A Mountain Woman
IF Leroy Brainard had not had such arespect for literature, he would havewritten a book.As it was, he played at being an architect-- and succeeded in being a charming fellow.My sister Jessica never lost an opportunityof laughing at his endeavors as an architect."You can build an enchanting villa, butwhat would you do with a cathedral?""I shall never have a chance at a cathedral," he would reply. "And, besides, italways seems to me so material and so impertinent to build a little structure of stoneand wood in which to worship God!"You see what he was like? He was frivolous, yet one could never tell when he wouldbecome eloquently earnest.Brainard went off suddenly Westward oneday. I suspected that Jessica was at thebottom of it, but I asked no questions; andI did not hear from him for months. Then Igot a letter from Colorado."I have married a mountain woman," hewrote. "None of your puny breed of modernfemininity, but a remnant left over from theheroic ages, -- a primitive woman, grand andvast of spirit, capable of true and steadfastwifehood. No sophistry about her; noknowledge even that there is sophistry.Heavens! man, do you remember the ron-deaux and triolets I used to write to thosepretty creatures back East? It would takea Saga man of the old Norseland to writefor my mountain woman. If I were anartist, I would paint her with the north starin her locks and her feet on purple cloud.I suppose you are at the Pier. I know youusually are at this season. At any rate, Ishall direct this letter thither, and will followclose after it. I want my wife to see something of life. And I want her to meet yoursister.""Dear me!" cried Jessica, when I readthe letter to her; "I don't know that I careto meet anything quite so gigantic as thatmountain woman. I'm one of the puny breedof modern femininity, you know. I don'tthink my nerves can stand the encounter.""Why, Jessica!" I protested. She blusheda little."Don't think bad of me, Victor. But, yousee, I've a little scrap-book of those trioletsupstairs." Then she burst into a peal ofirresistible laughter. "I'm not laughingbecause I am piqued," she said frankly."Though any one will admit that it israther irritating to have a man who leftyou in a blasted condition recover withsuch extraordinary promptness. As a philanthropist, one of course rejoices, but as awoman, Victor, it must be admitted that onehas a right to feel annoyed. But, honestly,I am not ungenerous, and I am going to dohim a favor. I shall write, and urge himnot to bring his wife here. A primitivewoman, with the north star in her hair,would look well down there in the Casinoeating a pineapple ice, wouldn't she? It'sall very well to have a soul, you know; butit won't keep you from looking like a guyamong women who have good dressmakers.I shudder at the thought of what the poorthing will suffer if he brings her here."Jessica wrote, as she said she would; but,for all that, a fortnight later she was walkingdown the wharf with the "mountain woman,"and I was sauntering beside Leroy. Atdinner Jessica gave me no chance to talkwith our friend's wife, and I only caughtthe quiet contralto tones of her voice nowand then contrasting with Jessica's vivacioussoprano. A drizzling rain came up fromthe east with nightfall. Little groups ofshivering men and women sat about in theparlors at the card-tables, and one blondwoman sang love songs. The Brainardswere tired with their journey, and left usearly. When they were gone, Jessica burstinto eulogy."That is the first woman," she declared,"I ever met who would make a fit heroinefor a book.""Then you will not feel under obligationsto educate her, as you insinuated the otherday?""Educate her! I only hope she willhelp me to unlearn some of the things Iknow. I never saw such simplicity. It isantique!""You're sure it's not mere vacuity?""Victor! How can you? But you haven'ttalked with her. You must to-morrow.Good-night." She gathered up her trailing skirts and started down the corridor.Suddenly she turned back. "For Heaven'ssake!" she whispered, in an awed tone,"I never even noticed what she had on!"The next morning early we made up ariding party, and I rode with Mrs. Brainard.She was as tall as I, and sat in her saddleas if quite unconscious of her animal. Theroad stretched hard and inviting under ourhorses' feet. The wind smelled salt. Thesky was ragged with gray masses of cloudscudding across the blue. I was beginningto glow with exhilaration, when suddenly mycompanion drew in her horse."If you do not mind, we will go back,"she said.Her tone was dejected. I thought shewas tired."Oh, no!" she protested, when I