the novel Destiny

TheProjectGutenbergeBook,Destiny,byCharlesNevilleBuck
ThiseBookisfortheuseofanyoneanywhereatnocostandwith
almostnorestrictionswhatsoever.Youmaycopyit,giveitawayor
re-useitunderthetermsoftheProjectGutenbergLicenseincluded
withthiseBookoronlineatwww.gutenberg.net

Title:Destiny
Author:CharlesNevilleBuck
ReleaseDate:November23,2005[eBook#17141]
Language:English
Charactersetencoding:ISO-8859-1
***STARTOFTHEPROJECTGUTENBERGEBOOKDESTINY***

E-textpreparedbyDavidGarcia,StacyBrownThellend,
andtheProjectGutenbergOnlineDistributedProofreadingTeam
( />frompageimagesgenerouslymadeavailablebythe
KentuckianaDigitalLibrary

ImagesoftheoriginalpagesareavailablethroughtheElectronicText
CollectionoftheKentuckianaDigitalLibrary.See
Note:
/>c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;xc=1&idno=B92-178-30418584&view=toc



DESTINY
BY


CHARLESNEVILLEBUCK

AUTHOROF
THECALLOFTHECUMBERLANDS,ETC.
NEWYORK


GROSSET&DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright,1916,by
W.J.WATT&COMPANY
OTHERBOOKSBY
CHARLESNEVILLEBUCK
THEKEYTOYESTERDAY
THELIGHTEDMATCH
THEPORTALOFDREAMS
THECALLOFTHECUMBERLANDS
THEBATTLECRY
THECODEOFTHEMOUNTAINS


TableofContents
CHAPTERI
CHAPTERXVIII
CHAPTERII
CHAPTERXIX
CHAPTERIII
CHAPTERXX
CHAPTERIV
CHAPTERXXI

CHAPTERV
CHAPTERXXII
CHAPTERVI
CHAPTERXXIII
CHAPTERVII CHAPTERXXIV
CHAPTERVIII CHAPTERXXV
CHAPTERIX
CHAPTERXXVI
CHAPTERX
CHAPTERXXVII
CHAPTERXI
CHAPTERXXVIII
CHAPTERXII CHAPTERXXIX
CHAPTERXIII CHAPTERXXX
CHAPTERXIV CHAPTERXXXI
CHAPTERXV CHAPTERXXXII
CHAPTERXVI CHAPTERXXXIII
CHAPTERXVII CHAPTERXXXIV

CHAPTERXXXV


DESTINY

PARTI


THELANDOFPROMISE

CHAPTERI

O UTSIDEthesubtleclarionofautumn'sdyinggloryflamedinthetorchesof
themaplesandsmolderedintheburgundyoftheoaks.Ittrailedaveilofroseash and mystery along the slopes of the White Mountains, and inside the
crumbling school-house the children droned sleepily over their books like
prisonersinalethargicmutiny.
Frosthadbroughtthechestnutsrattlingdownintheopenwoods,andforaging
squirrelswerescamperingamongthefallenleaves.
Broodingatoneofthefrontdesks,sataboy,slenderandundersizedforhis
thirteen years. The ill-fitting crudity of his neatly patched clothes gave him a
certainuniformitywithhisfellows,yetlefthimasunlikethemasallthingselse
could conspire to make him. The long hair that hung untrimmed over his face
seemedablackemphasisforthecameodelicacyofhisfeatures,lendingthema
wannoteofpathos.Onhisthintemples,bluishveinstracedthehall-markofan
over-sensitive nature, and eyes that were deep pools of somberness gazed out
withthedreamer'sunrest.
Occasionally,heshotafurtivelyterrifiedglanceacrosstheaislewhereanother
boy with a mop of red hair, a freckled face and a mouth that seemed
overcrowded with teeth, made faces at him and conveyed in eloquent gestures
threats of future violence. At these menacing pantomimes, the slighter lad
trembledunderhisbulgingcoat,andhesatasoneundersentence.
Hadanymeansofescapeoffereditself,PaulBurtonwouldhaveembracedit
withoutthoughtofthehonorsofwar.Hehadnowishtostandupontheorderof
his going. He earnestly desired to go at once. But under what semblance of
excuse could he cover his retreat? Suddenly his necessity fathered a crafty
subterfuge.Thebucketofdrinkingwaterstoodnearhisdesk—anditwaswellnigh empty. Becoming violently thirsty, he sought permission to carry it to the
spring for refilling, and his heart leaped hopefully when the tired-eyed teacher
indifferentlynoddedherassent.Hemeanttocarrythepailtothespring.Heeven
meanttofillitforthesakeoftechnicalobedience.Later,someoneelsecouldgo

