University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

BY nine o'clock in the morning, Professor Meschines and Harvey Freeman had ridden up to the general's ranch, equipped for the expedition. The general's preparations were not yet quite completed. A couple of mules were being loaded with the necessary outfit. It was proposed to be out two days, camping in the open during the intervening night. It was necessary to take water as well as solid provisions. Leaving their horses in the care of a couple of stable-boys, Meschines and Freeman mounted the veranda, and were there greeted by General Trednoke.

“I'm afraid we'll have a hot ride of it,” he observed. “The atmosphere is rather

oppressive. Kamaiakan tells me there was a touch of earthquake last night.”

“I thought I noticed some disturbance,—” returned the professor, with a stealthy side-glance at Freeman,—“something in the nature of an explosion.”

“Earthquakes are common in this region, aren't they?” Freeman said.

“They have made it what it is, and may unmake it again,” replied the general. “The earthquake is the father of the desert, as the Indians say; and it may some day become the father of a more genial offspring. Veremos!”

“How are the young ladies?” inquired Freeman.

“Miriam has a little headache, I believe; and I thought Miss Parsloe was looking a trifle pale this morning. But you must see for yourself. Here they come.”

Grace, who was a little taller than Miriam, had thrown one arm round that young lady's waist, with a view, perhaps, to

forming a picture in which she should not be the secondary figure. In fact, they were both of them very pretty; but Freeman had become blind to any beauty but Miriam's. Moreover, he was resolved to have some private conversation with her during the few minutes that were available. A conversation with the professor, and some meditations of his own, had suggested to him a line of attack upon Grace.

“I'm afraid you were disturbed by the earthquake last night?” he said to her.

“An earthquake? Why should you think so?”

“You look as if you had passed a restless night. I saw Señor de Mendoza this morning. He seems to have had a restless time of it, too. But he is a romantic person, and probably, if an earthquake did not make him sleepless, something else might.” He looked at her a moment, and then added, with a smile, “But perhaps this is not news to you?”

“He didn't come—I didn't see him,”

returned Grace, wishing, ere the words had left her lips, that she had kept her mouth shut. Freeman continued to smile. How much did he know? She felt that it might be inexpedient to continue the conversation. Casting about for a pretext for retreat, her eyes fell upon Meschines.

“Oh, there's the dear professor! I must speak to him a moment,” she exclaimed, vivaciously; and she slipped her arm from Miriam's waist, and was off, leaving Freeman in possession of the field, and of the monopoly of Miriam's society.

“Miss Trednoke,” said he, gravely, “I have something to tell you, in order to clear myself from a possible misunderstanding. It may happen that I shall need your vindication with your father. Will you give it?”

“What vindication do you need, that I can give?” asked she, opening her dark eyes upon him questioningly.

“That's what I wish to explain. I am in a difficult position. Would you mind

stepping down into the garden? It won't take a minute.”

Curiosity, if not especially feminine, is at least human. Miriam descended the steps, Freeman beside her. They strolled down the path, amidst the flowers.

“You said, yesterday,” he began, “that I would say one thing and be another. Now I am going to tell you what I am. And afterwards I'll tell you why I tell it. In the first place, you know, I'm a civil engineer, and that includes, in my case, a good deal of knowledge about geology and things of that sort. I have sometimes been commissioned to make geological surveys for Eastern capitalists. Lately I've been canal-digging on the Isthmus; but the other day I got a notification from some men in Boston and New York to come out here on a secret mission.”

“Secret, Mr. Freeman?”

“Yes: you will understand directly. These men had heard enough about the desert valleys of this region to lead them to

think that it might be reclaimed and so be made very valuable. Such lands can be bought now for next to nothing; but, if the theories that control these capitalists are correct, they could afterwards be sold at a profit of thousands per cent. So it's indispensable that the object of my being here should remain unknown; otherwise, other persons might step in and anticipate the designs of this company.”

“If those are your orders, why do you speak to me?”

“There's a reason for doing it that outweighs the reasons against it. I trust you with the secret: yet I don't mean to bind you to secrecy. You will have a perfect right to tell it: the only result would be that I should be discredited with my employers; and there is nothing to warrant me in supposing that you would be deterred by that.”

