The Eye of Dread

CHAPTER XXIII

A DISCOURSE ON LYING

All day Larry Kildene slept, hardly waking long enough toward nightfall to drink his broth, but the next day he was refreshed and merry.

“Leave Madam Manovska alone,” he admonished Harry. “Take Amalia off for another ride, and I’ll go down to the cabin, and if there’s a way to set her mind at rest about her husband, I’ll find it. I’d not be willing to take an oath on what I may tell her, but it will be satisfying, never fear.”

The ride was a short one, for the air was chill, and there were more signs of snow, but when they returned to the cabin, they found Larry seated by the fire, drinking a brew of Madam’s tea and conversing with her joyously about his trip and what he had seen of the new railroad. It was curious how he had succeeded in bringing her to take an interest in things quite alien to her. The very atmosphere of the cabin seemed to be cleared by his presence, big, genial, and all-embracing. Certainly nothing of the recluse appeared in his demeanor. Only when they were alone in their own quarters did he show occasionally a longing for the old condition of unmolested tranquillity. To go to his dinner at a set hour, no matter how well prepared it might be, annoyed him.

“There’s no reason in life why they should get a meal ready merely because a timepiece says twelve o’clock. Let them wait until a man’s hungry,” he would grumble. Then, arrived at the cabin, he would be all courtesy and geniality.

When Harry rallied him on his inconsistency, he gravely replied: “An Irish gentleman is an Irish gentleman the world over, no matter where you find him, in court, camp, or wilderness; it’s all one to him. Why do you think I brought that mirror you shave by all the way up the mountain? Why, to have a body to look at now and again, and to blarney, just that I might not forget the trick. What was the good of that, do you ask? Look at yourself, man. You’re a dour Scotchman, that’s what you are, and you keep your humor done up in a wet blanket, and when it glints out of the corner of your eye a bit, you draw down the corners of your mouth to belie it. What’s the good of that, now? The world’s a rough place to walk in for the most part, especially for women, and if a man carries a smile on his face and a bit of blarney on the tip of his tongue, he smooths the way for them. Now, there’s Madam Manovska. What would you and Amalia have done to her? Driven her clean out of her head with your bungling. In a case like hers you must be very discreet, and lead her around, by the way she wants to go, to a place of safety.”

Harry smiled. Since his avowal to Amalia of his determination to make expiation for the crime that clouded his life, he had grown more cheerful and less restrained in manner. He would accept the present happiness, and so far as he could without wrong to her, he would fill his hours with the joy of her companionship, and his love should dominate him, and his heart should revel in the thought of her, and her nearness to him; then when the spring should come and melt the snowy barriers between him and the world below, he would go down and make his expiation, drinking the bitter cup to the dregs.

This happy imprisonment on the mountain top with these two refined women and this kindly man with the friendly heart and splendid body and brain, he deemed worth a lifetime spent more sordidly. Here and now, he felt himself able to weigh true values, and learned that the usual ambitions of mortals–houses and gear and places of precedence–could become the end of existence only to those whose desires had become distorted by the world’s estimates. Now he understood how a man might live for a woman’s smile, or give his life for the touch of her hand, and how he might hunger for the pressing of children’s lips to his own. The warm friendships of life grew to their true proportions in the vast scheme of things, as he looked in the big man’s eyes and answered his kindly banter.

“I see. It takes a genius to be a discreet and wise liar. Amalia’s lacking there–for me, I might learn. Now pocket your blarney long enough to tell me why you called me a Scotchman.”

“How would I know the difference between a broncho and a mule? By the earmarks, boy. I’ve lived in the world long enough to know men. If there be only a drop of Scotch blood in a man, he shows it. Like the mule he brays at the wrong time, or he settles back and stands when he should go forward. Oh, there’s many a sign to enlighten the wise.”

He rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe and thrust it in his pocket and began to look over his pack, which had not been opened. Two good-sized sacks hung on either side of the pack mule had held most of his purchases, all carefully tied in separate bundles. The good man had not been sparing of his gold. Since he had so long exiled himself, having no use for what he had accumulated, he had now reveled in spending.

