In halting, broken words, the shepherd faltered through the rest of his story as he told how, while using the cabin under the cliff as a studio, the artist had discovered the passage to the old Dewey cave; how, since his supposed death, he had spent the summers at the scene of his former happiness; how he had met his son roaming the hills at night, and had been able to have the boy with him much of the time; how he had been wounded the night Jim Lane was killed; and finally how Pete had led them to his bedside.
“He is dying yonder. Dr. Coughlan is with him—and Pete—Pete is there, too. I—I came for you. He is calling for you. I came to tell you. All that a man may suffer here, he has suffered, sir. Your prayer has been doubly answered, Mr. Matthews. Both father and son are dead. The name—the old name is perished from the face of the earth. For Christ’s dear sake, forgive my boy, and let him go. For my sake, sir, I—I can bear no more.”
Who but He that looketh upon the heart of man could know the battle that was fought in the soul of that giant of the hills? He uttered no sound. He sat in his seat as if made of stone; save once, when he walked to the end of the porch to stand with clenched hands and passion shaken frame, facing the dark clump of pines on the hill.
Slowly the moon climbed over the ridge and lighted the scene. The mountaineer returned to his chair. All at once he raised his head, and, leaning forward, looked long and earnestly at the old shepherd, where he sat crouching like a convict awaiting sentence.
From down the mill road came voices and the sound of horses’ feet. Old Matt started, turning his head a moment to listen. The horses stopped at the lower gate.
“The children,” said Aunt Mollie softly. “The children. Grant, Oh, Grant! Sammy and our boy.”
Then the shepherd felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and a voice, that had in it something new and strange, said, “Dad,—my brother,—Daniel, I—I ain’t got no education, an’ I—don’t know rightly how to say it—but, Daniel, what these hills have been to you, you—you have been to me. It’s sure God’s way, Daniel. Let’s—let’s go to the boy.”
CHAPTER XLII.
THE WAY OF THE LOWER TRAIL.
“Fix—the—light, as it was—please? That’s—it. Thank you, Doctor. How beautiful she is—how beautiful!” He seemed to gather strength, and looked carefully into the face of each member of the little group about the bed; the shepherd, Old Matt, Aunt Mollie, Pete, and the physician. Then he turned his eyes back to the painting. To the watchers, the girl in the picture, holding her brimming cup, seemed to smile back again.
“I loved her—I loved—her. She was my natural mate—my other self. I belonged to her—she to me. I—I can’t tell you of that summer—when we were together—alone in the hills—the beautiful hills—away from the sham and the ugliness of the world that men have made. The beauty and inspiration of it all I put into my pictures, and I knew because of that they were good—I knew they would win a place for me—and—they did. Most of all—I put it there,” (He pointed to the painting on the wall) “and the crowd saw it and felt it, and did not know what it was. But I knew—I knew—all the time, I knew. Oh!—if that short summer could have been lengthened—into years, what might I not have done? Oh, God! That men—can be—so blind—so blind!”