apologized for my thoughtlessness in bringing herso far. "I'm not tired. I can ride all day.Where I come from, we have to ride ifwe want to go anywhere; but here thereseems to be no particular place to -- toreach.""Are you so utilitarian?" I asked, laughingly. "Must you always have some reasonfor everything you do? I do so many thingsjust for the mere pleasure of doing them,I'm afraid you will have a very poor opinionof me.""That is not what I mean," she said,flushing, and turning her large gray eyes onme. "You must not think I have a reasonfor everything I do." She was very earnest,and it was evident that she was unacquaintedwith the art of making conversation. "Butwhat I mean," she went on, "is that there isno place -- no end -- to reach." She lookedback over her shoulder toward the west,where the trees marked the sky line, and anexpression of loss and dissatisfaction cameover her face. "You see," she said, apologetically, "I'm used to different things -- tothe mountains. I have never been where Icould not see them before in my life.""Ah, I see! I suppose it is odd to lookup and find them not there.""It's like being lost, this not having anything around you. At least, I mean," shecontinued slowly, as if her thought couldnot easily put itself in words, -- "I meanit seems as if a part of the world had beentaken down. It makes you feel lonesome,as if you were living after the world hadbegun to die.""You'll get used to it in a few days. Itseems very beautiful to me here. And thenyou will have so much life to divert you.""Life? But there is always that everywhere.""I mean men and women.""Oh! Still, I am not used to them. Ithink I might be not -- not very happy withthem. They might think me queer. Ithink I would like to show your sister themountains.""She has seen them often.""Oh, she told me. But I don't meanthose pretty green hills such as we saw coming here. They are not like my mountains.I like mountains that go beyond the clouds,with terrible shadows in the hollows, andbelts of snow lying in the gorges where thesun cannot reach, and the snow is blue inthe sunshine, or shining till you think it issilver, and the mist so wonderful all aboutit, changing each moment and drifting upand down, that you cannot tell what nameto give the colors. These mountains ofyours here in the East are so quiet; mineare shouting all the time, with the pines andthe rivers. The echoes are so loud in thevalley that sometimes, when the wind isrising, we can hardly hear a man talk unlesshe raises his voice. There are four cataractsnear where I live, and they all have differentvoices, just as people do; and one of themis happy -- a little white cataract -- and it fallswhere the sun shines earliest, and till nightit is shining. But the others only get thesun now and then, and they are more noisyand cruel. One of them is always in theshadow, and the water looks black. Thatis partly because the rocks all underneathit are black. It falls down twenty greatledges in a gorge with black sides, and awhite mist dances all over it at every leap.I tell father the mist is the ghost of thewaters. No man ever goes there; it is toocold. The chill strikes through one, andmakes your heart feel as if you were dying.But all down the side of the mountain,toward the south and the west, the sun shineson the granite and draws long points oflight out of it. Father tells me soldiersmarching look that way when the sun strikeson their bayonets. Those are the kind ofmountains I mean, Mr. Grant."She was looking at me with her face transfigured, as if it, like the mountains she toldme of, had been lying in shadow, and waiting for the dazzling dawn."I had a terrible dream once," she wenton; "the most terrible dream ever I had.I dreamt that the mountains had all beentaken down, and that I stood on a plain towhich there was no end. The sky was burning up, and the grass scorched brown fromthe heat, and it was twisting as if it were inpain. And animals, but no other personsave myself, only wild things, were crouching and looking up at that sky. They couldnot run because there was no place to whichto go.""You were having a vision of the lastman," I said. "I wonder myself sometimeswhether this old globe of ours is going tocollapse suddenly and take us with her, orwhether we will disappear through slowdisastrous ages of fighting and crushing,with hunger and blight to help us to theend. And then, at the last, perhaps, someluckless fellow, stronger than the rest, willstand amid the ribs of the rotting earth andgo mad."The woman's eyes were fixed on me,large and luminous. "Yes," she said; "hewould go mad from the lonesomeness