“We’re to live like lords and ladies, now, Harry. I’ve two silver plates, and they’re for the ladies. For us, we’ll eat off the tin as before. And silver mugs for their drink. See? I would have got them china but it’s too likely to break. Now, here’s a luxury I’ve brought, and it was heavy to carry, too. Here’s twenty-four panes of glass. I carried them, twelve on each side of my horse, like that, slung so, see? That’s two windows of two sash each, and six panes to a sash. Oh, they’re small, but see what a luxury for the women to do their pretty work by. And there’s work for you, to be making the sash. I’ve done my share of that sort of thing in building the cabin for you, and then–young man–I’ll set you to digging out the gold. That’s work that’ll put the worth of your body to the test, and the day will come when you’ll need it.”

“I doubt my ever having much need of gold, but whatever you set me at I’ll do to the best of my ability.”

“You may have your doubts, but I have none. Men are like bees; they must ever be laying by something, even if they have no use for it.” As Larry talked he continued to sort over his purchases, and Harry looked on, astounded at their variety and number.

While apparently oblivious of the younger man’s interest, and absorbed in his occupation, whistling, and turning the bundles over in his hands as he tallied them off, he now and then shot a keen glance in his companion’s face. He had noticed the change in Harry, and was alert to learn the cause. He found him more talkative, more eager and awake. He suspected Harry had passed through some mental crisis, but of what nature he was at a loss to determine. Certainly it had made him a more agreeable companion than the gloom of his former manner.

“I’ll dig for the gold, indeed I will, but I’d like to go on a hunt now and then. I’d like a shot at the beast we saw sniffing over the spot where I sat all night waiting for you to appear. It will no longer be safe for Amalia to wander about alone as she did before she hurt her ankle.”

“The creature was after sheep. He’ll find his prey growing scarcer now that the railroad is so near. In ten years or less these mountain sheep will be extinct. That’s the result of civilization, my boy.”

“I’d like to shoot this panther, though.”

“We’ll have to set a bait for him–and that means a deer or a sheep must go. We’ll do it soon, too.”

“You’ve reconciled Madam Manovska to your coming home without her husband! I didn’t think it possible. Give me a lesson in diplomacy, will you?”

“Wait till I light my pipe. Now. First, you must know there are several kinds of lying, and you must learn which kinds are permissible–and otherwise.” With his pipe between his teeth, Larry stood, a mock gravity about his mouth, and a humorous twinkle in his eyes, while he looked down on Harry, and told off the lies on his fingers.

“First, there’s the fool’s lie–you’ll know it because there’s no purpose in it, and there’s the rogue’s lie,–and as we’re neither fools nor rogues we’ll class them both as–otherwise; then there’s the lie of pride, and, as that goes along with the fool’s lie, we’ll throw it out with the–otherwise–and the coward’s lie also goes with the otherwise.” Larry shook his fingers as if he tossed the four lies off from their tips, and began again. “Now. Here’s the friend’s lie–a man risks his soul to save a friend–good–or to help him out of trouble–very well. And then there’s the lover’s lie, it’s what a lad tells his sweetheart–that goes along with what she tells him–and comes by way of nature–”

“Or you might class it along with your own blarney.”

“Let be, lad. I’m teaching you the diplomacy, now. Then there’s the lie of shame, and the lie of sorrow, wherein a man puts by, for his own loved one’s sake, or his self-respect, what’s better covered; that, too, comes by way of nature, even as a dog crawls away to die alone, and we’ll accept it. Now comes the lie of the man who would tell a good tale for the amusement of his friends; very well, the nature of man loves it, so we’ll count it in, and along with it comes a host of little lies like the sportsman’s lie and the traveler’s lie–they all help to make life merry, and the world can ill do without them. But now comes the lie of circumspection. You must learn to lie it without lying. See? It’s the lie of wisdom, and it’s a very subtle thing, and easily abused. If a man uses it for a selfish cause and merely to pervert the truth, it’s a black lie, and one of the very worst. Or he may use it in a good cause, and it’s fairly white. It must be used with discrimination. That’s the lie I used for the poor Madam down there.”

“But what did you say?”

