Spy Rock
IIt must have been near Sutherland's Pond that I lost the way.For there the deserted road which I had been following throughthe Highlands ran out upon a meadow all abloom with purpleloose-strife and golden Saint-John's wort. The declining suncast a glory over the lonely field, and far in the corner,nigh to the woods, there was a touch of the celestial colour:blue of the sky seen between white clouds: blue of the seashimmering through faint drifts of silver mist. The hope offinding that hue of distance and mystery embodied in a livingform, the old hope of discovering the Blue Flower rose againin my heart. But it was only for a moment, for when I camenearer I saw that the colour which had caught my eye came froma multitude of closed gentians--the blossoms which never openinto perfection--growing so closely together that theirblended promise had seemed like a single flower.So I harked back again, slanting across the meadow, tofind the road. But it had vanished. Wandering among thealders and clumps of gray birches, here and there I found atrack that looked like it; but as I tried each one, it grewmore faint and uncertain and at last came to nothing in athicket or a marsh. While I was thus beating about the bushthe sun dropped below the western rim of hills. It wasnecessary to make the most of the lingering light, if I didnot wish to be benighted in the woods. The little village ofCanterbury, which was the goal of my day's march, must lieabout to the north just beyond the edge of the mountain, andin that direction I turned, pushing forward as rapidly aspossible through the undergrowth.Presently I came into a region where the trees were largerand the travelling was easier. It was not a primeval forest,but a second growth of chestnuts and poplars and maples.Through the woods there ran at intervals long lines of brokenrock, covered with moss--the ruins, evidently, of ancientstone fences. The land must have been, in former days, afarm, inhabited, cultivated, the home of humanhopes and desires and labours, but now relapsed into solitudeand wilderness. What could the life have been among theserugged and inhospitable Highlands, on this niggard andreluctant soil? Where was the house that once sheltered thetillers of this rude corner of the earth?Here, perhaps, in the little clearing into which I nowemerged. A couple of decrepit apple-trees grew on the edge ofit, and dropped their scanty and gnarled fruit to feast thesquirrels. A little farther on, a straggling clump of ancientlilacs, a bewildered old bush of sweetbrier, the dark-greenleaves of a cluster of tiger-lilies, long past blooming,marked the grave of the garden. And here, above this squarehollow in the earth, with the remains of a crumbling chimneystanding sentinel beside it, here the house must have stood.What joys, what sorrows once centred around this cold anddesolate hearth-stone? What children went forth like birdsfrom this dismantled nest into the wide world? What guestsfound refuge----"Take care! stand back! There is a rattlesnake in the oldcellar."The voice, even more than the words, startled me. I drewaway suddenly, and saw, behind the ruins of the chimney, a manof an aspect so striking that to this day his face and figureare as vivid in my memory as if it were but yesterday that Ihad met him.He was dressed in black, the coat of a somewhat formalcut, a long cravat loosely knotted in his rolling collar. Hishead was bare, and the coal-black hair, thick and waving, wasin some disorder. His face, smooth and pale, with highforehead, straight nose, and thin, sensitive lips--was it oldor young? Handsome it certainly was, the face of a man ofmark, a man of power. Yet there was something strange andwild about it. His dark eyes, with the fine wrinkles aboutthem, had a look of unspeakable remoteness, and at the sametime an intensity that seemed to pierce me through andthrough. It was as if he saw me in a dream, yet measured me,weighed me with a scrutiny as exact as it was at bottomindifferent.But his lips were smiling, and there was no fault to befound, at least, with his manner. He had risen from the broadstone where he had evidently been sitting with his back againstthe chimney, and came forward to greet me."You will pardon the abruptness of my greeting? I thoughtyou might not care to make acquaintance with the presenttenant of this old house--at least not without anintroduction.""Certainly not," I answered, "you have done me a realkindness, which is better than the outward form of courtesy.But how is it that you stay at such close quarters with thisunpleasant tenant? Have you no fear of him?""Not the least in the world," he answered, laughing. "Iknow the snakes too well, better than they know themselves.It is not likely that even an old serpent with thirteenrattles, like this one, could harm me. I know his ways.Before he could strike I should be out of reach.""Well," said I, "it is a grim thought, at all events, thatthis house, once a cheerful home, no doubt, should have fallenat last to be the dwelling of such a vile creature.""Fallen!" he exclaimed. Then he repeated the word with aquestioning accent--"fallen? Are you sure of that? The snake,in his way, may be quite as honest as the people who lived herebefore him, and not much more harmful. The farmer was a miserwho robbed his mother, quarrelled with his brother, and starvedhis wife. What she lacked in food, she made up in drink, whenshe could. One of the children, a girl, was a cripple, lamed byher mother in a fit of rage. The two boys were ne'er-do-weelswho ran away from home as soon as they were old enough. One ofthem is serving a life-sentence in the State prison formanslaughter. When the house burned down some thirty years ago,the woman escaped. The man's body was found with the