outandfetchitback.
Paul'sobjectwouldbeservedwhenoncehewassafefromthestored-upwrath
oftheMarquesskid.Ashecarriedtheemptybucketdowntheaisle,hefeltupon
himthederisivegazeofapairofblueeyesentirelysurroundedbyfreckles,and
hisowneyesdroopedbeforetheirchallengeandcontempt.Theydroopedalsoas
hemetthequestioninggazeofhiselderbrother,Ham,whoseseatwasjustatthe
door.HamhadadisquietingcapacityforreadingPaul'sthoughts,andanequally
disquietingscornofcowardice.ButPaulclosedthedoorbehindhim,and,inthe
freedomoftheouterair,sethislipstowhistlingacasualtune.Hecouldneverbe
for a moment alone without breaking into some form of music. It was his
nature'slanguageandhissoul'ssoliloquy.
Of course tomorrow would bring a reckoning for truancy and a probable
renewal of his danger, but tomorrow is after all another day and for this
afternoonatleasthefeltsafe.
ButHamBurton'suncannypowersofdivinationwereatwork,andoutofhis
seatheslippedunobserved.Throughthedoorheflittedshadow-likeandstrolled
alonginthewakeofhisyoungerbrother.
Downwherethespringcroonedsoftlyoveritsmossyrocksandwhereyoung
brook trout darted in phantom flashes, Ham Burton found Paul with his face
tight-claspedinhisnervoushands.Backthereintheschool-househadbeenonly
terror,butoutherewassomethingelse.Aspecterofself-contempthadrisento
contend with physical trepidation. The song of the water and the rustle of the
leaves where the breeze harped among the platinum shafts of the birches were
pleadingwiththischild-dreamer,andinhismindaconflictsweptbackwardand
forward.Pauldidnotatonceseehisbrother,andtheolderboystoodoverhimin
silence, watching the mental fight; watching until he knew that it was lost and
thattimidityhadoverpoweredshame.Hisowneyesatfirstheldonlyscornfor
such a poltroon attitude, but suddenly there leaped into them a fierce glow of
tenderness,whichheasquicklymasked.Attheendofhissilentcontemplation

hebrusquelydemanded,"Well,Paul,howlongisitgoingtotakeyoutofillthat
bucketwithwater?"
Theyoungerladstartedviolentlyandstammered.Chagrinedtearswelledinto
hisdeepeyes,andaflushspreadoverhisthincheeks.
"Ijust—justgottothinkin',"heexculpatedlamely,"an'Ifogottohurry.Listen
atthatwatersingin',Ham!"Hisvoicetookonarapteagerness."An'themleaves


rustlin'. It's all like some kind of music that nobody's ever played an' nobody
evercanplay."
Ham'sface,lookingdownfromthecommandingheightofhissixteenyears,
hardened.
"DoyoufigurethatPapsendsyoutoschooltosetouthereandlistenatthe
leavesrattlin'?"wasthedryinquiry."Tohearyoutalkafeller'dthinkthereain't
anythingintheworldbutfunnynoises.Whatdotheygetyou?"
"Noises!" the slight lad's voice filled and thrilled with remonstrance, "Can't
you ever understand music, Ham? There's all the world of difference between
musican'noise.Music'swhattheBiblesaystheangelslovemore'nanything."
Ham's lips set themselves sternly. He was not one to be turned aside with
quibbles.
"Lookhere,Paul,"heaccused,"youdidn'tcomeoutheretogetwaterandyou
didn't come to listen to the fishes singin' songs either. You sneaked out to run
awaybecauseyou'rescaredofJimmyMarquessan'becauseyouknowhe'sgoin'
topunchyourfaceafterschool."
Theyoungerladflushedcrimsonandhebegananunconvincingdenial."Iain't
—Iain'tafraidofhim,neither,"heprotested."Thatain'tthetruth,Ham."
"All right then." The elder boy filled the bucket and straightened up with
business-like alacrity. "If you ain't scared of him we might as well go on back
therean'tellhimso.Hethinksyouare."
Instinctively Paul flinched and turned pallid. He gazed about him like a

