Crawfordsville Weekly Journal, Crawfordsville, Montgomery County, 9 September 1898 — Page 9

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iT I I

By IZORA C, CHANDLER.

(Copyrighted by the Author.)

So fair a vision of lifo had never before greeted her eyes, nor had it entered her happiest dreams. She caught her breath as she looked at the long veranda, gay with fringed hammocks and great lounging chairs and dainty willow rockers. Bright rugs were strewn over the floor. Baskets of flowers depended from the outer roof line. Long vines swung slowly in the evening air.

Human forms were the jewels in this enchanting scene—strong men and graceful women. Her swift glance found the one she sought. "Th' tall un" was not there to divert her attention.

She read with anxious eyes, but saw no lino of care or illness upon the gay features she had learned so well. He was the center of the group and leaned lazily back in a great armchair, looking up with a smile into the face of a girl who stood beside him and who wore a gown as soft and white as the one worn by the snow mountain.

He seemed to assent to something this one asked l! him, for she went through a doorway, upon either side of which hung fleecy curtains, and returned with a strango something in her hand—something that she held out to him and that he took with another smile into her face and a few words which Laurel could not hear, they were so low.

The one sho had como to see toyed carelessly with the strange instrument and, moving his fingers across it, drew forth a tunder sound such as had never before been heard by the unseen listener. It wits not like a bird's voice, nor a choir of birds. It was not like the sighing of the wind through the firs. It was better and sweeter, for it seemed the spirit of each blending and interchanging and softened until fitted to minister to that fair company.

He began to sing some words in an unknown tongue which thrilled her through and through. Something that, because of the look upon the face of that other girl, Laurel knew he was singing to tier out of all that happy group.

And this was a girl young like herself, tall and slight, with proudly carried head, but fair instead of dark— heavenly fair, with hair that gleamed like "a bit o' wheatiield when th' sun be shinin," poor Laurel said to herself.

Sho had never before seen any one with golden hair. That of the child was flaxen, but dun of color like the fojj that sometimes lay dank and eold about the mountains in winter, while this was gloriously warm like the sunlight, and strayed over tho fair forehead in little waving lines.

There must be something to make a heart stand still at the first sight of a face crowned so shiningly. One may love the dusky masses better, but he is sure to be arrested at sight of the other. If the English really received the compliment of which they are so proud when, in the slave market of ancient Rome, tho good St. Gregory was so stir red at sight of a fair northman as to call him "not Angle, but an angel," then what must have thrilled the innocent being whose hoarfc was so in sympathy with all beauty, whether of earth or sky

The looks and the dress of this girl were like those from another world than Laurel's—a world to which the heart out in the shadow must own that he, too, belonged. Herself was the alien one.

As she looked and as sho listened to the tender music she began to under, stand.

The afterglow died suddenly. Tinted lights shone out from an inner fair scene. One by one tho others went within, but those two remained. Tho music ceased. He laid the instrument upon the rug beside him and held out his hands.

The bright ono arose and sat upon tho broad arm of his chair and laid her arm about his neck. He lifted her other hand to his lips. His head was against her shoulder. His words were low, but Laurel's heart interpreted the tone. Her innocent soul was stung. A sense of cruelty shortened her breath. God bo merciful to a young heart when it learns its first lesson in the untruth of life!

She sank upon ber linees and with a faint cry would have fallen but that the youth caught her about the waist and dragged her along the turf beside the drive, so that their footsteps made no sound.

He un tethered the horses and lifted Laurel upon her own. They were soon in the edge of the desert, where he drew freer breath. But when her beast paused, unheeded by her, to browse a bit of chemise wood he dismounted and pulledit hastily forward. Then he tied the two tethering ropes together and led the animal upon which the young girl sat in almost utter unconsciousness.

The desert solitude upon one hand aud tbedeep, mysterious mountain solitude upon the other weighed upon his spirit. A coyote howled dismally in tho distance. He jerked the tethering rope and urged his own beast into a swifter pace. xVt last they reached the point where the trail turned toward the mountain. The scraggly cedars became ghostly figures and the red barked pines and tall firs seemed threatening spirits. Still lie urged their way upward, looking back to see that the drooping, swaying figure did not fall.

When the cleared space was reached, Liuxel aroused, gave a slow glance about her and slid to her feet in the very spot under the blasted pine tree where she had watched the coming and going of her beloved. She sank upon the ground and turned her face toward tho snow mountain with a hoarse half prayer.

