University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

In mid-May, near sunset, as John Cranston and Gorm
Smallin mounted the rocky apex of Chilhowee Mountain,
and turned a corner, so as to overlook Valley Beautiful,
a question occurred to the former of these two individuals,
which might far more appropriately have commenced
his journey than ended it.

“What the devil,” said Cranston, aloud, “have I
come here for?”

He drew rein and sat still on his horse, thoughtfully
gazing downward toward where Thalberg hung on the
slope like a fruit on a tree.

“Danged ef I know, bless your heart!” doggedly remarked
Gorm Smallin.

Cranston had early conceived a half disgust for his
travelling companion, which, in the irritability of a soul
not at ease with itself, had been more than once displayed
amid the frets of their journey. Up to this
time Mr. Smallin had been too much absorbed by the
constant fear of detection and the adoption of precautions
thereagainst, to notice this ill-concealed contempt
of his employer; but now, when he was out of the
long reach of the Confederate provost, when he was
upon his native heath, when he had his hundred dollars

in his pocket, and when he was in sight of his triumph,
the mountaineer deemed that the circumstances justified
him in asserting, at least to a prudent degree, the
rights of man.

“Raälly, now,” continued Gorm Smallin, “I cain't see,
come to think of it, what in the name o' sense you air
agwine back thar fur. Ef a man mought judge from
some powerful cur'ous tales that 's come to him, a man
would n't think you 'd be gwine back thar in a hurry.
Seems as if I recomember havin' hearn 'em tell how”
— Gorm Smallin sent a sidelong glance toward Cranston's
face, as a mariner might look into the sky, to find
out if the weather-signs would authorize him to proceed
farther; and apparently satisfied himself of clear weather
— “how a big fellar thar one night slapped you down
in the parlor right afore the women!”

Cranston's treacherous calm, like that of the great
deep, tempted the adventurous Smallin too far.

“An' how,” continued Gorm, “you left thar betwixt
two day-lights, and nervver cum back fur yer trunk,
even!”

In a thin, languid, prolonged voice Cranston said
only “Ah-h!” Then, quick as lightning, turned and
struck Smallin on the cheek such a blow as sent that
adventurous individual gyrating to the ground. Cranston's
face was of the livid hue that makes the sea-horizon
seem deadly, just before a storm. He leapt from
his horse, drew his pistol, ran to his prostrate tormentor,
and was in the act of firing right into his face, when,
as if an invisible hand had dealt him a blow on the
forehead, he threw back his head, fired his pistol in the
air, glanced undecidedly about him for a moment, then

sprang up the huge boulder that crowns the peak, and
sat down, leaning his back against it, looking westward
straight into the sun.

A dun-blue cloud, that seemed like a huge bruise on
the pearly cheek of the sky, hung over the distant end
of the line of peaks. From behind it, the sun shot
crimson streaks like veins up the sky; but presently
came down out of the cloud, making its edge an insupportable
crimson brilliancy, and like a red, flaming
heart, throbbed out infinite, pulsing floods of glittering
blood-light over world and heaven.

And then the cloud moved down on the sun as he
touched the far summits, and lay over him like an eyelid,
from under which the fierce Polyphemus-eye of the
sun glared back into Cranston's eye along the level
peak-line.

It was like the blood-shotten eye of a wild beast,
scowling vengeance after you have hurt him, as he
retreats to his jungle.

Suddenly, with a great bound, the red sun leapt into
the sea.

Cranston turned and looked into the eastern heaven,
and lo, Brown Dusk, winged o' one side with a sigh and
o' t'other with a smile, and whispering her secret to herself,
came trailing up and lit a star in the east.

And then she floated down and walked airily into the
valleys, like a kindly, smiling nurse, and whispered the
sparrow to sleep on his twig, and put to bed the wren
on her sedgy couch. And then she wandered by a
curving ravine up the mountain, and came and stood
about Cranston on the high rock.

Bad spirits are charming because they are daring. The

evil ones in Cranston's soul could not resist the temptation
to show that they were not afraid even in this
exquisite presence of the Dusk. They came out and
showed themselves to Cranston clearly, in his soul.
They hovered before his soul's eye, and flouted their
wickedness in his face. His impurities, his angers, his
weaknesses, his bitter passions, marched past him. It
was like a field-day down Below there, when the Devil
reviews his troops. Their martial music was monotonous.
It was the uttered word “Never.” From somewhere
this word uttered itself in Cranston, — “Never!”
It is impossible that any human soul should confront this
idea calmly. Cranston grew sick-hearted. A cascade
of “Nevers” kept falling, falling in the hearing of his
soul, whose monotony did not lull him but only sated
him. Never — what? Let no man imagine it was the
“conviction of sin” which tortured him. He loved
Felix Sterling; he knew she was pure and high; he
knew he was not. He knew that Felix was queen of
herself. He had not been king of his self. Could he
be king of her?

