Shepherd of the Hills — 21 - Chapters 40 and 41

“I am so glad of that because there is much to do before I go.

There is so much that must be done first, and I want you both to help me.

” CHAPTER XL. THE SHEPHERD’S MISSION.

During the latter part of that night and most of the day, it rained; a fine, slow, quiet rain, with no wind to shake the wet from burdened leaf or blade.

But when the old shepherd left the cave by a narrow opening on the side of the mountain, near Sammy’s Lookout, the sky was clear.

The mists rolled heavily over the valley, but the last of the sunlight was warm on the knobs and ridges.

The old man paused behind the rock and bushes that concealed the mouth of the underground passage.

Not a hundred feet below was the Old Trail;

he followed the little path with his eye until it vanished around the shoulder of Dewey.

Along that way he had come into the hills.

Then lifting his eyes to the far away lines of darker blue, his mind looked over the ridge to the world that is on the other side, the world from which he had fled.

It all seemed very small and mean, now; it was so far—so far away.

He started as the sharp ring of a horse’s iron shoe on the flint rocks came from beyond the Lookout, and, safely hidden, he saw a neighbor round the hill and pass on his way to the store on Roark.

He watched, as horse and rider followed the Old Trail around the rim of the Hollow;

watched, until they passed from sight in the belt of timber.

Then his eyes were fixed on a fine thread of smoke that curled above the trees on the Matthews place; and, leaving the shelter of rock and bush, he walked along the Old Trail toward the big log house on the distant ridge.

Below him, on his left, Mutton Hollow lay submerged in the drifting mists, with only a faint line of light breaking now and then where Lost Creek made its way; and on the other side Compton Ridge lifted like a wooded shore from the sea.

A black spot in the red west shaped itself into a crow, making his way on easy wing toward a dead tree on the top of Boulder Bald.

The old shepherd walked wearily; the now familiar objects wore a strange look.

It was as though he saw them for the first time, yet had seen them somewhere before, perhaps in another world.

As he went his face was the face of one crushed by shame and grief, made desperate by his suffering.

Supper was just over and Young Matt was on the porch when Mr. Howitt entered the gate.

The young fellow greeted his old friend, and called back into the house, “Here’s Dad, Father.

” As Mr. Matthews came out, Aunt Mollie and Sammy appeared in the doorway.

How like it all was to that other evening.

The mountaineer and the shepherd sat on the front porch, while Young Matt brought the big sorrel and the brown pony to the gate, and with Sammy rode away.

They were going to the Postoffice at the Forks.

“Ain’t had no news for a week,” said Aunt Mollie, as she brought her chair to join the two men.

“And besides, Sammy needs the ride.

There’s goin’ to be a moon, so it’ll be light by the time they start home.

” The sound of the horses’ feet and the voices of the young people died away in the gray woods.

The dusk thickened in the valley below, and, as the light in the west went out, the three friends saw the clump of pines etched black and sharp against the blood red background of the sky.

Old Matt spoke, “Reckon everything’s alright at the ranch, Dad.

How’s the little doctor?

You ought to brung him up with you.

” He watched the shepherd’s face curiously from under his heavy brows, as he pulled at his cob pipe.

“Tired out trampin’ over these hills, I reckon,” ventured Aunt Mollie.

Mr. Howitt tried to answer with some commonplace, but his friends could not but note his confusion.

Mrs. Matthews continued, “I guess you’ll be a leavin’ us pretty soon, now.

Well, I ain’t a blamin’ you; and you’ve sure been a God’s blessin’ to us here in the woods.

I don’t reckon we’re much ’long ’side the fine friends you’ve got back where you come from in the city; and we—we can’t do nothin’ for you, but—but—” The good soul could say no more.

“We’ve often wondered, sir,” added Old Matt, “how you’ve stood it here, an educated man like you.

I reckon, though, there’s somethin’ deep under it all, keepin’ you up; somethin’ that ignorant folks, without no education, like us, can’t understand.

” The old scholar could have cried aloud, but he was forced to sit dumb while the other continued, “You’re goin’ won’t make no difference, though, with what you’ve done.

This neighborhood won’t never go back to what it was before you come.

It can’t with all you’ve taught us, and with Sammy stayin’ here to keep it up.

It’ll be mighty hard, though, to have you go; it sure will, Mr. Howitt.

