The Pines of Lory/Chapter 6



T one o’clock the lunch was served. Pats had placed before the lady a portion of a ham, a plate of crackers, some marmalade, and a bottle of claret.

“There are provisions in the cellar,” he said, “to last a year: sacks of flour, dried apples, preserved fruits, potatoes, all sorts of canned things, and claret by the dozen.”

As he spoke, he laid his hand upon the back of the chair that held the miniature,–the seat opposite her own.

“Don’t sit there!” she exclaimed. “We must respect the customs of the house.”

“Of course!” and he drew up another seat.

Food and a little wine tended to freshen the spirits of both travellers. Pats especially acquired new life and strength. The arrival of a glass or two of claret in his yearning stomach revived his hopes and loosened his tongue. Noticing that her eyes were constantly returning to the little portrait that faced her, he said, at last:

“By the way, there is something in the cellar that may throw some light on this lady, or on that empty grave back there.” And he nodded toward the pines.

“What is that?”

“A coffin.”

He smiled at her surprise and horror. In a low voice, she murmured:

“It is empty, of course!”

“Yes, I raised the lid.”

“What can it mean?”

“I have no idea, unless some one disappointed somebody else by remaining alive, when he–or she–ought to be dead. That sometimes happens.”

“It is very mysterious,” and she looked into the eyes of the miniature as if for enlightenment.

“Very, indeed; but on the other hand, certain things are pretty evident. Such as the character of our host, and various points in his career.”

“You mean that he is a hermit with a history?”

“Yes, and more specific than that!” Then, turning about in his chair and surveying the room: “He is an aristocrat, to begin with. These works of art are ancestral. They are no amateur’s collection. Moreover, he left France because he had to. A man of his position does not bring his treasures into the wilderness for the fun of it. And when he settled here he had no intention of being hunted up by his friends–or by his enemies.”

Elinor, with averted eyes, listened politely, but with no encouraging display of interest.

“But let us be sure he is not within hearing,” Pats added, and he stepped to the door and looked about. “Not a sail in sight.”

At this point Solomon renewed his efforts to get his master to follow him, but in vain.

“Why don’t you go with him?” said Elinor. “He may have made an important discovery, like the graves, perhaps.”

“More likely a woodchuck’s hole, or a squirrel track. Besides,” he added, with a smile, as he dropped into his chair again, “these broomsticks of mine have collapsed once to-day, and I am becoming cautious. It has been a lively morning–for a convalescent.”

With a look that was almost, but not quite, sympathetic, she replied: “You have done too much. Stay here and rest. I will go with him, just for curiosity.”

She went out, preceded by the bounding Solomon. Through the open door Pats watched them, and into his face came a graver look as he followed, with his eyes, the graceful figure in the gray dress until it disappeared from the sunlight among the shadows of the forest.

That he and she were stranded at a point far away from his own home he had little doubt. No such extraordinary house as this could have existed within fifty miles of Boyd’s Island without his hearing of it. Moreover, he keenly regretted on her account his own physical condition. Since rising from his bed of fever he had carefully avoided all fatigue, according to his doctor’s injunction. But now, after this morning’s efforts, his legs were weak and his head was flighty. Things showed a tendency to dance before his eyes in a way that he had not experienced heretofore. When he lay upon the ground an hour ago he did it, among other reasons, to avoid tumbling from dizziness and exhaustion.

The lady’s situation was bad enough already. To have a collapsible man upon her hands was a supreme and final calamity that he wished to spare her. He leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the heavy carving beneath the table. How good it was, this relaxation of all one’s muscles!

The pompous rooster, with a few favorites of his seraglio, came and stood about the open door, eying him in disapproval, and always muttering.

In looking idly about Pats found himself becoming interested in the huge tapestry extending across the room at his right,–the one that served as a screen to the bedchamber. While no expert in no such matters, he recognized in this tapestry a splendid work of art, both from its color and wealth of detail, and from the quality of its material. The more he studied it, the deeper became his interest–and his amusement. The scene, a formal Italian garden of the sixteenth century, of vast dimensions, showed fountains and statues without limit, and trees trimmed in fantastic shapes, with a château in the background. But the central group of figures brought a smile to his face. For, while the gardens were filled with lords and ladies of the court of Henri III., those in the foreground being nearly the size of life,–all clad in their richest attire, feathers in their hats, high ruffs about the neck, and resplendent with jewels, the ladies in stiff bodices and voluminous skirts,–there were two figures in the centre in startling contrast with their overdressed companions. These two, a man and a woman, wore nothing except a garland of leaves about the hips.

Pats smiled and even forgot his fatigue, as he realized that he was gazing upon a serious conception of the Garden of Eden. And the bride and groom showed no embarrassment. The groom was pointing, in an easy manner, to anything, anywhere, while the bride, in a graceful but self-conscious pose, ignored his remarks.

And all the lords and ladies round about accepted, as a matter of course, the nakedness of this unconventional pair. While still fascinated by the brazen indifference of this famous couple, and pleasantly shocked by their disregard for all the rules of propriety, he was aroused by the sudden appearance in the doorway of Elinor Marshall. She had evidently been hurrying. There was excitement in her voice, as she exclaimed:

“He is here! He has come back!”

“The owner?”

“Yes, he is taking a nap on a bench, on the other side of the point.”

In another moment Pats was beside her, both walking rapidly through the wood. Approaching the western edge of the point, they saw, between the trees, a figure sitting upon a bench, overlooking the water, his back toward them. With one elbow upon an arm of the rustic seat, his cheek resting on his hand and his knees crossed, he seemed in full enjoyment of a nap.