of it.He would be afraid to be left alone like thatwith God. No one would want to be takeninto God's secrets.""And our last man," I went on, "wouldhave to stand there on that swaying wrecktill even the sound of the crumbling earthceased. And he would try to find a voiceand would fail, because silence would havecome again. And then the light would goout --"The shudder that crept over her mademe stop, ashamed of myself."You talk like father," she said, with along-drawn breath. Then she looked upsuddenly at the sun shining through a riftin those reckless gray clouds, and put outone hand as if to get it full of the headlongrollicking breeze. "But the earth is notdying," she cried. "It is well and strong,and it likes to go round and round amongall the other worlds. It likes the sun andmoon; they are all good friends; and itlikes the people who live on it. Maybe itis they instead of the fire within who keepit warm; or maybe it is warm just fromalways going, as we are when we run. Weare young, you and I, Mr. Grant, and Leroy,and your beautiful sister, and the world isyoung too!" Then she laughed a strongsplendid laugh, which had never had thejoy taken out of it with drawing-room restrictions; and I laughed too, and felt thatwe had become very good companionsindeed, and found myself warming to thejoy of companionship as I had not since Iwas a boy at school.That afternoon the four of us sat at atable in the Casino together. The Casino,as every one knows, is a place to amuseyourself. If you have a duty, a mission, oran aspiration, you do not take it there withyou, it would be so obviously out of place;if poverty is ahead of you, you forget it; ifyou have brains, you hasten to conceal them;they would be a serious encumbrance.There was a bubbling of conversation, arustle and flutter such as there always iswhere there are many women. All theplace was gay with flowers and with gownsas bright as the flowers. I remembered theapprehensions of my sister, and studiedLeroy's wife to see how she fitted into thishighly colored picture. She was the onlywoman in the room who seemed to weardraperies. The jaunty slash and cut offashionable attire were missing in the longbrown folds of cloth that enveloped herfigure. I felt certain that even from Jessica'sstandpoint she could not be called a guy.Picturesque she might be, past the point ofconvention, but she was not ridiculous."Judith takes all this very seriously," saidLeroy, laughingly. "I suppose she wouldtake even Paris seriously."His wife smiled over at him. "Leroysays I am melancholy," she said, softly;"but I am always telling him that I amhappy. He thinks I am melancholy because I do not laugh. I got out of the wayof it by being so much alone. You onlylaugh to let some one else know you arepleased. When you are alone there is nouse in laughing. It would be like explaining something to yourself.""You are a philosopher, Judith. Mr.Max Müller would like to know you.""Is he a friend of yours, dear?"Leroy blushed, and I saw Jessica curlher lip as she noticed the blush. She laidher hand on Mrs. Brainard's arm."Have you always been very muchalone?" she inquired."I was born on the ranch, you know;and father was not fond of leaving it. Indeed, now he says he will never again goout of sight of it. But you can go a longjourney without doing that; for it lies on aplateau in the valley, and it can be seenfrom three different mountain passes.Mother died there, and for that reason andothers -- father has had a strange life -- henever wanted to go away. He brought alady from Pennsylvania to teach me. Shehad wonderful learning, but she didn'tmake very much use of it. I thought if Ihad learning I would not waste it readingbooks. I would use it to -- to live with.Father had a library, but I never cared forit. He was forever at books too. Ofcourse," she hastened to add, noticing thelook of mortification deepen on her husband's face, "I like books very well if thereis nothing better at hand. But I alwayssaid to Mrs. Windsor -- it was she whotaught me -- why read what other folk havebeen thinking when you can go out andthink yourself? Of course one prefers one'sown thoughts, just as one prefers one's ownranch, or one's own father.""Then you are sure to like New Yorkwhen you go there to live," cried Jessica;"for there you will find something to makelife entertaining all the time. No one needfall back on books there.""I'm not sure. I'm afraid there must besuch dreadful crowds of people. Of courseI should try to feel that they were all likeme, with just the same sort of fears, andthat it was ridiculous for us to be afraid ofeach other, when