Never!

His infinite yearning was that his life might have
been so white, that he could have stripped the flesh off
his soul, and bared that to the sight of men and angels,
and sworn in their hearing, while he clasped Felix, “I
love her, and I am worth her, and by love! — the deepest
oath — she is mine forever!”

“Never, never!” rhymed the evil spirits.

“Ah, I could not endure now, even if she were mine,
to see her head here” — said Cranston to himself, and
smote his breast — “here, where other heads have lain,

and whence they have been pushed away, by wearied
hands. Good God, my soul 's all scarred and dented
and dulled, and her's is smooth and white as her cheek,
and glitters trenchantly as her eye when I played for
her! What for? why is it?

Cranston sprang upon his feet and tossed out his arms
in a wild questioning gesture over the precipice.

“Why,” said he, with upturned face, “you that made
the world and the men in it, whatever they call you, —
God, or Christ, or Jove, or what not, — why have you
made me so? Why did n't you make me strong and
unselfish and white-souled like her? Why did n't you
stretch out your finger and stop me from the acts which
have rendered me incapable of winning this woman, or
even of gaining any thing but the bitterness of self-accusation,
and the consciousness of a foul imposition of
me upon her too worthy — if I could win her? The
world condemned and despised the man who saw his
worst enemy sleeping and would not run to save him
from a serpent that had coiled round his neck. The
serpent was allowed to strike, and the man allowing won
universal obloquy. But you — you, God — you allow
every day your men and women to poison themselves
with poisons that seem to them sunshine-wine. You
stir not to prevent them, and you smile serenely with
your skies and your stars over the convulsions of your
children. Why did n't you keep me clean and pure
like her?”

“Why?” he continued, with a crazied iteration, audibly.

“Why?” shouted he, at the top of his voice, up to
the stars.

“Adzactly,” muttered Gorm Smallin to himself. In
view of all the circumstances, Mr. Smallin had concluded
to waive for the present the rights of man in
favor of the mights of man. Pursuing which policy
he had arisen, and taking the bridle of his horse in his
hand, had walked down the steep road descending the
mountain, and was now in a path branching to the right
from the road, some distance below the summit. Indistinctly
he heard the last wild shout of Cranston.
“Adzactly,” said he; “ye may call thar till ye rot, for
all the comin' back I'll do, to show ye the way. I did
think I 'd ride with ye clur to Tolberg, and then come
back to my cabin by myself; but I 'm derned if ye
ha'int saved me the trouble! I 'm glad enough to git
shet of ye any way.” With which consolation Mr.
Smallin pursued his journey in silence and deep meditation.
Through the May woods came upon him, rustling,
sweet home-influences, as he neared the spot where,
some months before the conscription bore him off, he
had cleared some ground, built his cabin, and installed
his young wife mistress. Here, and then, he had felt
his breast expand with that strange responsibility-idea
which crowns us kings when we are young, but bends
us into slaves when we are old. He pictured the opening
door of the cabin when he should knock presently.
Sary, God bless the gal! would rush into his arms.
The clasp, the strain, the thrill, — all these came to him.
They would sit, and give and take the news. With
lordly air he would deposit on the brackets over the
head of his bed the magnificent silver-mounted rifle
which Cranston in a generous burst had given him.
Lord of the place, — this idea made Gorm Smallin

straighten up involuntarily, — `King of it, — aye, tittering
ladies and gentlemen, — a mere Hesse Darmstadt
of a kingdom, yet nevertheless a veritable kingdom,
and I, Gorm Smallin, king of it; a mere log-cabin, yet I
house!

Thinking in his ruder dialect some such thoughts,
Gorm Smallin emerged into the small cleared space
that surrounded his cabin.

Emerged, — and stood suddenly still as a gravestone.
No cabin was there. He walked waveringly forward.
A black patch on the ground revealed the spot where
his house had stood. He wandered slowly across this
black blur on the earth. The melancholy crunch of his
feet upon the cinders overcame him. His limbs trembled,
he sat falteringly down upon the charred remains
of his kingdom, and a tear started from each eye.

The Devil, who has tact in these matters, embraced
this weak moment. “What ho, there, Old Revenge, —
old Trusty,” — said the Devil, in endearing terms, to
his grand vizier. “Here 's a heart, with gates unbarred.
Enter and possess it in my name!”