“I don't ask to know your secret: I think you had better say no more.”

Freeman shook his head. “I must

speak,” said he. “I don't care what becomes of me, so long as I stand right in your opinion,—your father's and yours. I am here to find out whether this desert can be flooded,—irrigated,—whether it's possible, by any means, to bring water upon it. If my report is favorable, the company will purchase hundreds, or thousands, of square miles, and, incidentally, my own fortune will be made.”

“Why, that's the very thing—” She stopped.

“The very thing your father had thought of! Yes, so I imagined, though he has not told me so in so many words. So I'm in the position of surreptitiously taking away the prospective fortune of a man whom I respect and honor, and who treats me as a friend.”

Miriam walked on some steps in silence. “It is no fault of yours,” she said at last. “You owe us nothing. You must carry out your orders.”

“Yes; but what is to prevent your father

from thinking that I stole his idea and then used it against him?”

“You can tell him the truth: he could not complain; and why should you care if he did? I know that men separate business from—from other things.”

They had now come to the little enclosed space where the fountain basin was; and by tacit consent they seated themselves upon it. Miriam gave an exclamation of surprise. “The water is gone!” she said. “How strange!”

“Perhaps it has gone to meet us at our rendezvous in the desert.—No: if I tell your father, I should be unfaithful to my employers. But there's another alternative: I can resign my appointment, and let my place be taken by another.”

“And give up your chance of a fortune? You mustn't do that.”

“What is it to you what becomes of me?”

“I wish nothing but good to come to you,” said she, in a low voice.

“I have never wanted to have a fortune until now. And I must tell you the reason of that, too. A man without a fortune does very well by himself. He can knock about, and live from hand to mouth. But when he wants to live for somebody else,—even if he has only a very faint hope of getting the opportunity of doing it,—then he must have some settled means of livelihood to justify him. So I say I am in a difficult position. For if I give this up, I must go away; and if I go away, I must give up even the little hope I have.”

“Don't go away,” said Miriam, after a pause.

“Do you know what you are saying?” He hesitated a moment, looking at her as she looked down at the empty basin. “My hope was that you might love me; for I love you, to be my wife.”

The color slowly rose in Miriam's face: at length she hid it in her hands. “Oh, what is it?” she said, almost in a whisper. “I have known you only three days. But

it seems as if I must have known you before. There is something in me that is not like myself. But it is the deepest thing in me; and it loves you: yes, I love you!”

Her hands left her face, and there was a light in her eyes which made Freeman, in the midst of his rejoicing, feel humble and unworthy. He felt himself in contact with something pure and sacred. At the same moment, the recollection recurred to him of the figure he had seen the night before, with the features of Miriam. Was it she indeed? Was this she? To doubt the identity of the individual is to lose one's footing on the solid earth. For the first time it occurred to him that this doubt might affect Miriam herself. Was she obscurely conscious of two states of being in herself, and did she therefore fear to trust her own impulses? But, again, love is the master-passion; its fire fuses all things, and gives them unity. Would not this love that they confessed for each other burn away all that was abnormal and enigmatic, and leave

only the unerring human heart, that knows its own and takes it? These reflections passed through Freeman's mind in an instant of time. But he was no metaphysician, and he obeyed the sane and wholesome instinct which has ever been man's surest and safest guide through the mysteries and bewilderments of existence. He took the beautiful woman in his arms and kissed her.

“This is real and right, if anything is,” said he. “If there are ghosts about, you and I, at any rate, are flesh and blood, and where we belong. As to the irrigation scrape, there must be some way out of it: if not, no matter! You and I love each other, and the world begins from this moment!”

“My father must know to-morrow,” said Miriam.

“No doubt we shall all know more to-morrow than we do to-day,” returned her lover, not knowing how abundantly his prophecy would be fulfilled: he was over-

flowing with the fearless and enormous joy of a young man who has attained at one bound the summit of his desire. “There! they are calling for me. Good-by, my darling. Be yourself, and think of nothing but me.”

