even in the midst of his own bitter musing. though banks adored milly, soul and body, he was frankly jubilant over the tragic ending of her short romance. "i hope there's little danger of its beginning anew," ordway remarked presently, with less sympathy than he would have shown his friend twelve hours before. "i suppose you wouldn't like to tell me what you said to her?" inquired banks, his customary awe of his companion swept away in the momentary swing of his elation. "no, i shouldn't like to tell you," returned ordway quietly. "then it's all right, of course, and i'll be off to drape the town hall in bunting for to-morrow night. we're going to make the biggest political display for you that tappahannock has ever seen." at the instant ordway was hardly conscious of the immensity of his relief, but some hours later, after the early closing of the warehouse, when he walked slowly back along the road to cedar hill, it seemed to him that his life had settled again into its quiet monotonous spaces. the peaceful fields on either side, with their short crop of live-ever-lasting, in which a few lonely sheep were browsing, appeared to him now as a part of the inward breadth and calm of the years that he had spent in tappahannock. in the loneliness of the road he could tell himself that the fear of gus wherry was gone for a time at least, yet the next day upon going into town he was aware of the same nervous shrinking from the people he passed, from the planters hanging about the warehouse, from baxter buried behind his local newspaper. "they've got a piece as long as your arm about you in the tappahannock _herald_, smith," cried baxter, chuckling; and ordway felt himself redden painfully with apprehension. not until the evening, when he came out upon the platform under the floating buntings in the town hall, did he regain entirely the self-possession which he had lost in the presence of milly trend. in its white and red decorations, with the extravagant glare of its gas-jets, the hall had assumed almost a festive appearance; and as ordway glanced at the crowded benches and doorways, he forgot the trivial political purpose he was to serve, in the more human relation in which he stood to the men who had gathered to hear him speak. these men were his friends, and if they believed in him he felt a triumphant conviction that they had seen their belief justified day by day, hour by hour, since he had come among them. in the crowd of faces before him, he recognised, here and there, workingmen whom he had helped--operatives in jasper trend's cotton mills, or in the smaller factories which combined with the larger to create the political situation in tappahannock. closer at hand he saw the shining red face of major leary; the affectionate freckled face of banks; the massive benevolent face of baxter. as he looked at them an emotion which was almost one of love stirred in his breast, and he felt the words he had prepared dissolve and fade from his memory to reunite in an appeal of which he had not thought until this minute. there was something, he knew now, for him to say to-night--something so infinitely large that he could utter it only because it rose like love or sorrow to his lips. of all the solemn moments when he had stood before these men, with his open bible, in the green field or in the little grove of pines, there was none so solemn, he felt, as the approaching instant in which he would speak to them no longer as a man to children, but as a man to men. on the stage before him baxter was addressing the house, his soft, persuasive voice mingling with a sympathetic murmur from the floor. the applause which had broken out at ordway's entrance had not yet died away, and with each mention of his name, with each allusion to his services to tappahannock, it burst forth again, enthusiastic, irrepressible, overwhelming. never before, it seemed to him, sitting there on the platform with his roughened hands crossed on his knees, had he felt himself to be so intimately a part of the community in which he lived. never before--not even when he had started this man in life, had bought off that one's mortgage or had helped another to struggle free of drink, had he come quite so near to the pathetic individual lives that compose the mass. they loved him, they believed in him, and they were justified! at the moment it seemed to him nothing--less than nothing--that they should make him mayor of tappahannock. in this one instant of understanding they had given him more than any office--than any honour. while he sat there outwardly so still, so confident of his success, it seemed to him that in the exhilaration of the hour he was possessed of a new and singularly penetrating insight into life. not only did he see further and deeper than he had ever seen before, but he looked beyond the beginning of things into the causes and beyond the ending of them into the results. he saw himself and why he was himself as clearly as he saw his sin and why he had sinned. out of their obscurity his father and his mother returned to him, and as he met the bitter ironical smile of the one and the curved black brows and red, half open mouth of the other, he knew himself to be equally the child of each, for he understood at last why he was a mixture of strength and weakness, of gaiety and sadness, of bitterness and compassion. his short, troubled childhood rushed through his thoughts, and with that swiftness of memory which comes so often in tragic moments, he lived over again--not separately and in successive instants--but fully, vitally, and in all the freshness of experience, the three events which he saw now, in looking back, as the milestones upon his road. again he saw his mother as she lay in her coffin, with her curved black brows and half open mouth frozen into a joyous look, and in that single fleeting instant he passed through his meeting with the convict at the wayside station, and through the long suspended minutes when he had waited in the stock exchange for the rise in the market which did not come. and these things appeared to him, not as detached and obscure remnants of his past, but clear and delicate and vivid as if they were projected in living colours against the illumination of his mind. they were there not to bewilder, but to make plain; not to accuse, but to vindicate. "everything is clear to me now and i see it all," he thought, "and if i can only keep this penetration of vision nothing will be harder to-morrow than it is to-night." in his whole life there was not an incident too small for him to remember it and to feel that it was significant of all the rest; and he knew that if he could have seen from the beginning as clearly as he saw to-night, his past would not have been merely different, it would have been entirely another than his own. baxter had stopped, and turning with an embarrassed upheaval of his whole body, he spoke to ordway, who rose at his words and came slowly forward to the centre of the stage. a hoarse murmur, followed by a tumult of shouts, greeted him, while he stood for a moment looking silently among those upturned faces for the faces of the men to whom he must speak. "that one will listen because i nursed him back to life, and that one because i brought him out of ruin--and that one and that one--" he knew them each by name, and as his gaze travelled from man to man he felt that he was seeking a refuge from some impending evil in the shelter of the good deeds that he had done. though he held a paper in his hand, he did not look at it, for he had found his words in that instant of illumination when, seated upon the stage, he had seen the meaning of his whole life made plain. the present event and the issue of it no longer concerned him; he had ceased to fear, even to shrink from the punishment that was yet to come. in the completeness with which he yielded himself to the moment, he felt that he was possessed of the calm, almost of the power of necessity; and he experienced suddenly the sensation of being lifted and swept forward on one of the high waves of life. he spoke rapidly, without effort, almost without consciousness of the words he uttered, until it seemed to him presently that it was the torrent of his speech which carried him outward and upward with that strange sense of lightness, of security. and this lightness, this security belonged not to him, but to some outside current of being. * * * * * his speech was over, and he had spoken to these factory workers as no man had spoken before him in tappahannock. with his last word the silence had held tight and strained for a minute, and then the grateful faces pressed round him and the ringing cheers passed through the open windows out into the street. his body was still trembling, but as he stood there with his sparkling blue eyes on the house, he looked gay and boyish. he had made his mark, he had spoken his best speech, and he had touched not merely the factory toilers in tappahannock, but that common pulse of feeling in which all humanity is made one. then the next instant, while he still waited, he was aware of a new movement upon the platform behind him, and a man came forward and stopped short under the gas jet, which threw a flickering yellow light upon his face. though he had seen him but once, he recognized him instantly as the short, long-nosed, irascible manager of the cotton mills, and with the first glance into his face he had heard already the unspoken question and the reply. "may i ask you, mr. smith," began the little man, suddenly, "if you can prove your right to vote or to hold office in virginia?" ordway's gaze passed beyond him to rest upon baxter and major leary, who sat close together, genial, elated, rather thirsty. at the moment he felt sorry for baxter--not for himself. "no," he answered with a smile which threw a humorous light upon the question, "i cannot--can you prove yours?" the little man cleared his throat with a sniffling sound, and when he spoke again it was in a high nasal voice, as if he had become suddenly very excited or very angry. "is your name daniel smith?" he asked, with a short laugh. the question was out at last and the silence in which ordway stood was like the suspension between thought and thought. all at once he found himself wondering why he had lived in hourly terror of this instant, for now that it was upon him, he saw that it was no more tragic, no less commonplace, than the most ordinary instant of his life. as in the past his courage had revived in him with the first need of decisive action, so he felt it revive now, and lifting his head, he looked straight into the angry, little eyes of the man who waited, under the yellow gaslight, on the platform before him. "my name," he answered, still smiling, "is daniel ordway." there was no confusion in his mind, no anxiety, no resentment. instead the wonderful brightness of a moment ago still shone in his thoughts, and while he appeared to rest his sparkling gaze on the face of his questioner, he was seeing, in reality, the road by which he had come to tappahannock, and at the beginning of the road the prison, and beyond the prison the whole of his past life. "did you serve a term in prison before you came here?" "yes." "were you tried and convicted in new york?" "yes." "were you guilty?" looking over the head of the little man, ordway's gaze travelled slowly across the upturned faces upon the floor of the house. hardly a man passed under his look whom he had not assisted once at least in the hour of his need. "i saved that one from drink," he thought almost joyfully, "that one from beggary--i stood side by side with that other in the hour of his shame----" "were you guilty?" repeated the high nasal voice in his ear. his gaze came quickly back, and as it passed over the head of baxter, he was conscious again of a throb of pity. "yes," he answered for the last time. then, while the silence lasted, he turned from the platform and went out of the hall into the night. chapter xi between man and woman he walked rapidly to the end of the street, and then slackened his pace almost unconsciously as he turned into the country road. the night had closed in a thick black curtain over the landscape, and the windows of the negroes' cabins burned like little still red flames along the horizon. straight ahead the road was visible as a pale, curving streak across the darkness. a farmer, carrying a lantern, came down the path leading from the fields, and hearing ordway's footsteps in the road, flashed the light suddenly into his face. upon recognition there followed a cheerful "good-night!" and the offer of the use of the lantern to cedar hill. "it's a black night and you'll likely have trouble in keeping straight. i've been to look after a sick cow, but i can feel my way up to the house in two minutes." "thank you," returned ordway, smiling as the light shone full in his face, "but my feet are accustomed to the road." he passed on, while the farmer turned at the gate by the roadside, to shout cheerfully after him: "well, good-night--mayor!" the gate closed quickly, and the ray of the lantern darted like a pale yellow moth across the grass. as ordway went on it seemed to him that the darkness became tangible, enveloping--that he had to fight his way through it presently as through water. the little red flames danced along the horizon until he wondered if they were burning only in his imagination. he felt tired and dazed as if his body had been beaten into insensibility, but the hour through which he had just passed appeared to have left merely a fading impression upon his brain. not only had he ceased to care, he had ceased to think of it. when he tried now to recall the manager of the cotton mills, it was to remember, with aversion, his angry little eyes, his high nasal voice, and the wart upon the end of his long nose. at the instant these physical details were the only associations which the man's name presented to his thoughts. the rest was something so insignificant that it had escaped his memory. he felt in a vague way that he was sorry for baxter, yet this very feeling of sympathy bored and annoyed him. it was plainly ridiculous to be sorry for a person as rich, as fat, as well fed as his employer. wherever he looked the little red flames flickered and waved in the fields, and when he lifted his eyes to the dark sky, he saw them come and go in short, scintillant flashes, like fire struck from an anvil. they were in his brain, he supposed, after all, and so was this tangible darkness, and so, too, was this indescribable delicacy and lightness with which he moved. everything was in his brain, even his ridiculous pity for baxter and the angry-eyed little manager with the wart on his long nose. he could see these things distinctly, though he had forgotten everything that had been so clear to him while he stood on the stage of the town hall. his past life and the prison and even the illumination in which he had remembered them so vividly were obscured now as if they, too, had been received into the tangible darkness. from the road behind him the sound of footsteps reached him suddenly, and he quickened his pace with an impulse, rather than a determination of flight. but the faster he walked the faster came the even beat of the footsteps, now rising, now falling with a rhythmic regularity in the dust of the road. once he glanced back, but he could see nothing because of the encompassing blackness, and in the instant of his delay it seemed to him that the pursuit gained steadily upon him, still moving with the regular muffled beat of the footsteps in the thick dust. a horror of recognition had come over him, and as he walked on breathlessly, now almost running, it occurred to him, like an inspiration, that he might drop aside into the fields and so let his pursuer pass on ahead. the next instant he realised that the darkness could not conceal the abrupt pause of his flight--that as those approaching footsteps fell on his ears, so must the sound of his fall on the ears of the man behind him. then a voice called his name, and he stopped short, and stood, trembling from head to foot, by the side of the road. "smith!" cried the voice, "if it's you, smith, for god's sake stop a minute!" "yes, it's i," he answered, waiting, and a moment afterward the hand of banks reached out of the night and clasped his arm. "hold on," said banks, breathing hard, "i'm all blown." his laboured breath came with a struggling violence that died gradually away, but while it lasted the strain of the meeting, the awkwardness of the emotional crisis, seemed suddenly put off--suspended. now in the silence the tension became so great that, drawing slightly away from the detaining hold, ordway was about to resume his walk. at his first movement, however, banks clung the more firmly to his arm. "oh, damn it, smith!" he burst out, and with the exclamation ordway felt that the touch of flesh and blood had reached to the terrible loneliness in which he stood. in a single oath banks had uttered the unutterable spirit of prayer. "you followed me?" asked ordway quietly, while the illusions of the flight, the physical delicacy and lightness, the tangible darkness, the little red flames in the fields, departed from him. with the first hand that was laid on his own, his nature swung back into balance, and he felt that he possessed at the moment a sanity that was almost sublime. "as soon as i could get out i came. there was such a crush," said banks, "i thought i'd catch up with you at once, but it was so black i couldn't see my hand before me. in a little while i heard footsteps, so i kept straight on." "i wish you hadn't, banks." "but i had to." his usually cheerful voice sounded hoarse and throaty. "i ain't much of a chap at words, smith, you know that, but i want just to say that you're the best friend i ever had, and i haven't forgot it--i haven't forgot it," he repeated, and blew his nose. "nothing that that darn fool of a manager said to-night can come between you and me," he went on laboriously after a minute. "if you ever want my help, by thunder, i'll go to hell and back again for you without a word." stretching out his free hand ordway laid it upon his friend's shoulder. "you're a first-rate chap, banks," he said cheerfully, at which a loud sob burst from banks, who sought to disguise it the instant afterward in a violent cough. "you're a first-rate chap," repeated ordway gently, "and i'm glad, in spite of what i said, that you came after me just now. i'm going away to-morrow, you know, and it's probable that i shan't see you again." "but won't you stay on in tappahannock? in two weeks all this will blow over and things will be just what they were before." ordway shook his head, a movement which banks felt, though he did not see it. "no, i'll go away, it's best," he answered, and though his voice had dropped to a dull level there was still a cheerful sound to it, "i'll go away and begin again in a new place." "then i'll go, too," said banks. "what! and leave milly? no, you won't come. banks, you'll stay here." "but i'll see you sometimes, shan't i?" "perhaps?--that's likely, isn't it?" "yes, that's likely," repeated banks, and fell silent from sheer weight of sorrow. "at least you'll let me go with you to the station?" he said at last, after a long pause in which he had been visited by one of those acute flashes of sympathy which are to the heart what intuition is to the intellect. "why, of course," responded ordway, more touched by the simple request than he had been even by the greater loyalty. "you may do that, banks, and i'll thank you for it. and now go back to tappahannock," he added, "i must take the midday train and there are a few preparations i've still to make." "but where will you go?" demanded banks, swinging round again after he had turned from him. "where?" repeated ordway blankly, and he added indifferently, "i hadn't thought." "the midday train goes west," said banks. "then, i'll go west. it doesn't matter." banks had already started off, when turning back suddenly, he caught ordway's hand and wrung it in a grip that hurt. then without speaking again, he hurried breathlessly in the direction from which he had come. a few steps beyond the cross-roads ordway saw through the heavy foliage the light in the dining-room at cedar hill. then as he entered the avenue, he lost sight of it again, until he had rounded the curve that swept up to the front porch. at his knock emily opened the door, with a lamp held in her hand, and he saw her face, surrounded by dim waves of hair, shining pale and transparent in the glimmering circle of light. as he followed her into the dining-room, he realised that after the family had gone upstairs to bed, she had sat at her sewing under the lamp and waited for his knock. at the knowledge a sense of comfort, of homeliness came over him, and he felt all at once that his misery was not so great as he had believed it to be a moment ago. "may i get you something?" she asked, placing the lamp upon the table and lowering the wick that the flame might not shine on his pallid and haggard face. he shook his head; then as she turned from him toward the hearth, he followed her and stood looking down at the smouldering remains of a wood fire. her work-basket and a pile of white ruffles which she had been hemming were on the table, but moved by a feeling of their utter triviality in the midst of a tragedy she vaguely understood, she swept them hurriedly into a chair, and came over to lay her hand upon his arm. "what can i do? oh, what can i do?" she asked. taking her hand from his sleeve, he held it for an instant in his grasp, as if the pressure of her throbbing palm against his revived some living current under the outer deadness that enveloped him. "i am going away from tappahannock to-morrow, emily," he said. "to-morrow?" she repeated, and laid her free hand upon his shoulder with a soothing, motherly gesture--a gesture which changed their spiritual relations to those of a woman and a child. "a man asked me three questions to-night," he went on quietly, yet in a voice which seemed to feel a pang in every word it uttered. "he asked me if my name was daniel smith, and i answered--no." as he hesitated, she lifted her face and smiled at him, with a smile which he knew to be the one expression of love, of comprehension, that she could offer. it was a smile which a mother might have bent upon a child that was about to pass under the surgeon's knife, and it differed from tears only in that it offered courage and not weakness. "he asked me if i had been in prison before i came to tappahannock--and i answered--yes." his voice broke, rather than ceased, and lifting his gaze from her hands he looked straight into her wide-open eyes. the smile which she had turned to him a moment before was still on her lips, frozen there in the cold pallor of her face. her eyes were the only things about her which seemed alive, and they appeared to him now not as eyes but as thoughts made visible. bending her head quickly she kissed the hand which enclosed her own. "i still believe," she said, and looked into his face. "but it is true," he replied slowly. "but it is not the whole truth," she answered, "and for that reason it is half a lie." "yes, it is not the whole truth," he repeated, in his effort to catch something of her bright courage. "why should they judge you by that and by nothing else?" she demanded with passion. "if that was true, is not your life in tappahannock true also?" "to you--to you," he answered, "but to-morrow everything will be forgotten about me except the fact that because i had been in prison, i have lived a lie." "you are wrong--oh, believe me, you are wrong," she said softly, while her tears broke forth and streamed down her white face. "no," he returned patiently, as if weighing her words in his thoughts, "i am right, and my life here is wasted now from the day i came. all that i do from this moment will be useless. i must go away." "but where?" she questioned passionately, as banks had questioned before her. "where?" he echoed, "i don't know--anywhere. the midday train goes west." "and what will you do in the new place?" she asked through her tears. he shook his head as if the question hardly concerned him. "i shall begin again," he answered indifferently at last. she was turning hopelessly from him, when her eyes fell upon a slip of yellow paper which beverly had placed under a vase on the mantel, and drawing it out, she glanced at the address before giving it into ordway's hands. "this must have come for you in the afternoon," she said, "i did not see it." taking the telegram from her, he opened it slowly, and read the words twice over. "your father died last night. will you come home? "richard ordway." book third the larger prison chapter i the return to life as the train rounded the long curve, ordway leaned from the window and saw spread before him the smiling battlefields that encircled botetourt. from the shadow and sunlight of the distance a wind blew in his face, and he felt suddenly younger, fresher, as if the burden of the years had been lifted from him. the botetourt to which he was returning was the place of his happiest memories; and closing his eyes to the landscape, he saw lydia standing under the sparrows that flew out from the ivied walls of the old church. he met her pensive gaze; he watched her faint smile under the long black feather in her hat. "his death was unexpected," said a strange voice in his ear, "but for the past five years i've seen that he was a failing man." the next instant his thoughts had scattered like startled birds, and without turning his head, he sat straining his ears to follow the conversation that went on, above the roar of the train, in the seat behind him. "had a son, didn't he?" inquired the man who had not spoken. "what's become of him, i'd like to know? i mean the chap who went to smash somewhere in the north." "oh, he misappropriated trust funds and got found out and sent to prison. when he came out, he went west, i heard, and struck a gold mine, but, all the same, he left his wife and children for the old man to look after. ever seen his wife? well, she's a downright saint, if there ever lived one." "and yet he went wrong, the more's the pity." "it's a funny thing," commented the first speaker, who was evidently of a philosophic bent, "but i've often noticed that a good wife is apt to make a bad husband. it looks somehow as if male human nature, like the irish members, is obliged to sit on the opposition bench. the only example that ever counts with it, is an example that urges the other way." "well, what about this particular instance? i hope at least that she has come into the old man's money?" "nobody can tell, but it's generally believed that the two children will get the most of it. the son left a boy and a girl when he went to prison, you know." "ah, that's rather a pity, isn't it?" "well, i can't say--they've got good blood as well as bad, when it comes to that. my daughter went to school with the girl, and she was said to be, by long odds, the most popular member of her class. she graduated last spring, and people tell me that she has turned out to be the handsomest young woman in botetourt." "like the mother?" "no, dark and tall, with those snapping blue eyes of her grandmother's----" * * * * * so alice was no longer the little girl in short white skirts, outstanding like a ballet dancer's! there was a pang for him in the thought, and he tried in vain to accustom himself to the knowledge that she would meet him to-night as a woman, not as a child. he remembered the morning when she had run out, as he passed up the staircase, to beg him to come in to listen to her music lesson; and with the sound of the stumbling scales in his ears, he felt again that terrible throbbing of his pulses and the dull weight of anguish which had escaped at last in an outburst of bitterness. with a jolting motion the train drew up into the little station, and following the crowd that pressed through the door of the car, he emerged presently into the noisy throng of negro drivers gathered before the rusty vehicles which were waiting beside the narrow pavement. pushing aside the gaily decorated whips which encircled him at his approach, he turned, after a moment's hesitation, into one of the heavily shaded streets, which seemed to his awakened memory to have remained unaltered since the afternoon upon which he had left the town almost twenty years ago. the same red and gold maples stirred gently above his head; the same silent, green-shuttered houses were withdrawn behind glossy clusters of microphylla rose-creepers. even the same shafts of sunshine slanted across the roughly paved streets, which were strewn thickly with yellowed leaves. it was to ordway as if a pleasant dream had descended upon the place, and had kept unchanged the particular golden stillness of that autumn afternoon when he had last seen it. all at once he realised that what tappahannock needed was not progress, but age; and he saw for the first time that the mellowed charm of botetourt was relieved against the splendour of an historic background. not the distinction of the present, but the enchantment of the past, produced this quality of atmosphere into which the thought of tappahannock entered like a vulgar discord. the dead, not the living, had built these walls, had paved these streets, had loved and fought and starved beneath these maples; and it was the memory of such solemn things that steeped the little town in its softening haze of sentiment. a thrill of pleasure, more intense than any he had known for months, shot through his heart, and the next instant he acknowledged with a sensation of shame that he was returning, not only to his people, but to his class. was this all that experience, that humiliation, could do for one--that he should still find satisfaction in the refinements of habit, in the mere external pleasantness of life? as he passed the old church he saw that the sparrows still fluttered in and out of the ivy, which was full of twittering cries like a gigantic bird's nest, and he had suddenly a ghostly feeling as if he were a moving shadow under shadowy trees and unreal shafts of sunlight. a moment later he almost held his breath lest the dark old church and the dreamy little town should vanish before his eyes and leave him alone in the outer space of shadows. coming presently under a row of poplars to the street in which stood his father's house--a square red brick building with white doric columns to the portico--he saw with a shock of surprise that the funeral carriages were standing in a solemn train for many blocks. until that moment it had not occurred to him that he might come in time to look on the dead face of the man who had not forgiven him while he was alive; and at first he shivered and shrank back as if hesitating to enter the door that had been so lately closed against him. an old negro driver, who sat on the curbing, wiping the broad black band on his battered silk hat with a red bandanna handkerchief, turned to speak to him with mingled sympathy and curiosity. "ef'n you don' hurry up, you'll miss de bes' er hit, marster," he remarked. "dey's been gwine on a pow'ful long time, but i'se been a-lisenin' wid all my years en i ain' hyearn nairy a sh'ut come thoo' de do'. lawd! lawd! dey ain' mo'n like i mo'n, caze w'en dey buried my salviny i set up sech a sh'uttin' dat i bu'st two er my spar ribs clean ter pieces." still muttering to himself he fell to polishing his old top hat more vigorously, while ordway quickened his steps with an effort, and entering the gate, ascended the brick walk to the white steps of the portico. a wide black streamer hung from the bell handle, so pushing open the door, which gave noiselessly before him, he entered softly into the heavy perfume of flowers. from the room on his right, which he remembered dimly as the formal drawing-room in the days of his earliest childhood, he heard a low voice speaking as if in prayer; and looking across the threshold, he saw a group of black robed persons kneeling in the faint light which fell through the chinks in the green shutters. the intense odour of lilies awoke in him a sharp anguish, which had no association in his thoughts with his father's death, and which he could not explain until the incidents of his mother's funeral crowded, one by one, into his memory. the scent of lilies was the scent of death in his nostrils, and he saw again the cool, high-ceiled room in the midst of which her coffin had stood, and through the open windows the wide green fields in which spring was just putting forth. that was nearly thirty years ago, yet the emotion he felt at this instant was less for his father who had died yesterday than for his mother whom he had lost while he was still a child. at his entrance no one had observed him, and while the low prayer went on, he stood with bowed head searching among the veiled figures about the coffin for the figure of his wife. was that lydia, he wondered, kneeling there in her mourning garments with her brow hidden in her clasped hands? and as he looked at her it seemed to him that she had never lifted the black veil which she had lowered over her face at their last parting. though he was outwardly now among his own people, though the physical distance which divided him from his wife and children was barely a dozen steps, the loneliness which oppressed him was like the loneliness of the prison; and he understood that his real home was not here, but in tappahannock--that his true kinship was with the labourers whose lives he had shared and whose bitter poverty he had lessened. in the presence of death he was conscious of the space, the luxury, the costly funeral wreaths that surrounded him; and these external refinements of living produced in him a sensation of shyness, as if he had no longer a rightful place in the class in which he had been born. against his will he grew ashamed of his coarse clothes and his roughened hands; and with this burning sense of humiliation a wave of homesickness for tappahannock swept over him--for the dusty little town, with its hot, close smells and for the blue tent of sky which was visible from his ivied window at cedar hill. then he remembered, with a pang, that even from tappahannock he had been cast out. for the second time since his release from prison, he felt cowed and beaten, like an animal that is driven to bay. the dead man in his coffin was more closely woven into his surroundings than was the living son who had returned to his inheritance. as the grave faces looked back at him at the end of the prayer, he realised that they belonged to branches, near or distant, of the ordway connections. with the first glimpse of his figure in the doorway there came no movement of recognition; then he observed a slight start of surprise--or was it dismay? he knew that lydia had seen him at last, though he did not look at her. it appeared to him suddenly that his return was an insult to her as well as to the dead man who lay there, helpless yet majestic, in the centre of the room. flight seemed to him at the instant the only amendment in his power, and he had made an impulsive start back from the threshold, when the strained hush was broken by a word that left him trembling and white as from a blow. "father!" cried a voice, in the first uncontrollable joy of recognition; and with an impetuous rush through the crowd that surrounded her, alice threw herself into his arms. a mist swam before his eyes and he lost the encircling faces in a blur of tears; but as she clung to his breast and he held her close, he was conscious of a fierce joy that throbbed, like a physical pain, in his throat. the word which she had uttered had brought his soul up from the abyss as surely as if it were lifted by the hands of angels; and with each sobbing breath of happiness she drew, he felt that her nature was knit more firmly into his. the repulse he had received the moment before was forgotten, and while he held her drawn apart in the doorway, the silence of lydia, and even the reproach of the dead man, had ceased to affect him. in that breathless, hysterical rush to his embrace alice saved him to-day as emily's outstretched hand had saved him three years before. "they did not tell me! oh, why, did they not tell me?" cried the girl, lifting her head from his breast, and the funeral hush that shrouded the room could not keep back the ecstasy in her voice. even when after the first awkward instant the others gathered around him, nervous, effusive, friendly, alice still clung to his hands, kissing first one and then the other and then both together, with the exquisite joyous abandonment of a child. lydia had kissed him, weeping softly under her long black veil, and hiding her pale, lovely face the moment afterwards in her clasped hands. dick, his son, had touched his cheek with his fresh young mouth; richard ordway, his father's brother, had shaken him by the hand; and the others, one and all, kinsmen and kinswomen, had given him their embarrassed, yet kindly, welcome. but it was on alice that his eyes rested, while he felt his whole being impelled toward her in a recovered rapture that was almost one of worship. in her dark beauty, with her splendid hair, her blue, flashing ordway eyes, and her lips which were too red and too full for perfection, she appeared to him the one vital thing among the mourning figures in this house of death. her delight still ran in little tremors through her limbs, and when a moment later, she slipped her hand through his arm, and followed lydia and richard ordway down the steps, and into one of the waiting carriages, he felt that her bosom quivered with the emotion which the solemn presence of his father had forced back from her lips. chapter ii his own place some hours later when he sat alone in his room, he told himself that he could never forget the drive home from the cemetery in the closed carriage. lydia had raised her veil slightly, as if in a desire for air, and as she sat with her head resting against the lowered blind, he could trace the delicate, pale lines of her mouth and chin, and a single wisp of her ash blond hair which lay heavily upon her forehead. not once had she spoken, not once had she met his eyes of her own accord, and he had discovered that she leaned almost desperately upon the iron presence of richard ordway. had his sin, indeed, crushed her until she had not power to lift her head? he asked passionately, with a sharper remorse than he had ever felt. "i am glad that you were able to come in time," richard ordway remarked in his cold, even voice; and after this the rattle of the wheels on the cobblestones in the street was the only sound which broke the death-like stillness in which they sat. no, he could never forget it, nor could he forget the bewildering effect of the sunshine when they opened the carriage door. beside the curbing a few idle negroes were left of the crowd that had gathered to watch the coffin borne through the gate, and the pavement was thick with dust, as if many hurrying feet had tramped by since the funeral had passed. as they entered the house the scent of lilies struck him afresh with all the agony of its associations. the shutters were still closed, the chairs were still arranged in their solemn circle, the streamer of crape, hurriedly untied from the bell handle, still lay where it had been thrown on the library table; and as he crossed the threshold, he trod upon some fading lilies which had fallen, unnoticed, from a funeral wreath. then, in the dining-room, richard ordway poured out a glass of whiskey, and in the very instant when he was about to raise it to his lips, he put it hurriedly down and pushed the decanter aside with an embarrassed and furtive movement. "do you feel the need of a cup of coffee, daniel?" he asked in a pleasant, conciliatory tone, "or will you have only a glass of seltzer?" "i am not thirsty, thank you," daniel responded shortly, and the next moment he asked alice to show him the room in which he would stay. with laughing eagerness she led him up the great staircase to the chamber in which he had slept as a boy. "it's just next to dick's," she said, "and mother's and mine are directly across the hall. at first we thought of putting you in the red guest-room, but that's only for visitors, so we knew you would be sure to like this better." "yes, i'll like this better," he responded, and then as she would have moved away, he caught her, with a gesture of anguish, back to his arms. "you remember me, alice, my child? you have not forgotten me?" she laughed merrily, biting her full red lips the moment afterward to check the sound. "why, how funny of you! i was quite a big girl--don't you remember?