Читать книгу Storm King Banner - H. A. Cody - Страница 8

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As Prosper Dean approached his house by the brook, he heard the sweet strains of a violin coming from an open window. He was somewhat surprised, for Jacynth very seldom played on her favorite instrument unless he accompanied her on the piano. Drawing nearer, his trained and finely-sensitive ear detected something in the music that caused him to rein up his horse and listen attentively. There was an unusual throbbing passion of joy in every note, causing an anxious expression to come into his eyes. Only one thing could make Jacynth play like that. It was something he knew must come, but he had always banished the thought from his mind, hoping that his daughter would be his, and his alone, for several years, at least. But was he now to lose her, the joy of his life? Had some one unexpectedly crossed her path who would take her from him?

After he had stabled and fed Camilla, he walked slowly to the front door of his house and entered. He paused just inside, for what he saw in the room beyond held him spellbound. There stood Jacynth, her face alight with animation, as she drew the bow deftly across the strings. There was no doubt about her happiness, for it was expressed in her countenance and every movement. And lying upon the couch by her side was a young man, his eyes fixed in rapturous admiration upon the fair player. Prosper Dean had not been mistaken. The scene before him dissolved any doubt. Jacynth was his no longer! The time had at last arrived when another had usurped his place in her heart. And who was the young man? He could see his face quite plainly, but it brought no recollection of any one he knew. It was a strong, manly face, he could tell at a glance. But it seemed to him just then like the face of an evil spirit which had entered his home to steal away the heart of his only child. And how had he come here? What was he doing lying on that couch? It was strange that he appeared so perfectly at home. Thoughts hot and furious surged through his mind, and his first impulse was to rush forward and demand an explanation. But when he looked at his daughter, his anger cooled. Perhaps it would be better to do nothing rash. He would make inquiries and decide later. Jacynth must be considered.

Suddenly the music stopped, for the girl had caught sight of her father standing in the hallway. Placing the violin and the bow upon the table, she hurried towards him and gave him an affectionate kiss of welcome.

"Oh, father, I'm so glad you've come," she exclaimed. "You are late, and supper is waiting. And we have company. See what I found by the brook with a sprained ankle."

"So that is the trouble, eh?" Mr. Dean queried as he followed his daughter.

Kent Rayson had risen to a sitting position, and was about to stand when Jacynth motioned him to lie down again.

"You must be careful and remain very still," she advised. "Father, this is Kent Rayson. He is an artist and paints wonderful pictures. He must show you some of the ones he has with him."

Mr. Dean's outstretched hand of welcome dropped to his side at the mention of the young man's name. At first he thought he had not heard aright.

"Rayson, did you say?" he asked turning to his daughter.

"Yes, that's it, father, and isn't it a nice one?"

"I don't like it," Kent declared with a bitterness that seemed foreign to his nature. "I have often longed to change it. But excuse me, sir, I did not intend to mention this."

"Why do you wish to change your name, young man?"

Kent's face flushed a little, and he became somewhat embarrassed.

"Never mind now," Mr. Dean continued. "You can explain later if you wish. In the meantime, I bid you welcome here, and we shall do all we can for your welfare."

"I have received every attention already, sir, and am most grateful."

"Martha has been wonderful," Jacynth explained. "She knew just what to do. Now she has supper ready, so we must not keep her waiting any longer."

"I shall be with you shortly," her father replied. "I am dusty, you see, and my face and hands are grimy. You begin supper, and I shall be with you as soon as I can."

Upstairs in his room Mr. Dean stood and gazed for a few minutes out of the window. He heard the voices of the young people, and their happy laughter as Jacynth helped the invalid into the dining-room. "Rayson!" That name struck him like a blow. It leaped at him now in the face and form of "Old Thistle" Tim Rayson, the man who had wrecked so many men, Jim Weston's and his own among the number. Could it be possible that this young man downstairs was Rayson's son! And Jacynth knew nothing about it. He had kept the story from her, as Prospero had kept the tale of his ill treatment from Miranda. He had done it with the best intention, that he might conquer the Caliban in his heart, and rise superior to all outward circumstances. He had done so for years, and when he felt sure of himself, this son of Old Thistle had unexpectedly met Jacynth, and from all appearance the two were fascinated with each other. He had taken Prospero of the Tempest story as a guiding light. He had been his inspiration, for like him he, too, would be the master of things in heaven above and the earth beneath, because he would be master of himself. But now! His hands clenched hard, and he groaned inwardly. What should he do? It was one thing to follow Shakespeare's tale in fancy, but quite another thing in reality. But this young man might not be Tim Rayson's son. That was his only hope. He must find out, and at once.