A short ride brought the little cavalcade to the borders of the desert. Here, by common consent, a halt was made, to draw breath, as it were, before taking the final plunge into the fiery furnace.

“Before we go farther,” said General Trednoke, approaching Freeman, as he was tightening his girths, “I must tell you what is the object of this expedition.”

“It is not necessary, general,” replied the young man, straightening himself and looking the other in the face; “for from this point our paths lie apart.”

“Why so?” demanded the general, in surprise.

“What's that?” exclaimed Meschines, coming up, and adjusting his spectacles.

“I'm not at liberty, at present, to explain,” Freeman answered. “All I can say is that I don't feel justified in assisting you in your affair, and I am not able to confide my own to you. I wish you to put the least uncharitable construction you can on my conduct. To-morrow, if we all live, I may say more; now, the most I can tell you is that I am not entirely a free agent. Meantime—Hasta luego.”

Against this unexpected resolve the general cordially protested and the professor scoffed and contended; but Freeman stayed firm. He had with him provisions enough to last him three days, and a supply of water; and in a small case he carried a compact assortment of instruments for scientific observation. “Take your departure in whatever direction you like,” said he, “and I will take mine at an angle of not less than fifteen degrees from it. If I am not back in three days, you may conclude something has happened.”

It was certainly very hot. Freeman had

been accustomed to torrid suns in the Isthmus; but this was a sun indefinitely multiplied by reflections from the dusty surface underfoot. Nor was it the fine, ethereal fire of the Sahara: the atmosphere was dead and heavy; for the rider was already far below the level of the Pacific, whose cool blue waves rolled and rippled many leagues to the westward, as, æons ago, they had rolled and rippled here. There was not a breath of air. Freeman could hear his heart beat, and the veins in his temples and wrists throbbed. The sweat rose on the surface of his body, but without cooling it. The pony which he bestrode, a bony and sinewy beast of the toughest description, trod onwards doggedly, but with little animation. Freeman had no desire to push him. Were the little animal to overdo itself, nothing in the future could be more certain than that his master would never see the Trednoke ranch again. It seemed unusually hot, even for that region.

There was little in the way of outward

incident to relieve the monotony of the journey. Now and then a short, thick rattlesnake, with horns on its ugly head, wriggled out of his path. Now and then his horse's hoof almost trod upon a hideous, flat lizard, also horned. Here and there the uncouth projections of a cactus pushed upwards out of the dust; some of these the mustang nibbled at, for the sake of their juice. Freeman wondered where the juice came from. The floor of the desert seemed for the most part level, though there was a gradual dip towards the east and northeast, and occasionally mounds and ridges of wind-swept dust, sometimes upwards of fifty feet in height, broke the uniformity. The soil was largely composed of powdered feldspar; but there were also tracts of gravel shingle, of yellow loam, and of alkaline dust. In some places there appeared a salt efflorescence, sprouting up in a sort of ghastly vegetation, as if death itself had acquired a sinister life. Elsewhere, the ground quaked and yielded underfoot, and it became necessary to make detours to avoid these arid bogs. Once or twice, too, Freeman turned aside lest he should trample upon some dry bones that protruded in his path,—bones that were their own monument, and told their own story of struggle, agony, exhaustion, and despair.

None of these things had any depressing effect on Freeman's spirit. His heart was singing with joy. To a mind logically disposed, there was nothing but trouble in sight, whether he succeeded or failed in his present mission. In the former case, he would find himself in a hostile position as regarded the man he most desired to conciliate; in the latter, he would remain the mere rolling stone that he was before, and love itself would forbid him to ask the woman he loved to share his uncertain existence. But Freeman was not logical: he was happy, and he could not help it. He had kissed Miriam, and she loved him.

His course lay a few degrees north of east. Far across the plain, dancing and

turning somersaults in the fantastic atmosphere, were the summits of a range of abrupt hills, the borders of a valley or ravine which he wished to explore. Gradually, as he rode, his shadow lengthened before him. It was his only companion; and yet he felt no sense of loneliness. Miriam was in his heart, and kept it fresh and bold. Even hunger and thirst he scarcely felt. Who can estimate the therapeutic and hygienic effects of love?