” Looking up, the shepherd said quietly, “I expect to live here until the end if you will let me.

But I fear you will not want me to stay when you know what I’ve come to tell you this evening.

” The mountaineer straightened his huge form as he returned, “Dad, there ain’t nothin’ on earth or in hell could change what we think of you, and we don’t want to hear nothin’ about you that you don’t like to tell us.

We ain’t a carin’ what sent you to the hills.

We’re takin’ you for what you are.

And there ain’t nothin’ can change that.

” “Not even if it should be the grave under the pine yonder?

” asked the other in a low voice.

Old Matt looked at him in a half frightened way, as though, without knowing why, he feared what the shepherd would say next.

Mr. Howitt felt the look and hesitated.

He was like one on a desperate mission in the heart of an enemy’s country, feeling his way.

Was the strong man’s passion really tame?

Or was his fury only sleeping, waiting to destroy the one who should wake it?

Who could tell?

The old scholar looked away to Dewey Bald for strength.

“Mr. Matthews,” he said, “you once told me a story.

It was here on this porch when I first came to you.

It was a sad tale of a great crime.

To-night I know the other side of that story.

I’ve come to tell you.

” At the strange words, Aunt Mollie’s face turned as white as her apron.

Old Matt grasped the arms of his chair, as though he would crush the wood, as he said shortly, “Go on.

” At the tone of his voice, the old shepherd’s heart sank.

CHAPTER XLI. THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY.

With a prayer in his heart for the boy who lay dying in that strange underground chamber, the artist’s father began.

“It is the story, Mr. Matthews, of a man and his only son, the last of their family.

With them will perish—has perished one of the oldest and proudest names in our country.

“From his childhood this man was taught the honored traditions of his people, and, thus trained in pride of ancestry, grew up to believe that the supreme things of life are what his kind call education, refinement, and culture.

In his shallow egotism, he came to measure all life by the standards of his people.

“It was in keeping with this that the man should enter the pulpit of the church of his ancestors, and it was due very largely, no doubt, to the same ancestral influence that he became what the world calls a successful minister of the gospel.

But Christianity to him was but little more than culture, and his place in the church merely an opportunity to add to the honor of his name.

Soon after leaving the seminary, he married.

The crowning moment of his life was when his first born—a boy—was laid in his arms.

The second child was a girl;

there were no more.

“For ten years before her death the wife was an invalid.

The little girl, too, was never strong, and six months after they buried the mother the daughter was laid beside her.

“You, sir, can understand how the father lavished every care upon his son.

The first offspring of the parents’ love, the sole survivor of his home, and the last to bear the name of a family centuries old, he was the only hope of the proud man’s ambition.

“The boy was a beautiful child, a delicate, sensitive soul in a body of uncommon physical grace and strength, and the proud father loved to think of him as the flower of long ages of culture and refinement.

The minister, himself, jealously educated his son, and the two grew to be friends, sir, constant companions.

This, also, _you_ will understand—you and your boy.

But with all this the young man did not follow his father in choosing his profession.

He—he became an artist.

” Old Matt started from his seat.

Aunt Mollie uttered an exclamation.

But the shepherd, without pausing, continued: “When his schooling was completed the boy came into the Ozarks one summer to spend the season painting.

The man had expected to go with his son.

For months they had planned the trip together, but at last something prevented, and the father could not go—no, he could not go—” The speaker’s voice broke;

the big mountaineer was breathing hard; Aunt Mollie was crying.

Presently Mr. Howitt went on.

“When the young artist returned to his father, among many sketches of the mountains, he brought one painting that received instant recognition.

The people stood before it in crowds when it was exhibited in the art gallery; the papers were extravagant in their praise; the artist became famous; and wealthy patrons came to his studio to sit for their portraits.

The picture was of a beautiful girl, standing by a spring, holding out a dripping cup of water.

” At this a wild oath burst from the giant.

Springing to his feet, he started toward the speaker.

Aunt Mollie screamed, “Grant, oh Grant!

Think what Dad has done for us.

” The mountaineer paused.

“Mr. Matthews,” said the shepherd, in trembling tones, “for my sake, will you not hear me to the end?

for my sake?

” The big man dropped back heavily into his chair.

“Go on,” he said.

But his voice was as the growl of a beast.

“The boy loved your girl, Mr. Matthews.