The youth had grown to man's estate in brave sympathy and ready action. He cared for the beasts with gentle caresses becausc they had been so faithful and brought a blanket to cover the still form that lay beneath the lightnine Kcarred trAa__ .•

Ho watched beside her all tho night, his young heart flerco with anger against the one who had caused her such anguish. When tho light of morn-

He watched beside her all the fqh t. ing Btreaked the sky, he took the cup from the spring and went into the pasture and milked it full of sweet warm milk which he brought to Laurel and pressed her to drink. "It'll mako you strong," he said, "so's the gran'thers—they mus'n' know."

After repeated urgings she drank the milk and, looking at him, repeated, "They mus'n'know." Then sho arose and went slowly like an old woman toward the hut.

The old folk grumbled because they had not returned earlier. Laurel, always silent at reproach, did not reply, while the youth was careful to appease them.

And the long, empty day dragged on. CHAPTER VII. Laurel went about like one in a trance. At night she sank into a heavy sleep that continued unbroken until morning and from which she was with difficulty aroused, but she was not refreshed. Her lithe limbs seemed chained, her hands were heavy she could hold nothing 6teadily. In the afternoon as she came in with a pitcher of water from the spring her hand shook so that a great splash went over the child's bare feet. The surprised shriek of the small voice startled her and the pitcher slipped from her hand and broke upon the fioor at her fret. "Ah, what be th' matter wid yo', Laurel?" said the grandmother, perceiving tho distraught look upon the young face. "Go out o' door till yo' git a bit color. I'll red up th' house. Go on, chile."

Laurel turned slowly and went out. She stood a few moments in half unconscious indecision, then because the trail that led downward had grown too painful she began slowly to climb tho mountainside. Anguish was beating her heart with whips of steel, and she had not been able to cry out. She must go where no one woulu hear and where, like a true child of nature, she could talk her grief aloud instead of giving it silent battle in her heart.

She toiled on steadily up the hill. The brown mat of earth under her feet and the trees as she went higher grew poor and mean. The latter were huddled together by poverty of soil. They were so silent, and they watched her so.

Sho turned to look back. The very clouds had gone out of the sky, and her beloved mountain, always so near, seemed far away. Everything was falling away from her, and the pitiless desert stretched beyond her sight.

She went on upward, and her thought began to take on distinct form. Sho remembered the coming of those two and tho fear that had haunted her all through that day. Sho remembered their going that next morning and the words of "th' tall un" about God. "Why didn' lie eome 'stid o' tli' other un?" sho wailed unconsciously. "He wouldn' 'a' done sech a way he wouldn'."

For a long time she stood as ono bewildered. Her thought had lost itself, and she swayed back and forth like one beside herself. Then thought took up its old thread of sorrow and went on. She remembered her surprise when the other one came alone after a few days nnd the gladness that grew as sho saw him often climbing the steep and knew that he climbed it because she was there.

Afterward came the long, empty days that before the coming of those two had not been worth the naming, and since he came no more had grown to be worse than nameless—tho long days when, as she looked for him, sho saw only the dead desert stretched out, so old aud withered and gray.

She remembered how she had gone to seek him, and the finding, and the blinding grief that had wrapped her round. Her heart could no longer hold its agonv. Sho climbed .swiftly, like a wild creature, toward the rocky summit. Something was pursuing her. Sho must escape.

On aud on she sped until at last she reached the dry and barren peak aud sank breathless and strengthless upon the rough surface. But she had not escaped irom this evil thing. Dizzy and panting though sho was, it, stijl lay upon her heart. She opened her mouth and gave a prolonged cry. Again and again the piteous wail rang out until sho grew hoarse aud could no longer cry. But the evil would not bo driven away. It clutched at her fiercely All her thoughts grew cramped into ono sad, mad thought that reached as high as the sky and that laid hold of the silence below.

This strain was too much for even her vigorous organism. A gurgle came in her throat, and a stream of warm blood rushed through her lips. She saw it with unstartled eyes. She was going to die, then, as the deer disd that came panting into tho mountain path with blood on its delicate lips. Everything faded from her sight. The light went out. Was it like this to the pretty deer?

After a time tho light came back. A little later she could lift her head and look about her. She was not dead, then, like the deer. It was not so well with her as that. Nothing was left to her but to go back into her old, poor life, older and poorer than ever since 6he knew that it was so. Nothina but to eo on

bearing

the

common fretting of the

meager days without faltering. A thousand pitiful noes were wrung from her soul. Such silly demands as were made upon

hurl

Such foolish, fitful, peevish

words as her poor ears had often to hear! Her spirit shrank from tho dreary outlook.