The mustang could not share his rider's source of content, but he may have been conscious, through animal instincts whereof we know nothing, of an uplifting and encouraging spirit. At all events, he kept up his steady lope without faltering or apparent effort, and seemed to require nothing more than the occasional wetting which Freeman administered to his nose. There would probably be some vegetation, and perhaps water, on the hills; and that prospect may likewise have helped him along.

Nevertheless, man and beast may well

have welcomed the hour when the craggy acclivities of that lonely range became so near that they seemed to loom above their heads. Freeman directed his steps towards the southern extremity, where a huge, pallid mass, of almost regular pyramidal form, reared itself aloft like a monument. He skirted the base of the pyramid, and there opened on his view a narrow, winding valley, scarcely half a mile in apparent breadth, and of a very wild and savage aspect. Its general direction was nearly north and south, and it declined downwards, as if seeking the interior of the earth. In fact, it looked not unlike those imaginative pictures of the road to the infernal regions described by the ancient poets. One could picture Pluto in his chariot, with Proserpine beside him, thundering downwards behind his black horses, on the way to those sombre and magnificent regions which are hollowed out beneath the surface of the planet.

Freeman, however, presently saw a sight which, if less spectacularly impressive, was

far more agreeable to his eyes. On a shelf or cup of the declivity was a little clump of vegetation, and in the midst of it welled up a thin stream of water. The mustang scrambled eagerly towards it, and, before Freeman had had time to throw himself out of the saddle, he had plunged his muzzle into the rivulet. He sucked it down with such satisfaction that it was evident the water was not salt. Freeman laid himself prone upon the brink, and followed his steed's example. The draught was cool and pure.

“I didn't know how much I wanted it!” said he to himself. “It must come from a good way down. If I could only bring the parent stream to the surface, my mission would be on a fair road to success.”

An examination of the spring revealed the fact that it could not have been long in existence. Indeed, there were no traces whatever of long continuance. The aperture in the rock through which it trickled bore the appearance of having been recently opened;

fragments were lying near it that seemed to have been just broken off. The bed of the little stream was entirely free from moss or weeds; and after proceeding a short distance it dwindled and disappeared, either sucked up in vapor by the torrid air, or absorbed into the dusty soil. Manifestly, it was a recent creation.

“And, to be sure, why not?” ejaculated Freeman. “There was an earthquake last night, which swallowed up the spring in the Trednokes' garden: probably that same earthquake brought this stream to light. It vanished there, to reappear here. Well, the loss is not important to them, but the gain is very important to me. It is as if Miriam had come with a cup of water to refresh her lover in the desert. God bless her! She has refreshed me indeed, soul and body!”

He removed the saddle from the mustang, and turned him loose to make the best of such scanty herbage as he could find. Then he unpacked his own provisions, and made a comfortable meal; after which he rolled a

cigarette and reclined on the spot most available, to rest and recuperate. The valley, or gorge, lay before him in the afternoon light. It was a strange and savage spectacle. Had it been torn asunder by some stupendous explosion, it could not have presented a rougher or more chaotic aspect. To look at it was like beholding the secret places of the earth. The rocky walls were of different colors, yellow, blue, and red, in many shades and gradations. They towered ruggedly upwards, sharply shadowed and brightly lighted, mounting in regular pinnacles, parting in black crevices; here and there vast masses hung poised on bases seemingly insufficient, ready to topple over on the unwary passer beneath. A short distance to the northward the ravine had a turn, and a projecting promontory hid its further extreme from sight. Freeman made up his mind to follow it up on foot, after the descending sun should have thrown a shadow over it. The indications, in his judgment, were not without promise that a system of judiciously-applied blastings might open up a source of water that would transform this dreadful barrenness into something quite different.

The shade of the great pyramid fell upon him as he lay, but the tumultuous wall opposite was brilliantly illuminated: the sky, over it, was of a peculiar brassy hue, but entirely cloudless. The radiations from the baked surface, ascending vertically, made the rocky bastion seem to quiver, as if it were a reflection cast on undulating water. The wreaths of tobacco-smoke that emanated from Freeman's mouth also ascended, until they touched the slant of sunlight overhead. As the young man's eyes followed these, something happened that caused him to utter an exclamation and raise himself on one arm.