“She says to me, ‘And where is my ’usband?’ I reply, ‘Madam, your husband is in a very safe and secret place,’–and that is true enough–‘where his enemies will never find him,’–and for all we know that is also true. ‘But I cannot understand why he did not come to me. That is not like my ’usband.’ ‘No, Madam, it is not. But man must do what he must, and the way was too long and arduous for his strength; he could not take the long, weary climb.’ And no more could he, true enough. ‘No, Madam, you cannot go to him, nor he come to you, for the danger of the way and the wild beasts that are abroad looking for food.’ And what more true than that, for did not her daughter see one hunting for food?

“So she covers her face with her hand and rocks herself back and forth, and now, lad, here’s where the blarney comes in. It’s to tell her of the worth of her husband, and what a loss it would be to the world if he were to die on the trail, and what he would suffer if he thought she were unhappy, and then in the ardor of my speech comes the straight lie. I told her that he was writing the story of his life and that it was to be a great work which would bring about a tremendous revolution of justice and would bring confusion to his enemies, until at last she holds up her head proudly and speaks of his wonderful intellect and goodness. Then she says: ‘He cannot come to me, very good. He is not strong enough–no. I go to him to-morrow.’ Think of that, man! What I had to meet, and it was all to go over again. I would call it very circumspect lying and in a good cause, too, to comfort the poor soul. I told her of the snow, and how surely she would die by the way and make her husband very sad, he who was now happy in the writing of his book, and that to do so would break his heart and cause his own death,–while to wait until spring in peace would be wiser, because she might then descend the mountain in perfect safety. So now she sits sewing and making things no man understands the use of. She showed me the blouse she has made for you. Now, that is the best medicine for her sick brain. They’re great women, these two. If we must have women about, we’re in luck to have women of their quality.”

“We are, indeed.”

“I saw the women who follow the road as it creeps across the plains. They’re pitiful to see. If these had been like them, we’d have been obliged to take them in just the same, but Lord be merciful to them, I’m glad they’re not on my mountain.” Larry shook his ponderous, grizzled head and turned again to his packages. “Since they love to sew, they may be making things for themselves next. Look you! Here is silk for gowns, for women love adornment, the best of them.”

Harry paused, his arms full of wood with which he was replenishing the fire, and stared in amazement, as Larry unrolled a mass of changeable satin wherein a deep cerise and green coloring shifted and shimmered in the firelight. He held the rich material up to his own waist and looked gravely down on the long folds that dropped to the floor and coiled about his feet. “I told you we’re to live like lords and ladies now. Man! I’d like to see Amalia in a gown of this!”

Harry dropped his wood on the fire and threw back his head and laughed. He even lay down on the floor to laugh, and rolled about until his head lay among the folds of satin. Then he sat up, and taking the material between his fingers felt of it, while the big man looked down on him, gravely discomfited.

“And what did you bring for Madam Manovska?”

“Black, man, black. I’m no fool, I tell you. I know what’s discreet for an elderly lady.” Then they gravely and laboriously folded together the yards of gorgeous satin. “And I’d have been glad of your measure to get you the suit of clothes you’re needing. Lacking it, I got one for myself. But for me they’re a bit too small. You’ll maybe turn tailor and cut them still smaller for yourself. Take them, and if they’re no fit, you’ll laugh out of the other corner of your mouth.” The two men stood a moment sheepishly eying each other, while Harry held the clothes awkwardly in his hands.

“I–I–did need them.” He choked a bit, and then laughed again.

“So did I need them–yours and mine, too.” Larry held up another suit, “See here. Mine are darker, to keep you from thinking them yours. And here are the buckskins for hunting. I used to make them for myself, but they had these for sale, and I was by way of spending money, so I bought them. Now, with the blouses the women have made for you, we’re decent.”

All at once it dawned on Harry what a journey the big man had made, and he fairly shouted, “Larry Kildene, where have you been?”

“I rode like the very devil for three days. When once I was started, I was crazed to go–and see–Then I reached the end of the road from the coast this way. Did you know they’re building the road from both ways at once? I didn’t, for I never went down to get news of the cities, and they might have put the whole thing through without my even knowing of it, if you hadn’t tumbled in on me and told me of it.