trappedrabbit,buthisbrothercaughthimroughlybytheshoulderandwheeled
himtowardtheschool-house.
"But—Ham—but—" The younger brother's voice faltered and again tears
cametohiseyes."ButIdon'tb'lieveinfightin'.Ithinkit'swicked."
"Paul," announced the other relentlessly, "you're a coward. Maybe it ain't
exactly your fault, but one thing's dead certain. There's just one kind of feller
thatcan'taffordtorunaway—an'that'sacoward,likeyou.Everybodypickson
akidthat'syeller.You'vegottohaveonegoodfighttosavealotofothersan'
thisisthedayyou'regoin'tohaveit.Afterschoolyou'vegottosmashJimmy
Marquessawalloponhisfrontteethan'ifyoudon'tshake'emplumblooseI'm


goin' to take you back in the woods an' give you a revelation in lickin's that'll
linger with you for years." Ham paused and then added ominously, "Now you
can do just exactly as you like. I don't want to try to influence you, but that
Marquesskidisyoursoftestpickin'."
Facing the dread consequences of such a dilemma, Paul went slowly and
falteringly forward with the unhappy consciousness of his brother following
warilyathisheels.
"Cometothink of it," suggestedHamcasually,"Iguessyou'dbetterwritea
notebeforewegoin—itseemsakindofshametotreatJimmylikethatwithout
givin'himanywarnin'."Hesetthebucketinthepathandfumbledinhispocket
for a scrap of paper. "I'll just help you out," he volunteered graciously. "Start
withhisname—likethis—'JamesMarquess;Sir—.'"
Paul hesitated, and Ham took a step forward with a cool glint in his eyes
beforewhichtheotherquailed."I'llwriteit,Ham,"hehastilywhimpered.
"James Marquess; Sir—" continued the laconic voice of the
directingmind."IfyouthinkIamafraidofyou,youhaveerredin
judgment. I don't like you and I don't care for your personal
appearance. If you so much as squint at me after school today I

intend to change the general appearance of your face. It won't be
handsomewhenIgetthrough,butIguessitwillbeanimprovement,
atthat.
"Respectfully,
"PAULBURTON."
The coerced writer groaned deeply as he scrawled the signature which
pledged him so irretrievably to battle. He felt that his autograph to such a
missive was distinctly inappropriate, and invited sure calamity. Ham, however,
onlynoddedapprovalashecommanded,"Whenyoutakethebucketup,laythat
onhisdeskandbesurehegetsit."
Yet as Paul plodded on, a piteous little shape of quaking terror, Ham let the
glanceofmilitanttendernessflashoncemoreintohiseyes,andhisvoicecame
insympathetictimbre.


"Paul,Ican'talwaysdoyourfightin'foryou.IfIcouldIwouldn'tmakeyou
do it—but you've got to learn how to stand on your own legs. It ain't only the
Marquesskidyou'refightin'.You'vegottolicktheyellerstreakoutofyourself
before it ruins you." He paused, then magnanimously added, "If you trim him
down goodandproper,I'llgetyouanewviolin stringinplace ofthe oneyou
busted."
Itwasaveryunmilitaryshapethathuddledinitsseat,watchinghisadversary
read the ultimatum. As for the heir of the house of Marquess, he allowed his
freckled face for a moment to pucker in blank astonishment, then a smile of
beatitudeenvelopedit.Itwassuchbeatitudeasmightappearonthevisageofa
catwhohasunexpectedlyreceivedachallengetomortalcombatfromamouse.
Anhouroftheafternoonsessionyetintervenedbetweenthepresentandthe
awfulfutureanduponPaulBurtonitrestedwithitsincubusofdiresuspense.It
was an hour which the Marquess kid employed congenially across the aisle.
Whenever the tired eyes of the teacher were not upon him he gave elaborate