at heart we all meant tobe kind."Jessica fairly wrung her hands. "Heavens!" she cried. "I said you would likeNew York. I am afraid, my dear, that itwill break your heart!""Oh," said Mrs. Brainard, with what wasmeant to be a gentle jest, "no one canbreak my heart except Leroy. I shouldnot care enough about any one else, youknow."The compliment was an exquisite one.I felt the blood creep to my own brain ina sort of vicarious rapture, and I avoidedlooking at Leroy lest he should dislike tohave me see the happiness he must feel.The simplicity of the woman seemed toinvigorate me as the cool air of her mountains might if it blew to me on some brightdawn, when I had come, fevered and sickof soul, from the city.When we were alone, Jessica said to me:"That man has too much vanity, and hethinks it is sensitiveness. He is going toimagine that his wife makes him suffer.There's no one so brutally selfish as yoursensitive man. He wants every one to liveaccording to his ideas, or he immediatelybegins suffering. That friend of yourshasn't the courage of his convictions. Heis going to be ashamed of the very qualitiesthat made him love his wife."There was a hop that night at the hotel,quite an unusual affair as to elegance, givenin honor of a woman from New York, whowrote a novel a month.Mrs. Brainard looked so happy that nightwhen she came in the parlor, after themusic had begun, that I felt a moisturegather in my eyes just because of the beautyof her joy, and the forced vivacity of thewomen about me seemed suddenly coarseand insincere. Some wonderful red stones,brilliant as rubies, glittered in among thediaphanous black driftings of her dress.She asked me if the stones were not verypretty, and said she gathered them in oneof her mountain river-beds."But the gown?" I said. "Surely, youdo not gather gowns like that in river-beds,or pick them off mountain-pines?""But you can get them in Denver. Fatheralways sent to Denver for my finery. Hewas very particular about how I looked.You see, I was all he had --" She brokeoff, her voice faltering."Come over by the window," I said, tochange her thought. "I have something torepeat to you. It is a song of SydneyLanier's. I think he was the greatest poetthat ever lived in America, though notmany agree with me. But he is my dearfriend anyway, though he is dead, and Inever saw him; and I want you to hearsome of his words."I led her across to an open window. Thedancers were whirling by us. The waltzwas one of those melancholy ones whichspeak the spirit of the dance more eloquently than any merry melody can. Thesound of the sea booming beyond in thedarkness came to us, and long paths oflight, now red, now green, stretched towardthe distant light-house. These were thelines I repeated: --"What heartache -- ne'er a hill!Inexorable, vapid, vague, and chillThe drear sand levels drain my spirit low.With one poor word they tell me all they know;Whereat their stupid tongues, to tease my pain,Do drawl it o'er and o'er again.They hurt my heart with griefs I cannot name;Always the same -- the same."But I got no further. I felt myself movedwith a sort of passion which did not seem tocome from within, but to be communicatedto me from her. A certain unfamiliar happiness pricked through with pain thrilledme, and I heard her whispering, --"Do not go on, do not go on! I cannotstand it to-night!""Hush," I whispered back; "come outfor a moment!" We stole into the duskwithout, and stood there trembling. Iswayed with her emotion. There was along silence. Then she said: "Father maybe walking alone now by the black cataract.That is where he goes when he is sad. Ican see how lonely he looks among thoselittle twisted pines that grow from the rock.And he will be remembering all the eveningswe walked there together, and all the thingswe said." I did not answer. Her eyeswere still on the sea."What was the name of the man whowrote that verse you just said to me?"I told her."And he is dead? Did they bury himin the mountains? No? I wish I couldhave put him where he could have heardthose four voices calling down the canyon.""Come back in the house," I said; "youmust come, indeed," I said, as she shrankfrom re-entering.Jessica was dancing like a fairy with Leroy. They both saw us and smiled as wecame in, and a moment later they joined us.I made my excuses and left my friends toJessica's care. She was a sort of socialtyrant wherever she was, and I knew oneword from her would insure the popularityof our friends -- not that they needed theintervention of any one. Leroy had beena sort of drawing-room pet since before hestopped wearing knickerbockers."He is at his best