headcrushed in--perhaps by a falling timber. The family of ourfriend the rattlesnake could hardly surpass that record, I think.But why should we blame them--any of them? They were only actingout their natures. To one who can see and understand, it is allperfectly simple, and interesting--immensely interesting."It is impossible to describe the quiet eagerness, the coolglow of fervour with which he narrated this little history. Itwas the manner of the triumphant pathologist who lays bare somehidden seat of disease. It surprised and repelled me a little;yet it attracted me, too, for I could see how evidently hecounted on my comprehension and sympathy."Well," said I, "it is a pitiful history. Rural life isnot all peace and innocence. But how came you to know thestory?""I? Oh, I make it my business to know a little ofeverything, and as much as possible of human life, notexcepting the petty chronicles of the rustics around me. Itis my chief pleasure. I earn my living by teaching boys. Ifind my satisfaction in studying men. But you are on ajourney, sir, and night is falling. I must not detain you.Or perhaps you will allow me to forward you a little byserving as a guide. Which way were you going when you turnedaside to look at this dismantled shrine?""To Canterbury," I answered, "to find a night's, or amonth's, lodging at the inn. My journey is a ramble, it hasneither terminus nor time-table.""Then let me commend to you something vastly better thanthe tender mercies of the Canterbury Inn. Come with me to theschool on Hilltop, where I am a teacher. It is a thousandfeet above the village--purer air, finer view, and pleasantercompany. There is plenty of room in the house, for it isvacation-time. Master Isaac Ward is always glad to entertainguests."There was something so sudden and unconventional about theinvitation that I was reluctant to accept it; but he gave itnaturally and pressed it with earnest courtesy, assuring methat it was in accordance with Master Ward's custom, that hewould be much disappointed to lose the chance of talking withan interesting traveller, that he would far rather let me payhim for my lodging than have me go by, and so on--so that atlast I consented.Three minutes' walking from the deserted clearing broughtus into a travelled road. It circled the breast of themountain, and as we stepped along it in the dusk I learnedsomething of my companion. His name was Edward Keene; hetaught Latin and Greek in the Hilltop School; he had studied forthe ministry, but had given it up, I gathered, on account of acertain loss of interest, or rather a diversion of interest inanother direction. He spoke of himself with an impersonalcandour."Preachers must be always trying to persuade men," hesaid. "But what I care about is to know men. I don't carewhat they do. Certainly I have no wish to interfere with themin their doings, for I doubt whether anyone can really changethem. Each tree bears its own fruit, you see, and by theirfruits you know them.""What do you say to grafting? That changes the fruit,surely?""Yes, but a grafted tree is not really one tree. It istwo trees growing together. There is a double life in it, andthe second life, the added life, dominates the other. Thestock becomes a kind of animate soil for the graft to growin."Presently the road dipped into a little valley and roseagain, breasting the slope of a wooded hill which thrustitself out from the steeper flank of the mountain-range. Downthe hill-side a song floated to meet us--that most noble lyric ofold Robert Herrick:
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
It was a girl's voice, fresh and clear, with a note oftenderness in it that thrilled me. Keene's pace quickened.And soon the singer came in sight, stepping lightly down theroad, a shape of slender whiteness on the background ofgathering night. She was beautiful even in that dim light,with brown eyes and hair, and a face that seemed to breathepurity and trust. Yet there was a trace of anxiety in it, orso I fancied, that gave it an appealing charm."You have come at last, Edward," she cried, runningforward and putting her hand in his. "It is late. You havebeen out all day; I began to be afraid.""Not too late," he answered; "there was no need for fear,Dorothy. I am not alone, you see." And keeping her hand, heintroduced me to the daughter of Master Ward.It was easy to guess the relation between these two youngpeople who walked beside me in the dusk. It needed no wordsto say that they were lovers. Yet it would have needed manywords to define the sense, that came to me gradually, ofsomething singular in the tie that bound them together. Onhis part there was a certain tone of half-playfulcondescension toward her such as one might use to a lovelychild, which seemed to match but ill with her unconsciousattitude of watchful care, of tender solicitude forhim--almost like the manner of an elder sister. Lovers theysurely were, and acknowledged lovers, for their frankness ofdemeanour sought no concealment; but I felt that there must beA little rift within the lute,though neither of them might know it. Each one's thought ofthe other was different from the other's thought of self.There could not be a complete understanding, a perfect accord.What was the secret, of which each knew half, but not the otherhalf?Thus, with steps that kept time, but with thoughts howwide apart, we came to the door of the school. A warm floodof light poured out to greet us. The Master, an elderly,placid, comfortable man, gave me just the welcome that hadbeen promised in his name. The supper was waiting, and theevening passed in such happy cheer that the bewilderments andmisgivings of the twilight melted away, and at bedtime Idropped into the nest of sleep as one who has found a shelteramong friends.