The dusk camo on. Tho outlino of trees nnd rocks grew sharper at tho summit and became an indistinct mass below. But she was not afraid. She had often shivered at imagined hearing of the bears' slow tread and the stealthy spring of the panther. But they had no terror for one in her mood. Death in any form would be easier tonight than the life which stretched so blankly boyond.

She must go back. They surely would be calling her. She arose antj began the descent, but her knees were weak and her feet slipped. It was a difficult thing when one was strong and well, but since sho had almost died how strengthless sho was and how short her breath. She clutched at the branches as she went, and she who had hardly known fatigue must now rest often.

There was no danger of losing the way, for as sho came into each clear spot sho looked for the snow mountain and guided her steps as tho mariner looks at his star and makes sure of his watery path. "Laurel!" she heard. "Laurell"

It was tho youth. Ho was seeking her. She who had called gayly morning and evening to the clouds and to the mountain could hardly find voico to let him know where to find her.

He came at last, and when he took her hands they were so cold that they chilled hiui. Leaning upon his shoulder, she rot'.ched the hut and sank upon her bed and laid tho whole night through without even trj'ing to lift her head.

CHAPTER

Vni.

Wilmot roeognized tho youth who had served as pilut to Craymer and himself on that memorable morning, tluftigh the l'aco was prematurely anxious and tho eyes wero wide and intense. "What be th' matter?" he cried. "Laurel hev waited an waited, but ho doan' come. An sho got so wile wid fear that ho be sick that I coined here wid her ono night. An site lef' me out thar wid th' beasts. An I got t' sleep. An when I coined to sho hadn' conio. So I lef' th' beasts an went an foun her lookin throo th' bushes at him an a girl settin wid her arm roun his neck. An she euv a leetle. groauiu cry an full dowii. An I be feared they'd fin her. So I drug her 'way. Sho didn' wako up all th' way hum, but her eyes wus open. An sho goes 'round so still—liko a ghos'. Come back wid 1110. Sho liked yo' bes', but bo's been an witched her."

Wilmot's already depressed heart grew heavier. He sat down upon a rustic seat and drew the youth beside him and put one big arm around him. Grief makes strange comrades. Tho boyish heart leaned against the big, true hearted man and was comforted. All would

Wilmot promised.

be well now. So ho sat and patiently waited. But as the other did not move after long waiting ho touched the hand upon his shoulder. "Belikes we'd better go," he said.

Then Wilmot's helplessness flushed over him. "My dear fellow," he answered, "my going will not help you. I'll telegraph for a doctor to visit your Laurel tomorrow.'

But the youth wept over the hand he held and begged with his heart in every word until Wilmot promised. it was the wont or a rew moments to go to his room and tumble tho bed to write a blind note to McAlvord and lay it on the breakfast table, and after that to get a pony from the long stables anu set out with his face toward tho mountain that had stood so constantly in the horizon of his thought.

They cantered through the near corner of pasture land across tho upper arm of the desert and reached the mountain path. As tliev were about to ascend Wilmot sprang oil his horse and called to the youth with an involuntary fierceness: "Why should I go? I am no doctor. I can do nothing for your Laurel. Ho may como here tomorrow. I am sure that he will como soon. I cannot go."

In an instant the youth was at Insside. "Oh, but yo' won't bo s' hard like's t' go back now! Belikes yo' kin say sometliin as'll comfort her. She's growed feared, liko a wild bird. Sho talked t' me 'bout God sonce yo' wus thar, an sho said ho was big an white like ole Mount Hood. He'd take keer o' me an th' gran'thers an th' chile, he would, 'caus.e yo' asked him to." "Well, goon, though I:mneither doctor nor missionary. But you must put the ponies in the shed and let me stay outside until it is day. Then if sho comes out"—

Ho did not kmnv what ho would havo added. The other was satisfied and, fearing more objection, hastened on.

When tho ponies wero corralled, the youth brought a blanket for his companion and, wrapping himself in another, laid down at a littlo distance.

Wilmot did not try to analvze his emotions during tho hours of that flight,

Sympathy for tho bold young heart whoso affection

iuid

sought him, raging

indignation against tho ono who had disturbed tho peace of these simple folk and a pity deep as his manly heart held sway in turn.

Tho eternal stars shone out overhead. They wooed his thoughts from tho tangled mazo below to tho hand that could hold thoin

011

their sileNt aud mighty

course. It was tho hand of Ono whose pity was liko that of a father. "Ob, Laurel, little flower!" I10 said. "Somehow, somewhere aud at somo time the wrongs of lifo will all be righted.''

CHAPTER IX.

