 | CHAPTER XLV.
TWICE WARNED. The shadow of Moloch mountain |  |
45. CHAPTER XLV.
TWICE WARNED.
Half way up the mountain, one of the
precipitous wooded mountains of Western
Pennsylvania, nature had fashioned a sunny
plateau, open to the south, with glimpses of
mountain scenery at the east and west, and ample
shelter at the north. Here Marston Brent
had built his simple home, and here lived, with
no thought of further change, a grave, silent
man, attentive to the business which was
pouring unmeasured wealth into his coffers,
a benefactor to the army of laborers with
their families in his employ, a kind and indulgent
head to his little household, and in
all else as much a hermit as if he had lived
alone in the cave, a thousand feet nearer to the
crest of the mountain. Of himself, he never
spoke, and that must have been a hardy explorer
who had ventured to intrude upon the
privacy so strictly guarded, so vigilantly maintained.
Even Ruth, who had so tenderly nursed
him through that long illness of crushed
body and wounded heart, who had seen him
in those desperate and unguarded moments
when the voice of nature, tried beyond endurance,
forced the barriers of pride and reserve,
and made itself audible in the anguished
cries so terrible when extorted from a strong
man's agony—even Ruth dared not now ask
whether those wounds had healed, whether
the past was forgotten, whether the timid
flower of hope yet survived the storm that
had prostrated so much of what was best and
sweetest in the life of the man she reverenced
and admired beyond all men.
It was of this very point that she was
thinking, seated in a favorite niche in the
mountain-side, with the bright waters of the
creek shining far beneath, and a magnificent
country of wood and mountain water, and
distant reaches of fertile intervale, outspread
before her. And here, breaking upon her
reverie, came Paul Freeman, now a stalwart
and handsome young man, and well to do in
the world, as Mr. Brent's foreman and overseer
well might be.
Here he came, seeking Ruth, and here he
found her. Throwing himself upon the turf at
her feet, he looked out for a moment upon the
landscape, glorious in a sunset of unbroken
gold, and then he turned and looked yet more
admiringly into the beautiful face of the
young girl.
“Ruthie!”
“Well, Paul?”
“You promised me an answer to-night.”
“I know it, and I came out here to find it,
Paul, but I cannot.”
“Cannot tell whether you hate me who
have loved you all your life?”
“I know I do not hate you—but—”
“But you are not sure that you love me?”
“No, not sure in the way you mean.”
“Look at here, Ruth, I know what it all
means, even better than you do. You love
some one else better.”
“Some one else, Paul?” asked the young
girl, crimsoning all over her pale face.
“Yes, some one whom you have always admired
and looked up to, and believed in, so
that you cannot at this moment fairly tell
whether there is room for any one else in
your heart or not. And all the while, you
know that he does not care for you, or any
woman in the way of love and marriage, and
perhaps never will again. You know it, Ruth,
and yet you turn away from an honest love
that has always been faithful to you since
you were a poor little runaway child—”
“Paul, Paul!”
“Why, Ruthie, I don't think any the worse
of you for that, nor I don't mean to throw it
in your face; only that was what first drew me
close to you, and I always remember it when
I get to thinking of how much I love you.
And though you never have told, and I never
have known, the right of that matter, I never
have seen the minute yet when I doubted
that you were as innocent as I of any blame
whatever, from the first to the last of it.”
“Oh! I wish I knew, I wish I knew—”
murmured Ruth bitterly, as she hid her face
in her hands and bowed it upon her lap.
“Wish you knew what, Ruthie?” asked
Paul tenderly.
“Whether Mr. Brent would say as much
as that for me.”
“Oh!” And Paul withdrew the hand he
had tenderly laid upon that bowed head, and
sat looking moodily out upon the sunset.
A hasty step approached, and Brent's voice
was heard from the path below, calling:
“Ruth! Are you there?”
“Yes, sir.” And springing to her feet, the
girl hastily obeyed the summons, followed
more slowly by Paul.
They found Brent awaiting them, and looking
pale and anxious, as he had not looked in
years. He held a letter in his hand, and nervously
folded it while he spoke:
“Ruth, we are to have company, and you
must make preparation. Mr. Chappelleford
and his wife wish to visit the Northern Mine,
and will stay with us some days. They will
be here—perhaps to-morrow morning—perhaps
not till afternoon. You can arrange with
Matilda about accommodation, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” said Ruth in a stifled
voice, and, after a moment's hesitation,
she passed Brent, and rapidly descended the
path toward the house.
Brent, about to follow, was detained by
Paul: “May I speak to you a moment, sir?”
“What is it, Freeman?”
“I want to ask you a plain question, sir,
and I want a plain answer—not as from employer
to employé, but as from man to man.
Shall I have it?”
“You shall have it, Freeman.” And Mr.
Brent, thrusting the letter into his breast-pocket,
folded his arms, and leaning against the
boulder beside him, turned an attentive face toward
his companion. The last rays of the
setting sun lighted the scene, and threw into
bold relief the faces and forms of the two men,
each a type of his class, each striking in appearance,
each worthy of attention, perhaps
of admiration.