IIThe Hilltop School stood on a blessed site. Lifted high abovethe village, it held the crest of the last gentle wave of themountains that filled the south with crowding billows, raggedand tumultuous. Northward, the great plain lay at our feet,smiling in the sun; meadows and groves, yellow fields ofharvest and green orchards, white roads and clustering towns,with here and there a little city on the bank of the mightyriver which curved in a vast line of beauty toward the blueCatskill Range, fifty miles away. Lines of filmy smoke, likevanishing footprints in the air, marked the passage of railwaytrains across the landscape--their swift flight reduced bydistance to a leisurely transition. The bright surface of thestream was furrowed by a hundred vessels; tiny rowboats creepingfrom shore to shore; knots of black barges following the lead ofpuffing tugs; sloops with languid motion tacking against thetide; white steamboats, like huge toy-houses, crowded withpygmy inhabitants, moving smoothly on their way to the greatcity, and disappearing suddenly as they turned into thenarrows between Storm-King and the Fishkill Mountains. Downthere was life, incessant, varied, restless, intricate,many-coloured--down there was history, the highway of ancientvoyagers since the days of Hendrik Hudson, the hunting-groundof Indian tribes, the scenes of massacre and battle, the lastcamp of the Army of the Revolution, the Head-quarters ofWashington--down there were the homes of legend andpoetry, the dreamlike hills of Rip van Winkle's sleep, thecliffs and caves haunted by the Culprit Fay, the solitudestraversed by the Spy--all outspread before us, and visible asin a Claude Lorraine glass, in the tranquil lucidity ofdistance. And here, on the hilltop, was our own life; secluded,yet never separated from the other life; looking downupon it, yet woven of the same stuff; peaceful incircumstance, yet ever busy with its own tasks, and holding inits quiet heart all the elements of joy and sorrow and tragicconsequence.The Master was a man of most unworldly wisdom. In hisyouth a great traveller, he had brought home manyobservations, a few views, and at least one theory. To himthe school was the most important of human institutions--morevital even than the home, because it held the first realexperience of social contact, of free intercourse with otherminds and lives coming from different households and embodyingdifferent strains of blood. "My school," said he, "is theworld in miniature. If I can teach these boys to study andplay together freely and with fairness to one another, I shallmake men fit to live and work together in society. What theylearn matters less than how they learn it. The great thing isthe bringing out of individual character so that it will find itsplace in social harmony."Yet never man knew less of character in the concrete thanMaster Ward. To him each person represented a type--thescientific, the practical, the poetic. From each one heexpected, and in each one he found, to a certain degree, thefruit of the marked quality, the obvious, the characteristic.But of the deeper character, made up of a hundred traits,coloured and conditioned most vitally by something secret andin itself apparently of slight importance, he was placidlyunconscious. Classes he knew. Individuals escaped him. Yethe was a most companionable man, a social solitary, a friendlyhermit.His daughter Dorothy seemed to me even more fair andappealing by daylight than when I first saw her in the dusk.There was a pure brightness in her brown eyes, a gentledignity in her look and bearing, a soft cadence of expectant joyin her voice. She was womanly in every tone and motion, yet byno means weak or uncertain. Mistress of herself and of thehouse, she ruled her kingdom without an effort. Busied with manylittle cares, she bore them lightly. Her spirit overflowed intothe lives around her with delicate sympathy and merry cheer. Butit was in music that her nature found its widest outlet. In thelengthening evenings of late August she would play from Schumann,or Chopin, or Grieg, interpreting the vague feelings ofgladness or grief which lie too deep for words. Ballads sheloved, quaint old English and Scotch airs, folk-songs ofGermany, "Come-all-ye's" of Ireland, Canadian chansons. Shesang--not like an angel, but like a woman.Of the two under-masters in the school, Edward Keene wasthe elder. The younger, John Graham, was his opposite inevery respect. Sturdy, fair-haired, plain in the face, he wasessentially an every-day man, devoted to out-of-door sports,a hard worker, a good player, and a sound sleeper. He cameback to the school, from a fishing-excursion, a few days after myarrival. I liked the way in which he told of his adventures,with a little frank boasting, enough to season but not to spoilthe story. I liked the way in which he took hold of his work,helping to get the school in readiness for the return of the boysin the middle of September. I liked, more than all, his attitudeto Dorothy Ward. He loved her, clearly enough. When she was inthe room the other people were only accidents to him. Yet therewas nothing of the disappointed suitor in his bearing. He wascheerful, natural, accepting the situation, giving her thebest he had to give, and gladly taking from her the frankreliance, the ready comradeship which she bestowed upon him.If he envied Keene--and how could he help it--at least henever showed a touch of jealousy or rivalry. The engagementwas a fact which he took into account as something not to bechanged or questioned. Keene was so much more brilliant,interesting, attractive. He answered so much more fully tothe poetic side of Dorothy's nature. How could she helppreferring him?Thus the three actors in the drama stood, whenI became an inmate of Hilltop, and accepted the master'sinvitation to undertake some of the minor classes in English,and stay on at the school indefinitely. It was my wish to seethe little play--a pleasant comedy, I hoped--move forward toa happy ending. And yet--what was it that disturbed me nowand then with forebodings? Something, doubtless, in thecharacter of Keene, for he was the dominant personality. Thekey of the situation lay with him. He was the centre ofinterest. Yet he was the one who seemed not perfectly inharmony, not quite at home, as if something beckoned and urgedhim away."I am glad you are to stay," said he, "yet I wonder at it.You will find the life narrow, after all your travels.Ulysses at Ithaca--you will surely be