--when you went away. it was so dull afterwards that i cried for days, and that was why i was so overjoyed when mamma told me you would come back. it was never dull when you lived at home with us, because you would always take me to the park or the circus whenever i grew tired of dolls. nobody did that after you went away and i used to cry and kick sometimes thinking that they would tell you and bring you back." "and you remembered me chiefly because of the park and the circus?" he asked, smiling for joy, as he kissed her hand which lay on his sleeve. "oh, i never forget anything, you know. mamma even says that about me. i remember my first nurse and the baker's boy with red cheeks who used to bring me pink cakes when i was three years old. no, i never forget--i never forget," she repeated with vehemence. animation had kindled her features into a beauty of colour which made her eyes bluer and brighter and softened the too intense contrast of her full, red lips. "all these years i've hoped that you would come back and that things would change," she said impulsively, her words tripping rapidly over one another. "everything is so dreadfully grave and solemn here. grandfather hated noise so that he would hardly let me laugh if he was in the house. then mamma's health is wrecked, and she lies always on the sofa, and never goes out except for a drive sometimes when it is fair." "mamma's health is wrecked?" he repeated inquiringly, as she paused. "oh, that's what everybody says about her--her health is wrecked. and uncle richard is hardly any better, for he has a wife whose health is wrecked also. and dick--he isn't sick, but he might as well be, he is so dull and plodding and over nice----" "and you alice?" "i? oh, i'm not dull, but i'm unhappy--awfully--you'll find that out. i like fun and pretty clothes and new people and strange places. i want to marry and have a home of my own and a lot of rings like mamma's, and a carriage with two men on the box, and to go to europe to buy things whenever i please. that's the way molly burridge does and she was only two classes ahead of me. how rough your hands are, papa, and what a funny kind of shirt you have on. do people dress like that where you came from? well, i don't like it, so you'll have to change." she had gone out at last, forgetting to walk properly in her mourning garments, tripping into a run on the threshold, and then checking herself with a prim, mocking look over her shoulder. not until the door had closed with a slam behind her black skirt, did ordway's gaze turn from following her and fix itself on the long mirror between the windows, in which he could see, as alice had seen the moment before, his roughened hands, his carelessly trimmed hair and his common clothes. he was dressed as the labourers dressed on sundays in tappahannock; though, he remembered now, that in that crude little town he had been conspicuous for the neatness, almost the jauntiness, of his attire. as he laid out presently on the bed his few poor belongings, he told himself, with determination, that for alice's sake even this must be changed. he was no longer of the class of baxter, of banks, of mrs. twine. all that was over, and he must return now into the world in which his wife and his children had kept a place. to do alice honour--at least not to do her further shame--would become from this day, he realised, the controlling motive of his life. then, as he looked down at the coarse, unshapely garments upon the delicate counterpane, he knew that daniel smith and daniel ordway were now parted forever. he was still holding one of the rough blue shirts in his hand, when a servant entered to inquire if there was anything that he might need. the man, a bright young mulatto, was not one of the old family slaves; and while he waited, alert and intelligent, upon the threshold, ordway was seized by a nervous feeling that he was regarded with curiosity and suspicion by the black rolling eyes. "where is uncle boaz? he used to wait upon me," he asked. "he's daid, suh. he drapped down daid right on de do' step." "and aunt mirandy?" "she's daid, too, en' i'se her chile." "oh, you are, are you?" said ordway, and he had again the sensation that he was watched through inquisitive eyes. "that is all now," he added presently, "you may go," and it was with a long breath of relief that he saw the door close after the figure of aunt mirandy's son. when a little later he dressed himself and went out into the hall, he found, to his annoyance, that he walked with a cautious and timid step like that of a labourer who has stumbled by accident into surroundings of luxury. as he descended the wide curving staircase, with his hand on the mahogany balustrade, the sound of his footsteps seemed to reverberate disagreeably through the awful funereal silence in which he moved. if he could only hear alice's laugh, dick's whistle, or even the garrulous flow of the negro voices that he had listened to in his childhood. with a pang he recalled that uncle boaz was dead, and his heart swelled as he remembered how often he had passed up and down this same staircase on the old servant's shoulder. at that age he had felt no awe of the shining emptiness and the oppressive silence. then he had believed himself to be master of all at which he looked; now he was conscious of that complete detachment from his surroundings which produces almost a sense of the actual separation of soul and body. reaching the hall below, he found that some hurried attempt had been made to banish or to conceal the remaining signs of the funeral. the doors and windows were open, the shreds of crape had disappeared from the carpet, and the fading lilies had been swept out upon the graveled walk in the yard. upon entering the library, which invited him by its rows of calf-bound books, he discovered that richard ordway was patiently awaiting him in the large red leather chair which had once been the favourite seat of his father. "before i go home, i think it better to have a little talk with you, daniel," began the old man, as he motioned to a sofa on the opposite side of the turkish rug before the open grate. "it has been a peculiar satisfaction to me to feel that i was able to bring you back in time for the service." "i came," replied daniel slowly, "as soon as i received your telegram." he hesitated an instant and then went on in the same quiet tone in which the other had spoken, "do you think, though, that he would have wished me to come at all?" after folding the newspaper which he had held in his hand, richard laid it, with a courteous gesture upon the table beside him. as he sat there with his long limbs outstretched and relaxed, and his handsome, severe profile resting against the leather back of his chair, the younger man was impressed, as if for the first time, by the curious mixture of strength and refinement in his features. he was not only a cleverer man than his brother had been, he was gentler, smoother, more distinguished on every side. in spite of his reserve, it was evident that he had wished to be kind--that he wished it still; yet this kindness was so removed from the ordinary impulse of humanity that it appeared to his nephew to be in a way as detached and impersonal as an abstract virtue. the very lines of his face were drawn with the precision, the finality, of a geometrical figure. to imagine that they could melt into tenderness was as impossible as to conceive of their finally crumbling into dust. "he would have wished it--he did wish it," he said, after a minute. "i talked with him only a few hours before his death, and he told me then that it was necessary to send for you--that he felt that he had neglected his duty in not bringing you home immediately after your release. he saw at last that it would have been far better to have acted as i strongly advised at the time." "it was his desire, then, that i should return?" asked daniel, while a stinging moisture rose to his eyes at the thought that he had not looked once upon the face of the dead man. "i wish i had known." a slight surprise showed in the other's gesture of response, and he glanced hastily away as he might have done had he chanced to surprise his nephew while he was still without his boots or his shirt. "i think he realised before he died that the individual has no right to place his personal pride above the family tie," he resumed quietly, ignoring the indecency of emotion as he would have ignored, probably, the unclothed body. "i had said much the same thing to him eight years ago, when i told him that he would realise before his death that he was not morally free to act as he had done with regard to you. as a matter of fact," he observed in his trained, legal voice, "the family is, after all, the social unit, and each member is as closely related as the eye to the ear or the right arm to the left. it is illogical to speak of denying one's flesh and blood, for it can't be done." so this was why they had received him. he turned his head away, and his gaze rested upon the boughs of the great golden poplar beyond the window. "it is understood, then," he asked "that i am to come back--back to this house to live?" when he had finished, but not until then, richard ordway looked at him again with his dry, conventional kindness. "if you are free," he began, altering the word immediately lest it should suggest painful associations to his companion's mind, "i mean if you have no other binding engagements, no decided plans for the future." "no, i have made no other plans. i was working as a bookkeeper in a tobacco warehouse in tappahannock." "as a bookkeeper?" repeated richard, as he glanced down inquiringly at the other's hands. "oh, i worked sometimes out of doors, but the position i held was that of confidential clerk." the old man nodded amiably, accepting the explanation with a readiness for which the other was not prepared. "i was about to offer you some legal work in my office," he remarked. "dry and musty stuff, i fear it is, but it's better--isn't it?--for a man to have some kind of occupation----" though the words were uttered pleasantly enough, it seemed to the younger man that the concluding and significant phrase was left unspoken. "some kind of occupation to keep you out of temptation" was what richard had meant to say--what he had withheld, from consideration, if not from humanity. while the horror of the whole situation closed over daniel like a mental darkness, he remembered the sensitive shrinking of lydia on the drive home, the prying, inquisitive eyes of the mulatto servant, the furtive withdrawal of the whiskey by the man who sat opposite to him. with all its attending humiliation and despair, there rushed upon him the knowledge that by the people of his own household he was regarded still as a creature to be restrained and protected at every instant. though outwardly they had received him, instinctively they had repulsed him. the thing which stood between them and himself was neither of their making nor of his. it belonged to their very nature and was woven in with their inner fibre. it was a creation, not of the individual, but of the race, and the law by which it existed was rooted deep in the racial structure. tradition, inheritance, instinct--these were the barriers through which he had broken and which had closed like the impenetrable sea-gates behind him. though he were to live on day by day as a saint among them, they could never forget: though he were to shed his heart's blood for them, they would never believe. to convince them of his sincerity was more hopeless, he understood, than to reanimate their affection. in their very forgiveness they had not ceased to condemn him, and in the shelter which they offered him there would be always a hidden restraint. with the thought it seemed to him that he was stifling in the closeness of the atmosphere, that he must break away again, that he must find air and freedom, though it cost him all else besides. the possibility of his own weakness seemed created in him by their acceptance of it; and he felt suddenly a terror lest the knowledge of their suspicion should drive him to justify it by his future in botetourt. "yes, it is better for me to work," he said aloud. "i hope that i shall be able to make myself of some small use in your office." "there's no doubt of that, i'm sure," responded richard, in his friendliest tone. "it is taken for granted, then, that i shall live on here with my wife and children?" "we have decided that it is best. but as for your wife, you must remember that she is very much of an invalid. do not forget that she has had a sad--a most tragic life." "i promise you that i shall not forget it--make your mind easy." after this it seemed to daniel that there was nothing further to be said; but before rising from his chair, the old man sat for a moment with his thin lips tightly folded and a troubled frown ruffling his forehead. in the dim twilight the profile outlined against the leather chair appeared to have been ground rather than roughly hewn out of granite. "about the disposition of the estate, there were some changes made shortly before your father's death," remarked richard presently. "in the will itself you were not mentioned; a provision was made for your wife and the bulk of the property left to your two children. but in a codicil, which was added the day before your father died, he directed that you should be given a life interest in the house as well as in investments to the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. this is to be paid you in the form of a quarterly allowance, which will yield you a personal income of about six thousand a year." "i understand," replied the younger man, without emotion, almost without surprise. at the moment he was wondering by what name his father had alluded to him in his will. had he spoken of him as "my son," or merely as "daniel ordway"? "that is all, i think," remarked the other, with a movement which expressed, in spite of him, a sensation of relief. with a smile which appeared to be little more than a muscular contraction of his mouth, he held out his hand and stood for a moment, vainly searching for a phrase or a word that would fit the delicate requirements of the occasion. "well, i shall never cease to be thankful that you were with us at the cemetery," he said at last in a tone which was a patent admission that he had failed. then, with a kindly inclination of his head, he released the hand he held and passed at his rapid, yet dignified step out of the house. chapter iii the outward pattern the front door had hardly closed when a breath of freshness blew into the library with the entrance of alice, and a moment afterwards the butler rolled back the mahogany doors of the dining-room and they saw the lighted candles and the chrysanthemums upon the dinner table. "we hardly ever dress," said alice, slipping her hand through his arm, "i wish we did." "well, if you'll only pardon these clothes to-night i'll promise to call on the tailor before breakfast," he returned, smiling, conscious that he watched in anxiety lest the look of delight in his presence should vanish from her face. "oh, it doesn't matter now, because we're in the deepest grief--aren't we?--and mamma isn't coming down. she wants to see you, by the way, just for a minute when you go upstairs. it is to be just for a minute, i was to be very particular about that, as she is broken down. i wonder why they have put so many covers. there is nobody but you and dick. i asked uncle richard, but he said that he wouldn't stay. it's just as well he didn't--he's so dreadfully dull, isn't he, papa?" "all i wish is that i were dull in uncle richard's way," remarked dick, with his boyish air of superiority, "i'd be the greatest lawyer in the state then, when my turn came." "and you'd be even more tiresome than you are now," retorted the girl with a flash of irritation which brought out three fine, nervous wrinkles on her delicate forehead. "well, i shouldn't have your temper anyway," commented dick imperturbably, as he ate his soup. "do you remember, papa, how alice used to bite and scratch as a baby? she'd like to behave exactly that way now if she weren't so tall." "oh, i know alice better than you do," said ordway, in a voice which he tried to make cheerful. the girl sat on his right, and while she choked back her anger, he reached out and catching her hand, held it against his cheek. "we stand together, alice and i," he said softly--"alice and i." as he repeated the words a wave of joy rose in his heart, submerging the disappointment, the bitterness, the hard despair, of the last few hours. here also, as well as in tappahannock, he found awaiting him his appointed task. dick laughed pleasantly, preserving always the unshakable self-possession which reminded his father of richard ordway. he was a good boy, daniel knew, upright, honest, manly, all the things which his grandfather and his great-grandfather had been before him. "then you'll have to stand with geoffrey heath," he said jestingly, "and, by jove, i don't think i'd care for his company." "geoffrey heath?" repeated ordway inquiringly, with his eyes on his daughter, who sat silent and angry, biting her lower lip. her mouth, which he had soon discovered to be her least perfect feature, was at the same time her most expressive one. at her slightest change of mood, he watched it tremble into a smile or a frown, and from a distance it was plainly the first thing one noticed about her face. now, as she sat there, with her eyes on her plate, her vivid lips showed like a splash of carmine in the lustreless pallor of her skin. "oh, he's one of alice's chums," returned dick with his merciless youthful sneer, "she has a pretty lot of them, too, though he is by long odds the worst." "well, he's rich enough anyway," protested alice defiantly, "he keeps beautiful horses and sends me boxes of candy, and i don't care a bit for the rest." "who is he, by the way?" asked daniel. "there was a family of heaths who lived near us in the country when i was a boy. is he one of these?" "he's the son of old rupert heath, who made a million out of some panic in stocks. uncle richard says the father was all right, but he's tried his best to break up alice's craze about geoffrey. but let her once get her nose to the wind and nobody can do anything with her." "well, i can, can't i, darling?" asked ordway, smiling in spite of a jealous pang. the appeal of the girl to him was like the appeal of the finer part of his own nature. her temptations he recognised as the old familiar temptations of his youth, and the kinship between them seemed at the moment something deeper and more enduring than the tie of blood. yet the thought that she was his daughter awoke in him a gratitude that was almost as acute as pain. the emptiness of his life was filled suddenly to over-flowing, and he felt again that he had found here as he had found at tappahannock both his mission and his reward. when dinner was over he left the boy and girl in the library and went slowly, and with a nervous hesitation, upstairs to the room in which lydia was lying on her couch, with a flower-decked tray upon the little inlaid table beside her. as he entered the room something in the luxurious atmosphere--in the amber satin curtains, the white bearskin rugs, the shining mirrors between the windows--recalled the early years of his marriage, and as he remembered them, he realised for the first time the immensity of the change which divided his present existence from his past. the time had been when he could not separate his inner life from his surroundings, and with the thought he saw in his memory the bare cleanliness of the blue guest-room at cedar hill--with its simple white bed, its rag carpet, its faded sampler worked in blue worsteds. that place had become as a sanctuary to him now, for it was there that he had known his most perfect peace, his completest reconciliation with god. as he entered the room lydia raised herself slightly upon her elbow, and without turning her head, nervously pushed back a white silk shawl which she had thrown over her knees. a lamp with an amber shade cast its light on her averted profile, and he noticed that its perfect outline, its serene loveliness, was untouched by suffering. already he had discovered those almost imperceptible furrows between alice's eyebrows, but when lydia looked up at him at last, he saw that her beautiful forehead, under its parting of ash blond hair, was as smooth as a child's. was it merely the madonna-like arrangement of her hair, after all, he wondered, not without bitterness, that had bestowed upon her that appealing expression of injured innocence? "you wished to speak to me, alice said," he began with an awkward gesture, acutely conscious, as he stood there, of the amber light in the room, of the shining waves of her hair, of the delicate perfume which floated from the gold-topped boxes upon her dressing-table. an oval mirror above the mantel gave back to him the reflection of his own roughly clad figure, and the violent contrast between himself and his surroundings stung him into a sense of humiliation that was like a physical smart. "i thought it better to speak to you--uncle richard and dick advised me to----" she broke off in a gentle confusion, lifting her lovely, pensive eyes for the first time to his face. "of course it is better, lydia," he answered gravely. "you must let me know what you wish--you must tell me quite frankly just what you would rather that i should do----" the look of gratitude in her face gave him a sudden inexplicable pang. "i am hardly more than an invalid," she said in a voice that had grown firm and sweet, "uncle richard will tell you----" her reliance upon richard ordway aroused in him a passion of resentment, and for an instant the primitive man in him battled hotly against the renunciation his lips had made. "i know, i understand," he said hurriedly at last. "i appreciate it all and i shall do whatever is in my power to make it easier for you." as he looked at her bowed head a wave of remorse rose in his breast and swept down, one by one, the impulses of anger, of pride, of self-righteousness. "o my dear, my dear, don't you think i know what i have done to you?" he asked, and going a step toward her, he fell on his knees beside the couch and kissed passionately the hand that lay in her lap. "don't you think i know that i have ruined your life?" for a moment her eyes dwelt thoughtfully upon his, and she let her hand lie still beneath his remorseful kisses, until her withdrawal of it had lost any appearance of haste or of discourtesy. "then you will not object to my living on in this way? you will not seek to change anything? you will----" she hesitated and broke off, not impulsively, but with the same clear, sweet voice in which she had put her question. lifting his head, he looked up at her from his knees, and the dumb loneliness in his eyes caused her at last to drop her own to the rug upon which he knelt. "if you will only let me care for you--serve you--work for you," he implored brokenly. "if you will only let me make up, however poorly, something of what you have suffered." a vague discomfort, produced in her by the intensity of his gaze, moved her to draw slightly away from him, while she turned restlessly on her pillows. at the first shade of perplexity, of annoyance, that showed in her face, he felt, with a terrible power of intuition, that she was seeking in vain to estimate each of his heartbroken words at its full value--to read calmly by the light of experience the passion for atonement to which his lips had tried hopelessly to give expression. the wall of personality rose like a visible object between them. he might beat against it in desperation until his strength was gone, yet he knew that it would remain forever impenetrable, and through its thickness there would pass only the loud, unmeaning sound of each other's voice. "have you lost all love for me, lydia?" he asked. "have you even forgotten that i am the father of your children?" as soon as his words were uttered, he stumbled to his feet, horrified by the effect upon her. a change that was like a spasm of physical nausea had shaken her limbs, and he felt rather than saw that she had shrunk from him, convulsed and quivering, until she was crushed powerless against the back of the sofa on which she lay. her whole attitude, he realised, was the result, not of a moral judgment, but of a purely physical antipathy. her horror of him had become instinctive, and she was no more responsible for its existence than a child is responsible for the dread aroused in it by the goblins of nursery rhymes. his life as a convict had not only unclassed him in her eyes, it had put him entirely outside and below the ordinary relations of human beings. to his wife he must remain forever an object of pity, perhaps, but of intense loathing and fear also. the wave of remorse turned to bitterness on his lips, and all the tenderer emotions he had felt when he knelt by her side--the self-reproach, the spiritual yearning, the passion for goodness, all these were extinguished in the sense of desolation which swept over him. "don't be afraid," he said coldly, "i shall not touch you." "it was nothing--a moment's pain," she answered, in a wistful, apologetic voice. she was playing nervously with the fringe of the silk shawl, and he stood for a minute in silence while he watched her long, slender fingers twine themselves in and out of the tasseled ends. then turning aside she pushed away the coffee service on the little table as if its fragrance annoyed her. "is it in your way? do you wish it removed?" he inquired, and when she had nodded in reply, he lifted the tray and carried it in the direction of the door. "don't be afraid. it is all right," he repeated as he went out. back in his own room again, he asked himself desperately if this existence could be possible? would it not be better for him to lose himself a second time--to throw in his lot with a lower class, since his own had rejected him? flinging himself on the floor beside the window, he pressed his forehead against the white painted wood as if the outward violence could deaden the throbbing agony he felt within. again he smelt the delicate, yet intense perfume of lydia's chamber; again he saw her shrinking from him until she lay crushed and white against the back of the sofa; again he watched her features contract with the instinctive repulsion she could not control. the pitiful deprecating gesture with which she had murmured: "it is nothing--a moment's pain," was seared forever like the mark from a burning iron into his memory. "no, no--it cannot be--it is impossible," he said suddenly aloud. and though he had not the strength to frame the rest of his thought into words, he knew that the impossible thing he meant was this life, this torture, this slow martyrdom day by day without hope and without end except in death. after all there was a way of escape, so why should it be closed to him? what were these people to him beside those others whom he might yet serve--the miserable, the poor, the afflicted who would take from him the gifts which his own had rejected? what duty remained? what obligation? what responsibility? step by step he retraced the nineteen years of his marriage, and he understood for the first time, that lydia had given him on her wedding day nothing of herself beyond the gentle, apologetic gesture which had followed that evening her involuntary repulsion. from the beginning to the end she had presided always above, not shared in his destiny. she had wanted what he could give, but not himself, and when he could give nothing more she had shown that she wanted him no longer. while he knelt there, still pressing his forehead against the window sill, the image of her part in his life rose out of the darkness of his mind, which opened and closed over it, and he saw her fixed, shining and immovable, to receive his offerings, like some heathen deity above the sacrificial altar. the next instant the image faded and was replaced by emily as she had looked at him on that last evening with her soft, comforting gaze. the weakness of self pity came over him, and he asked himself in the coward's luxury of hopeless questioning, what emily would have done had she stood to him in lydia's place? he saw her parting from him with her bright courage at the prison doors; he saw her meeting him with her smile of welcome and of forgiveness when he came out. as once before he had risen to the vision of service, so now in the agony of his humiliation he was blessed at last with the understanding of love. for many minutes he knelt there motionless by the open window, beyond which he could see the dimly lighted town on which a few drops of rain had begun to fall. the faint perfume of lilies came up to him from the walk below, where the broken sprays swept from the house were fading under the slow, soft rain. with the fragrance the image of emily dissolved as in a mist to reappear the minute afterwards in a more torturing and human shape. he saw her now with her bright dark hair blown into little curls on her temples, with her radiant brown eyes that penetrated him with their soft, yet animated glance. the vigorous grace of her figure, as he had seen it outlined in her scant blue cotton gown against the background of cedars, remained motionless in his thoughts, bathed in a clear golden light that tormented his senses. rising from his knees with an effort, he struck a match and raised the green shade from the lamp on the table. then while the little blue flame flickered out in his hand, he felt that he was seized by a frantic, an irresistible impulse of flight. gathering his clothes from the bed in the darkness, he pushed them hurriedly back into the bag he had emptied, and with a last glance at the room which had become unendurable to him, opened the door and went with a rapid step down the great staircase and into the hall below. the direction of his journey, as well as the purpose of it, was obscure in his mind. yesterday he had told himself that he could not remain in tappahannock, and to-day he knew that it was impossible for him to live on in his father's house. to pass the hall door meant release--escape to him; beyond that there lay only the distance and the unknown. the lights burned dimly on the staircase, and when he reached the bottom he could see on the carpet the thin reddish stream which issued from the closed door of the library. as he was about to pass by, a short sob fell on his ear, arresting him as authoritatively as if it had been the sound of his own name. while he stood there listening the sobs ceased and then broke out more loudly, now violent, now smothered, now followed by quick, furious steps across the floor within. alice was shut in the room alone and suffering! with the realisation the bag fell from his hand, and turning the knob softly, he opened the door and paused for an instant upon the threshold. at the noise of the opening door the girl made a single step forward, and as she raised her hands to conceal her distorted features, her handkerchief, torn into shreds, fell to the carpet at her feet. around her the room showed other signs of an outbreak of anger--the chairs were pushed hurriedly out of place, the books from the centre table were lying with opened backs on the floor, and a vase of dahlias lay overturned and scattered upon the mantel. "i don't care--i don't care," she repeated, convulsively. "why do they always interfere with me? what right has dick or uncle richard to say whom i shall see or whom i shall not? i hate them all. mamma is always against me--so is uncle richard--so is everybody. they side with dick--always--always." a single wave of her dark hair had fallen low on her forehead, and this, with the violent colour of her mouth, gave her a look that was almost barbaric. the splendid possibilities in her beauty caused him, in the midst of his pity, a sensation of dread. "alice," he said softly, almost in a whisper, and closing the door after him, he came to the middle of the room and stood near her, though still without touching her quivering body. "they side with dick always," she repeated furiously, "and you will side with him, too--you will side with him, too!" for a long pause he looked at her in silence, waiting until the convulsive tremors of her limbs should cease. "i shall never side against my daughter," he said very slowly. "alice, my child, my darling, are you not really mine?" a last quivering sob shook through her and she grew suddenly still. "they will tell you things about me and you will believe them," she answered sternly. "against you, alice? against you?" "you will blame me as they do." "i love you," he returned, almost as sternly as she had spoken. an emotional change, so swift that it startled him, broke in her look, and he saw the bright red of her mouth tremble and open like a flower in her glowing face. at the sight a sharp joy took possession of him--a joy that he could measure only by the depth of the agony out of which he had come. without moving from his place, he stretched out his arms and stood waiting. "alice, i love you," he said. then his arms closed over her, for with the straight flight of a bird she had flown to his breast. chapter iv the letter and the spirit awaking before dawn, he realised with his first conscious thought that his life had been irrevocably settled while he slept. his place was here; he could not break away from it without leaving a ragged edge; and while he had believed himself to be deciding his future actions, that greater destiny, of which his will was only a part, had arranged them for him during the dim pause of the night. he could feel still on his arm, as if it had persisted there through his sleep, the firm, almost viselike pressure of alice's hands, and his whole sensitive nature thrilled in response to this mute appeal