The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Man: His Mark, by W. C. Morrow This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: A Man: His Mark A Romance, Second Edition Author: W. C. Morrow Illustrator: Elenore Plaisted Abbott Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51954] Last Updated: November 16, 2016 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MAN: HIS MARK *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive A MAN: HIS MARK Second Edition A Romance By W. C. Morrow Author of “Bohemian Paris of To-Day,” “The Ape, The Idiot, and Other People,” etc. With a Frontispiece by Elenore Plaisted Abbott Philadelphia and London J. B. Lippincott Company 1899 0006 O 0007 CONTENTS A MAN: HIS MARK CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN A MAN: HIS MARK CHAPTER ONE ne forenoon, in the winter of the great storms that swept the Pacific States, Adrian Wilder, a tall, slender, dark young man, stood in front of his stone hut on a shoulder of Mt. Shasta and watched the assembling of the elemental furies to do their savage work in the mountains. By all the signs that he had learned he knew that mighty havoc was to be done; but he did not foresee, nor did the oldest residents of that wilderness, that this was the beginning of the most memorable winter of terrors known to the white man’s history of the region. A strong sense of security and comfort filled him as, turning from the gathering tumult about him, he studied the resistance of his hut. He, with Dr. Malbone’s help, had built it from foundation to roof, using the almost perfectly shaped blocks from the talus of the lofty perpendicular basalt cliff at whose base he had built his nest that summer. With nice discrimination he had selected the stones from the great heap that stretched far down from one end of the shelf upon which he had built; with mud he had fitted the stones to form floor, walls, arched roof, and chimney. With boards and a window-sash borne by him up the mountain from the road in the canon he had fashioned a window and doors. By the same means—for the shelf was inaccessible to a wagon—he had brought furniture, books, provisions, and fuel. The hut was strong and comfortable. Should snow fall to a great depth, he could easily shovel it down the steep slope of the canon. Should an avalanche come,—that made him wince. Still, he had made calculations on that account. By arching the roof of his hut he had given it great strength. Better than that, should an avalanche plunge over the edge of the cliff it must first gather great speed and momentum. Stretching back mountainward from the top of the cliff was a considerable space nearly level; an avalanche descending from the higher reaches of the vast mountain would likely stop on this level ground; but should it be so great and swift as to pass over, its momentum would likely carry it safely over his hut, as the water of a swiftly running stream, plunging over a ledge, leaves a dry space between itself and the wall. But why think of the avalanche, with its crushing, burying snow, and, far worse, its formidable bowlders that could annihilate any structure made by men? It were better to think of the comfort and security of the hut, and listen to the pleasant music of the little stream at the base of the cliff. Better still was it to view the coming onslaught of the elements; to note the marvellous coherency of the plan by which their destruction was to be wrought; to observe how the splendid forces at play worked in intelligent harmony to shape a malevolent design. To a man of Wilder’s fine sensibilities, every fury unleashed in the gathering tumult seemed to be possessed of superhuman malignancy of purpose and capability of execution. The furious wind that came driving down the canon lying far below him was the breath of the approaching multitude of storm-demons. The giant trees on the slopes of the canon seemed to brace themselves against the impending assault. Behind the wind, filling all the sky with a gray blanket that darkened away to the source of the wind, was the silent, stealthy snow-cloud, waiting to follow up and bury the havoc of the wind, and finish the destruction that the wind would begin. From contemplation of this splendid spectacle the young man’s thoughts turned to the dangers with which the storm threatened the mountain folk, most of whom were engaged in the lumber traffic. Would any of these be cut off from their homes? The rising rage of the wind indicated the closing of all the roads with fallen trees: would that bring serious hardships to any? In the summer, now past, the environs and flanks of Mt. Shasta had sparkled with the life and gayety of hundreds of seekers for health and pleasure,—the wealthy thronging a few fashionable resorts, the poorer constrained to a closer touch with nature and the spirit of the vast white mountain; but they now were gone, and the splendid wilderness was left to the savage elements of winter. Had any delayed their leaving and were at that moment in the drag-net of the storm? Above all, there was Wilder’s one close friend in the mountains, Dr. Malbone, who, like Wilder, had left the turmoil of city life to bury himself in these wild fastnesses. They had known each other in San Francisco years before. For five years the scattered people of the mountains had employed the services of this skilful physician, and had come to trust and honor him in the touching way that simple natures trust and honor a commanding soul. It was Dr. Malbone who had so wisely assisted in the building of the stone cabin at the foot of the cliff. It was he who had explained the principle of the arch to the younger man, and had shown him how to bend and place the supports of the growing arch until the keystones were fitted in. It was he who had explained the mysteries and uses of ties and buttresses. What would Dr. Malbone do in the storm? What risks would he run, to what hardships be exposed, in visiting his patients? Only a few miles separated these two friends, but with such a storm as was hastening forward these few might as well be thousands. Far up the