It must be confessed, his Satanic Majesty has also
administrative talent, and inspires his servants with enthusiasm.
The heart was entered and formally possessed.
O lithe Temptation, thou swift tropical tiger of
most rare exquisite spots, thou art never more dangerous
than when thou hast just retired before a human
eye into thy jungle, as if the eye-glance had conquered
thee; for then, when the man hath twice gratulated
himself, and whilst he is stooping to pluck one of thy
jungle-flowers to crown his victory withal, then thou
leapest!

Gorm Smallin on this May night had even reproached
himself for his vengeful feelings against John Sterling,
and abandoned them. To-morrow, other cares and old
John's kind face would have dissipated them forever.
But listen: —

“I heered,” presently he muttered to himself, — “I
heered as the Yanks had been burnin' the houses of
them that went off to the Confed'ate army. An' whose
fault was it I went? John Sterling's! An' he 's got
sons in the Confed'ate army, an' his house is a-standin'
yit, for I seed it from the rock back yan; why did n't
they burn hit? Becase he 's rich, an' I 'm poor.”

Gorm Smallin rose deliberately to his feet, while it
seemed to him as if liquid steel were slowly diffusing
itself through his veins.

“Hit 's been a rich man's war an' a poor man's fight
long enough. A eye fur a eye, an' a tooth fur a tooth,
an' I say a house fur a house, an' a bullet fur a bullet!
John Sterlin' 's got my house burnt, I 'll get his'n burnt.
John Sterlin' 's made me resk bullets, I 'll make him
resk 'em! An' ef I don't may God-a-mighty forgit me
forever and ever, amen!”

Gorm Smallin entered the woods with his face toward
Thalberg, walking slowly at first, as if he meditated,
and gradually increasing his pace, as his plans
grew definite, until his strides were more like long leaps
than steps.

On the top of his rock lay John Cranston like a
chained Prometheus. It was right that vultures should
feed on Cranston's heart, as they were now feeding.
He had stolen the fire of heaven, to kindle his kitchen-fires

with. He had stolen a woman's love, — that lambent,
lurid, hot-sweet fire of heaven, — and applied it
to mere fleshy purposes. Now, when again he urged
his daring head up through the sky to steal once more,
in spite of the holier uses he designed for it the flame
rebelled, and shot its fire-barbed arrows, and scorched
and blinded and repelled him. Here was he, a sitter
upon lonely rocks, and a prey to that most terrible vulture,
himself.

The top of Chilhowee is a long, narrow plateau, level,
except where the huge rock rises upon which Cranston
sat. Along this plateau, at right-angles to the road
crossing the mountain, runs an old, blind, grassy path,
surrounded by rocks on either side strewn in all fanciful
circles and angles. This path winds about the rock
and gives into the main road suddenly.

In the deep twilight Cranston heard hoofs of horses
coming along this path toward his rock, and presently
began to distinguish the voices of two women in conversation.
They quickly ceased, and the women rode
on in silence until just under the rock. Felix said, —

“What are you thinking of, Liebchen?”

“I was just thinking,” replied Ottilie, “that if we
were in a city, amongst men, riding alone at this hour,
we should be frightened to death; whereas here
amongst rocks and wild beasts, we stray in the night
with the most charming fearlessness. Strange, is n't
it,” she continued, meditating half-aloud, “that men
should be more dangerous to men than all the tigers
and storms?”

“So,” cried Felix, “and women are as dangerous to
women. Look! With your German enthusiasm, and

your dear, dainty-hearted German Heine, that you read
to me at the spring yonder, you 've made me leave my
veil and my brooch there. Sit on your horse here, dear,
till I gallop back and get it. 'T won't take me ten minutes.”

“Indeed, I 'd rather go with you,” said Ottilie, half
turning her horse.

“No, you sha'n't. You look pale and tired enough
now. Here! see; I 've tied your horse! Walk up this
winding path to the top of the rock, and see how Valley
Beautiful looks by night. Obey me, my darling
Ottilie!” said Felix, and kissed her, and galloped away.

Ottilie dismounted, and walked up the rocky steps.

Cranston stood erect behind an abruptly rising ledge
of the rock, with folded arms.

It was quite light up there. The white rock reflected
the thousand star-rays that fell upon it; and a faint
halo, which was more a memory of the sun than a light,
yet diffused a mild and mysterious half-twilight around
the mountain-top.

As Ottilie stepped upon a broad, flat plateau, Cranston
advanced a pace to meet her. Oh conventionality!
He was in the act of extending his hand and saying,
“How are you?” when her white face, in which he could
almost see the sweet blue veins that in these days began
to glimmer through the delicate skin, smote upon
him like a sheet of white lightning. In an uncontrollable
agony he threw himself on his face and grovelled
at her feet.