Morning canio and touched everything with splendor. Tho weather beaten hut grew soft with purple shadowing. The leaves of the vine that clambered up the steep roof tumbled in the morning air. A great rhododendron tree, which Wilmot had not noticed beforo, had still a few blossoms upon it. They must have named her for tho tree—rhododendron, laurel. IIow much prettior the shorter name was!

The door of the picturesque old hut opened and Laurel camo slowly out. Sorrow had cut her as frost outs a flower. Sho did not see Wilmot, but with uplifted eyes she said in a tender, broken voice, as one would do a habitual thing though tho heart were not in the doing of it: "Good mornin, pretty olouds. Good mornin, olo Mount Hood, Eweet mornin t'yo'." And she kissed her hands. Then, covering her eyes, sho stood for a little with bowed head—not as one awaiting a blessing, but as ono whoso strongth had become weakness.

Out over tho desert tho snpw peak rose in high relief against the sky, liko some glistening shrino belonging to another and a fairer world. Wilmot began to understand how, in this joyless, isolated life, her fmo naturo had given a spirit to thoso fairer objects and hn.d entered into kinship with them.

Sho turned and saw him, but sho did not start or trcmblo as I10 had feared. She only looked at him calmly with a slow lifting of tho eyes and a protracted but not searching gazo. Ho did not approach or vex her with a greeting, but sho came slowly toward him. "Why didn' yo' come back 'stid o' th' other un?" sho asked.

He uncovered his head and looked at her. What could ho answer? "Why didn' yo' como?" she repeated in the samo slow monotone.

His heart grew heavy with tenderness and with something which had been growing there for many weeks. "I have como now," ho answered. "I am sorry that I did not como beforo. I 6taid away becauso I was not wiso and did not know what it was best to do. But I am hero now, aud if you will let me I will bring my sister, a dear, brave girl, to see you, and she and I will take you away, aud you shall be with us always—if you will."

Sho clasped her hands tightly together. "I have como to say that to you," he said. "Forgive mo for not having come before." 'It hurts t' stay here," sho said. "Everything hurts." Sho turned away. Ho waited patiently. Presently she lifted her eyes again to his face. Something in his look melted her. Sho threw herself down upon tho moss covered log at his feet and sobbed passionately. "Th'clouds '11 th'mountains," she sobbed. '"Ihey kin never bo th' same. I—I want t' go."

Then Wilmot went toward the door of the hut, and meeting tho "gran'thers" told tho whole story in simplest languago and begged from them their dearest treasure. "Wo can't git 'long nohow 'thout Laurel," protested tho grandfather.

But the heart of the grandmother understood and was touched. "Slio doan' b'long t' us," sho said,

'11

"1

wo hain't

got no right t' set up ag'in it ef Laurel wants t' go.' Then followed a few necessary words of planning, after which Wilmot went back and lifted tho slender form in his arms. "Laurel, littlo flower, 1 a: coining after you in a few more dujs.And you will go with mo then?"

Sho leaned against: him as ono who had found shelter from a pitiless storm. "Yo' didn' come before," sho answered.

thought yo' would come,

but yo'didn'. 'N ho come. 'N then I got s' bad hurt here," and she laid her hand upon her heart, "diet I can't git my breath. But yo' liev eome. 'N I."J1 go with yo' anywhere. Lll stay with yo'. I'll wait fur yo' when yo' bo'n gone jes' I be doin these thar days. 'Fore yo' como that fust time I bo'n dead. It be empty livin—foro yo' come.''

CHAPTER X.

Craymer kept his half promise to Wilmot for one day only. Early tno next morning ho asked the Chinaman for breakfast, and after eating hastily, as if afraid time might weaken hia purpose, he mounted a pony and with tho paltry excuse of brushes and paints set off upon the well known trail.

His thoughts wero swayed by conflicting emotions. Among them was anger toward Wilmot, which ho nursed as a sort of excuse for action. He was not a boy that he should be so taken to task. Ho meant to marry his betrothed at the appointed time. Ho hud only a few more weeks in this wild place, aud neiiaa not maae"gooa use ox the time to fill his portfolio. It became him, therefore, to be diligent.

He did not ask himself why thoughts of work always led him in one direction. To be sure, ho had implied a promise to Wilmot that he would make no more pictures of her, but if Wilmot were to have all of thoso already sketched why should he not make a new onO for himself—one with that stately turn of the throat like an affrighted deer—not for exhibition, but for his own studio walls?

Ho did not know how long he had ridden, but felt that he must bo near the mountain. Ho. looked, up to find hia

gazo shut in by an impenetrable misty wall. Then ho became conscious of the* chill that, was creeping over him, but he* would soon bo thero, and perhaps they would havo that blazing fire upon th» great hearth lighted.