to his fatherhood. yes, his purpose, his mission, and his happiness were here in his father's house. at breakfast he found a white rosebud on his plate, and as he took it up, alice rushed in from the garden and threw herself into his arms. "i thought you were never, never coming down!" she exclaimed, choking with laughter, and utterly forgetful of the shadow of death which still lay over the house. "at first i was afraid you might have gone away in the night--just as you went that awful day eight years ago. then i peeped out and saw your boots, so i went back to bed again and fell asleep. oh, i'm so glad you've come! why did you stay away such an age? now, at last, i'll have somebody to take my side against mamma and dick and uncle richard----" "but why against them, alice? surely they love you just as i do?" biting her lips sharply, she bent her heavy brows in a stern and frowning expression. "oh, they're horrid," she said angrily, "they want me to live just as mamma does--shut up all day in a hot room on a hateful sofa. she reads novels all the time, and i despise books. i want to go away and see things and to have plenty of clothes and all the fun i choose. they let dick do just as he pleases because he's a boy, but they try to make me dull and stupid and foolish all because i'm a girl. i won't have it like that and it makes them angry----" "oh, well, we'll have fun together, you and i," returned ordway, with a sinking heart, "but you must wait a bit till i catch up with you. don't be in a precious hurry, if you please." "shall we have a good time, then? shall we?" she persisted, delighted, kissing him with her warm mouth until he was dazzled by her beauty, her fascination, her ardent vitality. "and you will do just what i wish, won't you?" she whispered in his ear as she hung on his shoulder, "you will be good and kind always? and you will make them leave me alone about geoffrey heath?" "about geoffrey heath?" he repeated, and grew suddenly serious. "oh, he's rich and he's fun, too," she responded irritably. "he has asked me to ride one of his horses--the most beautiful chestnut mare in the world--but mamma scolds me about it because she says he's not nice and that he did something once years ago about cards. as if i cared about cards!" by the fear that had gripped him he could judge the strength of her hold on his heart. "alice, be careful--promise me to be careful!" he entreated. at his words he felt her arms relax from their embrace, and she seemed instantly to turn to marble upon his breast. "oh, you're just like the others now. i knew you would be!" she exclaimed, as she drew away from him. before the coldness of her withdrawal he felt that his will went out of him; and in one despairing flight of imagination he saw what the loss of her affection would mean now in his life. an emotion which he knew to be weakness pervaded not only his heart, but his soul and his senses and the remotest fibre of his physical being. "whatever comes i shall always stand by you, alice," he said. though she appeared to be mollified by his subjection, the thin almost imperceptible furrows caused by the moment's anger, were still visible between her eyebrows. there was a certain fascination, he found, in watching these marks of age or of experience come and go on her fresh, childlike forehead, with its lustrous pallor, from which her splendid dark hair rolled back, touched with light, like a moonlit cloud. it was a singular characteristic of her beauty that its appeal was rather to the imagination than to the eye, and the moments, perhaps, when she dazzled least were those in which she conquered most through her enigmatical charm. "you will buy some clothes, first of all, will you not?" she said, when, having finished his breakfast, he rose from the table and went out into the hall. he met her eyes laughing, filled with happiness at the playful authority she assumed, and yet fearful still lest some incautious word of his should bring out those fine nervous wrinkles upon her forehead. "give me a week and i'll promise you a fashion plate," he responded gaily, kissing his hand to her as he went down the steps, and, under the trailing rose creepers at the gate, out into the street. rain had fallen in the night, and the ground was covered with shining puddles beneath which a few autumn leaves showed drenched and beaten. from the golden and red maples above a damp odour was wafted down into his face by the october wind, which now rose and now died away with a gentle sound. in the pale sunshine, which had not yet drained the moisture from the bricks, a wonderful freshness seemed to emanate from the sky and the earth and the white-pillared houses. as he approached the corner, he heard his name called in a clear emphatic voice from the opposite sidewalk, and turning his head, he saw hastening toward him, a little elderly lady in a black silk gown trimmed heavily with bugles. as she neared him, followed by a young negro maid bearing a market basket filled with vegetables, he recognised her as an intimate friend of his mother's, whom he had known familiarly in his childhood as "aunt lucy." it seemed so long now since his mother's death that he was attacked by a ghostly sensation, as if he were dreaming over his past life, while he stood face to face with the old lady's small soldierly figure and listened to the crisp, emphatic tones in which she welcomed him back to botetourt. he remembered his frequent visits to her solemn old house, which she kept so dark that he had always stumbled over the two embroidered ottomans on the parlour hearth. he recalled the smell of spices which had hung about her storeroom, and the raspberry preserves which she had never failed to give him out of a blue china jar. "why, my dear, blessed child, it's such a pleasure to have you back!" she exclaimed now with an effusion which he felt to be the outward veil of some hidden embarrassment. "you must come sometimes and let me talk to you about your mother. i knew your mother so well--i was one of her bridesmaids." seizing his arm in her little firm, clawlike hands, she assured him with animation of her delight at his return, alluding in a shaking voice to his mother, and urging him to come to sit with her whenever he could stand the gloom of her empty house. "and you will give me raspberry preserves out of the blue china jar?" he asked, laughing, "and let me feed crackers to the green parrot?" "what a boy! what a boy!" she returned. "you remember everything. the parrot is dead--my poor polly!--but there is a second." her effusiveness, her volubility, which seemed to him to be the result of concealed embarrassment, produced in him presently a feeling of distrust, almost of resentment, and he remembered the next instant that, in his childhood, she had been looked upon as a creature of uncontrolled charitable impulses. upon the occasion of his last meeting with her was she not hastening upon some ministering errand to the city gaol? at the casual recollection an unreasoning bitterness awoke in his mind; her reiterated raptures fell with a strange effect of irritation upon his ears; and he knew now that he could never bring himself to enter her house again, that he could never accept her preserved raspberries out of the blue china jar. her reception of him, he saw, was but a part of the general reception of botetourt. like her the town would be voluble, unnatural, overdone in its kindness, hiding within itself a furtive constraint as if it addressed its speeches to the sensitive sufferer from some incurable malady. the very tenderness, the exaggerated sympathy in its manner would hardly have been different, he understood, if he had been recently discharged as harmless, yet half-distraught, from an asylum for the insane. as the days went on this idea, instead of dissolving, became unalterably lodged in his brain. gradually he retreated further and further into himself, until the spiritual isolation in which he lived appeared to him more and more like the isolation of the prison. his figure had become a familiar one in the streets of botetourt, yet he lived bodily among the people without entering into their lives or sharing in any degree the emotions that moved their hearts. only in periods of sorrow did he go willingly into the houses of those of his own class, though he had found a way from the beginning to reach the poor, the distressed, or the physically afflicted. his tall, slightly stooping figure, in its loose black clothes, his dark head, with the thick locks of iron gray hair upon the temples, his sparkling blue eyes, his bright, almost boyish smile, and the peculiar, unforgettable charm of his presence--these were the things which those in sickness or poverty began to recognise and to look for. in his own home he lived, except for the fitful tenderness of alice, as much apart as he felt himself to be in the little town. they were considerate of him, but their consideration, he knew, contained an ineradicable suspicion, and in the house as outside, he was surrounded by the watchful regard that is given to the infirm or the mentally diseased. he read this in lydia's gently averted eyes; he felt it in richard ordway's constrained manner; he detected it even in the silent haste with which the servants fulfilled his slightest wish. his work in his uncle's office, he had soon found to be of the most mechanical character, a mere pretext to give him daily employment, and he told himself, in a moment of bitterness that it was convincing proof of the opinion which the older man must hold of his honesty or of his mental capacity. it became presently little more than a hopeless round to him--this morning walk through the sunny streets, past the ivied walls of the old church, to the clean, varnish scented office, where he sat, until the luncheon hour, under the hard, though not unkind, eyes of the man who reminded him at every instant of his dead father. and the bitterest part of it, after all, was that the closer he came to the character of richard ordway, the profounder grew his respect for his uncle's unwavering professional honour. the old man would have starved, he knew, rather than have held back a penny that was not legally his own or have owed a debt that he felt had begun to weigh, however lightly, upon his conscience. yet this lawyer of scrupulous rectitude was the husband, his nephew suspected, of a neglected, a wretchedly unhappy wife--a small, nervous creature, whom he had married, shortly after the death of his first wife, some twenty years ago. the secret of this unhappiness daniel had discovered almost by intuition on the day of his father's funeral, when he had looked up suddenly in the cemetery to find his uncle's wife regarding him with a pair of wonderful, pathetic eyes, which seemed to gaze at him sadly out of a blue mist. so full of sympathy and understanding was her look that the memory of it had returned to him more than a year later, and had caused him to stop at her gate one november afternoon as he was returning from his office work. after an instant's pause, and an uncertain glance at the big brick house with its clean white columns, he ascended the steps and rang the bell for the first time since his boyhood. the house was one of the most charming in botetourt, but as he followed the servant down the hall to the library, it seemed to him that all these high, imposing walls, with their fine white woodwork, enclosed but so much empty space to fill with loneliness. his uncle had no children, and the sad, fair-haired little wife appeared to be always alone and always suffering. she was seated now in a low rocking-chair beside the window, and as she turned her head at his entrance, he could see, through the lace curtains, a few pale november leaves, which fluttered down from an elm tree beside the porch. when she looked at him he noticed that her eyes were large and beautiful and of a changeable misty colour which appeared now gray, now violet. "it is so good of you, daniel," she said, in a soft, grateful voice, removing her work-basket from the chair at her side so that he might come within the reach of her short-sighted gaze. "i've wanted to come ever since i saw you for the first time after my return," he answered cheerfully. "it is strange, isn't it?--that i hardly remember you when i lived here. you were always ill, were you not?" "yes, ill almost always," she replied, smiling as she met his glance. "when you were married i remember i couldn't go to the wedding because i had been in bed for three months. but that's all over now," she added, fearing to produce in him a momentary depression. "i am well again, you see, so the past doesn't matter." "the past doesn't matter," he repeated in a low voice, struck by the words as if they held more than their surface meaning for his ears. she nodded gravely. "how can it matter if one is really happy at last." "and you are happy at last?" as he watched her it seemed to him that a pale flame burned in her face, tinging its sallow wanness with a golden light. "i am at peace and is that not happiness?" she asked. "but you were sad once--that day in the cemetery? i felt it." "that was while i was still struggling," she answered, "and it always hurts one to struggle. i wanted happiness--i kept on wanting it even after i ceased to believe in its existence. i fought very hard--oh, desperately hard--but now i have learned that the only way to get anything is to give it up. happiness is like everything else, it is only when one gives it back to god that one really possesses it." he had never seen a face in which the soul spoke so clearly, and her look rather than her words came to him like the touch of divine healing. "when i saw you standing beside your father's grave, i knew that you were just where i had been for so many years--that you were still telling your self that things were too hard, that they were unendurable. i had been through it all, you see, so i understood." "but how could you know the bitterness, the shame of feeling that it was all the result of my own mistake--of my own sin." taking his hand in hers, she sat for a moment in silence with her ecstatic gaze fixed on his face. "i know that in spite of your sin you are better than they are," she said at last, "because your sin was on the outside--a thing to be sloughed off and left far behind, while their self-righteousness is of their very souls----" "oh, hush, hush," he interrupted sternly, "they have forgiven me for what i did, that is enough." "sixteen years ago," she returned, dropping her voice, "my husband forgave me in the same way, and he has never forgotten it." at his start of surprise, he felt that she clung the more closely to the hand she held. "oh, it wasn't so big a thing," she went on, "i had been married to him for five years, and i was very unhappy when i met someone who seemed to understand and to love me. for a time i was almost insane with the wonder and delight of it--i might have gone away with him--with the other--in my first rapture, had not richard found it all out two days before. he behaved very generously--he forgave me. i should have been happier," she added a little wistfully, "if he had not." as she broke off trembling, he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it with tenderness, almost with passion. "then that was the beginning of your unhappiness--of your long illness!" he exclaimed. she nodded smiling, while a tear ran slowly down her flushed cheek. "he forgave me sixteen years ago and he has never allowed me to forget it one hour--hardly a minute since." "then you understand how bitter--how intolerable it is!" he returned in an outbreak of anger. "i thought i knew," she replied more firmly than he had ever heard her speak, "but i learned afterwards that it was a mistake. i see now that they are kind--that they are good in their way, and i love them for it. it isn't our way, i know, but the essence of charity, after all, is to learn to appreciate goodness in all its expressions, no matter how different they may be from our own. even richard is kind--he means everything for the best, and it is only his nature that is straightened--that is narrow--not his will. i felt bitterly once, but not now because i am so happy at last." beyond the pale outline of her head, he saw the elm leaves drifting slowly down, and beyond them the low roofs and the dim church spires of the quiet town. was it possible that even here he might find peace in the heart of the storm? "it is only since i have given my happiness back to god that it is really mine," she said, and it seemed to him again that her soul gathered brightness and shone in her face. chapter v the will of alice when he reached home the servant who helped him out of his overcoat, informed him at the same time that his uncle awaited him in the library. with the news a strange chill came over him as if he had left something warm and bright in the november sunset outside. for an instant it seemed to him that he must turn back--that he could not go forward. then with a gesture of assent, he crossed the hall and entered the library, where he found lydia and the children as well as richard ordway. the lamps were unlit, and the mellow light of the sunset fell through the interlacing half-bared boughs of the golden poplar beyond the window. this light, so rich, so vivid, steeped the old mahogany furniture and the faded family portraits in a glow which seemed to daniel to release, for the first time, some latent romantic spirit that had dwelt in the room. in the midst of this glamor of historic atmosphere, the four figures, gathered so closely together against the clear space of the window, with its network of poplar leaves beyond the panes, borrowed for the moment a strange effectiveness of pose, a singular intensity of outline. not only the figures, but the very objects by which they were surrounded appeared to vibrate in response to a tragic impulse. richard ordway was standing upon the hearthrug, his fine head and profile limned sharply against the pale brown wall at his side. his right hand was on lydia's shoulder, who sat motionless, as if she had fallen there, with her gentle, flower-like head lying upon the arm of her son. before them, as before her judges, alice was drawn to her full height, her girlish body held tense and quivering, her splendid hair loosened about her forehead, her trembling mouth making a violent contrast to the intense pallor of her face. right or wrong ordway saw only that she was standing alone, and as he crossed the threshold, he turned toward her and held out his hand. "alice," he said softly, as if the others were not present. without raising her eyes, she shrank from him in the direction of richard ordway, as if shielding herself behind the iron fortitude of the man whom she so bitterly disliked. "alice has been out driving alone with geoffrey heath all the afternoon," said lydia in her clear, calm voice. "we had forbidden it, but she says that you knew of it and did not object to her going." with the knowledge of the lie, ordway grew red with humiliation, while his gaze remained fastened on the figure in the carpet at alice's feet. he could not look at her, for he felt that her shame was scorching him like a hot wind. to look at her at the moment meant to convict her, and this his heart told him he could never do. he was conscious of the loud ticking of the clock, of the regular tapping of richard's fingers upon the marble mantel-piece, of the fading light on the poplar leaves beyond the window, and presently of the rapid roll of a carriage that went by in the street. each of these sounds produced in him a curious irritation like a physical smart, and he felt again something of the dumb resentment with which he had entered his wife's dressing-room on the morning of his arrest. then a smothered sob reached his ear, and alice began to tremble from head to foot at his side. lifting his eyes at last, he made a step forward and drew her into his arms. "was it so very wrong? i am sorry," he said to lydia over the bowed head of their child. until the words were uttered, and he felt alice's tense body relax in his arms, he had not realised that in taking sides with her, he was not only making himself responsible for her fault, he was, in truth, actually sharing in the lie that she had spoken. the choice was an unconscious one, yet he knew even in the ensuing moment of his clearer judgment that it had been inevitable--that from the first instant, when he had paused speechless upon the threshold, there had been open to him no other course. "i am sorry if it was wrong," he repeated, turning his glance now upon richard ordway. "do you know anything of geoffrey heath? have you heard him spoken of by decent people since you have been in botetourt?" asked the old man sternly. "i have heard little of him," answered daniel, "and that little was far from good. we are sorry, alice, are we not? it must not happen again if we can help it." "it has happened before," said lydia, lifting her head from dick's arm, where it had lain. "it was then that i forbade her to see him alone." "i did not know," responded daniel, "but she will do as you wish hereafter. will you not, alice?" "how does it concern them? what have they to do with me?" demanded alice, turning in his arms to face her mother with a defiant and angry look, "they have never cared for me--they have always preferred dick--always, even when i was a little child." he saw lydia grow white and hide her drooping face again on dick's shoulder. "you are unjust to your mother, alice," he said gravely, "she has loved you always, and i have loved you." "oh, you are different--i would die for you!" she exclaimed passionately, as she wept on his breast. while he stood there holding her in his arms, it seemed to him that he could feel like an electric current the wave of feeling which had swept alice and himself together. the inheritance which was his had descended to her also with its keen joys and its sharp anguish. even the road which he had travelled so lately in weariness was the one upon which her brave young feet were now set. not his alone, but his child's also, was this mixture of strength and weakness, of gaiety and sadness, of bitterness and compassion. "if you will leave me alone with her, i think i can make her understand what you wish," he said, lifting his eyes from the dark head on his breast to lydia, who had risen and was standing before him with her pensive, inquiring gaze fixed on his face. "she is like me," he added abruptly, "in so many ways." "yes, she is like you, i have always thought so," returned lydia, quietly. "and for that reason, perhaps, you have never quite understood her," he responded. she bowed her head as if too polite or too indifferent to dissent from his words; and then slipping her hand through richard ordway's arm, she stood waiting patiently while the old man delivered his last bit of remonstrance. "try to curb her impulses, daniel, or you will regret it." he went out, still holding lydia's hand, and a moment afterwards, when daniel looked up at the sound of the hall door closing quickly, he saw that dick also had vanished, and that he was alone in the library with alice, who still sobbed on his breast. a few moments before it had seemed to him that he needed only to be alone with her to make all perfectly clear between them. but when the others had passed out, and the door had closed at last on the empty silence in which they stood, he found that the words which he had meant to utter had vanished hopelessly from his mind. he had said to lydia that alice was like himself, but there had never been an hour in his life when his hatred of a lie had not been as intense, as uncompromising, as it was to-day. and this lie which she had spoken appeared to divide them now like a drawn sword. "alice," he said, breaking with an effort through the embarrassment which had held him speechless, "will you give me your word of honour that you will never tell me a falsehood again?" she stirred slightly in his arms, and he felt her body grow soft and yielding. "i didn't to you," she answered, "oh, i wouldn't to you." "not to the others then. will you promise?" her warm young arm tightened about his neck. "i didn't mean to--i didn't mean to," she protested between her sobs, "but they forced me to do it. it was more than half their fault--they are so--so hateful! i tried to think of something else, but there was nothing to say, and i knew you would stand by me----" "you have almost broken my heart," he answered, "for you have lied, alice, you have lied." she lifted her head and the next instant he felt her mouth on his cheek, "i wish i were dead! i have hurt you and i wish i were dead!" she cried. "it is not hurting me that i mind--you may do that and welcome. it is hurting yourself, my child, my alice," he answered; and pressing her upturned face back on his arm, he bent over her in an ecstasy of emotion, calling her his daughter, his darling, the one joy of his life. the iron in his nature had melted beneath her warm touch, and he felt again the thrill, half agony, half rapture, with which he had received her into his arms on the day of her birth. that day was nearer to him now than was the minute in which he stood, and he could trace still the soft, babyish curves in the face which nestled so penitently on his arm. his very fear for her moved him into a deeper tenderness, and the appeal she made to him now was one with the appeal of her infancy, for its power lay in her weakness, not in her strength. "be truthful with me, alice," he said, "and remember that nothing can separate me from you." an hour later when he parted from her and went upstairs, he heard lydia's voice calling to him through her half open door, and turning obediently, he entered her bedroom for the first time since the night of his return. now as then the luxury, the softness, of his wife's surroundings produced in him a curious depression, an enervation of body; and he stood for an instant vainly striving to close his nostrils against the delicious perfume which floated from her lace-trimmed dressing-table. lydia, still in her light mourning gown, was standing, when he entered, before a little marquetry desk in one corner, her eyes on an open letter which she appeared to have left partially unread. "i wanted to tell you, daniel," she began at once, approaching the point with a directness which left him no time to wonder as to the purpose of her summons, "that alice's intimacy with geoffrey heath has already been commented upon in botetourt. cousin paulina has actually written to me for an explanation." "cousin paulina?" he repeated vaguely, and remembered immediately that the lady in question was his wife's one rich relation--an elderly female who was greatly respected for her fortune, which she spent entirely in gratifying her personal passion for trinkets. "oh, yes," he added flippantly, "the old lady who used to look like a heathen idol got up for the sacrifice." he felt that his levity was out of place, yet he went on rashly because he knew that he was doomed forever to appear at a disadvantage in lydia's presence. she would never believe in him--his best motives would wear always to her the covering of hypocrisy; and the very hopelessness of ever convincing her goaded him at times into the reckless folly of despair. "she writes me that people are talking of it," she resumed, sweetly, as if his untimely mirth had returned still-born into the vacancy from which it emerged. "who is this geoffrey heath you speak of so incessantly?" he demanded. "there was a heath, i remember, who had a place near us in the country, and kept a barroom or a butcher's shop or something in town." "that was the father," replied lydia, with a shudder which deepened the slightly scornful curve of her lip. "he was a respectable old man, i believe, and made his fortune quite honestly, however it was. it was only after his son began to grow up that he became socially ambitious----" "and is that all you have against him?" "oh, there's nothing against the old man--nothing at least except the glaring bad taste he showed in that monstrous house he built in henry street. he's dead now, you know." "then the son has all the money and the house, too, hasn't he?" "all he hasn't wasted, yes." as she spoke she subsided into a chair, with a graceful, eddying motion of her black chiffon draperies, and continued the conversation with an expression of smiling weariness. all her attitudes were effective, and he was struck, while he stood, embarrassed and awkward, before her, by the plaintive grace that she introduced into her smallest gesture. though he was aware that he saw her now too clearly for passion, the appeal of her delicate fairness went suddenly to his head. "then there's not much to be said for the chap, i suppose?" he asked abruptly, fearing the prolonged strain of the silence. "very little for him, but a good deal about him, according to cousin paulina. it seems that three years ago he was sent away from the university for something disgraceful--cheating at cards, i believe; and since then he has been conspicuous chiefly because of his low associations. how alice met him, i could never understand--i can't understand now." "and do you think she cares for him--that she even imagines that she does?" he demanded, while his terror rose in his throat and choked back his words. "she will not confess it--how could she?" replied lydia wearily, "i believe it is only wildness, recklessness, lack of discipline that prompts her. yet he is good-looking--in a vulgar way," she added in disgust, "and alice has always seemed to like vulgar things." her eyes rested on him, not directly, but as if they merely included him in their general pensive survey of the world; yet he read the accusation in her gentle avoidance of his gaze as plainly as she had uttered in it her clear, flute-like tones. "it is very important," she went on, "that she should be curbed in her impulses, in her extravagance. already her bills are larger than mine and yet she is never satisfied with the amount of her allowance. we can do nothing with her, uncle richard and i, but she seems to yield, in a measure, to your influence, and we thought--we hoped----" "i will--i will," he answered. "i will give my life to help her if need be. but lydia," he broke out more earnestly, "you must stand by and aid me for her sake, for the sake of our child, we must work together----" half rising in her chair, she looked at him fixedly a moment, while he saw her pupils dilate almost as if she were in physical fear. "but what can i do? i have done all i could," she protested, with an injured look. by this look, without so much as a gesture, she put the space of the whole room between them. the corners of her mouth quivered and drooped, and he watched the pathos creep back into her light blue eyes. "i have given up my whole life to the children since--since----" she broke off in a frightened whisper, but the unfinished sentence was more expressive than a volley of reproaches would have been. there was something in her thoughts too horrible to put into words, and this something of which she could not bring herself to speak, would have had no place in her existence except for him. he felt cowed suddenly, as if he had been physically beaten and thrust aside. "you have been very brave--i know--i appreciate it all," he said, and while he spoke he drew away from her until he stood with his back against one of the amber satin curtains. instinctively he put out his hand for support, and as it closed over the heavy draperies, he felt that the hard silken texture made his flesh creep. the physical sensation, brief as it was, recalled in some strange way the effect upon him of lydia's smooth and shining surface when he had knelt before her on the night of his homecoming. yet it was with difficulty even now that he could free himself from the conviction that her emotional apathy was but one aspect of innocence. would he admit to-day that what he had once worshipped as purity of soul was but the frost of an unnatural coldness of nature? all at once, as he looked at her, he found himself reminded by her calm forehead, her classic features, of the sculptured front of a marble tomb which he had seen in some foreign gallery. was there death, after all, not life hidden for him in her plaintive beauty? the next instant, as he watched her, he told himself that such questions belonged to the evil promptings of his own nature. "i realise all that you have been, all that you have suffered," he said at last, aware that his words sounded hysterical in the icy constraint which surrounded them. when his speech was out, his embarrassment became so great that he found himself presently measuring the distance which divided him from the closed door. with a last effort of will, he went toward her and stretched out his hand in a gesture that was almost one of entreaty. "lydia," he asked, "is it too painful for you to have me here? would it be any better for you if i went away?" as he moved toward her she bent over with a nervous, mechanical movement to arrange her train, and before replying to his question, she laid each separate fold in place. "why, by no means," she answered, looking up with her conventional smile. "it would only mean--wouldn't it?