Presently he heard her dress rustling, and the long
train trailing softly over the rock. He raised his head.
Ottilie was standing on the very verge of the ledge,

where the sheer precipice sank straight down many
hundred feet, with arms stretched far upward and hands
clasped.

Fearful that a noise would startle her into destruction,
Cranston crawled like a snake close to where she stood,
and grasped the long train of her thick riding-dress.

“O God!” she said, in a voice ineffably soft, “I
thank thee that this pain in my heart, which so long
hath been dull as ashes and yet burnt like fire, which
so long hath been leaden and yet cut sharp like steel,
which so long hath refused even to throb in its monotonous
ache, — O God, I thank thee for even a small variation
of it which makes it sharper and hotter and
livelier for one moment.”

“O God,” she said in a pathetic inquiring tone that
went jagged into Cranston's heart, — “O God, hath not
sorrow its dandy-moments, hath not sorrow its time
when it would prank itself for a show to others? hath
not sorrow its whim and its caprice? doth not sorrow,
like a maiden, forever regard her image in the clear
pool and take her maidenly pretty attitudes; and wilt
Thou deny sorrow this little comfort ere it drown itself
in the pool of Thine eternity? and have I not yearned
that this man whom thou seest grovelling now on the
rock should be here when I cast myself from this place,
and hast thou not brought him here for this, kind
God?”

“O God,” she said, “have I not failed of life, and
art Thou not done with me here, and can I do any good
thing save maybe to die in this man's sight, and so perhaps
strike a new regret into his soul which may save
some other from my wretchedness?”

“And yet,” she said, with still softer voice, “perhaps
I wrong him, — I erred too; I will not go, with a wrong
for my last act; I forgive him, and I throw him this kiss
of forgiveness,” and she drew down one hand, kissed it,
and waved it back to where Cranston lay.

“Thou star, there,” suddenly she cried, “in one
second I will be waving my wing in thy sweet fire!”
and threw her hands apart, and sprang.

But Cranston had clasped her about the waist, and in
an instant had borne her back, down the irregular declivity.
She had closed her eyes in a momentary faintness,
but opened them quickly; and, lying in his arms
taunted him, —

“Coward, cruel, cruel coward! how dared you place
your false arm around me again? How” —

“Pity, pity, pity,” said Cranston hoarsely, and a great
shiver went through his frame.

“Who asks me for pity?” She raised herself up and
stood. “You? you? O, —you?”

“She is coming. For God's sake collect your strength.
Can you sit your horse?” said Cranston, and lifted
Ottilie into the saddle; “I cannot meet her, now!”
He ran back behind an angle of the rock.

For one moment the woman's jealousy rose in Ottilie's
heart. She looked at his retreating form with a
scornful expression, but quickly the tight lip trembled
in a bitter smile. “O Heaven!” she said, “a jest, an
infinite jest: I jealous! I!”

“How the little night - breeze groans sometimes
through these pines!” said Felix as she cantered up.
“I could have sworn I heard a man talking!”

“Yes, yes. Did you find the brooch?”

“Oh yes. Let 's go home; and get a good rating
from father for staying so late! But he 'll kiss us
twice when it 's over, and bless us, and put his hand
on our heads; and that 's worth a little scolding. Is n't
it, you dear white flower-petal?” and Felix leaned over
and kissed the cold lips of her friend as they rode off
down towards Thalberg.

Cranston emerged from his hiding-place and followed
them, afar off.

A few yards from the edge of his clearing, Gorm
Smallin stumbled and fell over a small long hillock.
It was a grave, with a plain head-board. The mountaineer
never travels without his tin match-box. He
made a light, and read on the board: —

“S. S.”

“Sary Smallin!” he said to himself. “Wife dead,
too?”

He strode on, with unutterable thoughts straining his
soul. Presently Thalberg rose grimly before him. The
house was dark on that side. The negroes were gone
with the Yankees. “They won't bother me,” he said to
himself, as he thought of it. He walked round the
house. One room was lighted, on the other side. He
had but time to jump behind a tree as John Sterling
passed into the house.

“Hear the girls coming down the road, wife!” said
the cheery voice. “Let 's get 'em some supper ready.
They 'll eat like young hyenas!”

Gorm Smallin went back to the dark side. A low
window was open. He pulled off his shoes and climbed
into it. It was the same by which Cranston had left
Thalberg. Disgrace left it; Revenge entered it.