Brent represented the Saxon element, almost
unmingled with other blood. Tall,
deep-chested, broad-shouldered, stalwart in
every proportion, with a round and somewhat
massive head, well set back, a proud and dignified
bearing, a steadfast and perhaps immobile
expression of face, crisp curling hair and
beard of reddish brown, keen blue eyes, and
a mouth affectionate or stern, as occasion warranted.
So stood Marston Brent, and confronting
him, the slighter, more flexible, more elegant
form of his workman and rival, from whose
passionate, swarthy face, glowing dark eyes,
and stormy mien, the sunlight seemed to
glance off repelled, leaving the shadows deepened,
and the lights untouched. No man's
son was Paul Freeman, and from no distinct
race had he sprung, but yet he was a representative
man, for embodied in his sinewy
frame was the haughty, progressive, ambitious
spirit of the new world, the element of
conquest and of encroachment, the ardor to
pursue, the determination to possess, the will
to retain.
Such men as he to cross the ocean and discover
the new continent, and wrest its gold
and jewels from hapless savages; such men
as Brent to follow with their household goods,
and reclaim the wilderness, and endure the
hardships of the pioneer, forcing the savage
to the wall—not by sudden raids and ruthless
torture, but by steady, persistent, and unrelenting
effort, the sword in one hand, and the
law in the other, until the land lay at his
feet—not desolated, scattered, and affrighted,
but a happy, peaceful home for him and his,
with a church on every hill, and a school-house
at every corner. But Brent is saying:
“You shall have your answer, Freeman.
What is the question?”
“Just this: Do you want to marry Ruth?”
“I marry Ruth! The idea has never crossed
my mind.”
“That is not the answer you promised me,
sir. If you have not thought of it before,
will you be so kind as to think now? I can
wait.”
And Freeman walked away a few steps
and seated himself deliberately. Brent
looked at him with troubled eyes, which presently
wandered to the wide landscape beyond,
while a sombre and introspective expression
settled upon his face. At last he spoke.
“Paul, I cannot give you the answer you
ask, to-night. You must explain yourself
also to some extent. Why should you mention
my marrying Ruth?”
“Because, sir, if you don't mean to, it would
be no more than fair to others that you should
let her understand so.”
“To others? To you?”
“Well, yes; I love her, and I know my
own mind, as I have known it for years, about
wanting to marry her.”
“Why don't you do it then?” asked Brent
bluntly.
“Because, sir, if you must be told it plainly,
she loves another man, and that man is you.”
“Did she say so, Freeman?”
“Certainly not, sir—what girl would say
such a thing? But I know it, and have
known it for long. I know too, sir, that you
have always loved another woman, and
though she's married and out of your reach,
I don't know why that should make you want
my poor little Ruth. It seems hard enough,
Mr. Brent, that you should have for nothing,
and without even wanting it, what I would
give ten years of my life to gain, and can't.”
“Poor boy! His ewe-lamb,” muttered
Brent, casting a friendly and compassionate
glance upon his rival, who returned it with
one of almost defiance.
“If you do not want her, sir, it would be
easy enough to show it, and a kindness in
the end, even to her.”
“But if your supposition is correct, and she
loves me, Paul, she cannot love you at any
rate; and I think she is too much a woman to
marry one man, loving another.”
“Leave that to her and to me, sir, if you
please. Only say that you do not wish or
intend to marry her,” said Freeman, in so
hard and defiant a manner that Brent replied
coldly:
“This is hardly the tone for a discussion
between us two, Paul Freeman. Let the
question rest for a few days until I have time
to consider it, and I will answer you definitely.
subject.”
“And perhaps to Mrs. Chappelleford,” muttered
Freeman, turning away, and rapidly
ascending the hill.
The words reached Brent's ear, and with a
quick flush of anger mounting to his face, he
made a step in pursuit, but then restrained
himself, and turned in the opposite direction.
“He is smarting under a great disappointment,
and it may be overlooked,” muttered he,
striding down the path. “But if Ruth loves
me—it might be well to speak to her to-night
before—coward that I am, shall I need to
defend myself behind any other shield than
honor, from love of another man's wife? And
yet, Beatrice, Beatrice, you should not have
consented to try me thus!”
Entering the house, he was met by Zilpah,
whose duties in these days had become merely
nominal, but her privileges very positive.
“What's this, Mr. Marston? Ruth says,
Beatrice Wansted that was is coming to see
you. Is it so?”
“Yes, Zilpah. Her husband, Mr. Chappelleford,
is coming, and she accompanies him.
They are going to the West upon some scientific
errand.”
“What sort of an errand? But never
mind what name she puts to it. Marston
Brent, be warned in time, for the devil has
laid a trap for you. Go in there, and comfort
Ruth, who is crying her heart out for love of
you. Go!”
“You too!” muttered Brent, but instead of
entering the house, he turned away, and
plunged into the darkening forest.
| CHAPTER XLV.
TWICE WARNED. The shadow of Moloch mountain | |