canon Wilder heard the first fierce impact of the storm, for the heavy crash of a falling tree sounded above the roaring of the wind. By walking cautiously out to the extremity of a point that projected from the shelf upon which his cabin stood, he had been accustomed to see the snowy domes of Mt. Shasta. He knew that the storm sweeping down the canon was but a feeble echo of the mightier tumult on the great father of the north. In the hope that he might see something of this greater battle, he now made his way to the extremity of the point, the wind making his footing insecure; but only broad slaty clouds were visible in that direction, transmitting the deep rumblings of the hurricane that raged about Mt. Shasta’s higher slopes. It was while standing on the extremity of the point that the young man, turning his glance to the deep canon beneath him, beheld a thing that filled him with alarm. At the bottom of the canon, the Sacramento River, here a turbulent mountain stream, and now a roaring torrent from the earlier rains of the season, fumed and foamed as it raced with the wind down the canon, hurrying on its way to its placid reaches in the plains of California. The crooked road cut into the hither slope above the high-water level of the river was not the main highway running north and south through the mountains; it served the needs of a small local traffic only. Wilder felt both surprise and apprehension to observe a light wagon driven at a furious pace down the road, flying before the storm. The incident would have been serious enough had the wagon, the two horses, and the man and woman in the wagon belonged to the mountains. The horses were of fine blood, and were unused and unsuited to the alarming situation in which they now found themselves; the wagon was too elegant and fragile for the mountains in winter; and even at the distance that separated its occupants from Wilder, he could see that they were filled with a terror such as the mountaineers never know. The man was driving. Instead of proceeding with caution and keeping the horses perfectly in hand, he was lashing them with the whip. A man used to the mountains would never have been guilty of that folly. It was clear that they were heading down the canon for the main road, still some miles away, by following which a little further they would arrive at a station on the railway. Pieces of luggage in the rear end of the wagon indicated that the travellers must have been spending the summer or autumn in the remoter mountains, where some beautiful lakes offered special charms to lovers of nature. Obviously their departure had been delayed until the approach of the present storm drove them hurriedly away, to be overtaken here in the canon. The roaring of the wind, the surge of the torrential river, and, worst of all, the trees that were now crashing down, might have bewildered the steadiest head not trained to the winter savagery of the wilderness. A single tree across the road ahead might have F meant disaster. Except for the little stone hut of Adrian Wilder, placed purposely to secure as great isolation as possible, and invisible from the road, there was no shelter within miles of the spot. Presently the catastrophe came. The man, evidently seeing just ahead a tree that was swinging to its fall, shouted to the horses, and laid on the whip with added vigor, aiming to pass before the tree should fall. The horses, wholly beside themselves with terror, reared, and then plunged forward; but a moment had been lost. The horses and wagon passed under the falling tree just in time to be crushed and buried under it. The thunder of the fall echoed above the roar of the wind and the crash of more distant falling trees. Nothing of the four living things that had passed under the trap remained to Wilder’s view; they had been as completely blotted out as though they had never filled a place in the great aching world. CHAPTER TWO OR a moment the young man gazed in a stupid hope that the impossible would happen,—that horses, wagon, man, and woman would emerge and continue their mad flight down the canon. Then, so completely and suddenly had all this life and activity Ceased, he wondered if the old anguish that had driven him to the solitude of the mountains was now tricking an abnormal imagination and weaving phantasms out of the storm, to torture him a moment with breathless dread, and then suppress themselves in the seeming of a tragic death. He remembered the warnings of Dr. Malbone,—he must close his mind upon the past, must find in the present only the light with which the world is filled, and must aim for a sane and useful future. All this consumed but a moment. At once there burst upon him the awful reality of the tragedy that had worked itself out so logically before him. Humanity cried aloud within him. He sprang toward his hut, procured an axe, and plunged down the slope of the talus, taking no heed of the crude but surer trail that he had made from the road to his hut. He slipped, fell, gathered himself up, fell again, but rapidly neared his goal. He paused when he had reached the prostrate tree. Through the branches his peering revealed a crushed, still heap. He pushed his head and shoulders within and called. There was no response. He was at the rear of the wagon, and soon saw that it had been crushed into an indeterminate mass of wood and iron. By pushing apart the more yielding branches he brought to view the up-turned face of the man, whose eyes, fixed in death, stared horribly from a head curiously and grotesquely unshaped by the crush of the branches. The young man drew back. He gasped for breath; he called upon his self-command to bear him up in this strenuous time. He attacked the branches with his axe and cleared them away. He half wondered that the eyes of the dead remained open while they filled with particles of the bark riven by the axe. Presently the body came within reach. With unspeakable repulsion the young man placed his hand upon the stranger’s chest. There was no sign of life. Indeed, he wondered that he had taken any trouble to ascertain what he already