XXXV
SUNSET
"I do not wish to seem selfish, Oliver, but sit a little nearer thewindow where I can see you whenever I open my eyes. Twelve years is along time to make up, and I have such a little while in which to do it."
Oliver moved. The moisture sprang to his eyes as he did so. He hadcaught a glimpse of the face on the pillow and the changes made in aweek were very apparent. Always erect, his father had towered above themthen even in his self-abasement, but he looked now as though twentyyears, instead of a few days, had passed over his stately head and bowedhis incomparable figure. And not that alone. His expression wasdifferent. Had Oliver not seen him in his old likeness for that oneterrible half-hour, he would not know these features, so sunken, yet soeloquent with the peace of one for whom all struggle is over, and thehaven of his long rest near.
The heart, which had held unflinchingly to its task through every stressof self-torture, succumbed under the relief of confession, and as hehimself had said, there was but little time left him to fill his eyesand heart with the sight of this strong man who had replaced his boyOliver.
He had hungered so for his presence even in those days of finalshrinking and dismay. And now, the doubts, the dread, the inexpressiblehumiliation are all in the past and there remains only this,--to feasthis eyes where his heart has so long feasted, and to thank God for theblessedness of a speedy going, which has taken the sword from the handof Justice and saved Oliver the anguished sight of a father's publichumiliation.
Had he been able at this moment to look beyond the fences which his fearhad reared, he would have seen at either gate a silent figure guardingthe walk, and recalled, perhaps, the horror of other days when at thecontemplation of such a prospect, his spirit recoiled upon itself inunimaginable horror and revolt. And yet, who knows! Life's passions fadewhen the heart is at peace. And Archibald Ostrander's heart was atpeace. Why, his next words will show.
"Oliver"--his voice was low but very distinct, "never have a secret;never hide within your bosom a thought you fear the world to know. Ifyou've done wrong--if you have disobeyed the law either of God orman--seek not to hide what can never be hidden so long as God reigns ormen make laws. I have suffered, as few men have suffered and kept theirreason intact. Now that my wickedness is known, the whole page of mylife defaced, content has come again. I am no longer a deceiver, my veryworst is known."
"Oliver?"--This some minutes later. "Are we alone?"
"Quite alone, father. Mrs. Scoville is busy and Reuther--Reuther is inthe room above. I can hear her light step overhead."
The judge was silent. He was gazing wistfully at the wall where hung theportrait of his young wife. He was no longer in his own room, but in thecheery front parlour. This Deborah had insisted upon. There was,therefore, nothing to distract him from the contemplation I havementioned.
"There are things I want to say to you. Not many; you already know mystory. But I do not know yours, and I cannot die till I do. What tookyou into the ravine that evening, Oliver, and why, having picked up thestick, did you fling it from you and fly back to the highway? For thereason I ascribed to Scoville? Tell me, that no cloud may remain betweenus. Let me know your heart as well as you now know mine."
The reply brought the blood back into his fading cheek.