Gradually Prosper Dean regained his self-control. He must be master of himself if he hoped to master others. Perhaps the test was now before him, and here was his opportunity of putting into practice some of Prospero's magical power. He glanced out of the window, off to the triple-colored banner floating above the great pine, and what he saw was known only to himself.

When he reached the dining-room he was himself once more. He took his place at the head of the table with no trace of the mental struggle through which he had recently passed. Jacynth and Kent hardly noticed his arrival, so deeply engaged were they in conversation about music and painting.

"I have often wished that I could paint the beautiful things I see every day," the girl was saying. "It must be wonderful to do so."

"But you express your thoughts in music," Kent reminded. "I long to do that, but cannot. My mother could, though, for she was a fine pianist. She tried to teach me, but it was no use."

"Is your mother dead?" Jacynth asked, detecting the note of sadness in his voice.

"Yes, she died when I needed her so much. She was the only one who understood my longing for something more than ship-building, lumbering, and money making, which possess my father soul and body. I was her son, while my twin brother Matt was my father's. Mother named me Kent, her maiden name, and from the English County where she was born. She often told me that her family was descended from William Kent, the famous painter and sculptor."

"So your father is a ship-builder?" Mr. Dean questioned.

"He has been that all his life, with lumbering as a side-line. He owned several vessels when we lived at Chaddick, but he has only one now."

"What happened to them?"

"They were wrecked. My father became discouraged, so he left Chaddick and moved to Saint John where he hopes to do better. Matt has been in the city for a year overseeing the building of another ship. He likes that work, but I hate it. When I left college I wanted to continue my studies in art, but my father would not listen to such a thing, so I am forced to grind over books and accounts in the office. But in another year I shall be free, and then—"

He paused abruptly, somewhat confused.

"Excuse me, Mr. Dean, I did not intend to trouble you with my affairs."

"You are not troubling me, young man. I am greatly interested. I feel sorry for you. As you say, there are more things than money-making, and it is a pity you cannot continue your studies. There are many who are quite willing to become hewers of wood and drawers of water to one who has seen the vision."

"Ah, I am glad to hear you say that, sir. Now, what kind of a life would I lead chained to a desk when my mind is upon the great things of the soul? Matt is my father's son in every way, and he is just like him. Why, he was given his name after St. Matthew, the apostle, who took father's fancy because he was a money-maker. I used to think it funny, but later when I realized that Matt's whole soul was given up to money, it worried me. Matt and I have nothing in common except our looks. Many cannot tell us apart."

"Are you having a holiday now?" Mr. Dean abruptly inquired.

"Holiday! No one has a holiday who works for my father. This has turned out to be one for me, though. I was sent with a letter to Mr. Horn who lives in the settlement near you. Joe Burton, a woodsman, went with me. We came by boat to Gravel Cove and struck in overland through the woods by a trail around Square Lake. I had never been that way before, but Joe knew it well. After I had delivered the letter to Mr. Horn, we started to return to the river by Storm King Valley to catch the afternoon boat to the city. Joe was much interested in the great timber region we passed through, while I could think only of the scenery. In some manner we became separated. I wandered about for a long time, sprained my ankle, and when I had about given up hope of finding my way out of the wilderness, I came at last to the brook where a forest fairy found me. Joe is searching for me, most likely, and wondering what has become of me."

"You have had a hard time of it," Mr. Dean remarked. "Your father will be very anxious if Joe returns without you."

A peculiar expression came into Kent Rayson's eyes, and his face grew serious.

"Oh, I guess he won't mind. He might be pleased if I never returned. But, there, I must say no more about that. I did not intend to mention it."

Curious though he was to know the meaning of these words, Mr. Dean did not question him about the matter.

"So your father knows Peter Horn?"

"He never met him. But Mr. Horn has some very fine logs on his place which father is anxious to obtain for lumbering next winter. The letter was about that, I suppose, although I am not certain. Father never tells me his business except when it is absolutely necessary."

During this conversation Jacynth's eyes were glowing with the light of interest. She said nothing, being satisfied to listen, especially to what the visitor said. Her heart was full of sympathy, and she longed to know more about Kent's past life. Here was a mystery which stirred her romantic mind. To her he was a hero who had stepped out of the old tales she had read in her father's books. And he was so noble looking, a young Apollo, so he seemed to her. And when he looked at her, as he often did during the meal, a strange and wonderful thrill possessed her soul. It seemed almost like a dream from which she would suddenly awaken.