knew. All this time the young man’s dread and terror, heightened by a sense of utter loneliness in the presence of the dead, had driven the woman from his mind. He had not yet seen the slightest trace of her. Did he have the strength to behold a woman mangled as he had found the man... Still, they should have decent interment; that was his duty as a man. And further, it was necessary that their identity be ascertained, in order that their friends might be informed. There was something else. Far back in the mountains, that wilder wilderness of the Trinity range, and in the Siskiyou range, beyond them, there were huge gray wolves, fierce and formidable. Now and then a daring hunter had come out of those mountains with the skin of a great gray wolf. There were old stories in the mountains that when the snow had been deep and of prolonged duration, the gray wolves came down to the tamer reaches inhabited by men, driven thither by hunger, for the game upon which they subsisted had fled before the snow to find herbage. The first to come out had been deer; soon after them had come the wolves. As the deer fell before the rifles of the settlers, the wolves had been driven to depredations on cattle and horses. There were ugly tales, too, of men attacked by them. Out of all this had grown the legend of a she-wolf that bore away children to her wolf-pack. After the wind now raging in the mountains would come the snow, silent, deep, and implacable, to hide the work of the fallen tree below the hut; but would it hide everything so well that the great gray wolves, if driven by hunger from the remoter mountains, would fail to find what hunger required them to seek? Wilder again attacked the tree with his axe,—another one lay dead there, and she must be found; and there was heavy and horrifying work ahead before the wind should cease and the snow begin to fall. At first the young man resumed his attack with the furious energy that had hitherto sustained his effort; but wisdom and caution came now to his aid. He realized his feebleness of mind, spirit, and body. He had devoted weeks of arduous work to the construction of his hut, and that had lent a certain strength to his muscles and buoyancy to his soul. Still, he was hardly more than a shadow of his old self, before his life had been wrecked a year ago, and he had come into the mountains to make a sturdy fight for self-mastery, for the regeneration of whatever shreds of manhood were left within him, and for their patching and binding into a fabric that should take its place in the ranks of men and work out a man’s destiny. He went about his task with greater deliberation. He forced himself to regard with calmness the distorted dead face upturned toward him. He worked with that slowness which makes greater haste in achievement. This brought a surer judgment and an economy of effort and time. He cut the branches one by one and dragged them away. Soon the woman’s form appeared. In the extreme moment of the catastrophe she had evidently sprung forward; this had brought D her body, face downward, between the horses; they, in being crushed under the trunk of the tree, fallen across them, had nevertheless given her a certain protection; the trunk, in breaking the backs of the horses, had missed her head. As for the rest, she was so closely wedged between the horses that it would be difficult to extricate her. This, however, was finally accomplished after great labor. The woman’s face and clothing were blood-stained. So much worse did she look than the man, that Wilder had a new struggle with himself to command courage and strength for the task. He dragged her out to a clear place in the road, and made the same perfunctory examination as in the case of the man. While he was doing so the woman moved and gasped, and this unexpected indication of life was the greatest shock of the tragedy. But it was one of those shocks which bring new life and strength. Whereas, before he had been facing, without daring to contemplate, the awful duty that he owed the dead, here now was the most precious thing that the world then could have offered him, —here was Life, human life, fleeting, perhaps, but infinitely precious. Wilder knelt beside the unconscious woman and with eager hands loosened her clothing. He ran to the river, dipped his handkerchief in the water, bathed her face, and removed some of the blood that covered it. He chafed her hands and wrists, anxiously watching for the slightest change. This came rapidly and progressed steadily. Removed from the crushing pressure of the horses, her chest found its natural expansion, and the rhythm of deep, slow breathing was established. Wilder had learned numerous elementary things from Dr. Malbone; he saw that, although the sufferer was so grievously hurt as to be unconscious, life was yet strong within her. Time, then, was the precious element here. The sufferer must be taken at once to the hut, and Dr. Malbone summoned. As for the dead man, there was no present danger on his account, and the living demanded first attention. A formidable task now confronted the young man. First, he had to bear the unconscious woman up the steep trail to the hut; then he should have to go many miles afoot to summon Dr. Malbone. The young man thought nothing of the difficulties, but all of the doing. He was about to assail the task of getting the woman upon his shoulder, when it occurred to him that her injuries might possibly be aggravated by his manner of carrying her. He thereupon made a hasty examination. The head was bleeding. The face bore no visible injuries. The bones of the arms were whole. The left leg, however, was broken above the knee. What the particular cause of the sufferer’s unconsciousness was he could only guess. Perhaps it was merely a condition of temporary congestion, produced by the fearful pressure to which she had been subjected between the horses. A bleeding at the ears and nose seemed to the young man a bad sign. Her condition having been thus approximately ascertained, the next problem was to bear her to the hut in a way that should do the least harm to her injuries. The