All at once, in the vacant air diagonally above him, a sort of shadowy shimmer seemed to concentrate itself, which was rapidly resolved into color and form. It was much as if some unseen artist had swept a mass of mingled hues on a canvas and then had worked them with magical speed into a

picture. There appeared a breadth of rolling country, covered with verdure, and in the midst of it the white walls and long, shadowed veranda of an adobe house. Freeman saw the vines clambering over the eaves and roof, the vases of earthenware suspended between the pillars and overflowing with flowers, the long windows, the steps descending into the garden. Now a figure clad in white emerged from the door and advanced slowly to the end of the veranda. He recognized the gait and bearing: he could almost fancy he discerned the beloved features. She stood there for a moment, gazing, as it seemed, directly at him. She raised her hands, and pressed them to her lips, then threw them outwards, with a gesture eloquent of innocent and tender passion. Freeman's heart leaped: involuntarily he stretched out his arms, and murmured, “Miriam!” The next moment, a tall, dark figure, with white hair, wrapped in a blanket, came stalking behind her, and made a beckoning movement. Miriam did not turn, but her bearing changed; her hands fell to her sides; she seemed bewildered. Freeman sprang angrily to his feet: the picture became blurred; it flowed into streaks of vague color; it was gone. There were only the brassy sky, and the painted crags quivering in the heat.

“That was not a mirage: it was a miracle,” muttered the young man to himself. “Forty miles at least, and it seemed scarcely three hundred yards! What does it mean?”

The sun sank behind the hills, and a transparent shadow filled the gorge. Freeman, uneasy in mind, and unable to remain inactive, filled his canteen at the spring, and descended to the rugged trail at the bottom. Clambering over boulders, leaping across narrow chasms, letting himself down from ledges, his preoccupation soon left him, and physical exertion took the precedence. Half an hour's work brought him to the out-jutting promontory which had concealed the further reaches of the valley. These

now lay before him, merging imperceptibly into indistinctness.

“This atmosphere is unbearable,” said Freeman. “I must get a little higher up.” He turned to the right, and saw a natural archway, of no great height, formed in the rock. The arch itself was white; the super-incumbent stone was of a dull red hue. On the left flank of the arch were a series of inscribed characters, which might have been cut by a human hand, or might have been a mere natural freak. They looked like some rude system of hieroglyphics, and bore no meaning to Freeman's mind.

A sort of crypt or deep recess was hollowed out beneath the arch, the full extent of which Freeman was unable to discern. The floor of it descended in ridges, like a rough staircase. He stood for a few moments peering into the gloom, tempted by curiosity to advance, but restrained partly by the gathering darkness, and partly by the oppressiveness of the atmosphere, which produced a sensation of giddiness. Something

white gleamed on the threshold of the crypt. He picked it up. It was a human skull; but even as he lifted it it came apart in his hands and crumbled into fragments. Freeman's nerves were strong, but he shuddered slightly. The loneliness, the silence, the mystery, and the strange light-headedness that was coming over him combined to make him hesitate. “I'll come back to-morrow morning early,” he said to himself.

As if in answer, a deep, appalling roar broke forth apparently under his feet, and went rolling and reverberating up and down the cañon. It died away, but was immediately followed by another yet more loud, and the ground shook and swayed beneath his feet. A gigantic boulder, poised high up on the other side of the cañon, was unseated, and fell with a terrific crash. A hot wind swept sighing through the valley, and the air rapidly became dark. Again came the sigh, rising to a shriek, with roarings and thunderings that seemed to proceed both from the heavens and from the earth.

A dazzling flash of lightning split the air, bathing it for an instant in the brightness of day: in that instant Freeman saw the bolt strike the great white pyramid and splinter its crest into fragments, while the whole surface of the gorge heaved and undulated like a stormy sea. He had been staggering as best he might to a higher part of the ravine; but now he felt a stunning blow on his head: he fell, and knew no more{.??}