Ho had given tho pony rein as ho hacH always done before, but now lie noticcc? with a sudden failure of heart that thi® was not tho pony ho had always riddea on theso errands. Thoso Indians wer$ fools, every ono of them. IIo had losfr the trail and was wandering "ho knewr not whither.

Presently a fine, drizzling rain began.-. He rememborod having heard McAlvor&l say that it had not ruined at that season for more than 40 years. A rain at thistime meant fevers and many ills, for ij always lasted during many days.

Tho hours fled. Night camo on. Thev mist became a rain which fell steadily. He pressed onward in tho hope of striking the bridle path, but cold, «xhaustedj and hungry he sank at last the. ground besido his horso.

They lay until morning, gaining some little warmth from each other. Another day of toil shut in by thoso wet, gray walls. Another night of exhaustion. They plodded through the third day~

A

•I

Swooned away.

growing each more hopeless and

dispir­

ited. Tho fourth morning ho tried to urge tho pony to arise, but after several attempts it stretched out its neob and would no longer struggle. He had toL leave it. Whon this wretched rain vra&\ over, it would n\-ise, no doubt, and find its own w-ay back.

Hour after hour ho toiled onwardYi shaken by chills, consumed at the same# timo by an inward firo and fever. Bui* the warm hut, with its blazing firo o3K great logs, was in tho elusive distance-. Tho impatience and strain mado hi® brain reel. Ho sank upon tho ground in'* heavy exhaustion. A dark object lay, beforo him. Ho arose and tried to approach it cautiously, but, unable longer to guide his footsteps, ho stumblscl against it and fell. It moved slightiyr and gave a husky whinny.

IIo stretched out hia hand. Could H~ be tho pony ho had left hours before? With one desperate effort of his swiftly ebbing strength

I10

mado conviction

suro by finding tho knot in tho bridle rein which ho had handled nervously during tho dreadful hours of thaA firsfc dreadful day.

Great heavens 1 He had gone in at circle. He was lost then, and tho hut, -wittei its blazing fire, might be miles aw&y.t The thought was almost death it6aljj.' and mado such darkness in his soul thathe grow mad, and, giving a great crj swooned away.

Iho silent hours passed. They made! themselves into night and into day nndj: into night again. Tho nnlooked fordawn was rising softly

011

slow wings

when ho aroused himself. "It was a dream," he said.. "Helen,: my betrothed, I havo como back to yoti.1 I am stained with tho earthly lifo. I am not worth your taking, but your inEoceuco will make me true. Wo wili go. away together, dear, and 1 will teach you to believe in

1110.

L°t«« po. W^iero

is your hand? It is growing (lark. Whydid I bring you out into this dreadfu?i night?"

Tho words had hardly ccased, r.nd ifi was not yet too late to savo the ebbing Hie, whon a tall man rode swiftly up^i His lips grow white as he fired .signals shots and looked through a glata ou(", into the clear morning to see that a compi.ny of horsemen in tlio near disiaucf" had heard and were turning in,s.Ue right., direction.

He stuck his gun into the ground aatf listened his handkerchief to it i)t ,:der that the riders might not, lose 'JisJix way. Then ho mounted his bursts ime& rode away. At the foot of a tall mountain upon whose side clung a vine enwreathed hut he paused and looked up through tho morning splendor whicii crowned the radiant summits and touched the hidden pla«*s, up ut tho clouds and across at tho serene, whif mountain, and as he looked his hearb grew still and there echoed a voico iis Lis ears, and thesro were the words

iti

said: "I'll go with yo' anywhere. It be'a! empty livin 'fore yo' come. Goodby,' pretty clouds 1 Goodby, ole Mount HoodJ a sweet goodby t' yo'!" till: emx

I'lcturesque Arizona.'

An Arizona newspaper, the Yuma Sentinel, gives this breeay description of that state: We live in a land of high mountains, high collars and higli taxes low valleys, low neck dresses and low wages big crooked rivers and big crooked statesmen, big lakes, bigrr drunks, big pumpkins, big men wltE pumpkin heads silver streams thas gambol in the'mountains, and plou9 politicians, who gamble in the night roaring cataracts and roaring orators fast trains, fast horses, fast young men roses that bloom the year round, and beautiful girls with rosebufl mouths sharp lawyers, sharp flnan* clers and sharp toe shoes noisy children, fertile plains that lie like a sfeeei of water and thousands of newspapers that lie like thunder. -,v.

Some Big Parks.

Hyde Park, the most distinctive of" London parks, is 400 acres in extent. Tho

BOIB

de Boulogne covers

acre*. CsntTal Park, New York, acree.