in a drawing-room,"said Jessica, "because there he deals withtheory and not with action. And he hassuch beautiful theories that the women, whoare all idealists, adore him."The next morning I awoke with a conviction that I had been idling too long. Iwent back to the city and brushed the dustfrom my desk. Then each morning, I, asJessica put it, "formed public opinion"to the extent of one column a day in thecolumns of a certain enterprising morningjournal.Brainard said I had treated him shabbilyto leave upon the heels of his coming. Buta man who works for his bread and buttermust put a limit to his holiday. It is different when you only work to add to yourgeneral picturesqueness. That is what Iwrote Leroy, and it was the unkindest thingI ever said to him; and why I did it I donot know to this day. I was glad, though,when he failed to answer the letter. It gaveme a more reasonable excuse for feelingout of patience with him.The days that followed were very dull.It was hard to get back into the way ofworking. I was glad when Jessica camehome to set up our little establishment andto join in the autumn gayeties. Brainardbrought his wife to the city soon after, andwent to housekeeping in an odd sort of away."I couldn't see anything in the place savecurios," Jessica reported, after her first callon them. "I suppose there is a cooking-stove somewhere, and maybe even a pantrywith pots in it. But all I saw was Alaskatotems and Navajo blankets. They haveas many skins around on the floor andcouches as would have satisfied an ancientBriton. And everybody was calling there.You know Mr. Brainard runs to curios inselecting his friends as well as his furniture.The parlors were full this afternoon of abnormal people, that is to say, with folks onereads about. I was the only one there whohadn't done something. I guess it's because I am too healthy.""How did Mrs. Brainard like such amotley crew?""She was wonderful -- perfectly wonderful! Those insulting creatures were allstudying her, and she knew it. But herdignity was perfect, and she looked as proudas a Sioux chief. She listened to every one,and they all thought her so bright.""Brainard must have been tremendouslyproud of her.""Oh, he was -- of her and his Chilcatportières."Jessica was there often, but -- well, I wasbusy. At length, however, I was forced togo. Jessica refused to make any furtherexcuses for me. The rooms were filled withsmall celebrities."We are the only nonentities," whisperedJessica, as she looked around; "it will makeus quite distinguished."We went to speak to our hostess. Shestood beside her husband, looking tallerthan ever; and her face was white. Herlong red gown of clinging silk was so peculiar as to give one the impression that shewas dressed in character. It was easy totell that it was one of Leroy's fancies. Ihardly heard what she said, but I know shereproached me gently for not having beento see them. I had no further word withher till some one led her to the piano, andshe paused to say, --"That poet you spoke of to me -- the oneyou said was a friend of yours -- he is myfriend now too, and I have learned to singsome of his songs. I am going to sing onenow." She seemed to have no timidity atall, but stood quietly, with a half smile,while a young man with a Russian nameplayed a strange minor prelude. Then shesang, her voice a wonderful contralto, cold attimes, and again lit up with gleams of passion. The music itself was fitful, now fullof joy, now tender, and now sad:"Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands,And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,How long they kiss in sight of all the lands,Ah! longer, longer we.""She has a genius for feeling, hasn'tshe?" Leroy whispered to me."A genius for feeling!" I repeated,angrily. "Man, she has a heart and a souland a brain, if that is what you mean! Ishouldn't think you would be able to lookat her from the standpoint of a critic."Leroy shrugged his shoulders and wentoff. For a moment I almost hated him fornot feeling more resentful. I felt as if heowed it to his wife to take offence at myfoolish speech.It was evident that the "mountain woman"had become the fashion. I read reports inthe papers about her unique receptions. Isaw her name printed conspicuously amongthe list of those who attended all sorts ofdinners and musicales and evenings amongthe set that affected intellectual pursuits.She joined a number of women's clubs ofan exclusive kind."She is doing whatever her husband tellsher to," said Jessica. "Why, the other dayI heard her ruining her voice on 'Siegfried'!"But from day to day I noticed a differencein her. She