Revenge is ingenious. Gorm Smallin dug a hole in
the plastering with his knife, and cut through a half-dozen
laths. In the space between the laths and the
inner wall he deposited a charge of powder, upon
which he carefully rested the corners of two or three
book-leaves which he tore out of Phil Sterling's Carlyle
on the table. Upon the other corners of these
leaves he deposited a pile of paper, and splinters of
laths split off with his knife. He then lit one end of a
twig of rotten-wood and placed it in the opening, the
other end resting on the powder. Deftly and quietly
he locked the door on the inside, and dropped from
the window. No danger of any body's seeing the fire
from outside, — he said to himself, and grinned. He
stole round to the very edge of a lane of light that
shot straight out from the window of the music-room,
among the black tree-trunks. He selected a tree, and
stood behind it: then pointed his gun so that the riflesight
was in the glare and his eye in the shade.
“Mought blind me,” he muttered: “shines the bead
splendid, though. They 'll likely set thar, a'ter the
women's had supper. Hit 'll do!” He took down his
rifle, folded his arms upon the muzzle of it, and stood
still as a statue.

Two hours Gorm Smallin stood. His hope began to
fail him when John Sterling entered the music-room,
Ottilie, Felix, and wife following.

“Well, girls,” said he, “if it is n't too soon after supper,
let 's have some music.”

John Sterling paced about, noiselessly, while they
sang.

Gorm Smallin's eyes must needs play unceasingly in

all directions. He saw a tall form cross the lane of
light from the other window. It placed itself against a
tree, and fixed eyes upon Ottilie, and stood, statue-like.
It was the poor Indian, Chilhowee, worshipping as he
worshipped nightly. Presently another dusky figure appeared
on the other side of the light-bar, and took stand,
and gazed upon Felix from among the trees. Gorm
made it out to be John Cranston; whereat his soul
shouted with a hellish exultation.

“They 'll all see Gorm Smallin's revenge!” he said
to himself. Nature, probably upon the same principle
that her sharks can't bite without turning over and
giving time, has ordained that the revengeful man, if
deliberate, must always make a little speech, at least
to himself, before he commits the fatal act. Gorm
Smallin began to gloat, and menace, and taunt, and
chuckle, and prematurely triumph.

John Sterling sat between the girls, and his wife
just behind him, with head lovingly over his shoulder.
Alternately his tender hand stroked hair and cheek of
all three.

“Wife and daughters,” he said, “I feel, somehow, as
if the world would end to-night; but I 've often felt so
before, when the music roused me.”

“And so we need n't pack our trunks?” interposed
Felix, with a roguish twinkle of the eyes.

“No. But listen,” continued John with a tender solemnity
— “Listen. God, help us all. Wife and children,
life is Force. Now, Force effects motion and
resistance. Time and space are measures of resistance,
and motion varies inversely to them, so that,

resistance being abolished, Force becomes infinite and
time and space nothing. Now, after death they say
time and space are abolished; but as our Force does
not become infinite, therefore resistance continues.
What shall take the place of time and space as its
measures? Your young minds may dream of it.

“Motion is change; science is the observation of the
changes or motions of mind and matter. Art effects
changes or motions of mind and matter. All men
can see, and all men can effect, and therefore all men
are savans and all men are artists. The good savant sees
correctly what is low and what is high, and the good
artist effects higher results from lower ones. There will
come times in your life when you will find this generalization
not wholly unhelpful to you.

“Now passing by the million million savans and
artists that by day and by night through the world are
seeing and doing, I wish to speak to you of some particular
artists.

“Seven motions of matter belong to the painter, and
seven motions of matter belong to the musician: these
be the seven colors of the spectrum and the seven
tones of the scale. And as the prism analyzes light into
seven colors, and the string analyzes sound into seven
tones, so life analyzes time into seven days of the week.

“Whereby hangeth a fancy, which being but a fancy,
yet will not hurt you to dream upon it. For inasmuch
as there be living motes that hover in the seven colors
or float in the seven tones; so may we be living motes
that hover and float through the seven days, and these
seven days may be to some higher folk in the universe
but seven colors, and to other higher folk but seven

tones. Aye, this present life may be but a wavering
ray, seven-colored, thrown from above. Runs not the
spectrum from red up to violet, which is to say, advances
not life from red Hades up to violet Heaven?

“And this present life may be but a seven-toned
sound, struck from above. Runs not the scale from
Do to Si, — from a groan to a joy-cry?

“So, exeunt fancies, all! Enter facts!