restless to see theworld again.""If you find the life broad enough, I ought not to becramped in it.""Ah, but I have compensations.""One you certainly have," said I, thinking of Dorothy,"and that one is enough to make a man happy anywhere.""Yes, yes," he answered, quickly, "but that is not what Imean. It is not there that I look for a wider life. Love--doyou think that love broadens a man's outlook? To me it seemsto make him narrower--happier, perhaps, within his own littlecircle--but distinctly narrower. Knowledge is the only thingthat broadens life, sets it free from the tyranny of theparish, fills it with the sense of power. And love is theopposite of knowledge. Love is a kind of an illusion--a happyillusion, that is what love is. Don't you see that?""See it?" I cried. "I don't know what you mean. Do youmean that you don't really care for Dorothy Ward? Do you meanthat what you have won in her is an illusion? If so, you areas wrong as a man can be.""No, no," he answered, eagerly, "you know I don't meanthat. I could not live without her. But love is not the onlyreality. There is something else, something broader,something----""Come away," I said, "come away, man! You are talkingnonsense, treason. You are not true to yourself. You've beenworking too hard at your books. There's a maggot in your brain.Come out for a long walk."That indeed was what he liked best. He was a magnificentwalker, easy, steady, unwearying. He knew every road and lanein the valleys, every footpath and trail among the mountains.But he cared little for walking in company; one companion wasthe most that he could abide. And, strange to say, it was notDorothy whom he chose for his most frequent comrade. With herhe would saunter down the Black Brook path, or climb slowly tothe first ridge of Storm-King. But with me he pushed out tothe farthest pinnacle that overhangs the river, and downthrough the Lonely Heart gorge, and over the pass of the WhiteHorse, and up to the peak of Cro' Nest, and across the ruggedsummit of Black Rock. At every wider outlook a strangeexhilaration seemed to come upon him. His spirit glowed likea live coal in the wind. He overflowed with brilliant talkand curious stories of the villages and scattered houses thatwe could see from our eyries.But it was not with me that he made his longest expeditions.They were solitary. Early on Saturday he would leave the rest ofus, with some slight excuse, and start away on the mountain-road,to be gone all day. Sometimes he would not return till longafter dark. Then I could see the anxious look deepen onDorothy's face, and she would slip away down the road to meethim. But he always came back in good spirits, talkable andcharming. It was the next day that the reaction came. The blackfit took him. He was silent, moody, bitter. Holding himselfaloof, yet never giving utterance to any irritation, he seemedhalf-unconsciously to resent the claims of love and friendship,as if they irked him. There was a look in his eyes as if hemeasured us, weighed us, analysed us all as strangers.Yes, even Dorothy. I have seen her go to meet him with aflower in her hand that she had plucked for him, and turn awaywith her lips trembling, too proud to say a word, dropping theflower on the grass. John Graham saw it, too. He waited tillshe was gone; then he picked up the flower and kept it.There was nothing to take offence at, nothing on which onecould lay a finger; only these singular alternations of moodwhich made Keene now the most delightful of friends, now anintimate stranger in the circle. The change was inexplicable.But certainly it seemed to have some connection, as cause orconsequence, with his long, lonely walks.Once, when he was absent, we spoke of his remarkablefluctuations of spirit.The master labelled him. "He is an idealist, a dreamer.They are always uncertain."I blamed him. "He gives way too much to his moods. Helacks self-control. He is in danger of spoiling a finenature."I looked at Dorothy. She defended him. "Why should he bealways the same? He is too great for that. His thoughts makehim restless, and sometimes he is tired. Surely you wouldn'thave him act what he don't feel. Why do you want him to dothat?""I don't know," said Graham, with a short laugh. "None ofus know. But what we all want just now is music. Dorothy, willyou sing a little for us?"So she sang "The Coulin," and "The Days o' the KerryDancin'," and "The Hawthorn Tree," and "The Green Woods ofTruigha," and "Flowers o' the Forest," and "A la claireFontaine," until the twilight was filled with peace.The boys came back to the school. The wheels of routinebegan to turn again, slowly and with a little friction atfirst, then smoothly and swiftly as if they had never stopped.Summer reddened into autumn; autumn bronzed into fall. Themaples and poplars were bare. The oaks alone kept theirrusted crimson glory, and the cloaks of spruce and hemlock onthe shoulders of the hills grew dark with wintry foliage.Keene's transitions of mood became more frequent and moreextreme. The gulf of isolation that divided him from us whenthe black days came seemed wider and more unfathomable.Dorothy and John Graham were thrown more constantly together.Keene appeared to encourage their companionship. He watchedthem curiously, sometimes, not as if he were jealous, but ratheras if he were interested in some delicate experiment. At othertimes he would be singularly indifferent to everything, remote,abstracted, forgetful.Dorothy's birthday, which fell in mid-October, was kept asa holiday. In the morning everyone had some little birthdaygift for her, except Keene. He had forgotten the birthdayentirely. The shadow of disappointment that quenched thebrightness of her face was pitiful. Even he could not beblind to it. He flushed as if surprised, and hesitated amoment, evidently in conflict with himself. Then a look ofshame and regret came into his eyes. He made some excuse fornot going with us to the picnic, at the Black Brook Falls,with which the day was celebrated. In the afternoon, as weall sat around the camp-fire, he came swinging through thewoods with his long, swift stride, and going at once toDorothy laid a little brooch of pearl and opal in her hand."Will you forgive me?" he said. "I hope this is not toolate. But I lost the train back from Newburg and walked home.I pray that you may never know any tears but pearls, and thatthere may be nothing changeable about you but the opal.""Oh, Edward!" she cried, "how beautiful! Thank you athousand