developed a terrible activity.She took personal charge of the affairs ofher house; she united with Leroy in keeping the house filled with guests; she goton the board of a hospital for little children,and spent a part of every day among thecots where the sufferers lay. Now and thenwhen we spent a quiet evening alone withher and Leroy, she sewed continually onlittle white night-gowns for these poor babies.She used her carriage to take the most extraordinary persons riding."In the cause of health," Leroy used tosay, "I ought to have the carriage fumigated after every ride Judith takes, for sheis always accompanied by some one who looksas if he or she should go into quarantine."One night, when he was chaffing her inthis way, she flung her sewing suddenlyfrom her and sprang to her feet, as if shewere going to give way to a burst of girlishtemper. Instead of that, a stream of tearspoured from her eyes, and she held out hertrembling hands toward Jessica."He does not know," she sobbed. "Hecannot understand."One memorable day Leroy hastened overto us while we were still at breakfast to saythat Judith was ill, -- strangely ill. All nightlong she had been muttering to herself as ifin a delirium. Yet she answered lucidly allquestions that were put to her."She begs for Miss Grant. She saysover and over that she 'knows,' whateverthat may mean."When Jessica came home she told me shedid not know. She only felt that a tumultof impatience was stirring in her friend."There is something majestic about her, --something epic. I feel as if she were making me live a part in some great drama, theend of which I cannot tell. She is suffering,but I cannot tell why she suffers."Weeks went on without an abatement inthis strange illness. She did not keep herbed. Indeed, she neglected few of her usualoccupations. But her hands were burning,and her eyes grew bright with that wildsort of lustre one sees in the eyes of thosewho give themselves up to strange drugs ormanias. She grew whimsical, and formedcapricious friendships, only to drop them.And then one day she closed her houseto all acquaintances, and sat alone continually in her room, with her hands claspedin her lap, and her eyes swimming with theemotions that never found their way to hertongue.Brainard came to the office to talk withme about her one day. "I am a very miserable man, Grant," he said. "I am afraid Ihave lost my wife's regard. Oh, don't tell meit is partly my fault. I know it well enough.And I know you haven't had a very goodopinion of me lately. But I am remorsefulenough now, God knows. And I would givemy life to see her as she was when I foundher first among the mountains. Why, sheused to climb them like a strong man, andshe was forever shouting and singing. Andshe had peopled every spot with strangemodern mythological creatures. Her fatheris an old dreamer, and she got the trick fromhim. They had a little telescope on a greatknoll in the centre of the valley, just whereit commanded a long path of stars, and theyused to spend nights out there when thefrost literally fell in flakes. When I thinkhow hardy and gay she was, how full ofcourage and life, and look at her now, sofeverish and broken, I feel as if I should gomad. You know I never meant to do herany harm. Tell me that much, Grant.""I think you were very egotistical for awhile, Brainard, and that is a fact. Andyou didn't appreciate how much her naturedemanded. But I do not think you are responsible for your wife's present condition.If there is any comfort in that statement,you are welcome to it.""But you don't mean --" he got nofurther."I mean that your wife may have herreservations, just as we all have, and I ampaying her high praise when I say it. Youare not so narrow, Leroy, as to suppose fora moment that the only sort of passion awoman is capable of is that which she entertains for a man. How do I know whatis going on in your wife's soul? But it isnothing which even an idealist of women,such as I am, old fellow, need regret."How glad I was afterward that I spokethose words. They exercised a little restraint, perhaps, on Leroy when the dayof his terrible trial came. They made himwrestle with the demon of suspicion thatstrove to possess him. I was sitting in myoffice, lagging dispiritedly over my workone day, when the door burst open andBrainard stood beside me. Brainard, I say,and yet in no sense the man I had known,-- not a hint in this pale creature, whosebreath struggled through chattering teeth,and whose hands worked in uncontrollablespasms, of the nonchalant elegant I hadknown. Not a glimpse to be seen in thoseangry and determined eyes of the