Pats took a position in front of the sleeper, at a respectful distance, then said, in a voice not too loud:

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

There was no responsive movement. When it became clear that he had not been heard, Pats stepped a very little nearer and repeated, in a louder tone:

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

Still the sleeper slept.

Pats glanced at Elinor Marshall, who smiled, involuntarily. Pats also smiled, as he realized that this ceremonious and somewhat labored greeting had a distinctly comic side, especially when so completely thrown away. However, he was about to repeat the salutation and in a louder voice, when he was struck by the color of the hand against the cheek. He went nearer and, stooping down, looked up into the sleeper’s face. A glance was enough.

Slowly he straightened up, then reverently removed his hat.

Elinor, with a look of awe, came nearer and whispered:

“Dead! Is it possible!”

For a moment both stood in silence, looking down upon the seated figure. It was that of an elderly man, short, and slight of frame, with thick gray hair, and a beard cut roughly to a point. The face, brown, thin, and bony, was unduly emphasized by a Roman nose, too large for the other features. But the face, as a whole, impressed the two people now regarding it as almost handsome. He was clad in a dark gray suit, and a soft felt hat lay upon the seat beside him.

“How long has he been here, do you think?” asked Elinor, in a low voice.

“A day or two, I should say. His clothes are a little damp, and there are pine-needles on his shoulders and on his head.”

“But how dreadfully sudden it must have come! Not a change in his position, or in his expression, even.”

“An ideal death,” said Pats. “I have helped bury a good many men this year, both friends and enemies, but very few went off as comfortably as this.”

He took out his watch, seemed to hesitate a moment, then said, reluctantly:

“This is bad for us, you know, finding him dead this way.”

“Why?”

“It means there is no boat to get away with.”

A look of alarm came into her face.

“We may as well face the situation,” he continued, looking off over the water. “This man lived here alone, as we know from what we have seen in his house. And he evidently selected this place, not wishing to be disturbed. We are at the end of a bay at least ten miles deep, with no settlement in sight. There is nothing whatever to bring a visitor in here. The traffic of the gulf is away out there, perhaps thirty miles from here.”

She made no reply. Venturing to glance at her face, he saw there were no signs of anger, only a look of anxiety.

“I will tell you just what I think, Miss Marshall, and you can act accordingly. I shall, of course, do whatever you wish. But, as nearly as I can judge, we are prisoners until we can get away by tramping through the wilderness.”

He indicated, with a gesture, the broad current at their feet, washing the western edge of the point. “That river we can never cross without a boat, or a raft; and in that direction–I don’t know how many miles away–is Boyd’s Island. In the other direction, to the east, there is nothing but wilderness for an indefinite distance. That is, I think so. Now, if you prefer, I will go up this bank of the river at once, tie some logs together and try for a passage; then push on as fast as possible for our place, or the nearest settlement, and come back for you. Or, I will stay until we can go on together. Whatever you decide shall be done.”

He had spoken rapidly, and was ill at ease, watching her earnestly all the while.

As for her, she was dismayed by his words. She had been listening with a growing terror. Now, she turned away to conceal a tendency to tears. But this was repressed. With no resentment, but with obvious emotion, she inquired:

“Can you get across the river?”

“Very likely.”

“If you fail, or if anything happens to you, what becomes of me?”

“You would be here alone, and in a very bad plight. For that reason I think I would better stay until we can start together.”

A slight gesture of resignation was her only reply. There was a pause; uncomfortable for Pats from his consciousness of her low opinion of him. However, he continued, in a somewhat perfunctory way, turning to the silent occupant of the bench.

“Now, as we take possession of this place, the least we can do is to give the owner a decent burial. Fortunately for us a grave is dug and a coffin ready.”

“Yes, his grave and his coffin,” and she regarded with a gentler expression the sitting figure. “And I think I know why he dug the grave.”

“To save somebody else the trouble?”

“To be sure of resting beside his companion.”

“Of course! that explains it all. He knew that strangers might bury him in the easiest place; that they would never chop through all those roots.”

He stepped around behind the body, placed his hands under the arms, and made an effort to raise it, but the weight was beyond his strength. Looking toward his companion with an apologetic smile, he said: “I am sorry to be so useless, but–together we can carry him, if you don’t mind.”

At this suggestion Elinor, with a look of horror, took a backward step.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “for suggesting it. I have been doing so much of this work that I had forgotten how it affected others.”

“What work?”

“Burying people. In the Transvaal. One morning, with a squad, I buried twenty-eight. Nine of them my own friends. So, if I go about this in the simplest way, do not think it is from want of sympathy.”

“I shall understand.”

“Then I will bring that wheelbarrow I saw behind the house.”

He started off, then stopped as if to say something, but hesitated.

“What is it, Mr. Boyd?”

“I am afraid that coffin is too heavy for me. Would you mind helping with it?”

“No. And I can help you with the body, too, if necessary.” And together they returned to the cottage.

Never, probably, did simpler obsequies befall a peer of France.

Sitting up in the same position as on the rustic bench, his cheek upon his hand, his elbow on the side of the barrow, the hermit was wheeled to his final resting-place beneath the pines. Beside him, with a helping hand, walked Elinor Marshall, shocked and saddened by these awful incongruities.

Behind came Solomon.

Among the pines, in the solemn shade of this cathedral, grander and more impressive than any human temple, moved the little procession.

No requiem; only the murmuring in the boughs above, those far-away voices, dearer to him, perhaps,–and to his companion in the grave beside,–than all other music.