times. But I wish you had been with us all day. Wehave missed you so much!"For the rest of that day simplicity and clearness and joycame back to us. Keene was at his best, a leader of friendlymerriment, a master of good-fellowship, a prince of delicatechivalry. Dorothy's loveliness unfolded like a flower in thesun.But the Indian summer of peace was brief. It was hardlya week before Keene's old moods returned, darker and strangerthan ever. The girl's unconcealable bewilderment, her senseof wounded loyalty and baffled anxiety, her still look of hurtand wondering tenderness, increased from day to day. JohnGraham's temper seemed to change, suddenly and completely.From the best-humoured and most careless fellow in the world,he became silent, thoughtful, irritable toward everyone exceptDorothy. With Keene he was curt and impatient, avoiding himas much as possible, and when they were together, evidentlystruggling to keep down a deep dislike and rising anger. Theyhad had sharp words when they were alone, I was sure, butKeene's coolness seemed to grow with Graham's heat. There wasno open quarrel.One Saturday evening, Graham came to me. "You have seenwhat is going on here?" he said."Something, at least," I answered, "and I am very sorryfor it. But I don't quite understand it.""Well, I do; and I'm going to put an end to it. I'm goingto have it out with Ned Keene. He is breaking her heart.""But are you the right one to take the matter up?""Who else is there to do it?""Her father.""He sees nothing, comprehends nothing. 'Practicaltype--poetic type--misunderstandings sure to arise--cometogether after a while each supply the other's deficiencies.'Cursed folly! And the girl so unhappy that she can't tellanyone. It shall not go on, I say. Keene is out on the roadnow, taking one of his infernal walks. I'm going to meet him.""I'm afraid it will make trouble. Let me go with you.""The trouble is made. Come if you like. I'm going now."The night lay heavy upon the forest. Where the roaddipped through the valley we could hardly see a rod ahead ofus. But higher up where the way curved around the breast ofthe mountain, the woods were thin on the left, and on theright a sheer precipice fell away to the gorge of the brook.In the dim starlight we saw Keene striding toward us. Grahamstepped out to meet him."Where have you been, Ned Keene?" he cried. The cry wasa challenge. Keene lifted his head and stood still. Then helaughed and took a step forward."Taking a long walk, Jack Graham,," he answered. "It wasglorious. You should have been with me. But why this suddenquestion?""Because your long walk is a pretence. You are playing false.There is some woman that you go to see at West Point, at HighlandFalls, who knows where?"Keene laughed again."Certainly you don't know, my dear fellow; and neither doI. Since when has walking become a vice in your estimation?You seem to be in a fierce mood. What's the matter?""I will tell you what's the matter. You have been actinglike a brute to the girl you profess to love.""Plain words! But between friends frankness is best. Didshe ask you to tell me?""No! You know too well she would die before she wouldspeak. You are killing her, that is what you are doing withyour devilish moods and mysteries. You must stop. Do youhear? You must give her up.""I hear well enough, and it sounds like a word for her andtwo for yourself. Is that it?""Damn you," cried the younger man, "let the words go!we'll settle it this way"----and he sprang at the other'sthroat.Keene, cool and well-braced, met him with a heavy blow inthe chest. He recoiled, and I rushed between them, holdingGraham back, and pleading for self-control. As we stood thus,panting and confused, on the edge of the cliff, a singingvoice floated up to us from the shadows across the valley. Itwas Herrick's song again:
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
Is in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.
"Come, gentlemen," I cried, "this is folly, sheer madness.You can never deal with the matter in this way. Think of thegirl who is singing down yonder. What would happen to her,what would she suffer, from scandal, from her own feelings, ifeither of you should be killed, or even seriously hurt by theother? There must be no quarrel between you.""Certainly," said Keene, whose poise, if shaken at all,had returned, "certainly, you are right. It is not of myseeking, nor shall I be the one to keep it up. I am willing tolet it pass. It is but a small matter at most."I turned to Graham--"And you?"He hesitated a little, and then said, doggedly "On onecondition.""And that is?""Keene must explain. He must answer my question.""Do you accept?" I asked Keene."Yes and no!" he replied. "No! to answering Graham'squestion. He is not the person to ask it. I wonder that hedoes not see the impropriety, the absurdity of his meddling atall in this affair. Besides, he could not understand myanswer even if he believed it. But to the explanation, I say,Yes! I will give it, not to Graham, but to you. I make youthis proposition. To-morrow is Sunday. We shall be excusedfrom service if we tell the master that we have importantbusiness to settle together. You shall come with me on one ofmy long walks. I will tell you all about them. Then you canbe the judge whether there is any harm in them.""Does that satisfy you?" I said to Graham."Yes," he answered, "that seems fair enough. I am contentto leave it in that way for the present. And to make it stillmore fair, I want to take back what I said awhile ago, and toask Keene's pardon for it.""Not at all," said Keene, quickly, "it was said in haste,I bear no grudge. You simply did not understand, that isall."So we turned to go down the hill, and as we turned,Dorothy met us, coming out of the shadows."What are you men doing here?" she asked. "I heard yourvoices from below. What were you talking about?""We were talking," said Keene, "my dear Dorothy, we weretalking--about walking--yes, that was it--about walking, andabout views. The conversation was quite warm, almost adebate. Now, you know all the view-points in this region.Which do you call the best, the most satisfying, the finestprospect? But I know what you will say: the view from thelittle knoll in front of Hilltop. For there, when you are tiredof looking far away, you can turn around and see the old school,and the linden-trees, and the garden.""Yes," she answered gravely, "that is really the view thatI love best. I would give up all the others rather than losethat."