gaylyselfish spirit of my holiday friend."She's gone!" he gasped. "Since yesterday. And I'm here to ask you whatyou think now? And what you know."A panorama of all shameful possibilitiesfor one black moment floated before me.I remember this gave place to a wave, coldas death, that swept from head to foot;then Brainard's hands fell heavily on myshoulders."Thank God at least for this much," hesaid, hoarsely; "I didn't know at first butI had lost both friend and wife. But I seeyou know nothing. And indeed in myheart I knew all the time that you did not.Yet I had to come to you with my anger.And I remembered how you defended her.What explanation can you offer now?"I got him to sit down after a while andtell me what little there was to tell. Hehad been away for a day's shooting, andwhen he returned he found only the perplexed servants at home. A note was leftfor him. He showed it to me."There are times," it ran, "when we mustdo as we must, not as we would. I am going to do something I have been driven todo since I left my home. I do not leaveany message of love for you, because youwould not care for it from a woman so weakas I. But it is so easy for you to be happythat I hope in a little while you will forgetthe wife who yielded to an influence pastresisting. It may be madness, but I amnot great enough to give it up. I tried tomake the sacrifice, but I could not. I triedto be as gay as you, and to live your sort oflife; but I could not do it. Do not makethe effort to forgive me. You will be happier if you simply hold me in the contemptI deserve."I read the letter over and over. I do notknow that I believe that the spirit of inanimate things can permeate to the intelligenceof man. I am sure I always laughed atsuch ideas. Yet holding that note with itsshameful seeming words, I felt a consciousness that it was written in purity and love.And then before my eyes there came a sceneso vivid that for a moment the office with itsfamiliar furniture was obliterated. What Isaw was a long firm road, green with midsummer luxuriance. The leisurely thuddingof my horse's feet sounded in my ears. Beside me was a tall, black-robed figure. Isaw her look back with that expression ofdeprivation at the sky line. "It's like living after the world has begun to die," saidthe pensive minor voice. "It seems as ifpart of the world had been taken down.""Brainard," I yelled, "come here! Ihave it. Here's your explanation. I canshow you a new meaning for every line ofthis letter. Man, she has gone to the mountains. She has gone to worship her owngods!"Two weeks later I got a letter from Brainard, dated from Colorado."Old man," it said, "you're right. Sheis here. I found my mountain woman herewhere the four voices of her cataracts hadbeen calling to her. I saw her the momentour mules rounded the road that commandsthe valley. We had been riding all nightand were drenched with cold dew, hungryto desperation, and my spirits were of lead.Suddenly we got out from behind the granite wall, and there she was, standing, where Ihad seen her so often, beside the little waterfall that she calls the happy one. She waslooking straight up at the billowing mistthat dipped down the mountain, mammothsaffron rolls of it, plunging so madly fromthe impetus of the wind that one marvelledhow it could be noiseless. Ah, you do notknow Judith! That strange, unsophisticated, sometimes awkward woman you sawbore no more resemblance to my mountainwoman than I to Hercules. How strong andbeautiful she looked standing there wrappedin an ecstasy! It was my primitive womanback in her primeval world. How the bloodleaped in me! All my old romance, so different from the common love-histories ofmost men, was there again within my reach!All the mystery, the poignant happinesswere mine again. Do not hold me in contempt because I show you my heart. Yousaw my misery. Why should I grudge youa glimpse of my happiness? She saw mewhen I touched her hand, not before, sowrapped was she. But she did not seemsurprised. Only in her splendid eyes therecame a large content. She pointed to thedancing little white fall. 'I thought something wonderful was going to happen,' shewhispered, 'for it has been laughing so.'"I shall not return to New York. I amgoing to stay here with my mountain woman, and I think perhaps I shall find outwhat life means here sooner than I wouldback there with you. I shall learn to seelarge things large and small things small.Judith says to tell you and Miss Grant thatthe four voices are calling for you everyday in the valley."Yours in fullest friendship,"LEROY BRAINARD."
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