first necessary thing to be done, therefore, was to prevent any mobility in the region of the fracture. To this end he burrowed again into the débris and brought forth some boards that had served as the bottom of the wagon. Tearing strips from the woman’s clothing, he bound the boards to her in a way to protect her from harm in moving her. The strain upon his attentiveness sharpened and strengthened him in every way. He formed the whole plan of his bearing her to the hut, making her temporarily comfortable, summoning Dr. Malbone, and attending to the details of nursing her back to health. To lift her gently upon a bowlder; to bend forward and adjust her upon his back with infinite care; to proceed with her up the laborious ascent,—all this was skilfully and expeditiously done. Serious difficulties began soon to embarrass him. He discovered that she was above the average height and weight of women, heavier than he, although he was the taller. He found that the numerous abrupt steps in the trail laid a heavy tax upon his strength, and that some steep places proved slippery under the burden that he bore. In addition, the muscles of his arms strained and cramped; and long before he had reached the shelf upon which his hut was perched he fell to his knees a number of times from exhaustion. But the end came at last when he staggered into his hut, dragged a cover from his bed to the floor, and gently laid his burden upon it. CHAPTER THREE URING all this time the fury of the storm had not abated in the least. That, indeed, had been one of the worst obstacles with which he had contended in mounting the steep to his hut. Immediately upon laying his charge on the floor he had begun to prepare his bed for the guest, but weakness from exhaustion overcame him. He reeled; a red blindness assailed him; and, in spite of a fierce effort to maintain command of his strength and faculties, he found himself plunging headlong upon his bed. A moan recalled him to consciousness, and it was not until later that he realized the distressing length of time that he had lain unconscious. He remembered that when he fell he was very warm from the exertion of ascending the slope, and that when he awoke he was excessively cold. Furthermore, twilight had come. Dismayed over the loss of time, he proceeded at once to make his charge comfortable. He prepared his bed for her and placed her upon it. She was still unconscious, but he saw that she was rallying. He suddenly realized that it was now impossible for him to summon Dr. Mal-bone, for the fury of the storm had been steadily increasing, and the crash of falling trees still sounded above the roaring of the wind. It would be worse than foolhardy for him to brave the storm and the darkness. At any moment she might recover consciousness and find herself alone and suffering in this strange place; and a whole night and day would hardly have been sufficient for him to fetch the surgeon, had that been a physical possibility. So the young man realized that he alone, with no training in the surgeon’s and physician’s art, must take this woman’s life in his hands, and for a long time to come be her physician and nurse, cook and housekeeper, mother and confidant, father and protector. That realization was sufficiently cruel and taxing, but the ordeal that now confronted him was the most trying of all. He had not yet given any attention to the appearance of his charge, further than to ascertain to what extent she was hurt. When he now lighted a candle and held it to her face, he saw that she was a young and handsome woman. He noted the high-bred patrician face through the grime, the abundant dark-brown hair, the black brows but slightly arched and nearly meeting between the eyes, the fine nose, the habitual, half-hidden curve of scorn at the corners of her mouth, and the firm, strong, elegantly moulded chin. It was evident that the man and the woman were father and daughter, for the resemblance between the distorted dead face and the grimy living one was strong; the manifest difference in ages finished the conclusion. Was she fatally hurt? What if she should die? What effect would the knowledge of her father’s death have upon her? How long would she remain helpless on the couch, held by her injuries; and how long, after her possible recovery, would she be held a prisoner by the impassable condition of the roads? Would she be cheerful and brave through it all? She was growing more and more restless; wise haste was now the crowning necessity. First of all, she must have suitable clothing, and it must be provided before he made his bungling efforts to set her broken bone. How could he hope to perform this difficult surgical feat with no more knowledge of its requirements than he had secured while serving a few times as Dr. Malbone’s untrained assistant in the mountains, and with the most inadequate understanding of the use of such splints, bandages, needles, and ligatures as Dr. Malbone had given him for his use upon himself in case of an emergency, and with an imperfect knowledge of the narcotics, stimulants, febrifuges, and other medicines with which Dr. Malbone had provided him? The sufferer had youth and superb health; but how could he feel the smallest assurance that, in the event he should secure a knitting of the fracture, crookedness and deformity from improper adjustment would not result? But there was nothing to do but try, and to bring every intelligent force of his nature to the task. He hoped that she would not regain consciousness before he should make another trip to the scene of the tragedy and secure her luggage. The twilight was deepening. He threw logs on the smouldering fire in the chimney-place and started to leave. He paused a moment at the door to watch his patient. She was again stirring and moaning. “A sedative would be safer,” he reflected. And then, when he had poured it with great difficulty down her throat, he wondered if he had given her too much, and if it would have a bad effect in depressing her vitality and working against her rallying. He waited until she had become still and quiet, and then