“The facts are: there be five channels through
which the artist receives lower effects, and through
which he returns forth higher ones. These be taste,
touch, smell, sight, and hearing. Now, by common
consent of all men, it is agreed that taste, touch, and
smell, poor devils, shall be forever engaged principally
as scullions and waiters for humanity, since eating,
feeling, and smelling are considered as the (so to
speak) mere domestic necessities of the flesh, and their
pleasures rank as high only as table-pleasures, and vary
according to condiments, sauces, and the quick-waning
activity of the said scullions and waiters.

“But sight and hearing, as they are highest by physical
measurement, are also highest by spiritual rank.
For while, one moment, the eye and the ear with their
less happy brethren, perform the offices of scullions and
waiters, yet the next moment they may be performing
the offices of genii and angels. For these have power
beyond the flesh and the earth, over the spirit of man.

“As, for instance; in a morning, our ear will bring to
us the sound of the breakfast gong, and our eye will
cunningly superintend our steps and show us the way to
the breakfast-room. Base scullions and waiters, so far,
but remarkably useful! Wait, though. We sit at breakfast-table

and read the paper. Eye informs us there
will be a concert to-night, and Liszt will play some of
Chopin's best music. Bravo, Eye! thou art advancing
from thy scullionship and art already a private secretary!
And bravo, again; for thou art lending a helping
hand to thy poor brother Ear, and arranging fine
things for him!

“Wait, though.

“Night comes; we go to the concert-room. Liszt
plays; we writhe under the music like the old priestess
under the divine afflatus, so that our souls prophesy
good things; and we shout in glory that the man there
with his piano and his wondrous fingers has made conquest
over the grim kingdom of the unutterable, — has
spoken the otherwise unspeakable; and as we leave
the concert-room, brave Sight flashes up to the skies
and lets down the star-beams, upon which, as upon a
swaying golden ladder, our souls mount up to the
very hem of the garment of God, we hearing, as we
pass, the infinite music of the worlds singing while
they spin the thread of time. And so, bravissimo, O
Eye and Ear! This morning ye were but scullions and
waiters; to-night ye have become fair heavenly friends,
by whose airy guidance we wander through the morning
glades, by the clear rivers, and across the mysterious
wonder-chasms of the super-sensuous Unknown Land!

“This morning ye conducted us to breakfast; to-night
ye have wafted us to heaven!

“And so, dear wife and daughters, eye and ear are
ever willing, either as swineherd or as Apollo, to serve
and befriend the kings that paint and sing.

“But it would seem that there will be some difference

of dignity between these two. For surely, the Art of
to-day is music! I cannot now talk of photographs,
which are in omnium manibus. But the art of painting
has not struck its infinite roots into the domestic
every-daynesses of life, as the art of music has. There
are not many homes in the land where one finds a
painter's palette or a camera; but where is the cottage
or hovel in which one will not find either a piano, a
guitar, a flute, a violin, a banjo, a jew's-harp, a whistling
faculty, or a singing faculty? To go to the lowest form
at once, do but look at the ten-year-old negro balancing
his bucket on his head as he carries it home from spring
or pump! Oh never, never would he `tote' it safely,
an he did not whistle all the time! He balanceth his
burden safely, as the circus man his iron balls — to
music. Every man might better balance his burden
wherewith he is laden, if he kept time to music! Is
any here that hath no burden, of water-buckets or of
sins? If any, — forever let him hold his peace, nor
whistle nor sing!”

At this moment a breeze came through the tree-tops,
and swelled, and died away; making noise as if the
maidenly bosom of the night heaved and panted with
some fright of a dream, till the maid woke, and sighed
for satisfaction that it was only a dream-fright, and
rustled her night-drapery and composed herself to
sleep again.

At this moment Cranston in the dark was devouring
with his eyes sweet bending Felix in the light. “My
queen, my queen!” he said, and yielded himself to the
ecstasy of love and the luxury of gazing.

And Gorm Smallin even, after all, was growing softer-hearted

each moment, and at the same time nerving
himself, with curses and taunts and broodings upon
ashes and death, to shoot.

And the Indian, gazing upon Ottilie with folded arms,
had now no soul, but only a mist instead, which was
interfused in all its folds with an intense undeveloped
lightning of pure worship.

And the air was full with floating May-balm of buds
and young leaves and mountain-flowers, and every
moment ten thousand May-germs thrilled into life, and
emitted each an odorous sigh in salute to cool bulbous
brethren and grave trees and leafy neighbors.

“And this, dear wife and daughters,” continued John
Sterling, “brings me to the practical application of my
little sermon. Remember now all I have said; especially
that the artist's business is to effect higher
motions from lower ones. Now, Adam the first man,
and Christ the second man, did grieve and grieve. It
is to record this that the Bible comes to us. This is
the one Fact of humanity. My dearies, let us shoot
right up behind the lark, on the brightest morning, and
see what we shall see! The hills and mountains first
flatten and then vanish, in the common level of the
plain; and, exactly so, those moral hills, — political
distinctions, social inequalities, moral superiorities,
ethnical disparities, — all vanish in the common level
of humanity.