It was as though he had left his soul in the hills.

Night and day he heard her calling.

The more his work was praised, the more his friends talked of honors and planned his future, the keener was his suffering, and most of all there was the shadow that had come between him and his father, breaking the old comradeship, and causing them to shun each other; though the father never knew why.

The poor boy grew morose and despondent, giving way at times to spells of the deepest depression.

He tried to lose himself in his work.

He fled abroad and lived alone.

It seemed a blight had fallen on his soul.

The world called him mad.

Many times he planned to take his life, but always the hope of meeting her again stopped him.

“At last he returned to this country determined to see her at any cost, and, if possible, gain her forgiveness and his father’s consent to their marriage.

He came into the hills only to find that the mother of his child had died of a broken heart.

“Then came the end.

The artist disappeared, leaving a long, pitiful letter, saying that before the word reached his father, he would be dead.

The most careful investigation brought nothing but convincing evidence that the unhappy boy had taken his own life.

The artist knew that it would be a thousand times easier for the proud man to think his son dead than for him to know the truth, and he was right.

Mr. Matthews, he was right.

I cannot tell you of the man’s suffering, but he found a little comfort in the reflection that such extravagant praise of his son’s work had added to the honor of the family, for the lad’s death was held by all to be the result of a disordered mind.

There was not a whisper of wrong doing.

His life, they said, was without reproach, and even his sad mental condition was held to be evidence of his great genius.

“The minister was weak, sir.

He knew something of the intellectual side of his religion and the history of his church, but he knew little, very little, of the God that could sustain him in such a trial.

He was shamefully weak.

He tried to run away from his trouble, and, because the papers had made so much of his work as a preacher, and because of his son’s fame, he gave only the first part of his name, thinking thus to get away from it all for a season.

“But God was to teach the proud man of culture and religious forms a great lesson, and to that end directed his steps.

He was led here, here, sir, to your home, and you—you told him the story of his son’s crime.

” The shepherd paused.

A hoarse whisper came from the giant in the chair, “You—you, Dad, your—name is—” The other threw out his hand, as if to guard himself, and shrank back;

“Hush, oh hush!

I have no name but the name by which you know me.

The man who bore that name is dead.

In all his pride of intellect and position he died.

Your prayers for vengeance were answered, sir.

You—you killed him; killed him as truly as if you had plunged a knife into his heart; and—you—did—well.

” Aunt Mollie moaned.

“Is that all?

” growled the mountaineer.

“All!

God, no!

I—I must go on.

I must tell you how the man you killed staid in the hills and was born again.

There was nothing else for him to do but stay in the hills.

With the shame and horror of his boy’s disgrace on his heart, he could not go back—back to the city, his friends and his church—to the old life.

He knew that he could not hope to deceive them.

He was not skilled in hiding things.

Every kind word in praise of himself, or in praise of his son, would have been keenest torture.

He was a coward; he dared not go back.

His secret would have driven him mad, and he would have ended it all as his son had done.

His only hope for peace was to stay here; here on the very spot where the wrong was done, and to do what little he could to atone for the crime.

“At first it was terrible; the long, lonely nights with no human friend near; the weight of shame; the memories; and the lonely wind—always the wind—in the trees—her voice, Pete said, calling for him to come.

God, sir, I wonder the man did not die under his punishment!

“But God is good, Mr. Matthews.

God is good and merciful.

Every day out on the range with the sheep, the man felt the spirit of the hills, and little by little their strength and their peace entered into his life.

The minister learned here, sir, what he had not learned in all his theological studies.

He learned to know God, the God of these mountains.

The hills taught him, and they came at last to stand between him and the trouble from which he had fled.

The nights were no longer weary and long.

He was never alone.

The voices in the wilderness became friendly voices, for he learned their speech, and the poor girl ceased to call in the wailing wind.

Then Dr. Coughlan came, and—” Again the shepherd stopped.

He could not go on.

The light was gone from the sky and he felt the blackness of the night.

But against the stars he could still see the crown of the mountain where his son lay.

When he had gathered strength, he continued, saying simply, “Dr. Coughlan came, and—last night we learned that my son was not dead but living.

” Again that growl like the growl of a wild beast came from the mountaineer.

Silently Mr. Howitt prayed.

“Go on,” came the command in hoarse tones.

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.

”