When supper was ended, Mr. Dean went to the stable to attend to the horses. This was the excuse he made for leaving the table somewhat abruptly. He felt that he must be out of the house by himself to think over what he had just heard. Although very calm outwardly, his mind was greatly disturbed. He was favourably impressed with Kent Rayson, and that troubled him. If he had been any one but Old Thistle's son it would be different. But this young man, of all men, to be in his house, seated at his table, and winning the heart of his only child! The thought was almost unbearable. Unknown to Jacynth during supper he had been watching her animated face, the light shining in her eyes, the rapt attention she paid to every word which fell from the young man's lips, and read their meaning.

He was longer than usual caring for the horses this evening, for at times he would stand very still gazing off at Storm King summit, or at the flag on his left surmounting the great pine. His love for his horses came next to his love for his daughter. They had never failed him, had never been untrue. Day or night they were ever ready to serve him without question, and to die, if necessary, without a protest. And now they seemed nearer to him than ever. A daughter, even, might give her heart to another, but not these animals. Their constancy was enduring. Fondly he stroked their glossy necks in turn.

"Ah, my beauties," he murmured, "let me have a portion of your courage, patience, and faithfulness. Inspire me with your nobleness that I may be strong to face all trials with a spirit that nothing can daunt. You are horses, and I am supposed to be your master and superior to you. But you can teach me the lesson I now need. Help me, Midnight and Camilla, to conquer and be just."

He left the stable and stood for a while looking across the brook towards Storm King, now dark with the shades of the steadily-deepening twilight. How often Jacynth had thus gazed with him, for she had always accompanied him to the stable to care for the horses. Always, except this evening! They had been everything to each other. But now some one else had taken his place, and he was alone.

He did not care to go into the house just then. He felt that the place would almost stifle him. No longer did his books allure him. Only in the great open could he think clearly. Jacynth must not know of his mental struggle. He did not blame her for deserting him. It was but natural, for youth is passionate and susceptible. She loved him as much as ever, he knew, but added to that was now her love for another. He had to bow to the inevitable, and take a second place. It had always been so, and would be to the end of time.

He was thinking of this as he made his way along the brook on his left. There was no path here, and he was glad, for contending with the roughness and unevenness of the way was in keeping with the agitated state of his mind. The struggle was bracing, so when he at length came out into a small clearing, he felt somewhat like a conqueror who had fought his way through an opposing host. He bared his head, and with his handkerchief wiped the perspiration from his brow.

"That has done me good," he declared. "I am myself again. Yes, I am Prospero, master of myself and others. The invigorating scent of these great trees has stimulated me like a magic elixir. Or is it the spirit of Ariel, released by Prospero long ago, that has come to do my bidding? Ah, it may be so, for Master Shakespeare has said that 'There are more things in heaven and in earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy'. Come now, Ariel, thou elfin spirit, arouse or allay the elements at my command, and be the swift-winged messenger of my every behest."

He was brought suddenly to earth by the sound of footsteps. Startled, he turned and saw a man but a few yards away coming towards him. At first he could not distinguish his face owing to the darkness, but as he drew nearer, he recognized him as Joe Burton. He was in a hurry, and panting hard from exertion and anxiety.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Dean, is it?" he asked in astonishment. "I thought at first it was a bear. But, say, have you seen anything of a d— fool? I lost him back yonder, and have had a h— of a time huntin' fer him."

"He's at my house with a sprained ankle."

"Thank God!" Joe fervently exclaimed with a sigh of relief. "I'll be damned if ever I act as guide to an artist again. He's a nice young feller, but he's silly as a loon when he gets into the woods."

"In what way, Joe?"

"Well, I can hardly explain. But all the way from the river he was dartin' here and there, exclaimin' at what he called 'scenes', and such like. He also talked about 'local color', 'background', 'light and shadder', and other words I can't remember, and couldn't pronounce if I did. But I'm glad he's safe."

"How did you get separated, Joe?"

"Oh, Kent wandered off to look at some scene, so I lost track of him."

"And what were you doing?"

"Me? Oh, I was cruisin' around through Peter Horn's fine block of timber. It's the best in the country, so Old Rayson should have a good winter's cut."

"So he intends to lumber there?"

"I can't say fer sure. Rayson has bought a strip of land adjoinin'. He may cut there first."

"He will pay Peter well, I suppose?"

"Most likely. It will be a good thing fer Peter, as he's too old to do the lumberin' himself. But, say, Mr. Dean, I'm as hungry as a bear, fer I haven't eaten much since this mornin'. We brought only a small lunch with us."

"Come with me, Joe. You shall have supper at my house. Martha will be pleased to serve you."