“As we go up, first die out the songs of birds and
the murmur of brooks; then the roar of seas, the howl
of great winds, the grind of polar ice-fields, the stound
of earthquakes and volcanoes, faint away into silence;
and, exactly so, the din of battles, the iron clangor of

labor, the hum of commerce, the turmoil of life, all
mingle, and we hear them not.

“Let us now leave our lark, whose wings refuse
already to bear him in this thin air to which we are
arrived, and let us ascend to where the atmosphere is
rare enough — rare enough — well, rare enough, my
girls, for the lungs of spirits to inhale.

“Here let us pause and look down.

“Upon the glimmering plain of human life we discern
one huge pyramid which overglooms the whole
desert.

“Up from this desert floats to our ears one single
sound.

“This pyramid is a fact: it is suffering; and the
sound is a moan!

“Brave Eye and Ear, therefore, withdrawing themselves
to a convenient hearing and seeing point, inform
us of suffering, of suffering, of suffering, alone.

“Now suffering being the result they bring to us, it
is our duty, as good artists, to return forth a higher
result, through eye and ear.

“How?

“Leaving aside Eye, for I have not time to talk of
him, specially,— the great part of this suffering which
comes to us is no better than mere physical suffering,
mere sensual pain of appetites and disappointments,
mere regret for a bad conscience whose principal disturbance
is that it keeps us from sleeping well o' nights,
mere dyspepticities and humors. All these base metals,
music, a magic stone, transmutes into pure gold; into
the strange sorrow you spoke of once, Felix. Know
ye not the pain of music? It is composed of all other

pains, fused and purified into a great, pure, unanalyzable
yearning after God. This is what music does.

“Details?

“Well: to make a home out of a household (for
instance), given the raw materials, to wit, wife, children,
a friend or two, and a house — two other things
are necessary. These are, a good fire, and good music.
And inasmuch as we can do without the fire for half the
year, I may say music is the one essential. After the
evening spent round the piano, or the flute, or the
violin, how warm and how chastened is the kiss with
which the family all say good night! Ah, the music
has taken all the day-cares and thrown them into its
terrible alembic, and boiled them and racked them and
cooled them, till they are crystallized into one care,
which is a most sweet and rare desirable sorrow — the
yearning for God. We all, from little toddler to father,
go to bed with so much of heaven in our hearts, at
least, as that we long for it unutterably, and believe it.

“My daughters, ye are both beautiful, and men will
love you, and likely some strong hearts will halve a life
with you. I wish you to show that the artist-life is not
necessarily a Bohemian life, but that it may coincide
with and be the home-life.

“And when ye play to your strong hearts, whether it
be daytime music of wheels, needles, and household
work, or night-music of pianos and voices, play well;
that the listening folk beyond us may detect your note
in the grand tone of the day, and may recognize it as a
full, clear, round tone, well and featly and strongly
struck from life, or from piano, or from voice.

“Amen!” said John Sterling; and fell instantly dead

upon his wife's shoulder, who fell instantly dead upon
his shoulder, both slowly sinking to the floor. For
Gorm Smallin's bullet had passed through Sterling's
right eye full into the forehead of his wife, which she
had just laid lovingly against his temple. Terrified at
his own act, Gorm's mind became almost a blank.
There was but one definite idea in it — to keep still.

Cranston and the Indian, hearing the shot and seeing
the deaths, emerged into the light-lanes from the windows
and simultaneously became aware of each other.

“O scoundrel, was it you?” hissed Cranston, and
drew his pistol and fired at the Indian. Poor Chilhowee,
believing in his turn that Cranston had committed
the bloody deed, was in the act of raising his
rifle as he received Cranston's ball in his shoulder. He
dropped the gun, but continued running to the house,
and he and Cranston rushed up the low steps and in at
the open balcony window of the music-room together.

As Cranston, with the Indian just behind, dashed
into the room, he stopped a moment to collect his
thoughts. Felix had thrown herself upon the two
corpses and was alternately pressing the yet-warm lips
of her loved ones convulsively to her own. She raised
her head a moment, and as she saw the haggard countenance
and yet smoking pistol of Cranston, exclaimed,
“O murderer! O my darlings!” and fell back upon
the corpses, mute, with wild kisses.