pantomimeswhereinhefelttheswellingbicepsofhisrightarm,andmadeasif
to spit belligerently upon his doubled fist. Sometimes his left hand seemed
strugglingtorestrainthedeadlyright,lestitleapforthuntimelyinitshungerfor
smiting.ThesewordlesspleasantrieswereinnowiselostontheshrinkingPaul
inwhoseslightbodysleptthespiritoftheartistunfortifiedwithmartialironof
combat.
The world of boyhood has little understanding or sympathy for a soul like
Paul's; a soul woven of dreams and harmonies which knows no means of
attuningitselftothematerial.Thisladwalkedwithhisheadinthecloudsandhis
thoughtsinvisions.Hisplaymateswereinvisibletohumaneyesandheheardthe
crashingofvastsymphonieswhereothersfeltonlythesilences.Nowinalittle
whilehewastohavehisfacepunchedbyamaterialandnormalyoungsavage
whoseveryfrecklesshonewithanticipation.
Ham Burton, looking on from his desk, recognized that in the frail lad who
"wouldn't stick up for himself" burned the thin hot fire of genius without the
stamina that alone could fan it into effective blaze. For Ham, whose face
revealed as little of what went on back of his eyes as an Indian's, was the
dreamer, too, though his dreams were cut to a different pattern. As he dealt in
visions, so William the Conqueror may have dealt when a boy in his father's
bakeshop;soNapoleonmayhavedreamedbeforetheworldhadheardhisname.
The younger lad dreamed as the hasheesh-eater, for the vague and iridescent


gloryofvisioning,buttheelderdreamedotherwise,inprefacetoachievement.
Theteacherroseatlengthtodismisstheclasses,andasthechildrenpiledout
into the crisp air, the Marquess kid was first on the hard-trodden soil of the
school-yard—fortheretriumphawaitedhiscoming.Paulwaslessimpulsive.He
collected his books with the most deliberate care, dusting them off with an
unwontedsolicitude.Thenhespentanindefiniteperiodsearchingforastubof
slate-pencil, which at another time would not have interested him. He hoped

againsthopethatJimmyMarquesswouldnothavetimetowaitforhim.
At last, the laggard in war felt Ham's strong hand on his coat-collar. Vainly
protesting and sniffling, he was hustled toward the rotting threshold and
catapulted upon his enemy so abruptly and skillfully that to the casual eye he
mighthaveseemedburstingwithimpatienceforbattle.
And as he stumbled, willy-nilly, upon the Marquess kid, the Marquess kid
joyouslygatheredhiminandbeganrainingenthusiasticrightsandleftsuponthe
blanchedandblue-veinedface.
SuddenlyPaulBurtonwoketothefactthatathisbackwasanextremelysolid
wall;onhisrightanequallyimpassablefence;onhislefthisimplacablebrother
andathisfront—nothingbuttheMarquesskid.
OfthefourobstaclesJimmyseemedthemostvulnerable,anduponhimPaul
hurledhimselfwiththeexaltedfrenzyofasingleidea:anideaofboringhisway
out of an insupportable position. That Jimmy's blows hurt him so little
astonishedhim,andunderthespuroffearhefoughtwithsuchabandonthatto
Ham'sfacecameaslowgrinofcontentmentandtothatoftheMarquesskidan
expression of pained amazement, followed by one of sudden panic. Of this
particular mouse, the cat had had enough and amid jeers of derision the cat
withdrewwithmoreofhastethanofdignityinhisdeparture.
ButfiveminuteslaterasPaultrudgedalongtheforestpathtowardhishome,
theunaccustomedlightofbattlethathadmomentarilykindledinhiseyesbegan
to fade. There glowed in them no such lasting triumph as should come from a
boy's first victory. Instead, they wore again the far-away look of dreamy
pensiveness. Already, his thoughts were back in their own world, a world
peopled with fancies and panoplied with imaginings. Suddenly he halted, and
threwbackhishead,intentlylistening.Highandfarawaycamethehonkingcry
of wild geese in flight; travelers of the upper air-paths, winging their way
southward. Distance softened the harshness of their journeying clamor into a