hastened down to the road. The storm had been gradually changing in character. He had expected the snow to wait until the wind had fallen, but a hurricane was still blowing, and snow was coming down in long gray slants. Already it had begun to whiten and fill crevices into which the wind was driving it. It would have been better had he brought a lantern, but there was no time for that; and the wind doubtless would have made its use impossible. At the wreck he found his axe and cleared away more branches. Only a very faint suggestion of the dead white face peering up at him came through the twilight; and there was work to be done in that quarter to-morrow, however much snow might be lodged and packed in the branches. Soon he found two large and heavy travelling bags, one larger than the other; this, he reasoned, must be the woman’s; his strength to carry both to the hut was inadequate now, and he needed all possible steadiness of nerve for the task ahead. A laborious climb brought him back to the hut with the bag and his axe. By the light of a candle he anxiously read the name on a silver tag attached to the handle of the bag. It was,—“Laura Andros, San Francisco.” It was with awe and reverence that he opened the bag and in a gingerly fashion drew forth its contents and carefully laid them aside. He had already noted in a vague way that his guest was a woman of wealth and elegance, and he now observed that, although the articles he disclosed were intended in large part for vigorous mountain use, an unmistakable stamp of daintiness and refinement was upon them all. Having now found garments in which he could make her comfortable after his surgical work was done, he proceeded with the stupendous task that awaited him. He wondered how much precious time he had lost, if any, through sheer dread of his duty. But whatever the delay, and whatever its causes, it had been useful in preparing him for the ordeal. Up to this moment an unaccountable and distressing trembling of all his members at frequent intervals had alarmed him, but strength and steadiness came with his nearer approach to the task. Commanding his soul to meet the need of the hour, he went sturdily about his work. He knew how desperately painful were operations for the setting of fractured bones, and how great was the skill required for the administering of an anæsthetic. He had never known even a skilled surgeon to undertake alone what he must now do without either skill or assistance. It would not be sufficient should he do his best: his best must be perfectly done. He produced his store of splints, bandages, stimulants, and anaesthetics, and arranged them conveniently to hand, as he had seen Dr. Malbone do. He examined his patient’s pulse; it was too quick and weak to give him high confidence. He made a good fire, for the night was cold; and he called heavily upon his store of candles to furnish as much light as possible. His bed, upon which she lay, was a most crude and inadequate affair. It was of his own construction, and had been intended to serve its part in the life of severe austerity that he had made for himself in the mountains. It was made of rough boards nailed to wooden posts. To serve for mattress, fragrant pine-needles filled it. Upon this were spread sheets and blankets. The pillow also was made of pine-needles. Thus, without springs, the bed was hard and unfit for a daintily reared woman; more so because of the illness that she would suffer and the great length of time that she would be confined to the bed; but it was the best he had. As the hut was very small and had but one room, this bed had been fitted snugly into a corner. Wilder moved it out, that he might be able to work freely on both sides of it. This cramped the hut all the more. The examination that he had made in the road was for the purpose of discovering broken bones. There he had found the bone of the left thigh broken at some undetermined point between the knee and the hip. But broken bones are not all the hurts that one may receive in such an accident,—cuts and contusions might prove equally dangerous if overlooked. With exquisite care he prepared her for the work that he must do. As she was fully dressed, this required patience from his unskilled M hands. Finally, this part of the task, inexpressibly hard for a man of his delicacy of feeling, was accomplished. What anguish he suffered on his own account and in foreseeing her confusion and possible resentment upon realizing that he, an utter stranger, and not a physician, had done all this for her, it were idle to set forth here. To his great relief he found that the bone of the left thigh was, so far as he could judge, the only one that had suffered fracture; but a careful inspection revealed several bruises; and at last, in searching for the source of the blood that had covered her face when he drew her from the débris, he found a cut in her crown. His first work must be there. Covering her comfortably, he washed the blood from her hair and face, and, bearing in mind the pride that she must have cherished for her glorious hair, he quickly shaved as small a space on her crown as possible. He first tried adhesive plaster to bring the edges of the cut together; but the water and his handling of the wound started the hemorrhage afresh, and this compelled him to close the wound with ligatures. He was pleased to observe that the hemorrhage was stopped. This made him so well satisfied and so confident that the greater magnitude of the remaining work appalled him less. Indeed, that had begun to exercise a scientific fascination that abnormally sharpened his wits and steadied his nerves. It was this task that he now attacked. All this time the sufferer had lain unconscious. This was a blessing, unless the state had been induced by causes worse than consciousness of the pain from setting the bone. There was time hereafter to consider all that. The one present duty was to proceed with the operation without another moment’s delay, for inflammation had already set in. While, with infinite care, he was fitting, as best he could, the ends of the broken