IIIThere was a softness in the November air that brought backmemories of summer, and a few belated daisies were blooming inthe old clearing, as Keene and I passed by the ruins of thefarm-house again, early on Sunday morning. He had beentalking ever since we started, pouring out his praise ofknowledge, wide, clear, universal knowledge, as the best oflife's joys, the greatest of life's achievements. Thepractical life was a blind, dull routine. Most men weretoiling at tasks which they did not like, by rules which theydid not understand. They never looked beyond the edge oftheir work. The philosophical life was a spider's web--filmythreads of theory spun out of the inner consciousness--it touchedthe world only at certain chosen points of attachment. There wasnothing firm, nothing substantial in it. You could look throughit like a veil and see the real world lying beyond. But thetheorist could see only the web which he had spun. Knowing didnot come by speculating, theorising. Knowing came by seeing.Vision was the only real knowledge. To see the world, the wholeworld, as it is, to look behind the scenes, to read human lifelike a book, that was the glorious thing--most satisfying,divine.Thus he had talked as we climbed the hill. Now, as wecame by the place where we had first met, a new eagernesssounded in his voice."Ever since that day I have inclined to tell you somethingmore about myself. I felt sure you would understand. I amplanning to write a book--a book of knowledge, in the truesense--a great book about human life. Not a history, not atheory, but a real view of life, its hidden motives, itssecret relations. How different they are from what men dreamand imagine and play that they are! How much darker, how muchsmaller, and therefore how much more interesting and wonderful.No one has yet written--perhaps because no one has yetconceived--such a book as I have in mind. I might call it a'Bionopsis.'""But surely," said I, "you have chosen a strange place towrite it--the Hilltop School--this quiet and secluded region!The stream of humanity is very slow and slender here--ittrickles. You must get out into the busy world. You must bein the full current and feel its force. You must take part inthe active life of mankind in order really to know it.""A mistake!" he cried. "Action is the thing that blindsmen. You remember Matthew Arnold's line:In action's dizzying eddy whurled.To know the world you must stand apart from it and above it;you must look down on it.""Well, then," said I, "you will have to find some secretspring of inspiration, some point of vantage from which youcan get your outlook and your insight."He stopped short and looked me full in the face."And that," cried he, "is precisely what I have found!"Then he turned and pushed along the narrow trail soswiftly that I had hard work to follow him. After a fewminutes we came to a little stream, flowing through a grove ofhemlocks. Keene seated himself on the fallen log that servedfor a bridge and beckoned me to a place beside him."I promised to give you an explanation to-day--to take youon one of my long walks. Well, there is only one of them. Itis always the same. You shall see where it leads, what itmeans. You shall share my secret--all the wonder and glory ofit! Of course I know my conduct, has seemed strange to you.Sometimes it has seemed strange even to me. I have beendoubtful, troubled, almost distracted. I have been risking agreat deal, in danger of losing what I value, what most mencount the best thing in the world. But it could not behelped. The risk was worth while. A great discovery, theopportunity of a lifetime, yes, of an age, perhaps of manyages, came to me. I simply could not throw it away. I mustuse it, make the best of it, at any danger, at any cost. Youshall judge for yourself whether I was right or wrong. But youmust judge fairly, without haste, without prejudice. I ask youto make me one promise. You will suspend judgment, you will saynothing, you will keep my secret, until you have been with methree times at the place where I am now taking you."By this time it was clear to me that I had to do with acase lying far outside of the common routine of life;something subtle, abnormal, hard to measure, in which a clearand careful estimate would be necessary. If Keene waslabouring under some strange delusion, some disorder of mind,how could I estimate its nature or extent, without time andstudy, perhaps without expert advice? To wait a little wouldbe prudent, for his sake as well as for the sake of others.If there was some extraordinary, reality behind his mysterioushints, it would need patience and skill to test it. I gavehim the promise for which he asked.At once, as if relieved, he sprang up, and crying, "Comeon, follow me!" began to make his way up the bed of the brook.It was one of the wildest walks that I have ever taken. Heturned aside for no obstacles; swamps, masses of interlacingalders, close-woven thickets of stiff young spruces,chevaux-de-frise of dead trees where wind-falls had mowed downthe forest, walls of lichen-crusted rock, landslides where heapsof broken stone were tumbled in ruinous confusion--througheverything he pushed forward. I could see, here and there, thetrack of his former journeys: broken branches of witch-hazel andmoose-wood, ferns trampled down, a faint trail across somedeeper bed of moss. At mid-day we rested for a half-hour toeat lunch. But Keene would eat nothing, except a littlepellet of some dark green substance that he took from a flatsilver box in his pocket. He swallowed it hastily, andstooping his face to the spring by which he had halted, dranklong and eagerly."An Indian trick," said he, shaking the drops of waterfrom his face. "On a walk, food is a hindrance, a delay. Butthis tiny taste of bitter gum is a tonic; it spurs the courageand doubles the strength--if you are used to it. Otherwise Ishould not recommend you to try it. Faugh! the flavour is vile."He rinsed his mouth again with water, and stood up,calling me to come on. The way, now tangled among thenameless peaks and ranges, bore steadily southward, rising allthe time, in spite of many brief downward curves where a steepgorge must be crossed. Presently we came into a hard-woodforest, open and easy to travel. Breasting a long slope, wereached the summit of a broad, smoothly rounding ridge coveredwith a dense growth of stunted spruce. The trees rose aboveour heads, about twice the height of a man, and so thick thatwe could not see beyond them. But, from glimpses here andthere, and from the purity and lightness of the air, I judgedthat we were on far higher ground than any we had yettraversed, the central comb, perhaps, of the mountain-system.A few yards ahead of us, through the crowded trunks of thedwarf forest, I saw a gray mass, like the wall of a fortress,across our path. It was a vast rock, rising from the crest ofthe ridge, lifting