--that people would begin to wonder all over again?" chapter vi the iron bars as the days went on it seemed to him that his nature, repressed in so many other directions, was concentrated at last in a single channel of feeling. the one outlet was his passion for alice, and nothing that concerned her was too remote or too trivial to engross him--her clothes, her friendships, the particular chocolate creams for which she had once expressed a preference. to fill her life with amusements that would withdraw her erring impulses from geoffrey heath became for a time his absorbing purpose. at first he told himself in a kind of rapture that success was apparent in his earliest and slightest efforts. for weeks alice appeared to find interest and animation in his presence. she flattered, scolded, caressed and tyrannised, but with each day, each hour, she grew nearer his heart and became more firmly interwoven into his life. then suddenly a change came over her, and one day when she had been kissing him with "butterfly kisses" on his forehead, he felt her suddenly grow restless and draw back impatiently as if seeking a fresh diversion. a bored look had come into her eyes and he saw the three little wrinkles gather between her eyebrows. "alice," he said, alarmed by the swift alteration, "are you tired of the house? shall we ride together?" she shook her head, half pettishly, half playfully, "i can't--i've an engagement," she responded. "an engagement?" he repeated inquiringly. "why, i thought we were always to ride when it was fair." "i promised one of the girls to go to tea with her," she repeated, after a minute. "it isn't a real tea, but she wanted to talk to me, so i said i would go." "well, i'm glad you did--don't give up the girls," he answered, relieved at once by the explanation. in the evening when she returned, shortly after dark, "one of the girls" as she called laughingly from the library, had come home for the night with her. ordway heard them chatting gayly together, but, when he went in for a moment before going upstairs to dress, they lapsed immediately into an embarrassed silence. alice's visitor was a pretty, gray-eyed, flaxen-haired young woman named jenny lane, who smiled in a frightened way and answered "yes--no," when he spoke to her, as if she offered him the choice of his favourite monosyllable from her lips. clearly the subject which animated them was one in which, even as alice's father, he could have no share. for weeks after this it seemed to him that a silence fell gradually between them--that silence of the heart which is so much more oppressive than the mere outward silence of the lips. it was not, he told himself again and again, that there had come a perceptible change in her manner. she still met him at breakfast with her flower and her caress, still flung herself into his arms at unexpected moments, still coaxed and upbraided in her passionate, childish voice. nevertheless, the difference was there, and he recognised it with a pang even while he demanded of himself in what breathless suspension of feeling it could consist? her caresses were as frequent, but the fervour, the responsiveness, had gone out of them; and he was brought at last face to face with the knowledge that her first vivid delight in him had departed forever. the thing which absorbed her now was a thing in which he had no share, no recognition; and true to her temperament, her whole impulsive being had directed itself into this new channel. "she is young and it is only natural that she should wish to have her school friends about her," he thought with a smile. in the beginning it had been an easy matter to efface his personality and stand out of the way of alice's life, but as the weeks drew on into months and the months into a year, he found that he had been left aside not only by his daughter, but by the rest of the household as well. in his home he felt himself to exist presently in an ignored, yet obvious way like a familiar piece of household furniture, which is neither commented upon nor wilfully overlooked. it would have occasioned, he supposed, some vague exclamations of surprise had he failed to appear in his proper place at the breakfast table, but as long as his accustomed seat was occupied all further use for his existence seemed at an end. he was not necessary, he was not even enjoyed, but he was tolerated. before this passive indifference, which was worse to him than direct hostility, he found that his sympathies, his impulses, and even his personality, were invaded by an apathy that paralysed the very sources of his will. he beheld himself as the cause of the gloom, the suspicion, the sadness, that surrounded him, and as the cause, too, of alice's wildness and of the pathetic loneliness in which lydia lived. but for him, he told himself, there would have been no shadow upon the household; and his wife's pensive smile was like a knife in his heart whenever he looked up from his place at the table and met it unawares. at tappahannock he had sometimes believed that his past was a skeleton which he had left behind; here he had grown, as the years went by, to think of it as a coffin which had shut over him and from which there was no escape. and with the realisation of this, a blighting remorse, a painful humbleness awoke in his soul, and was revealed outwardly in his face, in his walk, in his embarrassed movements. as he passed up and down the staircase, he went softly lest the heavy sound of his footsteps should become an annoyance to lydia's sensitive ears. his manner lost its boyish freedom and grew awkward and nervous, and when he gave an order to the servants it seemed to him that a dreadful timidity sounded in his voice. he began to grow old suddenly in a year, before middle age had as yet had time to soften the way. looking in the glass one morning, when he had been less than three years in botetourt, he discovered that the dark locks upon his forehead had turned almost white, and that his shoulders were losing gradually their youthful erectness of carriage. and it seemed to him that the courage with which he might have once broken away and begun anew had departed from him in this new and paralysing humility, which was like the humility of a helpless and burdensome old age. after a day of peculiar loneliness, he was returning from richard's office on this same afternoon, when a voice called to him from beneath the fringed linen cover of a little phaeton which had driven up to the crossing. turning in surprise he found aunt lucy holding the reins over a fat pony, while she sat very erect, with her trim, soldierly figure emerging from a mountain of brown-paper parcels. "this is the very chance i've been looking for, daniel ordway!" she exclaimed, in her emphatic voice. "do you know, sir, that you have not entered my house once in the last three years?" "yes," he replied, "i know--but the fact is that i have hardly been anywhere since i came back." "and why is that?" she demanded sharply. he shook his head, "i don't know. perhaps you can tell me." "yes, i can tell you," she snapped back, with a rudeness which, in some singular way, seemed to him kinder than the studied politeness that he had met. "it's because, in spite of all you've gone through, you are still more than half a fool, daniel ordway." "oh, you're right, i dare say," he acknowledged bitterly. with a frown, which struck him curiously as the wrong side of a smile, she nodded her head while she made room for him among the brown-paper parcels on the low linen covered seat of the phaeton. "come in here, i want to talk to you," she said, "there's a little matter about which i should like your help." "my help?" he repeated in astonishment, as a sensation of pleasure shot through his heart. it was so seldom that anybody asked his help in botetourt. "is the second green parrot dead, and do you want me to dig the grave?" he inquired, checking his unseemly derision as he met her warning glance. "polly is perfectly well," she returned, rapping him smartly upon the knee with her little tightly closed black fan which she carried as if it were a baton, "but i do not like richard ordway." the suddenness of her announcement, following so inappropriately her comment upon the health of the green parrot, caused him to start from his seat in the amazement with which he faced her. then he broke into an echo of his old boyish merriment. "you don't?" he retorted flippantly. "well, lydia does." her eyes blinked rapidly in the midst of her wrinkled little face, and bending over she flicked the back of the fat pony gently with the end of the whip. "oh, i'm not sure i like lydia," she responded, "though, of course, lydia is a saint." "yes, lydia is a saint," he affirmed. "well, i'm not talking about lydia," she resumed presently, "though there's something i've always had a burning curiosity to find out." for an instant she held back, and then made her charge with a kind of desperate courage. "is she really a saint?" she questioned, "or is it only the way that she wears her hair?" her question was so like the spoken sound of his own dreadful suspicion that it took away his breath completely, while he stared at her with a gasp that was evenly divided between a laugh and a groan. "oh, she's a saint, there's no doubt of that," he insisted loyally. "then i'll let her rest," she replied, "and i'm glad, heaven knows, to have my doubts at an end. but where do you imagine that i am taking you?" "for a drive, i hope," he answered, smiling. "it's not," she rejoined grimly, "it's for a visit." "a visit?" he repeated, starting up with the impulse to jump over the moving wheel, "but i never visit." she reached out her wiry little fingers, which clung like a bird's claw, and drew him by force back upon the seat. "i am taking you to see adam crowley," she explained, "do you remember him?" "crowley?" he repeated the name as he searched his memory. "why, yes, he was my father's clerk for forty years, wasn't he? i asked when i came home what had become of him. so he is still living?" "he was paralysed in one arm some years ago, and it seems he has lost all his savings in some investment your father had advised him to make. of course, there was no legal question of a debt to him, but until the day your father died he had always made ample provision for the old man's support. crowley had always believed that the allowance would be continued--that there would be a mention made of him in the will." "and there was none?" "it was an oversight, crowley is still convinced, for he says he had a distinct promise." "then surely my uncle will fulfil the trust? he is an honourable man." she shook her head. "i don't know that he is so much 'honourable' as he is 'lawful.' the written obligation is the one which binds him like steel, but i don't think he cares whether a thing is right or wrong, just or unjust, as long as it is the law. the letter holds him, but i doubt if he has ever even felt the motion of the spirit. if he ever felt it," she concluded with grim humour, "he would probably try to drive it out with quinine." "are we going there now--to see crowley, i mean?" "if you don't mind. of course there may be nothing that you can do--but i thought that you might, perhaps, speak to richard about it." he shook his head, "no, i can't speak to my uncle, though i think you are unjust to him," he answered, after a pause in which the full joy of her appeal had swept through his heart, "but i have an income of my own, you know, and out of this, i can help crowley." for an instant she did not reply, and he felt her thin, upright little figure grow rigid at his side. then turning with a start, she laid her hand, in its black lace mitten, upon his knee. "o my boy, you are your mother all over again!" she said. after this they drove on in silence down one of the shaded streets, where rows of neat little houses, packed together like pasteboard boxes, were divided from the unpaved sidewalks by low whitewashed fences. at one of these doors the phaeton presently drew up, and dropping the reins on the pony's back, aunt lucy alighted with a bound between the wheels, and began with ordway's help, to remove the paper parcels from the seat. when their arms were full, she pushed open the gate, and led him up the short walk to the door where an old man, wearing a knitted shawl, sat in an invalid's chair beyond the threshold. at the sound of their footsteps crowley turned on them a cheerful wrinkled face which was brightened by a pair of twinkling black eyes that gave him an innocent and merry look. "i knew you'd come around," he said, smiling with his toothless mouth like an amiable infant. "matildy has been complaining that the coffee gave out at breakfast, but i said 'twas only a sign that you were coming. everything bad is the sign of something good, that's what i say." "i've brought something better than coffee to-day, adam," replied aunt lucy, seating herself upon the doorstep. "this is daniel ordway--do you remember him?" the old man bent forward, without moving his withered hand, which lay outstretched on the cushioned arm of the chair, and it seemed to ordway that the smiling black eyes pierced to his heart. "oh, i remember him, i remember him," said crowley, "poor boy--poor boy." "he's come back now," rejoined aunt lucy, raising her voice, "and he has come to see you." "he's like his mother," remarked crowley, almost in a whisper, "and i'm glad of that, though his father was a good man. but there are some good people who do more harm than bad ones," he added, "and i always knew that old daniel ordway would ruin his son." a chuckle broke from him, "but your mother: i can see her now running out bareheaded in the snow to scold me for not having on my overcoat. she was always seeing with other people's eyes, bless her, and feeling with other people's bodies." dropping upon the doorstep, ordway replaced the knitted shawl which had slipped from the old man's shoulder. "i wonder how it is that you keep so happy in spite of everything?" he said. "happy?" repeated crowley with a laugh. "well, i don't know, but i am not complaining. i've seen men who hadn't an ache in their bodies, who were worse off than i am to-day. i tell you it isn't the thing that comes to you, but the way you look at it that counts, and because you've got a paralysed arm is no reason that you should have a paralysed heart as well. i've had a powerful lot of suffering, but i've had a powerful lot of happiness, too, and the suffering somehow, doesn't seem to come inside of me to stay as the happiness does. you see, i'm a great believer in the lord, sir," he added simply, "and what i can't understand, i don't bother about, but just take on trust." all the cheerful wrinkles of his face shone peacefully as he talked. "it's true there've been times when things have gone so hard i've felt that i'd just let go and drop down to the bottom, but the wonderful part is that when you get to the bottom there's still something down below you. it's when you fall lowest that you feel most the lord holding you up. it may be that there ain't any bottom after all but i know if there is one the lord is surely waiting down there to catch you when you let go. he ain't only there, i reckon, but he's in all the particular hard places on earth much oftener than he's up in his heaven. he knows the poorhouse, you may be sure, and he'll be there to receive me and tell me it ain't so bad as it looks. i don't want to get there, but if i do it will come a bit easier to think that the lord has been there before me----" the look in his smiling, toothless face brought to ordway, as he watched him, the memory of the epileptic little preacher who had preached in the prison chapel. here, also, was that untranslatable rapture of the mystic, which cannot be put into words though it passes silently in its terrible joy from the heart of the speaker to the other heart that is waiting. again he felt his whole being dissolve in the emotion which had overflowed his eyes that sunday when he was a prisoner. he remembered the ecstasy with which he had said to himself on that day: "i have found the key!" and he knew now that this ecstasy was akin to the light that had shone for him while he sat on the stage of the town hall in tappahannock. a chance word from the lips of a doting old man, who saw the doors of the poorhouse swing open to receive him, had restored to ordway, with a miraculous clearness, the vision that he had lost; and he felt suddenly that the hope with which he had come out of the prison had never really suffered disappointment or failure. chapter vii the vision and the fact as he walked home along one of the side streets, shaded by an irregular row of flowering linden trees, it appeared to him that his life in botetourt, so unendurable an hour before, had been rendered suddenly easy by a miracle, not in his surroundings, but in himself. his help had been asked, and in the act of giving there had flowed back into his heart the strength by which he might live his daily life. his unrest, his loneliness, his ineffectiveness, showed to him now as the result of some fatal weakness in his own nature--some failure in his personal attitude to the people among whom he lived. straight ahead of him a fine white dust drifted down from the blossoming lindens, lying like powder on the roughly paved street, where the wind blew it in soft swirls and eddies against the crumbling stone steps which led down from the straight doorways of the old-fashioned houses. the boughs overhead made a green arch through which the light fell, and it was under this thick tent of leaves, that, looking up presently, he saw emily brooke coming toward him. not until she was so close to him that he could hear the rustle of her dress, did she lift her eyes from the pavement and meet his cry of welcome with a look of joyful surprise. "emily!" he cried, and at his voice, she stretched out her hand and stood smiling at him with the soft and animated gaze which, it seemed to him now, he had but dimly remembered. the thought of her had dwelt as a vision in his memory, yet he knew, as he looked into her face, that the ideal figure had lacked the charm, the radiance, the sparkling energy, of the living substance. "so you came to botetourt and did not send me word," he said. "no, i did not send you word," she answered, "and now i am leaving within an hour." "and you would have gone without seeing me?" for an instant she hesitated, and he watched the joy in her face melt into a sorrowful tenderness. "i knew that you were well and i was satisfied. would it have been kind to appear to you like an arisen ghost of tappahannock?" "the greatest kindness," he answered gravely, "that you--or anyone could do me." she shook her head: "kindness or not, i found that i could not do it." "and you go in an hour?" "my train leaves at seven o'clock. is it nearly that?" he drew out his watch, a mechanical action which relieved the emotional tension that stretched like a drawn cord between them. "it is not yet six. will you walk a little way with me down this street? there is still time." as she nodded silently, they turned and went back along the side street, under the irregular rows of lindens, in the direction from which he had come. "one of the girls i used to teach sent for me when she was dying," she said presently, as if feeling the need of some explanation of her presence in botetourt. "that was three days ago and the funeral was yesterday. it is a great loss to me, for i haven't so many friends that i can spare the few i love." he made no answer to her remark, and in the silence that followed, he felt, with a strange ache at his heart, that the distance that separated them was greater than it had been when she was in tappahannock and he in botetourt. then there had stretched only the luminous dream spaces between their souls; now they stood divided by miles and miles of an immovable reality. was it possible that in making her a part of his intense inner life, he had lost, in a measure, his consciousness of her actual existence? then while the vision still struggled blindly against the fact, she turned toward him with a smile which lifted her once more into the shining zone of spirits. "if i can feel that you are happy, that you are at peace, i shall ask nothing more of god," she said. "i am happy to-day," he answered, "but if you had come yesterday, i should have broken down in my weakness. oh, i have been homesick for tappahannock since i came away!" "yet botetourt is far prettier to my eyes." "to mine also--but it isn't beauty, it is usefulness that i need. for the last two years i have told myself night and day that i had no place and no purpose--that i was the stone that the builders rejected." "and it is different now?" "different? yes, i feel as if i had been shoved suddenly into a place where i fitted--as if i were meant, after all, to help hold things together. and the change came--how do you think?" he asked, smiling. "a man wanted money of me to keep him out of the poorhouse." the old gaiety was in his voice, but as she looked at him a ray of faint sunshine fell on his face through a parting in the leaves overhead, and she saw for the first time how much older he had grown since that last evening in tappahannock. the dark hair was all gray now, the lines of the nose were sharper, the cheek bones showed higher above the bluish hollows beneath. yet the change which had so greatly aged him had deepened the peculiar sweetness in the curves of his mouth, and this sweetness, which was visible also in his rare smile, moved her heart to a tenderness which was but the keener agony of renouncement. "i know how it is," she said slowly, "just as in tappahannock you found your happiness in giving yourself to others, so you will find it here." "if i can only be of use--perhaps." "you can be--you will be. what you were with us you will be again." "yet it was different. there i had your help, hadn't i?" "and you shall have it here," she responded, brightly, though he saw that her eyes were dim with tears. "will you make me a promise?" he asked, stopping suddenly before some discoloured stone steps "will you promise me that if ever you need a friend--a strong arm, a brain to think for you--you will send me word?" she looked at him smiling, while her tears fell from her eyes. "i will make no promise that is not for your sake as well as for mine," she answered. "but it is for my sake--it is for my happiness." "then i will promise," she rejoined gravely, "and i will keep it." "i thank you," he responded, taking the hand that she held out. at his words she had turned back, pausing a moment in her walk, as if she had caught from his voice or his look a sense of finality in their parting. "i have but a few minutes left," she said, "so i must walk rapidly back or i shall be late." a sudden clatter of horses' hoofs on the cobblestones in the street caused them to start away from each other, and turning his head, ordway saw alice gallop furiously past him with geoffrey heath at her side. "how beautiful!" exclaimed emily beneath her breath, for alice as she rode by had looked back for an instant, her glowing face framed in blown masses of hair. "yes, she is beautiful," he replied, and added after a moment as they walked on, "she is my daughter." her face brightened with pleasure. "then you are happy--you must be happy," she said. "why, she looked like brunhilde." for a moment he hesitated. "yes," he answered at last, "she is very beautiful--and i am happy." after this they did not speak again until they reached the iron gate before the house in which she was staying. on his side he was caught up into some ideal realm of feeling, in which he possessed her so utterly that the meeting could not bring her nearer to him nor the parting take her farther away. his longing, his unrest, and his failure, were a part of his earthly nature which he seemed to have left below him in that other life from which he had escaped. without doubt he would descend to it again, as he had descended at moments back into the body of his sin; but in the immediate exaltation of his mood, his love had passed the bounds of personality and entered into a larger and freer world. when they parted, presently, after a casual good-bye, he could persuade himself, almost without effort, that she went on with him in the soft may twilight. at his door he found lydia just returning from a drive, and taking her wraps from her arm, he ascended the steps and entered the house at her side. she had changed her mourning dress for a gown of pale gray cloth, and he noticed at once that her beauty had lost in transparency and become more human. "i thought you had gone riding with alice," she said without looking at him, as she stooped to gather up the ends of a lace scarf which had slipped from her arm. "no, i was not with her," he answered. "i wanted to go, but she would not let me." "are you sure, then, that she was not with geoffrey heath?" "i am sure that she was with him, for they passed me not a half hour ago as i came up." they had entered the library while he spoke, and crossing to the hearth, where a small fire burned, lydia looked up at him with her anxious gaze. "i hoped at first that you would gain some influence over her," she said, in a distressed voice, "but it seems now that she is estranged even from you." "not estranged, but there is a difference and i am troubled by it. she is young, you see, and i am but a dull and sober companion for her." she shook her head with the little hopeless gesture which was so characteristic of her. only yesterday this absence of resolution, the discontented droop of her thin, red lips, had worked him into a feeling of irritation against her. but his vision of her to-day had passed through some softening lens; and he saw her shallowness, her vanity, her lack of passion, as spiritual infirmities which were not less to be pitied than an infirmity of the body. "the end is not yet, though," he added cheerfully after a moment, "and she will come back to me in time when i am able really to help her." "meanwhile is she to be left utterly uncontrolled?" "not if we can do otherwise. only we must go quietly and not frighten her too much." again she met his words with the resigned, hopeless movement of her pretty head in its pearl gray bonnet. "i have done all i can," she said, "and it has been worse than useless. now you must try if your method is better than mine." "i am trying," he answered smiling. for an instant her gaze fluttered irresolutely over him, as if she were moved by a passing impulse to a deeper utterance. that this impulse concerned alice he was vaguely aware, for when had his wife ever spoken to him upon a subject more directly personal? apart from their children he knew there was no bond between them--no memories, no hopes, no ground even for the building of a common interest. lydia adored her children, he still believed, but when there was nothing further to be said of dick or of alice, their conversation flagged upon the most trivial topics. upon the few unfortunate occasions when he had attempted to surmount the barrier between them, she had appeared to dissolve, rather than to retreat, before his approach. yet despite her soft, cloud-like exterior, he had discovered that the rigour of her repulsion had hardened to a vein of iron in her nature. what must her life be, he demanded in a sudden passion of pity, when the strongest emotion she had ever known was the aversion that she now felt to him? all the bitterness in his heart melted into compassion at the thought, and he resisted an impulse to take her into his arms and say: "i know, i understand, and i am sorry." yet he was perfectly aware that if he were to do this, she would only shrink farther away from him, and look up at him with fear and mystification, as if she suspected him of some hidden meaning, of some strategic movement against her impregnable reserve. her whole relation to him had narrowed into the single instinct of self-defence. if he came unconsciously a step nearer, if he accidentally touched her hand as he passed, he had grown to expect the flaring of her uncontrollable repugnance in the heightened red in her cheeks. "i know that i am repulsive to her, that when she looks at me she still sees the convict," he thought, "and yet the knowledge of this only adds to the pity and tenderness i feel." lydia had moved through the doorway, but turning back in the hall, she spoke with a return of confidence, as if the fact of the threshold, which she had put between them, had restored to her, in a measure, the advantage that she had lost. "then i shall leave alice in your hands. i can do nothing more," she said. "give me time and i will do all that you cannot," he answered. when she had gone upstairs, he crossed the hall to the closed door of the library, and stopped short on hearing alice's voice break out into song. the girl was still in her riding habit, and the gay french air on her lips was in accord with the spirited gesture with which she turned to him as he appeared. her beauty would have disarmed him even without the kiss with which she hastened to avert his reproach. "alice, can you kiss me when you know you have broken your promise?" "i made no promise," she answered coldly, drawing away. "you told me not to go riding with geoffrey, but it was you that said it, not i, and you said it only because mamma made you. oh, i knew all the time that it was she!" her voice broke with anger and before he could restrain her, she ran from the room and up the staircase. an instant afterward he heard a door slam violently above his head. was she really in love with geoffrey heath? he asked in alarm, or was the passion she had shown merely the outburst of an undisciplined child? chapter viii the weakness in strength at breakfast alice did not appear, and when he went upstairs to her room, she returned an answer in a sullen voice through her closed door. all day his heart was oppressed by the thought of her, but to his surprise, when he came home to luncheon, she met him on the steps with a smiling face. it was evident to him at the first glance that she meant to ignore both the cause and the occasion of last evening's outburst; and he found himself yielding to her determination before he realised all that his evasion of the subject must imply. but while she hung upon his neck, with her cheek pressed to his, it was impossible that he should speak any word that would revive her anger against him. anything was better than the violence with which she had parted from him the evening before. he could never forget his night of anguish, when he had strained his ears unceasingly for some stir in her room, hoping that a poignant realisation of his love for her would bring her sobbing and penitent to his door before dawn. now when he saw her again for the first time, she had apparently forgotten the parting which had so tortured his heart. "you've been working too hard, papa, and you're tired," she remarked, rubbing the furrows between his eyebrows in a vain endeavour to smooth them out. "are you obliged to go back to that hateful office this afternoon?" "i've some work that will keep me there until dark, i fear," he replied. "it's a pity because i'd like a ride of all things." "it is a pity, poor dear," protested alice, but he noticed that there was no alteration in her sparkling gaiety. was there, indeed, almost a hint of relief in her tone? and was this demonstrative embrace but a guarded confession of her gratitude for his absence? something in her manner--a veiled excitement in her look, a subtle change in her voice--caused him to hold her to him in a keener tenderness. it was on his lips to beg for her confidence, to remind her of his sympathy in whatever she might feel or think--to assure her even of his tolerance of geoffrey heath. but in the instant when he was about to speak, a sudden recollection of the look with which she had turned from him last evening, checked the impulse before it had had time to pass into words. and so because of his terror of losing her, he let her go at last in silence from his arms. his office work that afternoon was heavier than usual, for in the midst of his mechanical copying and filing, he was abstracted by the memory of that strange, unnatural vivacity in alice's face. then in the effort to banish the disturbing recollection, he recalled old adam crowley, wrapped in his knitted shawl, on the doorstep of his cottage. a check of richard's contributing six hundred dollars toward the purchase of a new organ for the church he attended gave daniel his first opportunity to mention the old man to his uncle. "i saw crowley the other day," he began abruptly, "the man who was my father's clerk for forty years, and whose place," he added smiling, "i seem to have filled." "ah, indeed," remarked richard quietly. "so he is still living?" "his right arm has been paralysed, as you know, and he is very poor. all his savings were lost in some investments he made by my father's advice." "so i have heard--it was most unfortunate." "he had always been led to believe, i understand, that he would be provided for by my father's will." richard laid down his pen and leaned thoughtfully back in his chair. "he has told me so," he rejoined, "but we have only his word for it, as there was no memorandum concerning him among my brother's papers." "but surely it was well known that father had given him a pension. aunt lucy was perfectly aware of it--they talked of it together." "during his lifetime he did pay crowley a small monthly allowance in consideration of his past services. but his will was an extremely careful document--his bequests are all made in a perfectly legal form." "was not this will made some years ago, however, before the old man became helpless and lost his money?" richard nodded: "i understood as much from crowley when he came to me with his complaint. but, as i reminded him, it would have been a perfectly simple matter for daniel to have made such a bequest in a codicil--as he did in your case," he concluded deliberately. the younger man met his gaze without flinching. "the will, i believe, was written while i was in prison," he observed. "upon the day following your conviction. by a former will, which he then destroyed, he had bequeathed to you his entire estate. you understand, of course," he pursued, after a pause in which he had given his nephew full time to possess himself of the information, as well as of the multiplied suggestions that he had offered, "that the income you receive now comes from money that is legally your own. if it should ever appear advisable for me to do so, i am empowered to make over to you the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in securities. the principal is left in my hands merely because it is to your interest that i should keep an eye on the investments." "yes, i understand, and i understand, too, that but for your insistence my father would probably have left me nothing." "i felt very strongly that he had no right to disinherit you," returned richard. "in my eyes he made a grave mistake in refusing to lend you support at your trial----" "as you did, i acknowledge gratefully," interrupted daniel, and wondered why the fact had aroused in him so little appreciation. as far as the observance of the conventional virtues were concerned, richard ordway, he supposed, was, and had been all his life, a good man, yet something in his austere excellence froze instantly all the gentler impulses in his nephew's heart. it was impossible after this to mention again the subject of crowley, so going back to his work, he applied himself to his copying until richard put down his papers and left the office. then he locked his desk wearily and followed his uncle out into the street. a soft may afternoon was just closing, and the street lamps glimmered, here and there, like white moths out of the mist which was fragrant with honeysuckle and roses. an old lamplighter, who was descending on his ladder from a tall lamppost at the corner, looked down at ordway with a friendly and merry face. "the days will soon be so long that you won't be needing us to light you home," he remarked, as he came down gingerly, his hands grasping the rungs of the ladder above his head. when he landed at daniel's side he began to tell him in a pleasant, garrulous voice about his work, his rheumatism and the strange sights that he had seen in his rounds for so many years. "i've seen wonders in my day, you may believe it," he went on, chuckling, "i've seen babies in carriages that grew up to be brides in orange blossoms, and then went by me later as corpses in hearses. i've seen this town when it warn't mo'n a little middlin' village, and i've seen soldiers dyin' in blood in this very street." a train went by with a rush along the gleaming track that ran through the town. "an' i've known the time when a sight like that would have skeered folks to death," he added. for a minute ordway looked back, almost wistfully, after the flying train. then with a friendly "good-bye!" he parted from the lamplighter and went on his way. when he reached home he half expected to find alice waiting for him in the twilight on the piazza, but, to his surprise, lydia met him as he entered the hall and asked him, in a voice which sounded as if she were speaking in the presence of servants, to come with her into the library. there she closed the door upon him and inquired in a guarded tone: "has alice been with you this afternoon? have you seen or heard anything of her?" "not since luncheon. why, i thought that she was at home with one of the girls." "it seems she left the house immediately after you. she wore her dark blue travelling dress, and one of the servants saw her at the railway station at three o'clock." for an instant the room swam before his eyes. "you believe, then, that she has gone off?" he asked in an unnatural voice, "that she has gone off with geoffrey heath?" in the midst of his own hideous anguish he was impressed by the perfect decency of lydia's grief--by the fact that she wore her anxiety as an added grace. "i have telephoned for uncle richard," she said in a subdued tone, "and he has just sent me word that after making inquiries, he learned that geoffrey heath went to washington on the afternoon train." "and alice is with him!" "if she is not, where is she?" her eyes filled with tears, and sinking into a chair she dropped her face in her clasped hands. "oh, i wish uncle richard would come," she moaned through her fingers. again he felt a smothered resentment at this implicit reliance upon richard ordway. "we must make sure first that she is gone," he said, "and then it will be time enough to consider ways and means of bringing her back." turning abruptly away from her, he went out of the library and up the staircase to alice's room, which was situated directly across the hall from his own. at the first glance it seemed to him that nothing was missing, but when he looked at her dressing-table in the alcove, he found that it had been stripped of her silver toilet articles, and that her little red leather bag, which he had filled with banknotes a few days ago, was not in the top drawer where she kept it. something in the girl's chamber, so familiar, so redolent of associations with her bright presence, tore at his heart with a fresh sense of loss, like a gnawing pain that fastens into a new wound. on the bed he saw her pink flannel dressing-gown, with the embroidered collar which had so delighted her when she had bought it; on the floor at one side lay her pink quilted slippers, slightly soiled from use; and between the larger pillows was the delicate, lace-trimmed baby's pillow upon which she slept. the perfume of her youth, her freshness, was still in the room, as if she had gone from it for a little while through a still open door. at a touch on his arm he looked round startled, to find one of the servants--the single remaining slave of the past generation--rocking her aged body as she stood at his side. "she ain' gwine come back no mo'--yes, lawd, she ain' gwine come back no mo'. whut's done hit's done en hit cyarn be undone agin." "why, aunt mehaley, what do you mean?" he demanded sternly, oppressed, in spite of himself by her wailing voice and her african superstition. "i'se seen er tur'ble heap done in my day wid dese hyer eyes," resumed the old negress, "but i ain' never seen none un um undone agin atter deys wunst been done. you kin cut down er tree, but you cyarn' mek hit grow back togedder. you kin wring de neck er a rooster, but you cyarn' mek him crow. yes, my lawd, hit's easy to pull down, but hit's hard to riz up. i'se ole, marster, en i'se mos' bline wid lookin', but i ain' never seen whut's done undone agin." she tottered out, still wailing in her half-crazed voice, and hastily shutting the drawers of the dressing-table, he went downstairs again to where lydia awaited him in the library. "there's no doubt, i fear, that she's gone with heath," he said, with a constraint into which he had schooled himself on the staircase. "as he appears to have stopped at washington, i shall take the next train there, which leaves at nine-twenty-five. if they are married----" he broke off, struck by the pallor that overspread her face. "but they are married! they must be married!" she cried in terror. for an instant he stared back at her white face in a horror as great as hers. was it the first time in his life, he questioned afterwards, that he had been brought face to face with the hideous skeletons upon which living conventions assume a semblance of truth? "i hope to heaven that he has _not_ married her!" he exclaimed in a passion from which she shrank back trembling. "good god! do you want me to haggle with a cad like that to make him marry my child?" "and if he doesn't? what then?" moaned lydia, in a voice that seemed to fade away while she spoke. "if he doesn't i shall be almost tempted to bless his name. haven't you proved to me that he is a cheat and a brute and a libertine, and yet you dare to tell me that i must force him to marry alice. oh, if he will only have the mercy to leave her free, i may still save her!" he said. she looked at him with dilated eyes as if rooted in fear to the spot upon which she stood. "but the consequences," she urged weakly at last in a burst of tears. "oh, i'll take the consequences," he retorted harshly, as he went out. an hour later, when he was settled in the rushing train, it seemed to him that he was able to find comfort in the words with which he had separated from his wife. let alice do what she would, there was always hope for her in the thought that he might help her to bear, even if he could not remove from her, the consequences of her actions. could so great a force as his love for her fail to avert from her young head at least a portion of her inevitable disillusionment? the recollection of her beauty, of her generosity, and of the wreck of her womanhood almost before it had begun, not only added to his suffering, but seemed in some inexplicable way to increase his love. the affection he had always felt for her was strengthened now by that touch of pity which lends a deeper tenderness to all human relations. upon reaching washington he found that a shower had come up, and the pavements were already wet when he left the station. he had brought no umbrella, but he hardly heeded this in the eagerness which drove him from street to street in his search for his child. after making vain inquiries at several of the larger hotels, he had begun to feel almost hopeless, when going into the newest and most fashionable of them all, he discovered that "mr. and mrs. geoffrey heath" had been assigned an apartment there an hour before. in answer to his question the clerk informed him that the lady had ordered her dinner served upstairs, leaving at the same time explicit instructions that she was "not at home" to anyone who should call. but in spite of this rebuff, he drew out his card, and sat down in a chair in the brilliantly lighted lobby. he had selected a seat near a radiator in the hope of drying his damp clothes, and presently a little cloud of steam rose from his shoulders and drifted out into the shining space. as he watched the gorgeous, over-dressed women who swept by him, he remembered as one remembers a distant dream, the years when his life had been spent among such crowds in just such a dazzling glare of electric light. it appeared false and artificial to him now, but in the meantime, he reflected, while he looked on, he had been in prison. a voice at his elbow interrupted his thoughts, and turning in response to an invitation from a buttoned sleeve, he entered an elevator and was borne rapidly aloft among a tightly wedged group of women who were loudly bewailing their absence from the theatre. it was with difficulty that he released himself at the given signal from his escort, and stepped out upon the red velvet carpet which led to alice's rooms. in response to a knock from the boy who had accompanied him, the door flew open with a jerk, and alice appeared before him in a bewildering effect of lace and pink satin. "o papa, papa, you naughty darling!" she exclaimed, and was in his arms before he had time to utter the reproach on his lips. with her head on his breast, he was conscious at first only of an irresponsible joy, like the joy of the angels for whom evil no longer exists. to know that she was alive, that she was safe, that she was in his arms, seemed sufficient delight, not only unto the day, but unto his whole future as well. then the thought of what it meant to find her thus in her lace and satin came over him, and drawing slightly away he looked for the first time into her face. "alice, what does it mean?" he asked, as he kissed her. pushing the loosened hair back from her forehead, she met his question with a protesting pout. "it means that you're a wicked boy to run away from home like this and be all by yourself in a bad city," she responded with a playful shake of her finger. then she caught his hand and drew him down on the sofa beside her in the midst of the filmy train of her tea-gown. "if you promise never to do it again, i shan't tell mamma on you," she added, with a burst of light-hearted merriment. "where were you married, alice? and who did it?" he asked sternly. at his tone a ripple of laughter broke from her lips, and reaching for her little red leather bag on the table, she opened it and tossed a folded paper upon his knees. "i didn't ask his name," she responded, "but you can find it all written on that, i suppose." "and you cared nothing for me?