Ottilie, involuntarily shrinking from the wild-eyed
face which so suddenly appeared, had knelt near the
bodies. She was praying, in a deep, husky voice.
“Liebe Gott, liebe Gott,” said she, “why dost thou
not burn with lightning this fiend who ruins and murders,

and then insults with his presence the living form
of the ruined and the dead forms of the murdered?”

These words conveyed their meaning slowly to Cranston's
mind. It was not till he had stooped by the
bodies and placed his hand on the hearts and ascertained
that no throb was in them, that the still-ringing
words of the women flashed upon him the natural mistake
into which they had fallen.

“I left here in disgrace,” thought he rapidly; “they
have not heard from me since; I reappear, at night,
with pistol in hand,” — he dropped it in horror, —
“just after the shot. Ha!” he said aloud in his bitterness,
“just as I am on the verge of repentance, the
merciful God bans me from my love with this hideous
mistake, which every circumstance seems to justify,
and which I cannot possibly disprove!” He staggered
to a chair, and sat, and clinched his burning forehead
in both hands. His reason began to strain and crack;
brilliant sparkles commenced to shoot before his
closed eyes, — sparkles known to the delirious. But
the necessity for action warned him to dismiss the
thoughts that were driving him towards madness.

A similar reflection had already brought Ottilie to
her senses. She was half-aimlessly smoothing the dress
and straightening the arms of the dead, when Cranston
rose from his chair.

“Lend a hand,” said the latter to Chilhowee. “It is
done. Let 's carry them where they can be cared for
as the dead should be.”

Up the broad stairs the bodies were borne, Ottilie
leading the way and Felix following, mute, with stony
eyes, blank-faced, broken-hearted, pathetic in her grief

that had grown too scornfully great for demonstration.

Honest Gretchen, busy as any bee all day, had slept
through it all, peacefully. Just as the bodies were
being deposited in the apartment of John Sterling, loud
screams were heard from the other side the passage,
and, a moment afterwards, Gretchen came running in,
heedless of night-dress.

“Thalberg is a-fire!” she said, wringing her hands.
“Thalberg is on fire!”

“Great God, is the whole house doomed? Show me
where! Can it be put out?” exclaimed Cranston, dragging
Gretchen back in the direction from which she
came. A heavy volume of smoke was issuing from the
open door of her room; a tongue of flame occasionally
licked up through the smoke, and quickly the whole
house roared with the angry murmur of the long-smothered
fire.

“Down, all!” cried Cranston, darting back to the
death-room. “Can you carry one body, Chilhowee?”

“Up with it then; follow!” With many a stagger
and lurch, they got the dead out, and laid them upon
the turf.

“Where is Felix?” Not doubting but she would follow,
all had hastily descended.

But she had not seemed to hear the commotion.
Seated, with hands patiently folded, she was gazing into
vacancy, when Cranston returned to look for her.

“Come, Felix!”

She remained still as a statue.

There was no time to lose. The pine staircase was
already blazing with frightful violence.

Cranston clasped the unheeding woman, and rushed,
half-blinded with smoke, down the flaming stairway.
His face was full of a fierce joy. He smiled, tossed
back his long black hair, looked upward as he leapt
along, and strained unconscious Felix to his bosom.
One time, he thought, if never again!

On the way down, he passed Chilhowee, going up.
Practical Gretchen! Just as Cranston had started
back for Felix, Gretchen called Chilhowee.

“You know Ottilie's room?”

Did he not know it? It was his church. He had
spent nights gazing at it.

“Yes!”

“Her jewels! She left them to-night on the bureau.
Get them!”

The faithful Indian ran on his mission. As Cranston
deposited Felix in Ottilie's arms, they saw him coming.
As he neared the group, he staggered. Loss of blood
from Cranston's bullet-hole had weakened him. He
barely mustered strength to advance and hand the
jewel-box to Gretchen, when he reeled and fell.
Presently he opened his eyes, and fixed them upon
Ottilie, and lay still. Long ago her woman's heart
had divined his secret. She laid her hand upon his,
and pressed it, in reverence for his long devotion. He
smiled; and, ere long, death made rigid the smiling lips
and glazed the smiling eyes. “Thou faithful heart!”
murmured Ottilie, and leaned over and kissed the dark
forehead.

Burning Thalberg did not long linger. A neighbor
or two — neighbors were scarce in the Beautiful Valley
— had arrived; but each stood in stupid bewilderment

as he gazed at the dead on the ground and the fire leaping
aloft.

The unsparing flames worked their will; and the
mansion was gone.

So, upon the smoke of their home, floated up to
heaven the souls of John Sterling and his wife.

So, in the ashes of this home, fell and was lost
utterly, the Hope of John Cranston.