“It stirred me up a bit. I left my horse in charge of one I thought I might trust, and then took a train and rode over the new rails clean through to San Francisco, and there I groveled around a day or two, taking in the ways of men. They’re doing big things. Now that the two oceans are to be united by iron rails, great changes will come like the wind,–the Lord knows when they will end! Now, the women will be wanting us to eat, I’m thinking, and I’m not ready–but eat we must when the hour comes, and we’ve done nothing this whole morning but stand here and talk.”

Thus Larry grumbled as they tramped down to the cabin through the snow, with the rolls of silk under his arm, and the silver plates in his hand, while Harry carried the sack of coffee and the paper for Amalia. As they neared the cabin the big man paused.

“Take these things in for me, Harry. I–I–left something back in the shed. Drop that coffee and I’ll fetch it as I come along.”

“Now, what kind of a lie would you call that, sir, since it’s your courage you’ve left?”

“Let be, let be. Can’t you see I’m going back after it?”

So Harry carried in the gifts and Larry went back for his “courage” and donned his new suit of clothes to help him carry it, and then came walking in with a jovial swagger, and accepted the mother’s thanks and Amalia’s embrace with a marvelous ease, especially the embrace, with which he seemed mightily pleased.

CHAPTER XXIV

AMALIA’S FÊTE

The winter was a cold one, and the snows fell heavily, but a way was always kept open between the cabin and the fodder shed, and also by great labor a space was kept cleared around the cabin and a part of the distance toward the fall so that the women might not be walled in their quarters by the snow. With plenty to occupy them all, the weeks sped swiftly and pleasantly. Larry did a little trapping and hunting, but toward midwinter the sport became dangerous, because of the depth of the snow, and with the exception of stalking a deer now and then, for fresh food, he and Harry spent the most of their time burrowing in the mountain for gold.

Amalia’s crutches were gradually laid aside, until she ran about as lightly as before, but even had she not been prevented by the snow she would not have been allowed to go far away from the cabin alone. The men baited and lay in wait for the panther, and at last shot him, but Larry knew from long experience that when the snows were deep, panthers often haunted his place, and their tracks were frequently seen higher up the mountain where he was wont to hunt the mountain sheep.

Sometimes Harry King rode with Amalia where the wind had swept the way bare, toward the bend in the trail, and would bring her back glowing and happy from the exercise. Sometimes when the storms were fierce without, and he suspected Larry longed for his old-time seclusion, he sat in the cabin. At these times Amalia redeemed her promise to teach him French. Few indeed were the books she had for help in giving these lessons. One little unbound book of old sonnets and songs and a small pamphlet of more modern poems that her father had loved, were all, except his Bible, which, although it was in Polish, contained copious annotations in her father’s hand in French, and between the leaves of which lay loose pages filled with concise and plainly written meditations of his own.

These Amalia loved and handled with reverence, and for Harry King they had such vital interest that he learned the more rapidly that he might know all they contained. He no longer wondered at her power and breadth of thought. As he progressed he found in them a complete system of ethics and religious faith. Their writer seemed to have drawn from all sources intrinsically vital truths, and separated them from their encumbering theologic verbiage and dogma, and had traced them simply through to the great “Sermon on the Mount.” In a few pages this great man had comprised the deepest logic, and the sweetest and widest theology, enough for all the world to live by, and enough to guide nations in safety, if only all men might learn it.

It was sufficient. He knew Amalia better, and more deeply he reverenced and loved her. He no longer quivered when he heard her mention the “Virgin” or when she spoke of the “Sweet Christ.” It was not what his old dogmatic ancestry had fled from as “Popery.” It was her simple, direct faith in the living Christ, which gave her eyes their clear, far-seeing vision, and her heart its quick, responsive intuition and understanding. She might speak of the convent where she had been protected and loved, and taught many things useful and good, other than legends and doctrines. She had learned how, through her father’s understanding and study, to gather out the good, and leave the rest, in all things.