--nothing for my anxiety, my distress?" "i always meant to telegraph you, of course. geoffrey has gone down now to do it." "but were you obliged to leave home in this way? if you had told me you loved him, i should have understood--should have sympathised." "oh, but mamma wouldn't, and i had to run off. of course, i wanted a big wedding like other girls, and a lot of bridesmaids and a long veil, but i knew you'd never consent to it, so i made up my mind just to slip away without saying a word. geoffrey is so rich that i can make up afterwards for the things i missed when i was married. this is what he gave me to-day. isn't it lovely?" baring her throat she showed him a pearl necklace hidden beneath her lace collar. "we're sailing day after to-morrow," she went on, delightedly, "and we shall go straight to paris because i am dying to see the shops. i wouldn't run away with him until he promised to take me there." there was no regret in her mind, no misgiving, no disquietude. the thought of his pain had not marred for an instant the pleasure of her imaginary shopping. "o papa, i am happy, so happy!" she sang aloud, springing suddenly to her full height and standing before him in her almost barbaric beauty--from the splendid hair falling upon her shoulders to the little feet that could not keep still for sheer joy of living. he saw her red mouth glow and tremble as she bent toward him. "to think that i'm really and truly out of botetourt at last!" she cried. "then you've no need of me and i may as well go home?" he said a little wistfully as he rose. at this she hung upon his neck for a minute with her first show of feeling. "i'd rather you wouldn't stay till geoffrey comes back," she answered, abruptly releasing him, "because it would be a surprise to him and he's always so cross when he's surprised. he has a perfectly awful temper," she confided in a burst of frankness, "but i've learned exactly how to manage him, so it doesn't matter. then he's so handsome, too. i shouldn't have looked at him twice if he hadn't been handsome. now, go straight home and take good care of yourself and don't get fat and bald before i come back." she kissed him several times, laughing in little gasps, while she held him close in her arms. then putting him from her, she pushed him gently out into the hall. as the door closed on her figure, he felt that it shut upon all that was living or warm in his heart. book fourth liberation chapter i the inward light on the day that he returned to botetourt, it seemed to ordway that the last vestige of his youth dropped from him; and one afternoon six months later, as he passed some schoolboys who were playing ball in the street, he heard one of them remark in an audible whisper: "just wait till that old fellow over there gets out of the way." since coming home again his interests, as well as his power of usefulness, had been taken from him; and the time that he had spent in prison had aged him less than the three peaceful years which he had passed in botetourt. all that suffering and experience could not destroy had withered and died in the monotonous daily round which carried him from his home to richard's office and back again from richard's office to his home. outwardly he had grown only more quiet and gentle, as people are apt to do who approach the middle years in a position of loneliness and dependence. to richard and to lydia, who had never entirely ceased to watch him, it appeared that he had at last "settled down," that he might be, perhaps, trusted to walk alone; and it was with a sensation of relief that his wife observed the intense youthful beam fade from his blue eyes. when his glance grew dull and lifeless, and his features fell gradually into the lines of placid repose which mark the body's contentment rather than the spirit's triumph, it seemed to her that she might at last lay aside the sleepless anxiety which had been her marriage portion. "he has become quite like other people now," she said one day to richard, "do you know that he has grown to take everything exactly as a matter of course, and i really believe he enjoys what he eats." "i'm glad of that," returned richard, "for i've noticed that he is looking very far from well. i advised him several weeks ago to take care of that cough, but he seems to have some difficulty in getting rid of it." "he hasn't been well since alice's marriage," observed lydia, a little troubled. "you know he travelled home from washington in wet clothes and had a spell of influenza afterward. he's had a cold ever since, for i hear him coughing a good deal after he first goes to bed." "you'd better make him attend to it, i think, though with his fine chest there's little danger of anything serious." "do you suppose alice's marriage could have sobered him? he's grown very quiet and grave, and i dare say it's a sign that his wildness has gone out of him, poor fellow. you remember how his laugh used to frighten me? well, he never laughs like that now, though he sometimes stares hard at me as if he were looking directly through me, and didn't even know that he was doing it." as she spoke she glanced out of the window and her eyes fell on daniel, who came slowly up the gravelled walk, his head bent over an armful of old books he carried. "he visits a great deal among the poor," remarked richard, "and i think that's good for him, provided, of course, that he does it with discretion." "i suppose it is," said lydia, though she added immediately, "but aren't the poor often very immoral?" a reply was on richard's lips, but before he could utter it, the door opened and daniel entered with the slow, almost timid, step into which he had schooled himself since his return to botetourt. as he saw richard a smile--his old boyish smile of peculiar sweetness--came to his lips, but without speaking, he crossed to the table and laid down the books he carried. "if those are old books, won't you remember to take them up to your room, daniel?" said lydia, in her tone of aggrieved sweetness. "they make such a litter in the library." he started slightly, a nervous affection which had increased in the last months, and looked at her with an apologetic glance. as he stood there she had again that singular sensation of which she had spoken to richard, as if he were gazing through her and not at her. "i beg your pardon," he answered, "i remember now that i left some here yesterday." "oh, it doesn't matter, of course," she responded pleasantly, "it's only that i like to keep the house tidy, you know." "they do make rather a mess," he admitted, and gathering them up again, he carried them out of the room and up the staircase. they watched his bent gray head disappear between the damask curtains in the doorway, and then listened almost unconsciously for the sound of his slow gentle tread on the floor above. "there was always too much of the dreamer about him, even as a child," commented richard, when the door was heard to close over their heads, "but he seems contented enough now with his old books, doesn't he?" "contented? yes, i believe he is even happy. i never say much to him because, you see, there is so very little for us to talk about. it is a dreadful thing to confess," she concluded resolutely, "but the truth is i've been always a little afraid of him since--since----" "afraid?" he looked at her in astonishment. "well, not exactly afraid--but nervous with a kind of panic shudder at times--a dread of his coming close to me, of his touching me, of his wanting things of me." a shiver ran through her and she bit her lip as if to hide the expression of horror upon her face. "there's nobody else on earth that i would say it to, but when he first came back i used to have nightmares about it. i could never get it out of my mind a minute and if they left me alone with him, i wanted almost to scream with nervousness. it's silly i know, and i can't explain it even to you, but there were times when i shrieked aloud in my sleep because i dreamed that he had come into my room and touched me. i felt that i was wrong and foolish, but i couldn't help it, and i tried--tried--oh, so hard to bear things and to be brave and patient." the tears fell from her eyes on her clasped hands, but her attitude of sorrow only made more appealing the madonna-like loveliness of her features. "you've been a saint, lydia," he answered, patting her drooping shoulder as he rose to his feet. "poor girl, poor girl! and no daughter of my own could be dearer to me," he added in his austere sincerity of manner. "i have tried to do right," replied lydia, lifting her pure eyes to his in an overflow of religious emotion. meanwhile the harmless object of their anxiety sat alone in his room under a green lamp, with one of the musty books he had bought open upon his knees. he was not reading, for his gaze was fixed on the opposite wall, and there was in his eyes something of the abstracted vision which lydia dreaded. it was as if his intellect, forced from the outward experience back into the inner world of thought, had ended by projecting an image of itself into the space at which he looked. while he sat there the patient, apologetic smile with which he had answered to his wife was still on his lips. "i suppose it's because i'm getting old that people and things no longer make me suffer," he said to himself, "it's because i'm getting old that i can look at lydia unmoved, that i can feel tenderness for her even while i see the repulsion creep into her eyes. it isn't her fault, after all, that she loathes me, nor is it mine. yes, i'm certainly an old fellow, the boy was right. at any rate, it's pleasanter, on the whole, than being young." closing the book, he laid it on the table, and leaned forward with his chin on his hands. "but if i'd only known when i was young!" he added, "if i'd only known!" his past life rose before him as a picture that he had seen, rather than as a road along which he had travelled; and he found himself regarding it almost as impersonally as he might have regarded the drawing upon the canvas. the peril of the inner life had already begun to beset him--that mysterious power of reliving one's experience with an intensity which makes the objective world appear dull and colourless by contrast. it was with an effort at times that he was able to detach his mind from the contemplative habit into which he had fallen. between him and his surroundings there existed but a single bond, and this was the sympathy which went out of him when he was permitted to reach the poor and the afflicted. to them he could still speak, with them he could still be mirthful; but from his wife, his uncle, and the members of his own class, he was divided by that impenetrable wall of social tradition. in his home he had ceased to laugh, as lydia had said; but he could still laugh in the humbler houses of the poor. they had received him as one of themselves, and for this reason alone he could remember how to be merry when he was with them. to the others, to his own people, he felt himself to be always an outsider, a reclaimed castaway, a philanthropic case instead of an individual; and he knew that if there was one proof the more to lydia that he was in the end a redeemed character, it was the single fact that he no longer laughed in her presence. it was, he could almost hear her say, unbecoming, if not positively improper, that a person who had spent five years in prison should be able to laugh immoderately afterward; and the gravity of his lips was in her eyes, he understood, the most satisfactory testimony to the regeneration of his heart. and yet lydia, according to her vision, was a kind, as well as a conscientious woman. the pity of it was that if he were to die now, three years after his homecoming, she would probably reconstruct an imaginary figure of him in her memory, and wear crape for it with appropriate grace and dignity. the works of the imagination are manifold, he thought with a grim humour, even in a dull woman. but as there was not likely to occur anything so dramatic, in the immediate present, as his death, he wondered vaguely what particular form of aversion his wife's attitude would next express. or could it be that since he had effaced himself so utterly, he hardly dared to listen to the sound of his footsteps in the house, she had grown to regard him with a kind of quiet tolerance, as an object which was unnecessary, perhaps, yet entirely inoffensive? he remembered now that during those terrible first years in prison he had pursued the thought of her with a kind of hopeless violence, yet to-day he could look back upon her desertion of him in his need with a compassion which forgave the weakness that it could not comprehend. that, too, he supposed was a part of the increasing listlessness of middle age. in a little while he would look forward, it might be, to the coming years without dread--to the long dinners when he sat opposite to her with the festive bowl of flowers between them, to the quiet evenings when she lingered for a few minutes under the lamp before going to her room--those evenings which are the supreme hours of love or of despair. oh, well, he would grow indifferent to the horror of these things, as he had already grown indifferent to the soft curves of her body. yes, it was a thrice blessed thing, this old age to which he was coming! then another memory flooded his heart with the glow of youth, and he saw emily, as she had appeared to him that night in the barn more than six years ago, when she had stood with the lantern held high above her head and the red cape slipping back from her upraised arm. a sharp pain shot through him, and he dropped his eyes as if he had met a blow. that was youth at which he had looked for one longing instant--that was youth and happiness and inextinguishable desire. for a moment he sat with bent head; then with an effort he put the memory from him, and opened his book at the page where he had left off. as he did so there was a tap at his door, and when he had spoken, lydia came in timidly with a letter in her hand. "this was put into uncle richard's box by mistake," she said, "and he has just sent it over." he took it from her and seeing that it was addressed in baxter's handwriting, laid it, still unopened, upon the table. "won't you sit down?" he asked, pushing forward the chair from which he had risen. a brief hesitation showed in her face; then as he turned away from her to pick up some scattered papers from the floor, she sat down with a tentative, nervous manner. "are you quite sure that you're well, daniel?" she inquired. "uncle richard noticed to-day that you coughed a good deal in the office. i wonder if you get exactly the proper kind of food?" he nodded, smiling. "oh, i'm all right," he responded, "i'm as hard as nails, you know, and always have been." "even hard people break down sometimes. i wish you would take a tonic or see a doctor." her solicitude surprised him, until he remembered that she had never failed in sympathy for purely physical ailments. if he had needed bodily healing instead of mental, she would probably have applied it with a conscientious devotedness. "i am much obliged to you, but i'm really not sick," he insisted, "it is very good of you, however." "it is nothing more than my duty," she rejoined, sweetly. "well, that may be, but there's nothing to prevent my being obliged to you for doing your duty." puzzled as always by his whimsical tone, she sat looking at him with her gentle, uncomprehending glance. "i wish, all the same," she murmured, "that you would let me send you a mustard plaster to put on your chest." he shook his head without replying in words to her suggestion. "do you know it is three months since we had a letter from alice," he said, "and six since she went away?" "oh, it's that then? you have been worrying about alice?" "how can i help it? we hardly know even that she is living." "i've thought of her day and night since her marriage, though it's just as likely, isn't it, that she's taken up with the new countries and her new clothes?" "oh, of course, it may be that, but it is the awful uncertainty that kills." with a sigh she looked down at her slippered feet. "i was thinking to-day what a comfort dick is to me--to us all," she said, "one is so sure of him and he is doing so splendidly at college." "yes," he agreed, "dick is a comfort. i wish poor alice was more like him." "she was always wild, you remember, never like other children, and it was impossible to make her understand that some things were right and some wrong. yet i never thought that she would care for such a loud, vulgar creature as geoffrey heath." "did she care for him?" asked daniel, almost in a whisper, "or was it only that she wanted to see paris?" "well, she may have improved him a little--at least let us hope so," she remarked as if she had not heard his question. "he has money, at any rate, and that is what she has always wanted, though i fear even geoffrey's income will be strained by her ceaseless extravagance." as she finished he thought of her own youth, which she had evidently forgotten, and it seemed to him that the faults she blamed most in alice were those which she had overcome patiently in her own nature. "i could stand anything better than this long suspense," he said gently. "it does wear one out," she rejoined. "i am very, very sorry for you." some unaccustomed tone in her voice--a more human quality, a deeper cadence, made him wonder in an impulse of self-reproach if, after all, the breach between them was in part of his own making? was it still possible to save from the ruin, if not love, at least human companionship? "lydia," he said, "it isn't alice, it is mostly loneliness, i think." rising from her chair she stood before him with her vague, sweet smile playing about her lips. "it is natural that you should feel depressed with that cough," she remarked, "i really wish you would let me send you a mustard plaster." as the cough broke out again, he strangled it hilariously in a laugh. "oh, well, if it's any comfort to you, i don't mind," he responded. when she had gone he picked up baxter's letter from the table and opened it with trembling fingers. what he had expected to find, he hardly knew, but as he read the words, written so laboriously in baxter's big scrawling writing, he felt that his energy returned to him with the demand for action--for personal responsibility. "i don't know whether or not you heard of mrs. brooke's death three months ago," the letter ran, "but this is to say that mr. beverly dropped down with a paralytic stroke last week; and now since he's dead and buried, the place is to be sold for debt and the children sent off to school to a friend of miss emily's where they can go cheap. miss emily has a good place now in the tappahannock bank, but she's going north before christmas to some big boarding school where they teach riding. there are a lot of things to be settled about the sale, and i thought that, being convenient, you might take the trouble to run down for a day and help us with your advice, _which is of the best always_. "hoping that you are in good health, i am at present, baxter." as he folded the letter a flush overspread his face. "i'll go," he said, with a new energy in his voice, "i'll go to-morrow." then turning in response to a knock, he opened the door and received the mustard plaster which lydia had made. chapter ii at tappahannock again he had sent a telegram to banks, and as the train pulled into the station, he saw the familiar sandy head and freckled face awaiting him upon the platform. "by george, this is a bully sight, smith," was the first shout that reached his ears. "you're not a bit more pleased than i am," he returned laughing with pleasure, as he glanced from the station, crowded with noisy negroes, up the dusty street into which they were about to turn. "it's like coming home again, and upon my word, i wish i were never to leave here. but how are you, banks? so you are married to milly and going to live contented forever afterward." "yes, i'm married," replied banks, without enthusiasm, "and there's a baby about which milly is clean crazy. milly has got so fat," he added, "that you'd never believe i could have spanned her waist with my hands three years ago." "indeed? and is she as captivating as ever?" "well, i reckon she must be," said banks, "but it doesn't seem so mysterious, somehow, as it used to." his silly, affectionate smile broke out as he looked at his companion. "to tell the truth," he confessed, "i've been missing you mighty hard, smith, marriage or no marriage. it ain't anything against milly, god knows, that she can't take your place, and it ain't anything against the baby. what i want is somebody i can sit down and look up to, and i don't seem to be exactly able to look up to milly or to the baby." "the trouble with you, my dear banks, is that you are an incorrigible idealist and always will be. you were born to be a poet and i don't see to save my life how you escaped." "i didn't. i used to write a poem every sunday of my life when i first went into tobacco. but after that milly came and i got used to spending all my sundays with her." "well, now that you have her in the week, you might begin all over again." they were walking rapidly up the long hill, and as ordway passed, he nodded right and left to the familiar faces that looked out from the shop doors. they were all friendly, they were all smiling, they were all ready to welcome him back among them. "the queer part is," observed banks, with that stubborn vein of philosophy which accorded so oddly with his frivolous features, "that the thing you get doesn't ever seem to be the same as the thing you wanted. this milly is kind to me and the other wasn't, but, somehow, that hasn't made me stop regretting the other one that i didn't marry--the milly that banged and snapped at me about my clothes and things all day long. i don't know what it means, smith, i've studied about it, but i can't understand." "the meaning of it is, banks, that you wanted not the woman, but the dream." "well, i didn't get it," rejoined banks, gloomily. "yet milly's a good wife and you're happy, aren't you?" "i should be," replied banks, "if i could forget how darn fascinating that other milly was. oh, yes, she's a good wife and a doting mother, and i'm happy enough, but it's a soft, squashy kind of happiness, not like the way i used to feel when i'd walk home with you after the preaching in the old field." while he spoke they had reached baxter's warehouse, and as ordway was recognized, there was a quiver of excitement in the little crowd about the doorway. a moment later it had surrounded him with a shout of welcome. a dozen friendly hands were outstretched, a dozen breathless lips were calling his name. as the noise passed through the neighbouring windows, the throng was increased by a number of small storekeepers and a few straggling operatives from the cotton mills, until at last he stopped, half laughing, half crying, in their midst. ten minutes afterward, when baxter wedged his big person through the archway, he saw ordway standing bareheaded in the street, his face suffused with a glow which seemed to give back to him a fleeting beam of the youth that he had lost. "well, i reckon it's my turn now. you can just step inside the office, smith," remarked baxter, while he grasped ordway's arm and pulled him back into the warehouse. as they entered the little room, daniel saw again the battered chair, the pile of smith's almanacs, and the paper weight, representing a gambolling kitten, upon the desk. "i'm glad to see you--we're all glad to see you," said baxter, shaking his hand for the third time with a grasp which made ordway feel that he was in the clutch of a down cushion. "it isn't the way of tappahannock to forget a friend, and she ain't forgotten you." "it's like her," returned ordway, and he added with a sigh, "i only wish i were coming back for good, baxter." "there now!" exclaimed baxter, chuckling, "you don't, do you? well, all i can say, my boy, is that you've got a powerful soft spot that you left here, and your old job in the warehouse is still waiting for you when you care to take it. i tell you what, smith, you've surely spoiled me for any other bookkeeper, and i ain't so certain, when it comes to that, that you haven't spoiled me for myself." he was larger, softer, more slovenly than ever, but he was so undeniably the perfect and inimitable baxter, that ordway felt his heart go out to him in a rush of sentiment. "oh, baxter, how is it possible that i've lived without you?" he asked. "i don't know, smith, but it's a plain fact that after my wife--and that's nature--there ain't anybody goin' that i set so much store by. why, when i was in botetourt last spring, i went so far as to put my right foot on your bottom step, but, somehow, the left never picked up the courage to follow it." "do you dare to tell me that you've been to botetourt?" demanded ordway with indignation. "well, i could have stood the house you live it, though it kind of took my breath away," replied baxter, with an embarrassed and guilty air, "but when it came to facing that fellow at the door, then my courage gave out and i bolted. i studied him a long while, thinking i might get my eyes used to the sight of him, but it did no good. i declar', smith, i could no more have put a word to him than i could to the undertaker at my own funeral. bless my soul, suh, poor mr. beverly, when he was alive, didn't hold a tallow candle to that man." "you might have laid in wait for me in the street, then, that would have been only fair." "but how did i know, smith, that you wan't livin' up to the man at your door?" "it wouldn't have taken you long to find out that i wasn't. so poor mr. beverly is dead and buried, then, is he?" baxter's face adopted instantly a funereal gloom, and his voice, when he spoke, held a quaver of regret. "there wasn't a finer gentleman on earth than mr. beverly," he said, "and he would have given me his last blessed cent if he'd ever had one to give. i've lost a friend, smith, there's no doubt of that, i've lost a friend. and poor mrs. brooke, too," he added sadly. "many and many is the time i've heard mr. beverly grieven' over the way she worked. 'if things had only come out as i planned them, baxter,' he'd say to me, 'my wife should never have raised her finger except to lift food to her lips.'" "and yet i've seen him send her downstairs a dozen times a day to make him a lemonade," observed ordway cynically. "that wasn't his fault, suh, he was born like that--it was just his way. he was always obliged to have what he wanted." "well, i can forgive him for killing his wife, but i can't pardon him for the way he treated his sister. that girl used to work like a farm hand when i was out there." "she was mighty fond of him all the same, was miss emily." "everybody was, that's what i'm quarreling about. he didn't deserve it." "but he meant well in his heart, smith, and it's by that that i'm judgin' him. it wasn't his fault, was it, if things never went just the way he had planned them out? i don't deny, of course, that he was sort of flighty at times, as when he made a will the week before he died and left five hundred dollars to the tappahannock orphan asylum." "to the orphan asylum? why, his own children are orphans, and he didn't have five hundred dollars to his name!" "of course, he didn't, that's just the point," said baxter with a placid tolerance which seemed largely the result of physical bulk, "and so they have had to sell most of the furniture to pay the bequest. you see, just the night before his stroke, he got himself considerably worked up over those orphans. so he just couldn't help hopin' he would have five hundred dollars to leave 'em when he came to die, an' in case he did have it he thought he might as well be prepared. then he sat right down and wrote the bequest out, and the next day there came his stroke and carried him off." "oh, you're a first-rate advocate, baxter, but that doesn't alter my opinion of mr. beverly. what about his own orphans now? how are they going to be provided for?" "it seems miss emily is to board 'em out at some school she knows of, and i've settled it with her that she's to borrow enough from me to tide over any extra expenses until spring." "then we are to wind up the affairs of cedar hill, are we? i suppose it's best for everybody, but it makes me sad enough to think of it." "and me, too, smith," said baxter, sentimentally. "i can see mr. beverly to the life now playin' with his dominoes on the front porch. but there's mighty little to wind up, when it comes to that. it's mortgaged pretty near to the last shingle, and when the bequest to the orphans is paid out of what's over, there'll be precious few dollars that miss emily can call her own. the reason i sent for you, smith," he added in a solemn voice, "was that i thought you might be some comfort to that poor girl out there in her affliction. if you feel inclined, i hoped you'd walk out to cedar hill and read her a chapter or so in the bible. i remembered how consolin' you used to be to people in trouble." with a prodigious effort ordway swallowed his irreverent mirth, while baxter's pious tones sounded in his ears. "of course i shall go out to cedar hill," he returned, "but i was wondering, baxter," he broke off for a minute and then went on again with an embarrassed manner, "i was wondering if there was any way i could help those children without being found out? it would make me particularly happy to feel that i might share in giving them an education. do you think you could smuggle the money for their school bills into their christmas stockings?" baxter thought over it a moment. "i might manage it," he replied, "seein' that the bills are mostly to come through my hands, and i'm to settle all that i can out of what's left of the estate." as he paused daniel looked hastily away from him, fearful lest baxter might be perplexed by the joy that shone in his face. to be connected, even so remotely, with emily in the care of beverly's children, was a happiness for which, a moment ago, he had not dared to hope. "let me deposit the amount with you twice a year," he said, "that will be both the easiest and the safest way." "maybe you're right. and now it's settled, ain't it, that you're to come to my house to stay?" "i must go back on the night train, i'm sorry to say, but if you'll let me i'll drop in to supper. i remember your wife's biscuits of old," he added, smiling. "you don't mean it! well, it'll tickle her to death, i reckon. it ain't likely, by the way, that you'll find much to eat out at cedar hill, so you'd better remember to have a snack before you start." "oh, i can fast until supper," returned daniel, rising. "well, don't forget to give my respects to miss emily, and tell her i say not to worry, but to let the lord take a turn. you'll find things pretty topsy-turvy out there, smith," he added, "but if you don't happen to have your bible handy, i'll lend you one and welcome. there's the big one with gilt clasps the boys gave me last christmas right on top of my desk." "oh, they're sure to have one around," replied ordway gravely, as he shook hands again before leaving the office. from the top of the hill by the brick church, he caught a glimpse of the locust trees in mrs. twine's little yard, and turning in response to a remembered force of habit, he followed the board sidewalk to the whitewashed gate, which hung slightly open. in the street a small boy was busily flinging pebbles at the driver of a coal wagon, and calling the child to him, ordway inquired if mrs. twine still lived in that house. "thar ain't no mrs. twine," replied the boy, "she's mrs. buzzy. she married my pa, that's why i'm here," he explained with a wink, as the door behind him flew open, and the lady in question rushed out to welcome her former lodger. "i hear her now--she's a-comin'. my, an' she's a tartar, she is!" "it's the best sight i've laid eyes on sense i saw po', dear bill on his deathbed," exclaimed the tartar, with delight. "come right in, suh, come right in an' set down