bone, he was startled out of all self-command by a scream of agony from her, half-strangled, and therefore made all the more terrifying, by the bandage under her chin; and she was sitting up, staring at him. Every one of the young man’s faculties was temporarily paralyzed. A benumbing coldness was upon him. With a mighty effort he gathered himself up, but his breathing was difficult, and sweat streamed down his face. He firmly laid her back upon the pillow, and said,— “Be quiet; you shall not be hurt again.” She was singularly docile, although he could see by the wildness of her eyes and a fluttering in her throat that something was raging within her. With one hand he gently pressed her eyelids down, and with the other he wetted a handkerchief from a bottle of chloroform and held it just clear of her mouth and nostrils. For a moment she rebelled against the stifling vapor and tried to drag his hand away; but, finding him determined, she yielded, and soon was stupefied. The work must be rapid now. There was no time to wonder if she had comprehended anything or seen in him a stranger. No interruption could come from her now; that was the vital thing; but the anaesthetic would soon lose its force. He resumed his work, taking great care, in matching the injured member with the sound one, to avoid crippling her for life. He then adjusted the splints, keeping the member straight. Finally, he secured it against bending at the knee by adjusting a board on the under side of the leg throughout its entire length. He finished his work by binding the upper part of her body to the bed-frame, to prevent her rising. Then, extinguishing his candles, making her as comfortable as possible on the hard bed, and putting more wood on the fire, he sat down to watch. Everything seemed to be going well. By this time the night was far advanced. The wind was still blowing a terrific gale. An aching, irresistible weariness stole over the watcher. He drew his chair close to the bed and anxiously observed his charge. He examined her pulse; it was rising; her skin was hot and dry. She had passed from under the influence of the anaesthetic, and was now sleeping restlessly. He waited in dread for her awaking, for the unexpected situation in which the young man found himself was complex and difficult. It was essential that his patient should be as tranquil as possible. Knowledge of her father’s death might prove disastrous. Hence she must be deceived, and yet deception was unspeakably repugnant to the young man’s nature. But now it was a duty, which above all things must be done. She must be buoyed with hope. All her fortitude would be needed to bear the miserable conditions of her imprisonment. Meantime, the young man would post notices along the road, calling for help from the first persons passing. CHAPTER FOUR UCH thinking and planning had to be done, for the unexpected situation in which the young man found himself was complex and difficult. It was essential that his patient should be as tranquil as possible. Knowledge of her father’s death might prove disastrous. Hence she must be deceived, and yet deception was unspeakably repugnant to the young man’s nature. But now it was a duty, which above all things must be done. She must be buoyed with hope. All her fortitude would be needed to bear the miserable conditions of her imprisonment. Meantime, the young man would post notices along the road, calling for help from the first persons passing. Already the road was wholly impassable, and it would grow worse. None of the friends or relatives of the dead man and his daughter could have been informed of their leaving the lakes. The natural conclusion from their absence would be that an early winter of unusual severity had compelled them to remain until spring. The people in the mountains would have no way of learning that the two had failed to reach the railway. Thus had the travellers been completely blotted out of their world. No relief parties would be sent out to search for them. Not until the unlikely discovery of the notices that Wilder would post could there be the slightest knowledge of the tragedy. More than that, the road upon which Wilder’s hut looked down was only one of two that penetrated the wilderness in that direction. In the summer it had a small travel, but by reason of its crookedness, narrowness, and sharp grades it was avoided by heavy traffic. It would be the last road to be cleared. Snow-shoes were practically unknown in these mountains, for seasons of long snow blockades were rare; but there would be no occasion for snow-shoe travel over this road. The only prospect for the escape of Wilder and his charge was on foot, after the lapse of the months that would be required for her recovery, and after the snow was gone. Innumerable domestic perplexities presented themselves to the young man’s mind. His charge, being perfectly helpless, must depend entirely upon him for her every want. Would she have the wisdom and goodness to accept the situation cheerfully, or would its humiliation and hardships gnaw constantly at her strength and patience, and delay her recovery or precipitate her death? How could she possibly accept the situation philosophically? She would find a bitter contrast between this life and the one of luxury and indulgence to which she had been accustomed. Even should she develop the highest order of fortitude, the rude food, in small variety, that he had to give her, cooked badly, could hardly tempt her appetite, and thus build up her strength. Then, her bed was a wretched affair, and there was serious danger that its hardness alone, without regard to her possible resignation to its discomforts, would produce hurtful physical results. If only wise and helpful Dr. Malbone could know and come! Let the days bring forth what they would, Wilder would do his duty as he knew it. The fire crackled cheerily on the hearth and filled the hut with its warmth and glow and peace. The walls were tight and strong, and were holding firm against the storm. The agonizing strain of the last twelve hours was over, and all strength must be saved for the