its top above the sea of foliage. At itsbase there were heaps of shattered stones, and deep crevicesalmost like caves. One side of the rock was broken by a slantinggully."Be careful," cried my companion, "there is a rattlers'den somewhere about here. The snakes are in their winterquarters now, almost dormant, but they can still strike if youtread on them. Step here! Give me your hand--use that pointof rock--hold fast by this bush; it is firmly rooted--so!Here we are on Spy Rock! You have heard of it? I thought so.Other people have heard of it, and imagine that they havefound it--five miles east of us--on a lower ridge. Othersthink it is a peak just back of Cro' Nest. All wrong! Thereis but one real Spy Rock--here! This earth holds no moreperfect view-point. It is one of the rare places from whicha man may see the kingdoms of the world and all the glory ofthem. Look!"The prospect was indeed magnificent; it was strange whata vast enlargement of vision resulted from the slightelevation above the surrounding peaks. It was like beinglifted up so that we could look over the walls. The horizonexpanded as if by magic. The vast circumference of vision sweptaround us with a radius of a hundred miles. Mountain and meadow,forest and field, river and lake, hill and dale, village andfarmland, far-off city and shimmering water--all lay open to oursight, and over all the westering sun wove a transparent robe ofgem-like hues. Every feature of the landscape seemed alive,quivering, pulsating with conscious beauty. You could almostsee the world breathe."Wonderful!" I cried. "Most wonderful! You have found amount of vision.""Ah," he answered, "you don't half see the wonder yet, youdon't begin to appreciate it. Your eyes are new to it. Youhave not learned the power of far sight, the secret of SpyRock. You are still shut in by the horizon.""Do you mean to say that you can look beyond it?""Beyond yours--yes. And beyond any that you would dreampossible--See! Your sight reaches to that dim cloud of smokein the south? And beneath it you can make out, perhaps, avague blotch of shadow, or a tiny flash of brightness where thesun strikes it? New York! But I can see the great buildings,the domes, the spires, the crowded wharves, the tides of peoplewhirling through the streets--and beyond that, the sea, with theships coming and going! I can follow them on their courses--andbeyond that--Oh! when I am on Spy Rock I can see more thanother men can imagine."For a moment, strange to say, I almost fancied couldfollow him. The magnetism of his spirit imposed upon me,carried me away with him. Then sober reason told me that hewas talking of impossibilities."Keene," said I, "you are dreaming. The view and the airhave intoxicated you. This is a phantasy, a delusion!""It pleases you to call it so," he said, "but I only tellyou my real experience. Why it should be impossible I do notunderstand. There is no reason why the power of sight shouldnot be cultivated, enlarged, expanded indefinitely.""And the straight rays of light?" I asked. "And the curvatureof the earth which makes a horizon inevitable?""Who knows what a ray of light is?" said he. "Who canprove that it may not be curved, under certain conditions, orrefracted in some places in a way that is not possibleelsewhere? I tell you there is something extraordinary aboutthis Spy Rock. It is a seat of power--Nature's observatory.More things are visible here than anywhere else--more than Ihave told you yet. But come, we have little time left. Forhalf an hour, each of us shall enjoy what he can see. Thenhome again to the narrower outlook, the restricted life."The downward journey was swifter than the ascent, but noless fatiguing. By the time we reached the school, an hourafter dark, I was very tired. But Keene was in one of hismoods of exhilaration. He glowed like a piece of phosphorusthat has been drenched with light.Graham took the first opportunity of speaking with me alone."Well?" said he."Well!" I answered. "You were wrong. There is no treason inKeene's walks, no guilt in his moods. But there is somethingvery strange. I cannot form a judgment yet as to what we shoulddo. We must wait a few days. It will do no harm to be patient.Indeed, I have promised not to judge, not to speak of it, until acertain time. Are you satisfied?""This is a curious story," said he, "and I am puzzled byit. But I trust you, I agree to wait, though I am far fromsatisfied."Our second expedition was appointed for the followingSaturday. Keene was hungry for it, and I was almost as eager,desiring to penetrate as quickly as possible into the heart ofthe affair. Already a conviction in regard to it was pressingupon me, and I resolved to let him talk, this time, as freelyas he would, without interruption or denial.When we clambered up on Spy Rock, he was more subdued andreserved than he had been the first time. For a while hetalked little, but scanned view with wide, shining eyes. Thenhe began to tell me stories of the places that we couldsee--strange stories of domestic calamity, and social conflict,and eccentric passion, and hidden crime."Do you remember Hawthorne's story of 'The Minister'sBlack Veil?' It is the best comment on human life that everwas written. Everyone has something to hide. The surface oflife is a mask. The substance of life is a secret. Allhumanity wears the black veil. But it is not impenetrable.No, it is transparent, if you find the right point of view.Here, on Spy Rock, I have found it. I have learned how tolook through the veil. I can see, not by the light-rays only,but by the rays which are colourless, imperceptible,irresistible the rays of the unknown quantity, which penetrateeverywhere. I can see how men down in the great city areweaving their nets of selfishness and falsehood, and callingthem industrial enterprises or political combinations. I cansee how the wheels of society are moved by the hidden springsof avarice and greed and rivalry. I can see how childrendrink in the fables of religion, without understanding them,and how prudent men repeat them without believing them. I cansee how the illusions of love appear and vanish, and how men andwomen swear that their dreams are eternal, even while they fade.I can see how poor people blind themselves and deceive eachother, calling selfishness devotion, and bondage contentment.Down at Hilltop yonder I can see how Dorothy Ward and JohnGraham, without knowing it,without meaning it--""Stop, man!" I cried. "Stop, before you say what cannever be unsaid. You know it is not true. These arenightmare visions that ride you. Not from Spy Rock nor fromanywhere else can you see anything at Hilltop that is nothonest and pure and loyal. Come down, now, and let us gohome. You will see better there than here.""I think not," said he, "but I will come. Yes, of course,I am bound to come. But let me have a few minutes here alone.Go you down along the path