an' let me git a look at you. thar ain't much cheer in the house now sence i've lost bill an' his sprightly ways, but the welcome's warm if the house ain't." she brought him ceremoniously into her closed parlour, and then at his request led him out of the stagnant air back into her comfortable, though untidy, kitchen. "i jest had my hand in the dough, suh, when i heard yo' voice," she observed apologetically, as she wiped off the bottom of a chair with her blue gingham apron. "i knew you'd be set back to find out i didn't stay long a widder." "i hadn't even heard of bill's death," he returned, "so it was something of a surprise to discover that you were no longer mrs. twine. was it very sudden?" "yes, suh, 'twas tremens--delicious tremens--an' they took him off so quick we didn't even have the crape in the house to tie on the front do' knob. you could a heard him holler all the way down to the cotton mills. he al'ays had powerful fine lungs, had bill, an' if he'd a-waited for his lungs to take him, he'd be settin' thar right now, as peart as life." her eyes filled with tears, but wiping them hastily away with her apron, she took up a pan of potatoes and began paring them with a handleless knife. "after your former marriages," he remarked doubtful as to whether he should offer sympathy or congratulations, "i should have thought you would have rested free for a time at least." "it warn't my way, mr. smith," she responded, with a mournful shake of her head. "to be sure i had a few peaceful months arter bill was gone, but the queer thing is how powerful soon peace can begin to pall on yo' taste. why, i hadn't been in mo'nin' for bill goin' on to four months, when silas trimmer came along an' axed me, an' i said 'yes' as quick as that, jest out a the habit of it. i took off my mo'nin' an' kep' comp'ny with him for quite a while, but we had a quarrel over bill's tombstone, suh, for, bein' a close-fisted man, he warn't willin' that i should put up as big a monument as i'd a mind to. well, i broke off with him on that account, for when it comes to choosin' between respect to the dead an' marriage to the livin' silas trimmer, i told him 'i reckon it won't take long for you to find out which way my morals air set.' he got mad as a hornet and went off, and i put on mo'nin' agin an' wo' it steddy twil the year was up." "and at the end of that time, i presume, you were wearied of widowhood and married buzzy?" "it's a queer thing, suh," she observed, as she picked up a fresh potato and inspected it as attentively as if it had been a new proposal, "it's a queer thing we ain't never so miserable in this world as when we ain't got the frazzle of an excuse to be so. now, arter bill went from me, thar was sech a quiet about that it began to git on my nerves, an' at last it got so that i couldn't sleep at nights because i was no longer obleeged to keep one ear open to hear if he was comin' upstairs drunk or sober. bless yo' heart, thar's not a woman on earth that don't need some sort of distraction, an bill was a long sight better at distractin' you than any circus i've ever seen. why, i even stopped goin' to 'em as long as he was livin', for it was a question every minute as to whether he was goin' to chuck you under the chin or lam you on the head, an' thar was a mortal lot a sprightliness about it. i reckon i must have got sort a sp'iled by the excitement, for when 't was took away, i jest didn't seem to be able to settle down. but thar are mighty few men with the little ways that bill had," she reflected sadly. "yet your present husband is kind to you, is he not?" "oh, he's kind enough, suh," she replied, with unutterable contempt, "but thar ain't nothin' in marriage that palls so soon as kindness. it's unexpectedness that keeps you from goin' plum crazy with the sameness of it, an' thar ain't a bit of unexpectedness about jake. he does everything so regular that thar're times when i'd like to bust him open jest to see how he is wound up inside. naw, suh, it ain't the blows that wears a woman out, it's the mortal sameness." clearly there was no comfort to be afforded her, and after a few words of practical advice on the subject of the children's education, he shook hands with her and started again in the direction of cedar hill. the road with its november colours brought back to him the many hours when he had tramped over it in cheerfulness or in despair. the dull brown stretches of broomsedge, rolling like a high sea, the humble cabins, nestling so close to the ground, the pale clay road winding under the half-bared trees, from which the bright leaves were fluttering downward--these things made the breach of the years close as suddenly as if the divided scenery upon a stage had rolled together. while he walked alone here it was impossible to believe in the reality of his life in botetourt. as he approached cedar hill, the long melancholy avenue appeared to him as an appropriate shelter for beverly's gentle ghost. he was surprised to discover with what tenderness he was able to surround the memory of that poetic figure since he stood again in the atmosphere which had helped to cultivate his indefinable charm. in tappahannock beverly's life might still be read in the dry lines of prose, but beneath the historic influences of cedar hill it became, even in ordway's eyes, a poem of sentiment. beyond the garden, he could see presently, through a gap in the trees, the silvery blur of life everlasting in the fallow land, which was steeped in afternoon sunshine. somewhere from a nearer meadow there floated a faint call of "coopee! coopee! coopee!" to the turkeys lost in the sassafras. then as he reached the house aunt mehitable's face looked down at him from a window in the second story: and in response to her signs of welcome, he ascended the steps and entered the hall, where he stopped upon hearing a child's voice through the half open door of the dining-room. "may i wear my coral beads even if i am in mourning, aunt emily?" "not yet, bella," answered emily's patient yet energetic tones. "put them away awhile and they'll be all the prettier when you take them out again." "but can't i mourn for papa and mamma just as well in my beads as i can without them?" "that may be, dear, but we must consider what other people will say." "what have other people got to do with my mourning, aunt emily?" "i don't know, but when you grow up you'll find that they have something to do with everything that concerns you." "well, then, i shan't mourn at all," replied bella, defiantly. "if you won't let me mourn in my coral beads, i shan't mourn a single bit without them." "there, there, bella, go on with your lesson," said emily sternly, "you are a naughty girl." at the sound of ordway's step on the threshold, she rose to her feet, with a frightened movement, and stood, white and trembling, her hand pressed to her quivering bosom. "you!" she cried out sharply, and there was a sound in her voice that brought him with a rush to her side. but as he reached her she drew quickly away, and hiding her face in her hands, broke into passionate weeping. it was the first time that he had seen her lose her habit of self-command, and while he watched her, he felt that each of her broken sobs was wrung from his own heart. "i was a fool not to prepare you," he said, as he placed a restraining hand on the awe-struck bella. "you've had so many shocks i ought to have known--i ought to have foreseen----" at his words she looked up instantly, drying her tears on a child's dress which she was mending. "you came so suddenly that it startled me, that is all," she answered. "i thought for a minute that something had happened to you--that you were an apparition instead of a reality. i've got into the habit of seeing ghosts of late." "it's a bad habit," he replied, as he pushed bella from the room and closed the door after her. "but i'm not a ghost, emily, only a rough and common mortal. baxter wrote me of beverly's death, so i came thinking that i might be of some little use. remember what you promised me in botetourt." as he looked at her now more closely, he saw that the clear brown of her skin had taken a sallow tinge, as if she were very weary, and that there were faint violet shadows in the hollows beneath her eyes. these outward signs of her weakness moved him to a passion deeper and tenderer than he had ever felt before. "i have not forgotten," she responded, after a moment in which she had recovered her usual bright aspect, "but there is really nothing one can do, it is all so simple. the farm has already been sold for debt, and so i shall start in the world without burdens, if without wealth." "and the children? what of them?" "that is arranged, too, very easily. blair is fifteen now, and he will be given a scholarship at college. the girls will go to a friend of mine, who has a boarding school and has made most reasonable terms." "and you?" he asked in a voice that expressed something of the longing he could not keep back. "is there to be nothing but hard work for you in the future?" "i am not afraid of work," she rejoined, smiling, "i am afraid only of reaching a place where work does not count." as he made no answer, she talked on brightly, telling him of her plans for the future, of the progress the children had shown at their lessons, of the arrangements she had made for aunt mehitable and micah, and of the innumerable changes which had occurred since he went away. so full of life, of energy, of hopefulness, were her face and voice that but for her black dress he would not have suspected that she had stood recently beside a deathbed. yet as he listened to her, his heart was torn by the sharp anguish of parting, and when presently she began to question him about his life in botetourt, it was with difficulty that he forced himself to reply in a steady voice. all other memories of her would give way, he felt, before the picture of her in her black dress against the burning logs, with the red firelight playing over her white face and hands. an hour later, when he rose to go, he took both of her hands in his, and bending his head laid his burning forehead against her open palms. "emily," he said, "tell me that you understand." for a moment she gazed down on him in silence. then, as he raised his eyes, she kissed him so softly that it seemed as if a spirit had touched his lips. "i understand--forever," she answered. at her words he straightened himself, as though a burden had fallen from him, and turning slowly away he went out of the house and back in the direction of tappahannock. chapter iii alice's marriage it was after ten o'clock when he returned to botetourt, and he found upon reaching home that lydia had already gone to bed, though a bottle of cough syrup, placed conspicuously upon his bureau, bore mute witness to the continuance of her solicitude. after so marked a consideration it seemed to him only decent that he should swallow a portion of the liquid; and he was in the act of filling the tablespoon she had left, when a ring at the door caused him to start until the medicine spilled from his hand. a moment later the ring was repeated more violently, and as he was aware that the servants had already left the house, he threw on his coat, and lighting a candle, went hurriedly out into the hall and down the dark staircase. the sound of a hand beating on the panels of the door quickened his steps almost into a run, and he was hardly surprised, when he had withdrawn the bolts, to find alice's face looking at him from the darkness outside. she was pale and thin, he saw at the first glance, and there was an angry look in her eyes, which appeared unnaturally large in their violent circles. "i thought you would never open to me, papa," she said fretfully as she crossed the threshold. "oh, i am so glad to see you again! feel how cold my hands are, i am half frozen." taking her into his arms, he kissed her face passionately as it rested for an instant against his shoulder. "are you alone, alice? where is your husband?" without answering, she raised her head, shivering slightly, and then turning away, entered the library where a log fire was smouldering to ashes. as he threw on more wood, she came over to the hearth, and stretched out her hands to the warmth with a nervous gesture. then the flame shot up and he saw that her beauty had gained rather than lost by the change in her features. she appeared taller, slenderer, more distinguished, and the vivid black and white of her colouring was intensified by the perfect simplicity of the light cloth gown and dark furs she wore. "oh, he's at home," she answered, breaking the long silence. "i mean he's in the house in henry street, but we had a quarrel an hour after we got back, so i put on my hat again and came away. i'm not going back--not unless he makes it bearable for me to live with him. he's such--such a brute that it's as much as one can do to put up with it, and it's been killing me by inches for the last months. i meant to write you about it, but somehow i couldn't, and yet i knew that i couldn't write at all without letting you see it. oh, he's unbearable!" she exclaimed, with a tremor of disgust. "you will never know--you will never be able to imagine all that i've been through!" "but is he unkind to you, alice? is he cruel?" she bared her arm with a superb disdainful gesture, and he saw three rapidly discolouring bruises on her delicate flesh. the sight filled him with loathing rather than anger, and he caught her to him almost fiercely as if he would hold her not only against geoffrey heath, but against herself. "you shall not go back to him," he said, "i will not permit it!" "the worst part is," she went on vehemently, as if he had not spoken, "that it is about money--money--always money. he has millions, his lawyers told me so, and yet he makes me give an account to him of every penny that i spend. i married him because i thought i should be rich and free, but he's been hardly better than a miser since the day of the wedding. he wants me to dress like a dowdy, for all his wealth, and i can't buy a ring that he doesn't raise a terrible fuss. i hate him more and more every day i live, but it makes no difference to him as long as he has me around to look at whenever he pleases. i have to pay him back for every dollar that he gives me, and if i keep away from him and get cross, he holds back my allowance. oh, it's a dog's life!" she exclaimed wildly, "and it is killing me!" "you shan't bear it, alice. as long as i'm alive you are safe with me." "for a time i could endure it because of the travelling and the strange countries," she resumed, ignoring the tenderness in his voice, "but geoffrey was so frightfully jealous that if i so much as spoke to a man, he immediately flew into a rage. he even made me leave the opera one night in paris because a russian grand duke in the next box looked at me so hard." throwing herself into a chair, she let her furs slip from her shoulders, and sat staring moodily into the fire. "i've sworn a hundred times that i'd leave him," she said, "and yet i've never done it until to-night." while she talked on feverishly, he untied her veil, which she had tossed back, and taking off her hat, pressed her gently against the cushions he had placed in her chair. "you look so tired, darling, you must rest," he said. "rest! you may as well tell me to sleep!" she exclaimed. then her tone altered abruptly, and for the first time, she seemed able to penetrate beyond her own selfish absorption. "oh, you poor papa, how very old you look!" she said. taking his head in her arms, she pressed it to her bosom and cried softly for a minute. "it's all my fault--everything is my fault, but i can't help it. i'm made that way." then pushing him from her suddenly, she sprang to her feet and began walking up and down in her restless excited manner. "let me get you a glass of wine, alice," he said, "you are trembling all over." she shook her head. "it isn't that--it isn't that. it's the awful--awful money. if it wasn't for the money i could go on. oh, i wish i'd never spent a single dollar! i wish i'd always gone in rags!" again he forced her back into her chair and again, after a minute of quiet, she rose to her feet and broke into hysterical sobs. "all that i have is yours, alice, you know that," he said in the effort to soothe her, "and, besides, your own property is hardly less than two hundred thousand." "but uncle richard won't give it to me," she returned angrily. "i wrote and begged him on my knees and he still refused to let me have a penny more than my regular income. it's all tied up, he says, in investments, and that until i am twenty-one it must remain in his hands." with a frantic movement, she reached for her muff, and drew from it a handful of crumpled papers, which she held out to him. "geoffrey found these to-night and they brought on the quarrel," she said. "yesterday he gave me this bracelet and he seems to think i could live on it for a month!" she stretched out her arm, as she spoke, and showed him a glittering circle of diamonds immediately below the blue finger marks. "there's a sable coat still that he doesn't know a thing of," she finished with a moan. bending under the lamp, he glanced hurriedly over the papers she had given him, and then rose to his feet still holding them in his hand. "these alone come to twenty thousand dollars, alice," he said with a gentle sternness. "and there are others, too," she cried, making no effort to control her convulsive sobs. "there are others which i didn't dare even to let him see." for a moment he let her weep without seeking to arrest her tears. "are you sure this will be a lesson to you?" he asked at last. "will you be careful--very careful from this time?" "oh, i'll never spend a penny again. i'll stay in botetourt forever," she promised desperately, eager to retrieve the immediate instant by the pledge of a more or less uncertain future. "then we must help you," he said. "among us all--uncle richard, your mother and i--it will surely be possible." pacified at once by his assurance, she sat down again and dried her eyes in her muff. "it seems a thousand years since i went away," she observed, glancing about her for the first time. "nothing is changed and yet everything appears to be different." "and are you different also?" he asked. "oh, i'm older and i've seen a great deal more," she responded, with a laugh which came almost as a shock to him after her recent tears, "but i still want to go everywhere and have everything just as i used to." "but i thought you were determined to stay in botetourt for the future?" he suggested. "well, so i am, i suppose," she returned dismally, "there's nothing else for me to do, is there?" "nothing that i see." "then i may as well make up my mind to be miserable forever. it's so frightfully gloomy in this old house, isn't it? how is mamma?" "she's just as you left her, neither very well nor very sick." "so it's exactly what it always was, i suppose, and will drive me to distraction in a few weeks. is dick away?" "he's at college, and he's doing finely." "of course he is--that's why he's such a bore." "let dick alone, alice, and tell me about yourself. so you went to europe immediately after i saw you in washington?" "two days later. i was dreadfully seasick, and geoffrey was as disagreeable as he could be, and made all kinds of horrid jokes about me." "you went straight to paris, didn't you?" "as soon as we landed, but geoffrey made me come away in three weeks because he said i spent so much money." her face clouded again at the recollection of her embarrassments. "oh, we had awful scenes, but i hadn't even a wedding dress, you know, and french dressmakers are so frightfully expensive. one of them charged me five thousand dollars for a gown--but he told me that it was really cheap, because he'd sold one to another american the day before for twelve thousand. i don't know who her husband is," she added wistfully, "but i wish i were married to him." the wildness of her extravagance depressed him even more than her excessive despair had done; and he wondered if the vagueness of her ideas of wealth was due to the utter lack in her of the imagination which foresees results? she had lived since her girlhood in a quiet virginia town, her surroundings had been comparatively simple, and she had never been thrown, until her marriage, amid the corrupting influences of great wealth, yet, in spite of these things, she had squandered a fortune as carelessly as a child might have strewed pebbles upon the beach. her regret at last had come not through realisation of her fault, but in the face of the immediate punishment which threatened her. "so he got you out of paris? well, i'm glad of that," he remarked. "he was perfectly brutal about it, i wish you could have heard him. then we went down into italy and did nothing for months but look at old pictures--at least i did, he wouldn't come--and float around in a gondola until i almost died from the monotony. it was only after i found a lace shop, where they had the most beautiful things, that he would take me away, and then he insisted upon going to some little place up in the alps because he said he didn't suppose i could possibly pack the mountains into my trunks. oh, those dreadful mountains! they were so glaring i could never go out of doors until the afternoon, and geoffrey would go off climbing or shooting and leave me alone in a horrid little hotel where there was nobody but a one-eyed german army officer, and a woman missionary who was bracing herself for south africa. she wore a knitted jersey all day and a collar which looked as if it would cut her head off if she ever forgot herself and bent her neck." her laughter, the delicious, irresponsible laughter of a child, rippled out: "she asked me one day if our blacks wore draperies? the ones in south africa didn't, and it made it very embarrassing sometimes, she said, to missionary to them. oh, you can't imagine what i suffered from her, and geoffrey was so horrid about it, and insisted that she was just the sort of companion that i needed. so one day when he happened to be in the writing-room where she was, i locked the door on the outside and threw the key down into the gorge. there wasn't any locksmith nearer than twenty miles, and when they sent for him he was away. oh, it was simply too funny for words! geoffrey on the inside was trying to break the heavy lock and the proprietor on the outside was protesting that he mustn't, and all the time we could hear the missionary begging everybody please to be patient. she said if it were required of her she was quite prepared to stay locked up all night, but geoffrey wasn't, so he swung himself down by the branches of a tree which grew near the window." all her old fascination had come back to her with her change of mood, and he forgot to listen to her words while he watched the merriment sparkle in her deep blue eyes. it was a part of his destiny that he should submit to her spell, as, he supposed, even geoffrey submitted at times. he was about to make some vague comment upon her story, when her face changed abruptly into an affected gravity, and turning his head, he saw that lydia had come noiselessly into the room, and was advancing to meet her daughter with outstretched arms. "why, alice, my child, what a beautiful surprise! when did you come?" as alice started forward to her embrace, ordway noticed that there was an almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles of her body. "only a few minutes ago," she replied, with the characteristic disregard of time which seemed, in some way, to belong to her inability to consider figures, "and, oh, i am so glad to be back! you are just as lovely as ever." "well, you are lovelier," said lydia, kissing her, and adding a moment afterward, as the result of her quick, woman's glance, "what a charming gown!" alice shrugged her shoulders, with a foreign gesture which she had picked up. "oh, you must see some of my others," she replied, "i wish that my trunks would come, but i forgot they were all sent to the other house, and i haven't even a nightgown. will you lend me a nightgown, mamma? i have some of the loveliest you ever saw which were embroidered for me by the nuns in a french convent." "so, you'll spend the night?" said lydia, "i'm so glad, dear, and i'll go up and see if your bed has sheets on it." "oh, it's not only for the night," returned alice, defiantly, "i've come back for good. i've left geoffrey, haven't i, papa?" "i hope so, darling," answered ordway, coming for the first time over to where they stood. "left geoffrey?" repeated lydia. "do you mean you've separated?" "i mean i'm never going back again--that i detest him--that i'd rather die--that i'll kill myself before i'll do it." lydia received her violence with the usual resigned sweetness that she presented to an impending crisis. "but, my dear, my dear, a divorce is a horrible thing!" she wailed. "well, it isn't half so horrible as geoffrey," retorted alice. ordway, who had turned away again as lydia spoke, came forward at the girl's angry words, and caught the hand that she had stretched out as if to push her mother from her. "let's be humbly grateful that we've got her back," he said, smiling, "while we prepare her bed." chapter iv the power of the blood when he came out into the hall the next morning, lydia met him, in her dressing-gown, on her way from alice's room. "how is she?" he asked eagerly. "did she sleep?" "no, she was very restless, so i stayed with her. she went home a quarter of an hour ago." "went home? do you mean she's gone back to that brute?" a servant's step sounded upon the staircase, and with her unfailing instinct for propriety, she drew back into his room and lowered her voice. "she said that she was too uncomfortable without her clothes and her maid, but i think she had definitely made up her mind to return to him." "but when did she change? you heard her say last night that she would rather kill herself." "oh, you know alice," she responded a little wearily; and for the first time it occurred to him that the exact knowledge of alice might belong, after all, not to himself, but to her. "you think, then," he asked, "that she meant none of her violent protestations of last night?" "i am sure that she meant them while she uttered them--not a minute afterward. she can't help being dramatic any more than she can help being beautiful." "are you positive that you said nothing to bring about her decision? did you influence her in any way?" "i did nothing more than tell her that she must make her choice once for all--that she must either go back to geoffrey heath and keep up some kind of appearances, or publicly separate herself from him. i let her see quite plainly that a state of continual quarrels was impossible and indecent." her point of view was so entirely sensible that he found himself hopelessly overpowered by its unassailable logic. "so she has decided to stick to him for better or for worse, then?" "for the present at all events. she realised fully, i think, how much she would be obliged to sacrifice by returning home?" "sacrifice? good god, what?" he demanded. "oh, well, you see, geoffrey lives in a fashion that is rather grand for botetourt. he travels a great deal, and he makes her gorgeous presents when he is in a good humour. she seemed to feel that if we could only settle these bills for her, she would be able to bring about a satisfactory adjustment. i was surprised to find how quietly she took it all this morning. she had forgotten entirely, i believe, the scene she made downstairs last night." this was his old alice, he reflected in baffled silence, and apparently he would never attain to the critical judgment of her. well, in any case, he was able to do justice to lydia's admirable detachment. "i suppose i may have a talk with heath anyway?" he said at last. "she particularly begs you not to, and i feel strongly that she is right." "does she expect me to sit quietly by and see it go on forever? why, there were bruises on her arm that he had made with his fingers." lydia paled as she always did when one of the brutal facts of life was thrust on her notice. "oh, she doesn't think that will happen again. it appears that she had lost her temper and tried her best to infuriate him. he is still very much in love with her at times, and she hopes that by a little diplomacy she may be able to arrange matters between them." "diplomacy with that insufferable cad! pshaw!" lydia sighed, not in exasperation, but with the martyr's forbearance. "it is really a crisis in alice's life," she said, "and we must treat it with seriousness." "i was never more serious in my life. i'm melancholy. i'm abject." "last night she told me that geoffrey threatened to go west and get a divorce, and this frightened her." "but i thought it was the very thing she wanted," he urged in bewilderment. "hadn't she left him last night for good and all?" "she might leave him, but she could not give up his money. it is impossible, i suppose, for you to realise her complete dependence upon wealth--the absurdity of her ideas about the value of money. why, her income of five thousand which uncle richard allows her would not last her a month." "i realised a little of this when i glanced over those bills she gave me." "of course we shall pay those ourselves, but what is twenty thousand dollars to her, when geoffrey seems to have paid out a hundred thousand already. he began, i can see, by being very generous, but she confessed to me this morning that other bills were still to come in which she would not dare to let him see. i told her that she must try to meet these out of her income, and that we would reduce our living expenses as much as possible in order to pay those she gave you." "i shall ask uncle richard to advance this out of my personal property," he said. "but he will not do it. you know how scrupulous he is about all such matters, and he told me the other day that your father's will had clearly stated that the money was not to be touched unless he should deem it for your interest to turn it over to you." her command of the business situation amazed him, until he remembered her long conversations with richard ordway, whose interests were confined within strictly professional limits. his fatal mistake in the past, he saw now, was that he had approached her, not as a fellow mortal, but as a divinity; for the farther he receded from the attitude of worship, the more was he able to appreciate the quality of her practical virtues. in spite of her poetic exterior, it was in the rosy glow of romance that she showed now as barest of attractions. the bottle of cough syrup on his bureau still testified to her ability to sympathise in all cases where the imagination was not required to lend its healing insight. "but surely it is to my interest to save alice," he said after a pause. "i think he will feel that it must be done by the family, by us all," she answered, "he has always had so keen a sense of honour in little things." an hour later, when he broached the subject to richard in his office, he found that lydia was right, as usual, in her prediction; and with a flash of ironic humour, he pictured her as enthroned above his destiny, like a fourth fate who spun the unyielding thread of common sense. "of course the debt must be paid if it is a condition of alice's reconciliation with her husband," said the old man, "but i shall certainly not sacrifice your securities in order to do it. such an act would be directly against the terms of your father's will." there was no further concession to be had from him, so daniel turned to his work, half in disappointment, half in admiration of his uncle's loyalty to the written word. when he went home to luncheon lydia told him that she had seen alice, who had appeared seriously disturbed, though she had shown her, with evident enjoyment, a number of exquisite paris gowns. "she had a sable coat, also, in her closet, which could not have cost less, i should have supposed, than forty thousand dollars--the kind of coat that a russian grand duchess might have worn--but when i spoke of it, she grew very much depressed and changed the subject. did you talk to uncle richard? and was i right?" "you're always right," he admitted despondently, "but do you think, then, that i'd better not see alice to-day?" "perhaps it would be wiser to wait until to-morrow. geoffrey is in a very difficult humour, she says, more brutally indifferent to her than he has been since her marriage." "isn't that all the more reason she ought to have her family about her?" "she says not. it's easier to deal with him, she feels, alone--and any way uncle richard will call there this afternoon." "oh, uncle richard!" he groaned, as he went out. in the evening there was no news beyond a reassuring visit from richard ordway, who stopped by, for ten minutes, on his way from an interview with geoffrey heath. "to tell the truth i found him less obstinate than i had expected," he said, "and there's no doubt, i fear, that he has some show of justice upon his side. he has agreed now to make alice a very liberal allowance from the first of april, provided she will promise to make no more bills, and to live until then within her own income. he told me that he was obliged to retrench for the next six months in order to meet his obligations without touching his investments. it seems that he had bought very largely on margin, and the shrinkages in stocks has forced him to pay out a great deal of money recently." "i knew you would manage it, uncle, i relied on you absolutely," said lydia, sweetly. "i did only my duty, my child," he responded, as he held out his hand. the one good result of the anxiety of the last twenty-four hours--the fact that it had brought lydia and himself into a kind of human connection--had departed, daniel observed, when he sat down to dinner, separated from her by six yellow candle shades and a bowl of gorgeous chrysanthemums. after a casual comment upon the soup, and the pleasant reminder that dick would be home for thanksgiving, the old uncomfortable silence fell between them. she had just remarked that the roast was a little overdone, and he had agreed with her from sheer politeness, when a sharp ring at the bell sent the old negro butler hurrying out into the hall. an instant later there was a sound of rapid footsteps, and alice, wearing a long coat, which slipped from her bare shoulders as she entered, came rapidly forward and threw herself into ordway's arms, with an uncontrollable burst of tears. "my child, my child, what is it?" he questioned, while lydia, rising from the table with a disturbed face, but an unruffled manner, remarked to the butler that he need not serve the dessert. "come into the library, alice, it is quieter there," she said, putting her arm about her daughter, with an authoritative pressure. "o, papa, i will never see him again! you must tell him that. i shall never see him again," she cried, regardless alike of lydia's entreaties and the restraining presence of the butler. "go to him to-night and tell him that i will never--never go back." "i'll tell him, alice, and i'll do it with a great deal of pleasure," he answered soothingly, as he led her into the library and closed the door. "but you must go at once. i want him to know it at once." "i'll go this very hour--i'll go this very minute, if you honestly mean it." "would it not be better to wait until to-morrow, alice?" suggested lydia. "then you will have time to quiet down and to see things rationally." "i don't want to quiet down," sobbed alice, angrily, "i want him to know now--this very instant--that he has gone too far--that i will not stand it. he told me a minute ago--the beast!