future. In the flickering firelight the young man studied the face of his charge at leisure, and he saw that she was singularly handsome; but there seemed to be a certain hardness in her face, relaxed in unconsciousness though it was. Perhaps it was only because there stood out before his memory the one face in all the world that, with its infinite gentleness and sweetness, embodied every grace for which his spirit yearned. It was not so beautiful and brilliant a face as this,—but there came up Dr. Malbone’s warning, uttered over and over with the most earnest impressiveness: “As you value your reason and life, as you value the possibilities of your happiness and your usefulness to humanity, turn your face from the past, and with all the courage and will of a man confront the future. Nature is kind to all of her children who love her and seek her. She heaps our past with wreckage, only to train and prepare us for a noble future. There can be no peace where there has been no travail. There would be no strength were there no weakness in need of its help. The man who fails to the slightest extent in his duties to humanity and himself burdens his life to that extent. Be brave and hopeful and helpful, as it becomes a man to be, and labor incessantly for the best, as it becomes a man to do.” And the man with the curiously-twisted face peering out from the tree-branches, what had been the aim of his life, that it should find such an end? After all, was there any taint of unmanliness in that end? Doubtless even now he was covered deep under snow. If he should be left there, the great gray wolves might come down and find him. They were big and powerful, and men who had seen them hungry told fearful tales of their daring and ferocity. If the snow should drive them down, they would find the dead horses under the tree; and after that there would be but one house here where they could find human beings. There need be no dread of them; but suppose that some night there should come a scratching at the door of the hut,—that would mean the gaunt shewolf, who bore away children to the wolf-pack. She would beg for a rind of bacon to eat, and a corner on the hearth to sleep. She would bear ugly wounds from her struggles with men and beasts, and these would have to be dressed, and rents in her hide stitched; and if there were broken bones, they must be set. Would she be patient under the torture, or would she snap and howl after the manner of wolves?... Wilder was startled to full consciousness by a moan. He bent over his patient and looked into her open eyes. She gazed up at him vacantly. He took her hand; it was hot. He placed a hand upon her forehead; it was burning. A haggard look of pain and distress sat upon her face. An eager appeal was in her glance, and her lips moved feebly. He bent his ear to them. She was faintly whispering— “Water, water!” His heart bounding with gladness, he brought cold water. With difficulty he restrained her eagerness, lest she discover that she was crippled and bound. He covered her eyes with a napkin, for he observed that her glance was becoming strained and curious. She submitted quietly, while he gave her the water with a spoon. After that she sighed in weariness and content, but her deep inspiration was checked by pain. Her burning skin and an uneasiness throughout her entire frame warned him that she had a fever. He gave her a remedy for that. It was not until daylight had come that, after watching her for hours as she lay awake and seemingly halfconscious, he observed her finally drift into sound slumber. The young man rose and found himself weak and dizzy; but after he had prepared and eaten a simple breakfast he felt stronger. Seemingly by a miracle, he had gone through his task in safety thus far. He must now leave his patient for a while, to discharge a grim duty that awaited him in the road below,—a duty from which his every sensibility recoiled with unspeakable repugnance. Lest an untoward accident should happen in his absence, he gave his patient a stupefying drug. He dreaded to open the front door of his hut. When he did, he found the thing that he feared: the wind had ceased after midnight, and the snow had been falling ever since, and still was falling. It had whitened the walls of the canon, and, before the wind had ceased, had eddied and drifted about the hut in a way that filled the young man with alarm for the future. Would his strength be sufficient to fight it if the storm should be greatly prolonged, to the end that he and his charge should not be buried alive? He put this dread away, and with a heavy heart followed the steep trail down to the road. N CHAPTER FIVE OON was near at hand when the guest of the hut waked to full consciousness. Her first impulse was to cry out with the pain that tortured her; but her strong will assumed command, and she looked inquiringly into the anxious face beside her Obviously she realized that a catastrophe had overtaken her, and she was now silently demanding an explanation. Wilder had not expected this. Her calmness, and, more than that, her silent demand, were so different from the childish and unreasonable petulance that he had expected, that he was unprepared and confused. “You have been hurt,” he stammered; “and it will be necessary for you to keep very quiet for a time.’ “How was I hurt?” she faintly asked. “The horses were frightened by the storm and ran away.” “Oh, the storm! I remember.” Then she looked quickly and anxiously about. “My father,” she said,—“where is he?” For a moment the oddly distorted face in the branches came grimacing between Wilder and his duty, but with a gasp and a repelling gesture he drove it away,—not so dexterously but that his struggle was seen. “He—has gone to bring help,” he said. Then, quickly leaving the bedside to conceal his weakness and the shame of the lie that choked him, he added hastily, “Yes, he was not hurt; and when he and I had brought you to this hut he went to find help. He will return as soon as possible.” He felt that her glance was upon him with merciless steadiness. “Now,” said he, returning to the couch, “I will remove these bandages,”—referring to the cords that bound her to the bed;—“but you must promise me not to move except under my direction. Do you?” She slightly nodded an assent, and he unbound her. “Come,” he added, “you must have some of this broth. No, don’t try to rise; I will feed you from this spoon. It is not too hot, is it? That is good. Presently you will feel much better. You are not in much pain now, are you?” “I am not a child,” she answered, with a slight touch of disdain and reproof. But he cheerily said,— “Excellent, excellent! That is the way to feel!” She lay silent for a while, looking up at the roof. Presently she said,— “I imagine that I am badly hurt. Please tell me how and where I am injured.” “Well, your left leg was hurt, and we shall have to keep it bandaged and your knee from bending. And there were some bruises on your side, and an injury to the scalp.” “My scalp?” she quickly asked, raising her hand and asking, “Surely you did not shave my head?” “No,” he replied, smiling amusedly; “except a small spot, and you can cover that until the hair grows out.” She was not fully satisfied until she had felt the splendid wealth of hair that lay massed upon the pillow. “May I ask who you are?” This was the question that he had dreaded most of all; but before he could stammer out the truth a light broke over her face, and she astounded him with this exclamation: “Oh, you are the famous Dr. Mal-bone! This is extraordinary! I am very, very fortunate.” Wilder had never conceived a lie so dazzling and happy as this mistake. Between wonder at his stupidity for not having thought of it, and a great delight that she had so naturally erred, he was too bewildered either to affirm or deny. He only realized that she had unwittingly solved the most difficult of his present problems. Had she been looking at him, she might have wondered at the strange expression that lighted up his face, and particularly the crimson temporarily displacing the death-like pallor that she had observed. “Yes,” she resumed, after a pause, “I am fortunate; for I suppose that my injuries are a great deal worse than you have given me to believe, and that such skill as yours is needed.” She turned her glance again full upon him; but he had recovered his address, and now met her look with an approach to steadiness. “But,” she said, “you are a much younger man than I had expected to see; and you don’t look so crabbed as I might have inferred you were from the message you sent me a month ago.” She paused, evidently expecting him to make some explanation; but he was silent, and looked so distressed that she smiled. “You may remember,” she continued, “that a young lady at the lakes sent for you to treat her for bruises sustained in a fall, and that you told her messenger to give her your compliments and say that cold-water applications, an old woman, and God would do as well with such a case as you. I am that young lady.” Wilder liked the young woman’s blunt and forthright manner, although it was novel and embarrassing. “There were doubtless important cases demanding attention,” he explained. “No doubt,” she agreed. “And, after all,” he suggested, “didn’t you follow the advice and get good results?” “Yes,” she answered, again smiling faintly; “that is true.” She closed her eyes. Presently she extended her hand, which Wilder took. She looked earnestly into his face, and asked, “It will be a long siege with me, will it not?” “Much depends upon your temperament,” he answered. “If———” “That is evasion,” she interrupted. “Be candid with me.” There was no demand in this request; it was an appeal from such depths of her as she knew, and it touched him. “Yes,” he stammered, “unless———” “The bone is broken, isn’t it?” “Yes; but you are young and your health is superb. That is everything.” A despairing look grayed her face, which then quickly reddened with anger and rebellion. Her host said nothing. He saw that she was competent to make the fight with herself without his aid; that her mind, though now disturbed by her suffering, was able to T comprehend much that her condition meant, being obviously an uncommonly strong, clear mind, and that it would give to an acceptance of her position the philosophic view that was so much needed. He saw the hard, brave fight that she was making, and he had no fear for the outcome. Gradually he saw the contemplative expression of the eyes turned within, and the face grow gaunt and haggard under the strain. As slowly he saw her emerge from the depths into which he had thrust her, and from the very slowness of the victory, he knew that she had won. When again she looked into his face, he knew that her soul had been tried as it never had been before, and that she was stronger and better for it. And he knew that there was yet another trial awaiting her which perhaps she could not have borne had not she passed through this one. “Another thing,” she said, as earnestly as before; “when do you expect my father to return?” “Very soon—as soon as he——” “Evasion again,” she protested, a slight frown of impatience darkening her face; but it instantly disappeared, and her manner was appealing again. “Be my friend as well as my physician, Dr. Malbone. Please tell me the truth. I can bear it now.” The young man bowed his head in dejection. “Snow is still falling,” he said, “and doubtless many trees are across the road. We can only wait and hope.” A transient look of gratitude for his seeming candor softened her hard beauty, and she withdrew her hand and her glance. Then he knew that another mighty struggle was taking place within her. He knew from the deep crimson that suffused her face how fully she realized all that he must be to her during the weary weeks to come. He saw the outward evidences of the unthinkable revulsion that filled her, with him as its cause. He knew that in agony of soul she rebelled against the fate that had placed her helpless in the hands of a stranger, and that stranger a man, and that man the one now serving her, however willingly, however faithfully, with whatever tact and delicacy. He saw, from her hopless glance about t...