"Father, I have already explained all this to Mr. Andrews, and now Iwill explain it to you. I never liked Mr. Etheridge as well as you did,and I brooded incessantly in those days over the influence which heseemed to exert over you in regard to my future career. But I neverdreamed of doing him a harm, and never supposed that I could so much asattempt any argument with him on my own behalf till that very night ofinfernal complications and coincidences. The cause of this change was asfollows: I had gone up stairs, you remember, leaving you alone with himas I knew you desired. How I came to be in the room above I don'tremember, but I was there and leaning out of the window directly overthe porch when you and Mr. Etheridge came out and stood in some finaldebate on the steps below. He was talking and you were listening, andnever shall I forget the effect his words and tones had upon me. I hadsupposed him devoted to you, and here he was addressing you tartly andin an ungracious manner which bespoke a man very different from the oneI had been taught to look upon as superior. The awe of years yieldedbefore this display, and finding him just human like the rest of us, thecourage which I had always lacked in approaching him took instantpossession of me, and I determined with a boy's unreasoning impulse tosubject him to a personal appeal not to add his influence to thedistaste you at present felt for the career upon which I had set myheart. Nothing could have been more foolish and nothing more natural,perhaps, than the act which followed. I ran down into the ravine withthe wild intention, so strangely duplicated in yourself a few minuteslater, of meeting and pleading my cause with him at the bridge, butunlike you, I took the middle of the ravine for my road and not thesecluded path at the side. It was this which determined our fate,father, for here I ran up against the chestnut tree, saw the stick and,catching it up without further thought than of the facility it offeredfor whittling, started with it down the ravine. Scoville was not insight. The moment was the one when he had quit looking for Reuther andwandered away up the ravine. I have thought since that perhaps theglimpse he had got of his little one peering from the scene of his crimemay have stirred even his guilty conscience and sent him off on thispurposeless ramble; but, however this was, I did not see him or anybodyelse as I took my way leisurely down towards the bridge, whittling atthe stick and thinking of what I should say to Mr. Etheridge when I methim. And now for Fate's final and most fatal touch! Nothing which cameinto my mind struck me quite favourably. The encounter which seemed sucha very simple matter when I first contemplated it, began to assume quitea different aspect as the moment for it approached. By the time I hadcome abreast of the Hollow, I was tired of the whole business, andhearing his whistle and knowing by it that he was very near, I plungedup the slope to avoid him, and hurried straight away into town. That ismy story, father. If I heard your steps approaching as I plunged acrossthe path into which I had thrown the stick in my anger at having brokenthe point of my knife-blade upon it, I thought nothing of them then.Afterwards I believed them to be Scoville's, which may account to youfor my silence about this whole matter both before and during the trial.I was afraid of the witness-stand and of what might be elicited from meif I once got into the hands of the lawyers. My abominable reticence inregard to his former crime would be brought up against me, and I was yettoo young, too shy and uninformed to face such an ordeal of my ownvolition. Unhappily, I was not forced into it, and--But we will not talkof that, father."
"Son,"--a long silence had intervened,--"there is one thing more.When--how--did you first learn my real reason for sending you from home?I saw that my position was understood by you when our eyes first met inthis room. But twelve years had passed since you left this house inignorance of all but my unnatural attitude towards you. When, Oliver,when?"
"That I cannot answer, father; it was just a conviction which dawnedgradually upon me. Now, it seems as if I had known it always; but thatisn't so. A boy doesn't reason; and it took reasoning for me to--toaccept--"
"Yes, I understand. And that was your secret! Oh, Oliver, I shall neverask for your forgiveness. I am not worthy it. I only ask that you willnot let pride or any other evil passion stand in the way of thehappiness I see in the future for you. I cannot take from you the shameof my crime and long deception, but spare me this final sorrow! There isnothing to part you from Reuther now. Alike unhappy in your parentage,you can start on equal terms, and love will do the rest. Say that youwill marry her, Oliver, and let me see her smile before I die."
"Marry her? Oh, father, will such an angel marry me?"
"No, but such a woman might."
Oliver came near, and stooped over his father's bed.
"Father, if love and attention to my profession can make a success ofthe life you prize, they shall have their opportunity."
The father smiled. If it fell to others to remember him as he appearedin his mysterious prime, to Oliver it was given to recall him as helooked then with the light on his face and the last tear he was ever toshed glittering in his fading eye.
"God is good," came from the bed; then the solemnity of death settledover the room.
The soft footfalls overhead ceased. The long hush had brought the twowomen to the door where they stood sobbing. Oliver was on his kneesbeside the bed, his head buried in his arms. On the face so near himthere rested a ray from the westering sun; but the glitter was gone fromthe eye and the unrest from the heart. No more weary vigils in a roomdedicated to remorse and self-punishment. No more weary circling of thehouse in the dark lane whose fences barred out the hurrying figurewithin from every eye but that of Heaven. Peace for him; and for Reutherand Oliver, hope!
THE END
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