--that he'd like to see the man who would be fool enough to keep me--that if i went he'd find a handsomer woman within a week!" "well, i'll see him, darling," said ordway. "sit here with your mother, and have a good cry and talk things over." as he spoke he opened the door and went out into the hall, where he got into his overcoat. "remember last night and don't say too much, daniel," urged lydia in a warning whisper, coming after him, "she is quite hysterical now and does not realise what she is saying." "oh, i'll remember," he returned, and a minute later, he closed the front door behind him. on his way to the heath house in henry street, he planned dispassionately his part in the coming interview, and he resolved that he would state alice's position with as little show of feeling as it was possible for him to express. he would tell heath candidly that, with his consent, alice should never return to him, but he would say this in a perfectly quiet and inoffensive manner. if there was to be a scene, he concluded calmly, it should be made entirely by geoffrey. then, as he went on, he said to himself, that he had grown tired and old, and that he lacked now the decision which should carry one triumphantly over a step like this. even his anger against alice's husband had given way to a dragging weariness, which seemed to hold him back as he ascended the brown-stone steps and laid his hand on the door bell. when the door was opened, and he followed the servant through the long hall, ornamented by marble statues, to the smoking-room at the end, he was conscious again of that sense of utter incapacity which had been bred in him by his life in botetourt. geoffrey, after a full dinner, was lounging, with a cigar and a decanter of brandy, over a wood fire, and as his visitor entered he rose from his chair with a lazy shake of his whole person. "i don't believe i've ever met you before, mr. ordway," he remarked, as he held out his hand, "though i've known you by sight for several years. won't you sit down?" with a single gesture he motioned to a chair and indicated the cigars and the brandy on a little table at his right hand. at his first glance ordway had observed that he had been in a rage or drinking heavily--probably both; and he was seized by a sudden terror at the thought that alice had been so lately at the mercy of this large red and black male animal. yet, in spite of the disgust with which the man inspired him, he was forced to admit that as far as a mere physical specimen went, he had rarely seen his equal. his body was superbly built, and but for his sullen and brutal expression, his face would have been remarkable for its masculine beauty. "no, i won't sit down, thank you," replied ordway, after a short pause. "what i have to say can be said better standing, i think." "then fire away!" returned geoffrey, with a coarse laugh. "it's about alice, i suppose, and it's most likely some darn rot she's sent you with." "it's probably less rot than you imagine. i have taken it upon myself to forbid her returning to you. your treatment of her has made it impossible that she should remain in your house." "well, i've treated her a damned sight better than she deserved," rejoined geoffrey, scowling, while his face, inflamed by the brandy he had drunk, burned to a dull red; "it isn't her fault, i can tell you, that she hasn't put me into the poorhouse in six months." "i admit that she has been very extravagant, and so does she." "extravagant? so that is what you call it, is it? well, she spent more in three weeks in paris than my father did in his whole lifetime. i paid out a hundred thousand for her, and even then i could hardly get her away. but i won't pay the bills any longer, i've told her that. they may go into court about it and get their money however they can." "in the future there will be no question of that." "you think so, do you? now i'll bet you whatever you please that she's back here in this house again before the week is up. she knows on which side her bread is buttered, and she won't stay in that dull old place, not for all you're worth." "she shall never return to you with my consent." "did she wait for that to marry me?" demanded geoffrey, laughing uproariously at his wit, "though i can tell you now, that it makes precious little difference to me whether she comes or stays." "she shall never do it," said ordway, losing his temper. then as he uttered the words, he remembered lydia's warning and added more quietly, "she shall never do it if i can help it." "it makes precious little difference to me," repeated geoffrey, "but she'll be a blamed fool if she doesn't, and for all her foolishness, she isn't so big a fool as you think her." "she has been wrong in her extravagance, as i said before, but she is very young, and her childishness is no excuse for your brutality." rage, or the brandy, or both together, flamed up hotly in geoffrey's face. "i'd like to know what right you have to talk about brutality?" he sneered. "i've the right of any man to keep another from ill-treating his daughter." "well, you're a nice one with your history to put on these highfaluting, righteous airs, aren't you?" for an instant the unutterable disgust in ordway's mind was like physical nausea. what use was it, after all, to bandy speeches, he questioned, with a mere drunken animal? his revulsion of feeling had moved him to take a step toward the door, when the sound of the words geoffrey uttered caused him to stop abruptly and stand listening. "much good you'll do her when she hears about that woman you've been keeping down at tappahannock. as if i didn't know that you'd been running back there again after that brooke girl----" the words were choked back in his throat, for before they had passed his lips ordway had swung quickly round and struck him full in the mouth. with the blow it seemed to daniel that all the violence in his nature was loosened. a sensation that was like the joy of health, of youth, of manhood, rushed through his veins, and in the single exalted instant when he looked down on geoffrey's prostrate figure, he felt himself to be not only triumphant, but immortal. all that his years of self-sacrifice had not done for him was accomplished by that explosive rush of energy through his arm. there was blood on his hand and as he glanced down, he saw that geoffrey, with a bleeding mouth, was struggling, dazed and half drunk, to his feet. ordway looked at him and laughed--the laugh of the boastful and victorious brute. then turning quickly, he took up his hat and went out of the house and down into the street. the physical exhilaration produced by the muscular effort was still tingling through his body, and while it lasted he felt younger, stronger, and possessed of a courage that was almost sublime. when he reached home and entered the library where lydia and alice were sitting together, there was a boyish lightness and confidence in his step. "oh, papa!" cried alice, standing up, "tell me about it. what did he do?" ordway laughed again, the same laugh with which he had looked down on geoffrey lying half stunned at his feet. "i didn't wait to see," he answered, "but i rather think he got up off the floor." "you mean you knocked him down?" asked lydia, in an astonishment that left her breathless. "i cut his mouth, i'm sure," he replied, wiping his hand from which the blood ran, "and i hope i knocked out one or two of his teeth." then the exhilaration faded as quickly as it had come, for as lydia looked up at him, while he stood there wiping the blood from his bruised knuckles, he saw, for the first time since his return to botetourt, that there was admiration in her eyes. so it was the brute, after all, and not the spirit that had triumphed over her. chapter v the house of dreams from that night there was a new element in lydia's relation to him, an increased consideration, almost a deference, as if, for the first time, he had shown himself capable of commanding her respect. this change, which would have pleased him, doubtless, twenty years before, had only the effect now of adding to his depression, for he saw in it a tribute from his wife not to his higher, but to his lower nature. all his patient ideals, all his daily self-sacrifice, had not touched her as had that one instant's violence; and it occurred to him, with a growing recognition of the hopeless inconsistency of life, that if he had treated her with less delicacy, less generosity, if he had walked roughshod over her feminine scruples, instead of yielding to them, she might have entertained for him by this time quite a wholesome wifely regard. then the mere possibility disgusted him, and he saw that to have compromised with her upon any lower plane would have been always morally repugnant to him. after all, the dominion of the brute was not what he was seeking. on the morning after his scene with geoffrey, alice came to him and begged for the minutest particulars of the quarrel. she wanted to know how it had begun? if geoffrey had been really horrible? and if he had noticed the new bronze dragon she had bought for the hall? upon his replying that he had not, she seemed disappointed, he thought, for a minute. "it's very fine," she said, "i bought it from what's-his-name, that famous man in paris? if i ever have money enough i shall get the match to it, so there'll be the pair of them." then seeing his look of astonishment, she hastened to correct the impression she had made. "of course, i mean that i'd like to have done it, if i had been going to live there." "it would take more than a bronze dragon, or a pair of them, to make that house a home, dear," was his only comment. "but it's very handsome," she remarked after a moment, "everything in it is so much more costly than the things here." he made no rejoinder, and she added with vehemence, "but of course, i wouldn't go back, not even if it were a palace!" then a charming merriment seized her, and she clung to him and kissed him and called him a dozen silly pet names. "no, she won't ever, ever play in that horrid old house again," she sang gaily between her kisses. for several days these exuberant spirits lasted, and then he prepared himself to meet the inevitable reaction. her looks drooped, she lost her colour and grew obviously bored, and in the end she complained openly that there was nothing for her to do in the house, and that she couldn't go out of doors because she hadn't the proper clothes. to his reminder that it was she herself who had prevented his sending for her trunks, she replied that there was plenty of time, and that "besides nobody could pack them unless she was there to overlook it." "if anybody is obliged to go back there, for heaven's sake, let me be the one," he urged desperately at last. "to knock out more of poor geoffrey's teeth? oh, you naughty, naughty, papa!"--she cried, lifting a reproving finger. the next instant her laughter bubbled out at the delightful picture of "papa in the midst of her paris gowns. i'd be so afraid you'd roll up geoffrey in my precious laces," she protested, half seriously. for a week nothing more was said on the subject, and then she remarked irritably that her room was cold and she hadn't her quilted silk dressing-gown. when he asked her to ride with him, she declared that her old habit was too tight for her and her new one was at the other house. when he suggested driving instead, she replied that she hadn't her fur coat and she would certainly freeze without it. at last one bright, cold day, when he came up to luncheon, lydia told him, with her strange calmness, that alice had gone back to her husband. "i knew it would come in time," she said, and he bowed again before her unerring prescience. "do you mean to tell me that she's willing to put up with heath for the sake of a little extra luxury?" he demanded. "oh, that's a part of it. she likes the newness of the house and the air of costliness about it, but most of all, she feels that she could never settle down to our monotonous way of living. geoffrey promised her to take her to europe again in the summer and i think she began to grow restless when it appeared that she might have to give it up." "but one of us could have taken her to europe, if that's all she wanted. you could have gone with her." "not in alice's way, we could never have afforded it. she told me this when i offered to go with her if she would definitely separate from geoffrey." "then you didn't want her to go back? you didn't encourage it?" "i encouraged her to behave with decency--and this isn't decent." "no, i admit that. it decidedly is not." "yet we have no assurance that she won't fly in upon us at dinner to-night, with all the servants about," she reflected mournfully. his awful levity broke out as it always did whenever she invoked the sanctity of convention. "in that case hadn't we better serve ourselves until she has made up her mind?" he inquired. but the submission of the martyr is proof even against caustic wit, and she looked at him, after a minute, with a smile of infinite patience. "for myself i can bear anything," she answered, "but i feel that for her it is shocking to make things so public." it was shocking. in spite of his flippancy he felt the vulgarity of it as acutely as she felt it; and he was conscious of something closely akin to relief, when richard ordway dropped in after dinner to tell them that alice and geoffrey had come to a complete reconciliation. "but will it last?" lydia questioned, in an uneasy voice. "we'll hope so at all events," replied the old man, "they appeared certainly to be very friendly when i came away. whatever happens it is surely to alice's interest that she should be kept out of a public scandal." they were still discussing the matter, after richard had gone, when the girl herself ran in, bringing geoffrey, and fairly brilliant with life and spirits. "we've decided to forget everything disagreeable," she said, "we're going to begin over again and be nice and jolly, and if i don't spend too much money, we are going to egypt in april." "if you're happy, then i'm satisfied," returned ordway, and he held out his hand to geoffrey by way of apology. to do the young man justice, he appeared to cherish no resentment for the blow, though he still bore a scar on his upper lip. he looked heavy and handsome, and rather amiable in a dull way, and the one discovery daniel made about him was that he entertained a profound admiration for richard ordway. still, when everybody in botetourt shared his sentiment, this was hardly deserving of notice. as the weeks went on it looked as if peace were really restored, and even lydia's face lost its anxious foreboding, when she gazed on the assembled family at thanksgiving. dick had grown into a quiet, distinguished looking young fellow, more than ever like his uncle richard, and it was touching to watch his devotion to his delicate mother. at least lydia possessed one enduring consolation in life, ordway reflected, with a rush of gratitude. in the afternoon alice drove with him out into the country, along the pale brown november roads, and he felt, while he sat beside her, with her hand clasped tightly in his under the fur robe, that she was again the daughter of his dreams, who had flown to his arms in the terrible day of his homecoming. she was in one of her rare moods of seriousness, and when she lifted her eyes to his, it seemed to him that they held a new softness, a deeper blueness. something in her face brought back to him the memory of emily as she had looked down at him when he knelt before her; and again he was aware of some subtle link which bound together in his thoughts the two women whom he loved. "there's something i've wanted to tell you, papa, first of all," said alice, pressing his hand, "i want you to know it before anybody else because you've always loved me and stood by me from the beginning. now shut your eyes while i tell you, and hold fast to my hand. o papa, there's to be really and truly a baby in the spring, and even if it's a boy--i hope it will be a girl--you'll promise to love it and be good to it, won't you?" "love your child? alice, my darling!" he cried, and his voice broke. she raised her hand to his cheek with a little caressing gesture, which had always been characteristic of her, and as he opened his eyes upon her, her beauty shone, he thought, with a light that blinded him. "i hope it will be a little girl with blue eyes and fair hair like mamma's," she resumed softly. "it will be better than playing with dolls, won't it? i always loved dolls, you know. do you remember the big wax doll you gave me when i was six years old, and how her voice got out of order and she used to crow instead of talking? well, i kept her for years and years, and even after i was a big girl, and wore long dresses, and did up my hair, i used to take her out sometimes and put on her clothes. only i was ashamed of it and used to lock the door so no one could see me. but this little girl will be real, you know, and that's ever so much more fun, isn't it? and you shall help teach her to walk, and to ride when she's big enough; and i'll dress her in the loveliest dresses, with french embroidered ruffles, and a little blue bonnet with bunches of feathers, like one in paris. only she can't wear that until she's five years old, can she?" "and now you will have something to think of, alice, you will be bored no longer?" "i shall enjoy buying the little things so much, but it's too soon yet to plan about them. papa, do you think geoffrey will fuss about money when he hears this?" "i hope not, dear, but you must be careful. the baby won't need to be extravagant, just at first." "but she must have pretty clothes, of course, papa. it wouldn't be kind to the little thing to make her look ugly, would it?" "are simple things always ugly?" "oh, but they cost just as much if they're fine--and i had beautiful clothes when i came. mamma has told me about them." she ran on breathlessly, radiant with the promise of motherhood, dwelling in fancy upon the small blond ideal her imagination had conjured into life. it was dark when they returned to town, and when daniel entered his door, after leaving alice in henry street, he found that the lamps were already lit in the library. as he passed up the staircase, he glanced into the room, and saw that lydia and dick were sitting together before the fire, the boy resting his head on her knees, while her fragile hand played caressingly with his hair. they did not look up at his footsteps, and his heart was so warm with happiness that even the picture of mother and son in the firelit room appeared dim beside it. when he opened his door he found a bright fire in his grate, and throwing off his coat, he sat down in an easy chair with his eyes on the glowing coals. the beneficent vision that he had brought home with him was reflected now in the red heart of the fire, and while he gazed on it, he told himself that the years of his loneliness, and his inner impoverishment, were ended forever. the path of age showed to him no longer as hard and destitute, but as a peaceful road along which he might travel hopefully with young feet to keep him company. with a longing, which no excess of the imagination could exhaust, he saw alice's child as she had seen it in her maternal rapture--as something immortally young and fair and innocent. he thought of the moment so long ago, when they had first placed alice in his arms, and it seemed to him that this unborn child was only a renewal of the one he had held that day--that he would reach out his arms to it with that same half human, half mystic passion. even to-day he could almost feel the soft pressure of her little body, and he hardly knew whether it was the body of alice or of her child. then suddenly it seemed to him that the reality faded from his consciousness and the dream began, for while he sat there he heard the patter of the little feet across his floor, and felt the little hands creep softly over his lips and brow. oh, the little hands that would bring healing and love in their touch! and he understood as he looked forward now into the dreaded future, that the age to which he was travelling was only an immortal youth. chapter vi the ultimate choice on christmas eve a heavy snowstorm set in, and as there was but little work in the office that day, he took a long walk into the country before going home to luncheon. by the time he came back to town the ground was already covered with snow, which was blown by a high wind into deep drifts against the houses. through the thick, whirling flakes the poplars stood out like white ghosts of trees, each branch outlined in a delicate tracery, and where the skeletons of last spring's flowers still clung to the boughs, the tiny cups were crowned with clusters of frozen blossoms. as he passed richard's house, the sight of his aunt's fair head at the window arrested his steps, and going inside, he found her filling yarn stockings for twenty poor children, to whose homes she went every christmas eve. the toys and the bright tarleton bags of candy scattered about the room gave it an air that was almost festive; and for a few minutes he stayed with her, watching the glow of pleasure in her small, pale face, while he helped stuff the toes of the yarn stockings with oranges and nuts. as he stood there, surrounded by the little gifts, he felt, for the first time since his childhood, the full significance of christmas--of its cheer, its mirth and its solemnity. "i am to have a tree at twelve o'clock to-morrow. will you come?" she asked wistfully, and he promised, with a smile, before he left her and went out again into the storm. in the street a crowd of boys were snowballing one another, and as he passed a ball struck him, knocking his hat into a drift. turning in pretended fury, he plunged into the thick of the battle, and when he retreated some minutes afterward, he was powdered from head to foot with dry, feathery flakes. when he reached home, he discovered, with dismay, that he left patches of white on the carpet from the door to the upper landing. after he had entered his room he shook the snow from his clothes, and then looking at his watch, saw to his surprise, that luncheon must have been over for at least an hour. in a little while, he told himself, he would go downstairs and demand something to eat from the old butler; but the hearth was so bright and warm that after sinking into his accustomed chair, he found that it was almost impossible to make the effort to go out. in a moment a delicious drowsiness crept over him, and he fell presently asleep, while the cigar he had lighted burned slowly out in his hand. the sound of the opening and closing door brought him suddenly awake with a throb of pain. the gray light from the windows, beyond which the snow fell heavily, was obscured by the figure of lydia, who seemed to spring upon him out of some dim mist of sleep. at first he saw only her pale face and white outstretched hands; then as she came rapidly forward and dropped on her knees in the firelight, he saw that her face was convulsed with weeping and her eyes red and swollen. for the first time in his life, it occurred to him with a curious quickness of perception, he looked upon the naked soul of the woman, with her last rag of conventionality stripped from her. in the shock of the surprise, he half rose to his feet, and then sank back helplessly, putting out his hand as if he would push her away from him. "lydia," he said, "don't keep me waiting. tell me at once." she tried to speak, and he heard her voice strangle like a live thing in her throat. "is alice dead?" he asked quietly, "or is dick?" at this she appeared to regain control of herself and he watched the mask of her impenetrable reserve close over her features. "it is not that--nobody is dead--it is worse," she answered in a subdued and lifeless voice. "worse?" the word stunned him, and he stared at her blankly, like a person whose mind has suddenly given way. "alice is in my room," she went on, when he had paused, "i left her with uncle richard while i came here to look for you. we did not hear you come in. i thought you were still out." her manner, even more than her words, impressed him only as an evasion of the thing in her mind, and seizing her hands almost roughly, he drew her forward until he could look closely into her face. "for god's sake--speak!" he commanded. but with his grasp all animation appeared to go out of her, and she fell across his knees in an immovable weight, while her eyes still gazed up at him. "if you can't tell me i must go to uncle richard," he added. as he attempted to rise she put out her hands to restrain him, and in the midst of his suspense, he was amazed at the strength there was in a creature so slight and fragile. "uncle richard has just come to tell us," she said in a whisper. "a lawyer--a detective--somebody. i can't remember who it is--has come down from new york to see geoffrey about a check signed in his name, which was returned to the bank there. at the first glance it was seen to be--to be not in his writing. when it was sent to him, after the bank had declined to honour it, he declared it to be a forgery and sent it back to them at once. it is now in their hands----" "to whom was it drawn?" he asked so quietly that his voice sounded in his own ears like the voice of a stranger. "to damon & hanska, furriers in fifth avenue, and it was sent in payment for a sable coat which alice had bought. they had already begun a suit, it seems, to recover the money." as she finished he rose slowly to his feet, and stood staring at the snow which fell heavily beyond the window. the twisted bough of a poplar tree just outside was rocking back and forth with a creaking noise, and presently, as his ears grew accustomed to the silence in the room, he heard the loud monotonous ticking of the clock on the mantel, which seemed to grow more distinct with each minute that the hands travelled. lydia had slipped from his grasp as he rose, and lay now with her face buried in the cushions of the chair. it was a terrible thing for lydia, he thought suddenly, as he looked down on her. "and geoffrey heath?" he asked, repeating the question in a raised voice when she did not answer. "oh, what can we expect of him? what can we expect?" she demanded, with a shudder. "alice is sure that he hates her, that he would seize any excuse to divorce her, to outrage her publicly. he will do nothing--nothing--nothing," she said, rising to her feet, "he has returned the check to the bank, and denied openly all knowledge of it. after some violent words with alice in the lawyer's presence, he declared to them both that he did not care in the least what steps were taken--that he had washed his hands of her and of the whole affair. she is half insane with terror of a prosecution, and can hardly speak coherently. oh, i wonder why one ever has children?" she exclaimed in anguish. with her last words it seemed to him that the barrier which had separated him from lydia had crumbled suddenly to ruins between them. the space which love could not bridge was spanned by pity; and crossing to where she stood, he put his arms about her, while she bowed her head on his breast and wept. "poor girl! poor girl!" he said softly, and then putting her from him, he went out of the room and closed the door gently upon her grief. from across the hall the sound of smothered sobs came to him, and entering lydia's room, he saw alice clinging hysterically to richard's arm. as she looked round at his footsteps, her face showed so old and haggard between the splendid masses of her hair, that he could hardly believe for a minute that this half distraught creature was really his daughter. for an instant he was held dumb by the horror of it; then the silence was broken by the cry with which alice threw herself into his arms. once before she had rushed to his breast with the same word on her lips, he remembered. "o papa, you will help me! you must help me!" she cried. "oh, make them tell you all so that you may help me!" "they have told me--your mother has told me, alice," he answered, seeking in vain to release himself from the frantic grasp of her arms. "then you will make geoffrey understand," she returned, almost angrily. "you will make geoffrey understand that it was not my fault--that i couldn't help it." richard ordway turned from the window, through which he had been looking, and taking her fingers, which were closed in a vice-like pressure about daniel's arm, pried them forcibly apart. "look at me, alice," he said sternly, "and answer the question that i asked you. what did you say to geoffrey when he spoke to you in the lawyer's presence? did you deny, then, that you had signed the check? don't struggle so, i must hear what you told them." but she only writhed in his hold, straining her arms and her neck in the direction of daniel. "he was very cruel," she replied at last, "they were both very cruel. i don't know what i said, i was so frightened. geoffrey hurt me terribly--he hurt me terribly," she whimpered like a child, and as she turned toward daniel, he saw her bloodless gum, from which her lower lip had quivered and dropped. "i must know what you told them, alice," repeated the old man in an unmoved tone. "i can do nothing to help you, if you will not speak the truth." even when her body struggled in his grasp, no muscle altered in the stern face he bent above her. "let me go," she pleaded passionately, "i want to go to papa! i want papa!" at her cry daniel made a single step forward, and then fell back because the situation seemed at the moment in the command of richard. again he felt the curious respect, the confidence, with which his uncle inspired him in critical moments. "i shall let you go when you have told me the truth," said richard calmly. she grew instantly quiet, and for a minute she appeared to hang a dead weight on his arm. then her voice came with the whimpering, childlike sound. "i told them that i had never touched it--that i had asked papa for the money, and he had given it to me," she said. "i thought so," returned richard grimly, and he released his hold so quickly that she fell in a limp heap at his feet. "i wanted it from her own lips, though mr. cummins had already told me," he added, as he looked at his nephew. for a moment daniel stood there in silence, with his eyes on the gold-topped bottles on lydia's dressing table. he had heard alice's fall, but he did not stoop to lift her; he had heard richard's words, but he did not reply to them. in one instant a violent revulsion--a furious anger against alice swept over him, and the next he felt suddenly, as in his dream, the little hands pass over his brow and lips. "she is right about it, uncle richard," he said, "i gave her the check." at the words richard turned quickly away, but with a shriek of joy, alice raised herself to her knees, and looked up with shining eyes. "i told you papa would know! i told you papa would help me!" she cried triumphantly to the old man. without looking at her, richard turned his glance again to his nephew's face, and something that was almost a tremor seemed to pass through his voice. "daniel," he asked, "what is the use?" "she has told you the truth," repeated daniel steadily, "i gave her the check." "you are ready to swear to this?" "if it is necessary, i am." alice had dragged herself slowly forward, still on her knees, but as she came nearer him, daniel retreated instinctively step by step until he had put the table between them. "it is better for me to go away, i suppose, at once?" he inquired of richard. the gesture with which richard responded was almost impatient. "if you are determined--it will be necessary for a time at least," he replied. "there's no doubt, i hope, that the case will be hushed up, but already there has been something of a scandal. i have made good the loss to the bank, but geoffrey has been very difficult to bring to reason. he wanted a divorce and he wanted revenge in a vulgar way upon alice." "but she is safe now?" asked daniel, and the coldness in his tone came as a surprise to him when he spoke. "yes, she is safe," returned richard, "and you, also, i trust. there is little danger, i think, under the circumstances, of a prosecution. if at any time," he added, with a shaking voice, "before your return you should wish the control of your property, i will turn it over to you at once." "thank you," said daniel quietly, and then with an embarrassed movement, he held out his hand. "i shall go, i think, on the four o'clock train," he continued, "is that what you would advise?" "it is better, i feel, to go immediately. i have an appointment with the lawyer for the bank at a quarter of five." he put out his hand again for his nephew's. "daniel, you are a good man," he added, as he turned away. not until a moment later, when he was in the hall, did ordway remember that he had left alice crouched on the floor, and coming back he lifted her into his arms. "it is all right, alice, don't cry," he said, as he kissed her. then turning from her, with a strange dullness of sensation, he crossed the hall and entered his room, where he found lydia still lying with her face hidden in the cushions of the chair. at his step she looked up and put out her hand, with an imploring gesture. "daniel!" she called softly, "daniel!" before replying to her he went to his bureau and hurriedly packed some clothes into a bag. then, with the satchel still in his hand, he came over and stopped beside her. "i can't wait to explain, lydia; uncle richard will tell you," he said. "you are going away? do you mean you are going away?" she questioned. "to-morrow you will understand," he answered, "that it is better so." for a moment uncertainty clouded her face; then she raised herself and leaned toward him. "but alice? does alice go with you?" she asked. "no, alice is safe. go to her." "you will come back again? it is not forever?" he shook his head smiling. "perhaps," he answered. she still gazed steadily up at him, and he saw presently a look come into her face like the look with which she had heard of the blow he had struck geoffrey heath. "daniel, you are a brave man," she said, and sobbed as she kissed him. following him to the threshold, she listened, with her face pressed against the lintel, while she heard him go down the staircase and close the front door softly behind him. chapter vii flight not until the train had started and the conductor had asked for his ticket, did ordway realize that he was on his way to tappahannock. at the discovery he was conscious of no surprise--scarcely of any interest--it seemed to matter to him so little in which direction he went. a curious numbness of sensation had paralysed both his memory and his perceptions, and he hardly knew whether he was glad or sorry, warm or cold. in the same way he wondered why he felt no regret at leaving botetourt forever--no clinging tenderness for his home, for lydia, for alice. if his children had been strangers to him he could not have thought of his parting from them with a greater absence of feeling. was it possible at last that he was to be delivered from the emotional intensity, the power of vicarious suffering, which had made him one of the world's failures? he recalled indifferently alice's convulsed features, and the pathetic quiver of her lip, which had drooped like a child's that is hurt. these things left him utterly unmoved when he remembered them, and he even found himself asking the next instant, with a vague curiosity, if the bald-headed man in the seat in front of him was going home to spend christmas with his daughter? "but what has this bald-headed man to do with alice or with me?" he demanded in perplexity, "and why is it that i can think of him now with the same interest with which i think of my own child? i am going away forever and i shall never see them again," he continued, with emphasis, as if to convince himself of some fact which he had but half understood. "yes, i shall never see them again, and alice will be quite happy without me, and alice's child will grow up probably without hearing my name. yet i did it for alice. no, i did not do it for alice, or for alice's child," he corrected quickly, with a piercing flash of insight. "it was for something larger, stronger--something as inevitable as the law. i could not help it, it was for myself," he added, after a minute. and it seemed to him that with this inward revelation the outer covering of things was stripped suddenly from before his eyes. as beneath his sacrifice he recognised the inexorable law, so beneath alice's beauty he beheld the skeleton which her radiant flesh clothed with life, and beneath lydia's mask of conventionality her little naked soul, too delicate and shivering to stand alone. it was as if all pretence, all deceit, all illusions, had shrivelled now in the hard dry, atmosphere through which he looked. "yes, i am indifferent to them all and to everything," he concluded; "lydia, and dick and even alice are no closer to me than is the bald-headed man on the front seat. nobody is closer to another when it comes to that, for each one of us is alone in an illimitable space." the swinging lights of the train were reflected in the falling snow outside, like orbed blue flames against a curtain of white. through the crack under the window a little cold draught entered, blowing the cinders from the sill into his face. it was the common day coach of a local train, and the passengers were, for the most part, young men or young women clerks, who were hastening back to their country homes for christmas. once when they reached a station several girls got off, with their arms filled with packages, and pushed their way through the heavy drifts to a sleigh waiting under the dim oil lamp outside. for a minute he followed them idly in his imagination, seeing the merry party ploughing over the old country roads to the warm farm house, where a bright log fire and a christmas tree were prepared for them. the window panes were frosted over now, and when the train started on its slow journey he could see only the orbed blue flames dancing in the night against the whirling snowflakes. it was nine o'clock when they pulled into tappahannock and when he came out upon the platform he found that the storm had ceased, though the ground lay white and hard beneath the scattered street lamps. straight ahead of him, as he walked up the long hill from the station, he heard the ring of other footsteps on the frozen snow. the lights were still burning in the little shops, and through the uncurtained windows he could see the variegated display of christmas decorations. here and there a woman, with her head wrapped in a shawl, was peering eagerly at a collection of toys or a wreath of evergreens, but, for the rest, the shops appeared singularly empty even for so late an hour on christmas eve. in the absorption of his thoughts, he scarcely noticed this, and