a little way slowly. I will followyou in a quarter of an hour. And remember we are to be heretogether once more!"Once more! Yes, and then what must be done?How was this strange case to be dealt with so as to save allthe actors, as far as possible, from needless suffering? ThatKeene's mind was disordered at least three of us suspectedalready. But to me alone was the nature and seat of thedisorder known. How make the others understand it? Theymight easily conceive it to be something different from thefact, some actual lesion of the brain, an incurable insanity.But this it was not. As yet, at least, he was no patient fora mad-house: it would be unjust, probably it would beimpossible to have him committed. But on the other hand theymight take it too lightly, as the result of overwork, orperhaps of the use of some narcotic. To me it was certainthat the trouble went far deeper than this. It lay in theman's moral nature, in the error of his central will. It wasthe working out, in abnormal form, but with essential truth,of his chosen and cherished ideal of life. Spy Rock wassomething more than the seat of his delusion. it was theexpression of his temperament. The solitary trail that ledthither was the symbol of his search for happiness--alone,forgetful of life's lowlier ties, looking down upon the world inthe cold abstraction of scornful knowledge. How was such a manto be brought back to the real life whose first condition is theacceptance of a limited outlook, the willingness to live bytrust as much as by sight, the power of finding joy and peacein the things that we feel are the best, even though we cannotprove them nor explain them? How could he ever bring anythingbut discord and sorrow to those who were bound to him?This was what perplexed and oppressed me. I needed allthe time until the next Saturday to think the questionthrough, to decide what should be done. But the matter wastaken out of my hands. After our latest expedition Keene'sdark mood returned upon him with sombre intensity. Dull,restless, indifferent, half-contemptuous, he seemed towithdraw into himself, observing those around him withhalf-veiled glances, as if he had nothing better to do and yetfound it a tiresome pastime. He was like a man waitingwearily at a railway station for his train. Nothing pleasedhim. He responded to nothing.Graham controlled his indignation by a constant effort.A dozen times he was on the point of speaking out. But herestrained himself and played fair. Dorothy's suffering couldnot be hidden. Her loyalty was strained to the breakingpoint. She was too tender and true for anger, but she waswounded almost beyond endurance.Keene's restlessness increased. The intervening Thursdaywas Thanksgiving Day; most of the boys had gone home; theschool had holiday. Early in the morning he came to me."Let us take our walk to-day. We have no work to do.Come! In this clear, frosty air, Spy Rock will be glorious!""No," I answered, "this is no day for such an expedition.This is the home day. Stay here and be happy with us all.You owe this to love and friendship. You owe it to DorothyWard.""Owe it?" said he. "Speaking of debts, I think each manis his own preferred creditor. But of course you can do asyou like about to-day. Tomorrow or Saturday will answer justas well for our third walk together."About noon he came down from his room and went to thepiano, where Dorothy was sitting. They talked together in lowtones. Then she stood up, with pale face and wide-open eyes.She laid her hand on his arm."Do not go, Edward. For the last time I beg you to staywith us to-day."He lifted her hand and held it for an instant. Then hebowed, and let it fall."You will excuse me, Dorothy, I am sure. I feel the needof exercise. Absolutely I must go; good-by--until theevening."The hours of that day passed heavily for all of us. Therewas a sense of disaster in the air. Something irretrievablehad fallen from our circle. But no one dared to name it.Night closed in upon the house with a changing sky. All thestars were hidden. The wind whimpered and then shouted. Therain swept down in spiteful volleys, deepening at last into afierce, steady discharge. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock passed,and Keene did not return. By midnight we were certain thatsome accident had befallen him.It was impossible to go up into the mountains in thatpitch-darkness of furious tempest. But we could send down tothe village for men to organise a search-party and to bringthe doctor. At daybreak we set out--some of the men goingwith the Master along Black Brook, others in differentdirections to make sure of a complete search--Graham and thedoctor and I following the secret trail that I knew only toowell. Dorothy insisted that she must go. She would bear nodenial, declaring that it would be worse for her alone athome, than if we took her with us.It was incredible how the path seemed to lengthen. Grahamwatched the girl's every step, helping her over the difficultplaces, pushing aside the tangled branches, his eyes restingupon her as frankly, as tenderly as a mother looks at herchild. In single file we marched through the gray morning,clearing cold after the storm, and the silence was seldombroken, for we had little heart to talk.At last we came to the high, lonely ridge, the dwarfforest, the huge, couchant bulk of Spy Rock. There, on the backof it, with his right arm hanging over the edge, was the outlineof Edward Keene's form. It was as if some monster had seized himand flung him over its shoulder to carry away.We called to him but there was no answer. The doctorclimbed up with me, and we hurried to the spot where he waslying. His face was turned to the sky, his eyes blindlystaring; there was no pulse, no breath; he was already cold indeath. His right hand and arm, the side of his neck and facewere horribly swollen and livid. The doctor stooped down andexamined the hand carefully. "See!" he cried, pointing to agreat bruise on his wrist, with two tiny punctures in themiddle of it from which a few drops of blood had oozed, "arattlesnake has struck him. He must have fairly put his handupon it, perhaps in the dark, when he was climbing. And,look, what is this?"He picked up a flat silver box, that lay open on the rock.There were two olive-green pellets of a resinous paste in it.He lifted it to his face, and drew a long breath."Yes," he said, "it is Gunjab, the most powerful form ofHashish, the narcotic hemp of India. Poor fellow, it savedhim from frightful agony. He died in a dream.""You are right," I said, "in a dream, and for a dream."We covered his face and climbed down the rock. Dorothyand Graham were waiting below. He had put his coat aroundher. She was shivering a little. There were tear-marks onher face."Well," I said, "you must know it. We have lost him.""Ah!" said the girl, "I lost him long ago."
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