And Harry learned his French. He was an apt scholar, and Larry fell in line, for he had not forgotten the scholastic Latin and French of his college days. He liked, indeed, to air his French occasionally, although his accent was decidedly English, but his grammar was good and a great help to Harry. Madam Manovska also enjoyed his efforts and suggested that when they were all together they should converse in the French alone, not only that they might help Harry, but also that they might have a common language. It was to her and Amalia like their native tongue, and their fluency for a time quite baffled Larry, but he was determined not to be beaten, and when Harry faltered and refused to go on, he pounded him on the back, and stirred him up to try again.

Although Amalia’s convent training had greatly restricted her knowledge of literature other than religious, her later years of intimate companionship with her father, and her mother’s truly remarkable knowledge of the classics and fearless investigation of the modern thought of her day, had enlarged Amalia’s horizon; while her own vivid imagination and her native geniality caused her to lighten always her mother’s more somber thought with a delicate and gracious play of fancy that was at once fascinating and delightful. This, and Harry’s determination to live to the utmost in these weeks of respite, made him at times almost gay.

Most of all he reveled in Amalia’s music. Certain melodies that she said her father had made he loved especially, and sometimes she would accompany them with a plaintive chant, half singing and half recitation, of the sonnet which had inspired them, and which had been woven through them. It was at these times that Larry listened with his elbows on his knees and his eyes fixed on the fire, and Harry with his eyes on Amalia’s face, while the cabin became to him glorified with a light, no longer from the flames, but with a radiance like that which surrounded Dante’s Beatrice in Paradise.

Amalia loved to please Larry Kildene. For this reason, knowing the joy he would take in it, and also because she loved color and light and joy, and the giving of joy, she took the gorgeous silk he had brought her, and made it up in a fashion of her own. Down in the cities, she knew, women were wearing their gowns spread out over wide hoops, but she made the dress as she knew they were worn at the time Larry had lived among women and had seen them most.

The bodice she fitted closely and shaped into a long point in front, and the skirt she gathered and allowed to fall in long folds to her feet. The sleeves she fitted only to her elbows, and gathered in them deep lace of her own making–lace to dream about, and the creation of which was one of those choice things she had learned of the good sisters at the convent. About her neck she put a bertha, kerchiefwise, and pinned it with a brooch of curiously wrought gold. Larry, “the discreet and circumspect liar,” thought of the emerald brooch she had brought him to sell for her, and knowing how it would glow and blend among the changing tints of the silk, he fetched it to her, explaining that he could not sell it, and that the bracelet had covered all she had asked him to purchase for her, and some to spare.

She thanked him, and fastened it in her bodice, and handed the other to her mother. “There, mamma, when we have make you the dress Sir Kildene have brought you, you must wear this, for it is beautiful with the black. Then we will have a fête. And for the fête, Sir Kildene, you must wear the very fine new clothes you have buy, and Mr. ’Arry will carry on him the fine new clothing, and so will we be all attire most splendid. I will make for you all the music you like the best, and mamma will speak then the great poems she have learned by head, and Sir Kildene will tell the story he can relate so well of strange happenings. Oh, it will be a fine, good concert we will make here–and you, Mr. ’Arry, what will you do?”

“I’ll do the refreshments. I’ll roast corn and make coffee. I’ll be audience and call for more.”

“Ah, yes! Encore! Encore! The artists must always be very much praised–very much–so have I heard, to make them content. It is Sir Kildene who will be the great artist, and you must cry ‘Encore,’ and honor him greatly with such calls. Then will we have the pleasure to hear many stories from him. Ah, I like to hear them.”

It was a strange life for Harry King, this odd mixture of finest culture and high-bred delicacy of manner, with what appeared to be a total absence of self-seeking and a simple enjoyment of everyday work. He found Amalia one morning on her knees scrubbing the cabin floor, and for the moment it shocked him. When they were out on the plains camping and living as best they could, he felt it to be the natural consequence of their necessities when he saw her washing their clothes and making the best of their difficulties by doing hard things with her own hands, but now that they were living in a civilized way, he could not bear to see her, or her mother, doing the rough work. Amalia only laughed at him. “See how fine we make all things. If I will not serve for making clean the house, why am I? Is not?”