he was conscious of no particular surprise when, as he reached the familiar warehouse, he saw baxter's enormous figure loom darkly under the flickering light above the sidewalk. behind him the vacant building yawned like a sepulchral cavern, the dim archway hung with a glistening fringe of icicles. "is that you, baxter?" he asked, and stretched out his hand with a mechanical movement. "why, bless my soul, smith!" exclaimed baxter, "who'd ever have believed it!" "i've just got off the train," returned ordway, feeling vaguely that some explanation of his presence was needed, "and i'm trying to find a place where i can keep warm until i take the one for the west at midnight. it didn't occur to me that you would be in your office. i was going to mrs. buzzy's." "you'd better come along with me, for i don't believe you'll find a living soul at mag buzzy's--not even a kid," replied baxter, "her husband is one of jasper trend's overseers, you know, and they're most likely down at the cotton mills." "at the cotton mills? why, what's the matter there?" "you haven't heard then? i thought it was in all the papers. there's been a big strike on for a week--jasper lowered wages the first of the month--and every operative has turned out and demanded more pay and shorter hours. the old man's hoppin', of course, and the funny part is, smith, that he lays every bit of the trouble at your door. he says that you started it all by raisin' the ideas of the operatives." "but it's a pretty serious business for them, baxter. how are they going to live through this weather?" "they ain't livin', they're starvin', though i believe the union is comin' to their help sooner or later. but what's that in such a blood-curdlin' spell as this?" a sudden noise, like that of a great shout, rising and falling in the bitter air, came to them from below the slope of the hill, and catching ordway's arm, baxter drew him closer under the street lamp. "they're hootin' at the guards trend has put around the mills," he said, while his words floated like vapour out of his mouth into the cold, "he's got policemen stalkin' up an' down before his house, too." "you mean he actually fears violence?" "oh, well, when trouble is once started, you know, it is apt to go at a gallop. a policeman got his skull knocked in yesterday, and one of the strikers had his leg broken this afternoon. somebody has been stonin' jasper's windows in the back, but they can't tell whether it's a striker or a scamp of a boy. the truth is, smith," he added, "that jasper ought to have sold the mills when he had an offer of a hundred thousand six months ago. but he wouldn't do it because he said he made more than the interest on that five times over. i reckon he's sorry enough now he didn't catch at it." for a moment ordway looked in silence under the hanging icicles into the cavernous mouth of the warehouse, while he listened to the smothered sounds, like the angry growls of a great beast, which came toward them from the foot of the hill. into the confusion of his thoughts there broke suddenly the meaning of richard ordway's parting words. "baxter," he said quietly, "i'll give jasper trend a hundred thousand dollars for his mills to-night." baxter let go the lamp post against which he was leaning, and fell back a step, rubbing his stiffened hands on his big shaggy overcoat. "you, smith? why, what in thunder do you want with 'em? it's my belief that they will be afire before midnight. do you hear that noise? well, there ain't men enough in tappahannock to put those mills out when they are once caught." ordway turned his face from the warehouse to his companion, and it seemed to baxter that his eyes shone like blue lights out of the darkness. "but they won't burn after they're mine, baxter," he answered. "i'll buy the mills and i'll settle this strike before i leave tappahannock at midnight." "you mean you'll go away even after you've bought 'em?" "i mean i've got to go--to go always from place to place--but i'll leave you here in my stead." he laughed shortly, but there was no merriment in the sound. "i'll run the mills on the cooperative plan, baxter, and i'll leave you in charge of them--you and banks." then he caught baxter's arm with both hands, and turned his body forcibly in the direction of the church at the top of the hill. "while we are talking those people down there are freezing," he said. "an' so am i, if you don't mind my mentionin' it," observed baxter meekly. "then let's go to trend's. there's not a minute to lose, if we are to save the mills. are you coming, baxter?" "oh, i'm comin'," replied baxter, waddling in his shaggy coat like a great black bear, "but i'd like to git up my wind first," he added, puffing clouds of steam as he ascended the hill. "there's no time for that," returned ordway, sharply, as he dragged him along. when they reached jasper trend's gate, a policeman, who strolled, beating his hands together, on the board walk, came up and stopped them as they were about to enter. then recognising baxter, he apologised and moved on. a moment later the sound of their footsteps on the porch brought the head of banks to the crack of the door. "who are you? and what is your business?" he demanded. "banks!" said ordway in a whisper, and at his voice the bar, which banks had slipped from the door, fell with a loud crash from his hands. "good lord, it's really you, smith!" he cried in a delirium of joy. "harry, be careful or you'll wake the baby," called a voice softly from the top of the staircase. "darn the baby!" growled banks, lowering his tone obediently. "the next thing she'll be asking me to put out the mills because the light wakes the baby. when did you come, smith? and what on god's earth are you doing here?" "i came to stop the strike," responded ordway, smiling. "i've brought an offer to mr. trend, i must speak to him at once." "he's in the dining-room, but if you've come from the strikers it's no use. his back's up." "well, it ain't from the strikers," interrupted baxter, pushing his way in the direction of the dining-room. "it's from a chap we won't name, but he wants to buy the mills, not to settle the strike with jasper." "then he's a darn fool," remarked jasper trend from the threshold, "for if i don't get the ringleaders arrested befo' mornin' thar won't be a brick left standin' in the buildings." "the chap i mean ain't worryin' about that," said baxter, "provided you'll sign the agreement in the next ten minutes. he's ready to give you a hundred thousand for the mills, strikers an' all." "sign the agreement? i ain't got any agreement," protested jasper, suspecting a trap, "and how do i know that the strike ain't over befo' you're making the offer?" "well, if you'll just step over to the window, and stick your head out, you won't have much uncertainty about that, i reckon," returned baxter. crossing to the window, ordway threw it open, waiting with his hand on the sash, while the threatening shouts from below the hill floated into the room. "papa, the baby can't sleep for the noise those men make down at the mills," called a peremptory voice from the landing above. "i told you so!" groaned banks, closing the window. "i ain't got any agreement," repeated jasper, in helpless irritation, as he sank back into his chair. "oh, i reckon smith can draw up one for you as well as a lawyer," said baxter, while ordway, sitting down at a little fancy desk of milly's in one corner, wrote out the agreement of sale on a sheet of scented note paper. when he held the pen out to jasper, the old man looked up at him with blinking eyes. "is it to hold good if the damned thing burns befo' mornin'?" he asked. "if it burns before morning--yes." with a sigh of relief jasper wrote his name. "how do i know if i'm to get the money?" he inquired the next instant, moved by a new suspicion. "i shall telegraph instructions to a lawyer in botetourt," replied ordway, as he handed the pen to baxter, "and you will receive an answer by twelve o'clock to-morrow. i want your signature, also, banks," he continued, turning to the young man. "i've made two copies, you see, one of which i shall leave with baxter." "then you're going away?" inquired banks, gloomily. ordway nodded. "i am leaving on the midnight train," he answered. "so you're going west?" "yes, i'm going west, and i've barely time to settle things at the mills before i start. god bless you, banks. good-bye." without waiting for baxter, who was struggling into his overcoat in the hall, he broke away from the detaining hold of banks, and opening the door, ran down the frozen walk, and out into the street, where the policeman called a "merry christmas!" to him as he hurried by. when he gained the top of the hill, and descended rapidly toward the broad level beyond, where the brick buildings of the cotton mills stood in the centre of a waste of snow, the shouts grew louder and more frequent, and the black mass on the frozen ground divided itself presently into individual atoms. a few bonfires had started on the outskirts of the crowd, and by their fitful light, which fell in jagged, reddish shadows on the snow, he could see the hard faces of the men, the sharpened ones of the women, and the pinched ones of little children, all sallow from close work in unhealthy atmospheres and wan from lack of nourishing and wholesome food. as he approached one of these fires, made from a burning barrel, a young woman, with a thin, blue face, and a baby wrapped in a ragged shawl on her breast, turned and spat fiercely in his direction. "this ain't no place for swells!" she screamed, and began laughing shrilly in a half-crazed voice. in the excitement no one noticed her, and her demented shrieks followed him while he made his way cautiously along the outskirts of the strikers, until he came to the main building, before which a few men with muskets had cleared a hollow space. they looked cowed and sullen, he saw, for their sympathies were evidently with the operatives, and he realised that the first organised attack would force them from their dangerous position. approaching one of the guards, whom he remembered, ordway touched him upon the arm and asked to be permitted to mount to the topmost step. "i have a message to deliver to the men," he said. the guard looked up with a start of fear, and then, recognising him, exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, "my god, boys, it's 'ten commandment smith' or it's his ghost!" "let me get through to the steps," said ordway, "i must speak to them." "well, you may speak all you want to, but i doubt if they'd listen to an angel from heaven if he were to talk to them about jasper trend. they are preparing a rush on the doors now, and when they make it they'll go through." passing him in silence, ordway mounted the steps, and stood with his back against the doors of the main building, in which, when he had last entered it, the great looms had been at work. before him the dark mass heaved back and forth, and farther away, amid the bonfires in the waste of frozen snow, he could hear the shrill, mocking laughter of the half-crazed woman. "we won't hear any talk," cried a spokesman in the front ranks of the crowd. "it's too late to haggle now. we'll have nothin' from jasper trend unless he gives us what we ask." "and if he says he'll give it who will believe him?" jeered a woman, farther back, holding a crying child above her head. "he killed the father and he's starvin' the children." "no--no, we'll have no damned words. we'll burn out the scabs!" shouted a man, lifting a torch he had just lit at a bonfire. as the torch rose in a splendid blaze, it lighted up the front of the building, and cast a yellow flame upon ordway's face. "i have nothing to do with jasper trend!" he called out, straightening himself to his full height. "he has no part in the mills from to-night! i have bought them from him!" with the light on his face, he stood there an instant before them, while the shouts changed in the first shock of recognition from anger to surprise. the minute afterward the crowd was rocked by a single gigantic emotion, and it hurled itself forward, bearing down the guards in its efforts to reach the steps. as it swayed back and forth its individual members--men, women and children--appeared to float like straws on some cosmic undercurrent of feeling. "from to-night the mills belong to me!" he cried in a voice which rang over the frozen ground to where the insane woman was laughing beside a bonfire. "your grievances after to-night are not against jasper trend, but against me. you shall have fair pay, fair hours and clean rooms, i promise you----" he went on still, but his words were drowned in the oncoming rush of the crowd, which rolled forward like great waters, surrounding him, overwhelming him, sweeping him off his feet, and bearing him out again upon its bosom. the cries so lately growls of anger had changed suddenly, and above all the din and rush he heard rising always the name which he had made honoured and beloved in tappahannock. it was the one great moment of his life, he knew, when on the tremendous swell of feeling, he was borne like a straw up the hillside and back into the main street of tappahannock. an hour later, bruised, aching and half stunned, he entered the station and telegraphed twice to richard ordway before he went out upon the platform to take the train. he had left his instructions with baxter, from whom he had just parted, and now, as he walked up and down in the icy darkness, broken by the shivering lights of the station, it seemed to him that he was like a man, who having been condemned to death, stands looking back a little wistfully at life from the edge of the grave. he had had his great moment, and ahead of him there was nothing. a freight train passed with a grating noise, a station hand, holding a lantern ran hurriedly along the track, a whistle blew, and then again there was stillness. his eyes were wearily following the track, when he felt a touch on his arm, and turning quickly, saw banks, in a fur-lined overcoat, looking up at him with an embarrassed air. "smith," he said, strangling a cough, "i've seen baxter, and neither he nor i like your going west this way all by yourself and half sick. if you don't mind, i've arranged to take a little holiday and come along. to tell the truth, it's just exactly the chance i've been looking for. i haven't been away from milly twenty-four hours since i married her, and a change does anybody good." "no, you can't come, banks, i don't want you. i'd rather be alone," replied ordway, almost indignantly. "but you ain't well," insisted banks stubbornly. "we don't like the looks of you, baxter and i." "well, you can't come, that's all," retorted ordway, as the red eyes of the engine pierced the darkness. "there, go home, banks," he added, as he held out his hand, "i'm much obliged to you. you're a first-rate chap. good-bye." "then good-bye," returned banks hastily turning away. a minute afterward, as ordway swung himself on the train, he heard the bells of a church, ringing cheerfully in the frosty air, and remembered, with a start, that it was christmas morning. chapter viii the end of the road in the morning, after a short sleep on the hard plush seat, he awoke with a shooting pain in his head. when the drowsiness of exhaustion had overcome him, he remembered, he had been idly counting the dazzling electric lights of a town through which they were passing. by the time he had reached "twenty-one" he had dropped off into unconsciousness, though it seemed to him that a second self within him, wholly awake, had gone on through the night counting without pause, "twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five--" still in his brain the numbers went on, and still the great globular lights flashed past his eyes. struggling awake in the gray dawn, he lay without changing his position, until the mist gave place slowly to the broad daylight. then he found that they were approaching another town, which appeared from a distant view to resemble a single gigantic factory, composed chiefly of a wilderness of chimneys. when he looked at his watch, he saw that it was eight o'clock; and the conductor passing through the coach at the instant, informed the passengers generally that they must change cars for the west. the name of the town ordway failed to catch, but it made so little difference to him that he followed the crowd mechanically, without inquiring where it would lead him. the pain in his head had extended now to his chest and shoulders, and presently it passed into his lower limbs, with a racking ache that seemed to take from him the control of his muscles. yet all the while he felt a curious drowsiness, which did not in the least resemble sleep, creeping over him like the stealthy effect of some powerful drug. after he had breathed the fresh air outside, he felt it to be impossible that he should return to the overheated car, and pushing his way through the crowded station, where men were rushing to the luncheon counter in one corner, he started along a broad street, which looked as if it led to an open square at the top of a long incline. on either side there were rows of narrow tenements, occupied evidently by the operatives in the imposing factories he had observed from the train. here and there a holly wreath suspended from a cheap lace curtain, reminded him again that it was christmas morning, and by some eccentricity of memory, he recalled vividly a christmas before his mother's death, when he had crept on his bare feet, in the dawn, to peep into the bulging stocking before her fireplace. at the next corner a small eating house had hung out its list of christmas dainties, and going inside he sat down at one of the small deserted tables and asked for a cup of coffee. when it was brought he swallowed it in the hope that it might drive away the heaviness in his head, but after a moment of relief the stupor attacked him again more oppressively than ever. he felt that even the growing agony in his forehead and shoulders could not keep him awake if he could only find a spot in which to lie down and rest. after he came out into the street again he felt stronger and better, and it occurred to him that his headache was due probably to the fact that he had eaten nothing since breakfast the day before. he remembered now that he had missed his luncheon because of his long walk into the country, and the recollection of this trivial incident seemed to make plain all the subsequent events. everything that had been so confused a moment ago stood out quite clearly now. his emotions, which had been benumbed when he left botetourt, revived immediately in the awakening of his memory; and he was seized with a terrible longing to hold alice in his arms and to say to her that he forgave her and loved her still. it seemed to him impossible that he should have come away after a single indifferent kiss, without glancing back--and her face rose before him, not convulsed and haggard as he had last seen it, but glowing and transfigured, with her sparkling blue eyes and her lips that were too red and too full for beauty. then, even while he looked at her with love, the old numbness crept back, and his feeling for her died utterly away. "no, i have ceased to care," he thought indifferently. "it does not matter to me whether i see her again or not. i must eat and lie down, nothing else is of consequence." he had reached the open space at the end of the long graded hill, and as he stopped to look about him he saw that a small hotel, frequented probably by travelling salesmen, stood directly across the square, which was now deep in snow. following the pavement to the open door of the lobby, he went inside and asked for a room, after which he passed into the restaurant and drank a second cup of coffee. then turning away from his untasted food, he went upstairs to the large, bare apartment, with a broken window pane, which they had assigned him, and throwing himself upon the unmade bed, fell heavily asleep. when he awoke the pain was easier, and feeling oppressed by the chill vacancy of the room, he went downstairs and out into the open square. though it was a dull gray afternoon, the square was filled with children, dragging bright new sleds over the snow. one of them, a little brown-haired girl, was trundling her christmas doll and as she passed him, she turned and smiled into his face with a joyful look. something in her smile was vaguely familiar to him, and he remembered, after a minute, that emily had looked at him like that on the morning when he had met her for the first time riding her old white horse up the hill in tappahannock. "yes, it was that look that made me love her," he thought dispassionately, as if he were reviewing some dimly remembered event in a former life, "and it is because i loved her that i was able to do these things. if i had not loved her, i should not have saved milly trend, nor gone back to botetourt, nor sacrificed myself for alice. yes, all these have come from that," he added, "and will go back, i suppose, to that in the end." the little girl ran by again, still trundling her doll, and again he saw emily in her red cape on the old horse. for several hours he sat there in the frozen square, hardly feeling the cold wind that blew over him. but when he rose presently to go into the hotel, he found that his limbs were stiff, and the burning pain had returned with violence to his head and chest. the snow in the square seemed to roll toward him as he walked, and it was with difficulty that he dragged himself step by step along the pavement to the entrance of the hotel. after he was in his room again he threw himself, still dressed, upon the bed, and fell back into the stupor out of which he had come. when he opened his eyes after an hour, he was hardly sure, for the first few minutes, whether he was awake or asleep. the large, bare room in which he had lost consciousness had given place, when he awoke, to his prison cell. the hard daylight came to him through the grated windows, and from a nail in the wall he saw his gray prison coat, with the red bars, won for good behaviour, upon the sleeve. then while he looked at it, the red bars changed quickly to the double stripes of a second term, and the double stripes became three, and the three became four, until it seemed to him that he was striped from head to foot so closely that he knew that he must have gone on serving term after term since the beginning of the world. "no, no, that is not mine. i am wearing the red bars!" he cried out, and came back to himself with a convulsive shudder. as he looked about him the hallucination vanished, and he felt that he had come out of an eternity of unconsciousness into which he should presently sink back again. the day before appeared to belong to some other life that he had lived while he was still young, yet when he opened his eyes the same gray light filled the windows, the same draught blew through the broken pane, the same vague shadows crawled back and forth on the ceiling. the headache was gone now, but the room had grown very cold, and from time to time, when he coughed, long shivers ran through his limbs and his teeth chattered. he had thrown his overcoat across his chest as a coverlet, but the cold from which he suffered was an inward chill, which was scarcely increased by the wind that blew through the broken pane. there was no confusion in his mind now, but a wonderful lucidity, in which he saw clearly all that had happened to him last night in tappahannock. "yes, that was my good moment," he said "and after such a moment there is nothing, but death. if i can only die everything will be made entirely right and simple." as he uttered the words the weakness of self pity swept over him, and with a sudden sense of spiritual detachment, he was aware of a feeling of sympathy for that other "i," who seemed so closely related to him, and yet outside of himself. the real "i" was somewhere above amid the crawling shadows on the ceiling, but the other--the false one--lay on the bed under the overcoat; and he saw, when he looked down that, though he himself was young, the other "i" was old and haggard and unshaven. "so there are two of us, after all," he thought, "poor fellows, poor fellows." but the minute afterward the perception of his dual nature faded as rapidly as the hallucination of his prison cell. in its place there appeared the little girl, who had passed him, trundling her christmas doll, in the square below. "i have seen her before--she is vaguely familiar," he thought, troubled because he could not recall the resemblance. from this he passed to the memory of alice when she was still a child, and she came back to him, fresh and vivid, as on the day when she had run out to beg him to come in to listen to her music. the broken scales ran in his head again, but there was no love in his heart. his gaze dropped from the ceiling and turned toward the door, for in the midst of his visions, he had seen it open softly and banks come into the room on tiptoe and stop at the foot of the bed, regarding him with his embarrassed and silly look "what in the devil, am i dreaming about banks for?" he demanded aloud, with an impatient movement of his feet, as if he meant to kick the obtruding dream away from his bed. at the kick the dream stopped rolling its prominent pale eyes and spoke. "i hope you ain't sick, smith," it said, and with the first words he knew that it was banks in the familiar flesh and not the disembodied spirit. "no i'm not sick, but what are you doing here?" he asked. "enjoying myself," replied banks gloomily. "well, i wish you'd chosen to enjoy yourself somewhere else." "i couldn't. if you don't mind i'd like to stuff the curtain into that window pane." "oh, i don't mind. when did you get here?" "i came on the train with you." "on the train with me? where did you get on? i didn't see you." "you didn't look," replied banks, from the window, where he was stuffing the red velveteen curtain into the broken pane. "i was in the last seat in the rear coach." "so you followed me," said ordway indignantly. "i told you not to. why did you do it?" banks came back and stood again at the foot of the bed, looking at him with his sincere and kindly smile. "well, the truth is, i wanted an outing," he answered, "it's a good baby as babies go, but i get dog-tired of playing nurse." "you might have gone somewhere else. there are plenty of places." "i couldn't think of 'em, and, besides, this seems a nice town. the're a spanking fine lot of factories. but i hope you ain't sick smith? what are you doing in bed?" "oh, i've given up," replied ordway gruffly. "every man has a right to give up some time, hasn't he?" "i don't know about every man," returned banks, stolidly, "but you haven't, smith." "well, i've done it anyway," retorted ordway, and turned his face to the wall. as he lay there with closed eyes, he had an obscure impression that banks--banks, the simple; banks, the impossible--was in some way operating the forces of destiny. first he heard the bell ring, then the door open and close, and a little later, the bleak room was suffused with a warm rosy light in which the vague shadows melted into a shimmering background. the crackling of the fire annoyed him because it suggested the possibility of physical comfort, and he no longer wanted to be comfortable. "smith," said banks, coming over to the bed and pulling off the overcoat, "i've got a good fire here and a chair. i wish you'd get up. good lord, your hands are as hot as a hornet's nest. when did you eat anything?" "i had breakfast in botetourt," replied ordway, as he rose from the bed and came over to the chair banks had prepared. "i can't remember when it was, but it must have been since the creation of the world, i suppose." the fire grew suddenly black before him, "i'd rather lie down," he added, "my head is splitting and i can't see." "oh, you'll see all right in a minute. wait till i light this candle, so the electric light won't hurt your eyes. the boy's gone for a little supper, and as soon as you've swallowed a mouthful you'll begin to feel better." "but i'm not hungry. i won't eat," returned ordway, with an irritable feeling that banks was looming into a responsibility. anything that pulled one back to life was what he wanted to escape, and even the affection of banks might prove, he thought, tenaciously clinging. one resolution he had made in the beginning--he would not take up his life again for the sake of banks. "yes, you must, smith," remonstrated the other, with an angelic patience which gave him, if possible, a more foolish aspect. "it's after six o'clock and you haven't had a bite since yesterday at eight. that's why your head's so light and you're in a raging fever." "it isn't that, banks, it's because i've got to die," he answered. "if they don't hush things up with money, i may have to go back to prison." as he said the words he saw again the prison coat, with the double stripes of a second term, as in the instant of his hallucination. "i know," said banks, softly, as he bent over to poke the fire. "there was a line or two about it in a new york paper. but they'll hush it up, and besides they said it was just suspicion." "you knew all the time and yet you wanted me to go back to tappahannock?" "oh, they don't read the papers much there, except the _tappahannock herald_, and it won't get into that. it was just a silly little slip anyway, and not two dozen people will be likely to know what it meant." "and you, banks? what do you think?" he asked with a mild curiosity. banks shook his head. "why, what's the use in your asking?" he replied. "of course, i know that you didn't do it, and if you had done it, it would have been just because the other man ought to have written his name and wouldn't," he concluded, unblushingly. for a moment ordway looked at him in silence. "you're a good chap, banks," he said at last in a dull voice. again he felt, with an awakened irritation, that the absurd banks was pulling him back to life. was it impossible, after all, that a man should give up, as long as there remained a soul alive who believed in him? it wasn't only the love of women, then, that renewed courage. he had loved both emily and alice, and yet they were of less importance in his life at this hour than was banks, whom he had merely endured. yet he had thought the love of emily a great thing and that of banks a small one. his gaze went back to the flames, and he did not remove it when a knock came at the door, and supper was brought in and placed on a little table before the fire. "i ordered a bowl of soup for you, smith," said banks, crumbling the bread into it as he spoke, as if he were preparing a meal for a baby, "and a good stout piece of beefsteak for myself. now drink this whiskey, won't you." "i'm not hungry," returned ordway, pushing the glass away, after it had touched his lips. "i won't eat." banks placed the bowl of soup on the fender, and then sat down with his eyes fastened on the tray. "i haven't had a bite myself since breakfast," he remarked, "and i'm pretty faintish, but i tell you, smith, if it's the last word i speak, that i won't put my knife into that beefsteak until you've eaten your soup--no, not if i die right here of starvation." "well, i'm sorry you're such a fool, for i've no intention of eating it. i left you my whiskey, you can take that." "i shouldn't dare to on an empty stomach. i get drunk too quick." for a few minutes he sat in silence regarding the supper with a hungry look; then selecting a thin slice of bread, he stuck it on the end of a fork, and kneeling upon the hearthrug, held it out to the glowing coals. as it turned gradually to a delicious crisp brown, the appetising smell of it floated to ordway's nostrils. "i always had a particular taste for toast," remarked banks as he buttered the slice and laid it on a hot plate on the fender. when he took up a second one, ordway watched him with an attention of which he was almost unconscious, and he did not remove his gaze from the fire, until the last slice, brown and freshly buttered, was laid carefully upon the others. as he finished banks threw down his fork, and rising to his feet, looked wistfully at the beefsteak, keeping hot before the cheerful flames. "it's kind of rare, just as i like it," he observed, "thick and juicy, with little brown streaks from the broiler, and a few mushrooms scattered gracefully on top. tappahannock is a mighty poor place for a steak," he concluded resignedly, "it ain't often i have a chance at one, but i thought to-night being christmas----" "then, for god's sake, eat it!" thundered ordway, while he made a dash for his soup. but an hour after he had taken it, his fever rose so high that banks helped him into bed and rushed out in alarm for the doctor. chapter ix the light beyond out of the obscurity of the next few weeks, he brought, with the memory of banks hovering about his bed, the vague impression of a woman's step across his floor and a woman's touch on his brow and hands. when he returned to consciousness the woman's step and touch had vanished, but banks was still nursing him with his infinite patience and his silly, good-humoured smile. the rest was a dream, he said to himself, resignedly, as he turned his face to the wall and slept. on a mild january morning, when he came downstairs for the first time, and went with banks out into the open square in front of the hotel, he put almost timidly the question which had been throbbing in his brain for weeks. "was there anybody else with me, banks? i thought--i dreamed--i couldn't get rid of it----" "who else could there have been?" asked banks, and he stared straight before him, at the slender spire of the big, gray church in the next block. so the mystery would remain unsolved, ordway understood, and he would go back to life cherishing either a divine memory or a phantasy of delirium. after a little while banks went off to the chemists' with a prescription, and ordway sat alone on a bench in the warm sunshine, which was rapidly melting the snow. it was sunday morning, and presently the congregation streamed slowly past him on its way to the big gray church just beyond. a bright blue sky was overhead, the sound of bells was in the air, and under the melting snow he saw that the grass was still fresh and green. as he sat there in the wonderful sabbath stillness, he felt, with a new sense of security, of reconciliation, that his life had again been taken out of his hands and adjusted without his knowledge. this time it had been banks--banks, the impossible--who had swayed his destiny, and lacking all other attributes, banks had accomplished it through the simple power of the human touch. in the hour of his need it had been neither religion nor philosophy, but the outstretched hand, that had helped. then his vision broadened and he saw that though the body of love is one, the members of it are infinite; and it was made plain to him at last, that the love of emily, the love of alice, and the love of banks, were but different revelations of the same immortality. he had gone down into the deep places, and out of them he had brought this light, this message. as the people streamed past him to the big gray church, he felt that if they would only stop and listen, he could tell them in the open, not in walls, of the thing that they were seeking. yet the time had not come, though in the hope of it he could sit there patiently under the blue sky, with the snow melting over the grass at his feet. at the end of an hour banks returned, and stood over him with affectionate anxiety. "in a few days you'll be well enough to travel, smith, and i'll take you back with me to tappahannock." ordway glanced up, smiling, and banks saw in his face, so thin that the flesh seemed almost transparent, the rapt and luminous look with which he had stood over his bible in the green field or in the little grove of pines. "you will go back to tappahannock and baxter will take you in until you grow strong and well, and then you can start your schools, or your library, and look after the mills instead of letting baxter do it." "yes," said ordway, "yes," but he had hardly heard banks's words, for his gaze was on the blue sky, against which the spire of the church rose like a pointing finger. his face shone as if from an inward flame, and this flame, burning clearly in his blue eyes, transfigured his look. ah, smith was always a dreamer, thought banks, with the uncomprehending simplicity of a child. but ordway was looking beyond banks, beyond the church spire, beyond the blue sky. he saw himself, not as banks pictured him, living quietly in tappahannock, but still struggling, still fighting, still falling to rise and go on again. his message was not for tappahannock alone, but for all places where there were men and women working and suffering and going into prison and coming out. he heard his voice speaking to them in the square of this town; then in many squares and in many towns---"come," said banks softly, "the wind is changing. it is time to go in." with an effort ordway withdrew his gaze from the church spire. then leaning upon banks's arm, he slowly crossed the square to the door of the hotel. but before going inside, he turned and stood for a moment looking back at the grass which showed fresh and green under the melting snow. 