noteofappealingwanderlust.
Paul's lips were parted and his eyes aglow. The memory of the fight he had
dreadedwaseffaced;thebruisesonhissensitivefacewereforgotten.Hisheart
wasdrinkinganelixirthroughhisears,andatthesoundsfloatingdownfromthe
heightsnewfanciesleapedwithinhim.
Ham with his eyes shrewdly fixed upon his brother swung his books to his
otherhandandshruggedhisshoulders.He,too,waslookinginfancybeyondthe
mistyhills,butnottotheflightofgeese.Hesawcitieswithshaft-likestructures
biting the sky and dark banners of smoke floating above the clash of conflict.
Hisheartwasburningtobeatthecenterofthatconflict.
He,too,heardasongofsirens,butitwassuchasongasRichardWhittington
heardwhenbare-footedinPauntleythenotesoftheBowbellsstoleouttohim:
"Sangofacitythatwasblazonedlikeamissal-book,
Blackwithoakengables,carvenandinscrolled;
Everystreetacoloredpage,everysignahieroglyph,
Duskywithenchantments,acitypavedwithgold."
Thenhegazedaboutthedesolatecountrywheremorningworetonightina
sequenceofhardchoreuponhardchore,andhegroanedbetweenhissetteeth.
Hereandtherealongthewaystooddesertedhouseswherethewindsearched
the interiors through the eyeless sockets of unglazed windows and where the
roof-trees were broken and twisted. They were blighting symbols of this soulbreakingexistenceinalandofabandonedfarmswhereOpportunitynevercame.
They were mutely eloquent of surrender after struggle. They summed up the
hazardoflifewheretoabatethefightandrestmeanttolosethefightandstarve.
His heart told him that no other battle-field was hard enough or desperate
enoughtospellhisdefeat.Theworldwashisifhecouldgooutintotheworldto
claim it, but here in this meager land of barrenness his soul would strangle
withoutafight.Thethingsthathadlongflamedinhishearthadflamedsecretly,
likeasmotheredblazewhichgnawsthevitalsoutofashipwhosehatchesare
battened down. He, too, had kept the hatches of silence battened. But through
manywakefulnightsthevoicethatspeakstothosewhomthegodshavechosen

criedtohimwiththecertaintyofaherald'sbugle."Whatthegreatesthavebeen,
youcanbe!Ofthefewtowhomimpossibilityisajest,youareone!Nothingcan
haltyouronwardmarchsave—wantofopportunity.Youhavekinshipwiththe


world'smightiest,butyoumustgooutintotheworldandclaimyourown."For
thatwashowHamBurtondreamed.
AstheBurtonboyscametothefarm-housewheretheyhadbeenborn,thesun
wassinkingbehindtheraggedspearsofthemountain-top,anditslastfireswere
mirroredinthelakewhosenamewaslikeanepitomeoftheirlives—Forsaken.
The house seemed to huddle in the gathering shadows with melancholic
despair.Itswallslookedoutovertheunproductiveacresarounditasgrimlyasa
fortressoverlooksahostileterritory,anditsoccupantslivedwithasdefensivea
frugality as if they were in fact a beleaguered garrison cut off from fresh
supplies.ThiswastheprisoninwhichHamBurtonmustservehislifesentence
—unlessherespondedtothaturgentcallwhichheheardwhentheothersslept.
Tonighthemustsharewithhisfathertherawchoresofthefarm,and,whenhis
studies were done, he must go to his bed, exhausted in body and mind, to be
awakened at sunrise and retread the cheerless round of drudgery. Every other
tomorrowwhilelifefetteredhimhereheldarepetitionofjustthatandnothing
more.
ThewhitefireofrebellionleapedmutinouslyupinHam'sheart.Hewouldgo
away. He would answer the loud clarion that called to him from beyond the
horizons.Thefirstlineofhillsshouldnolongerbehisremotestfrontier.Andif
hedidthat—awhisperingvoiceofloyaltyandconsciencearguedinsistently—
whowouldweartheheavyharnesshereathome?Hisfatherwouldneverleave,
anduponhisfathertheinfirmitiesofagewouldsomedaycomecreeping.There
wasPaul—but,atthethoughtofPaulwithhisstrongimaginationandhisweak
muscles,Hamlaughed.Ifhewentawayhemustgowithoutconsentorparental
blessing;hemustslipawayinthenightwithhisfewpossessionspackedinhis

batteredbag.Verywell;ifthatweretheonlyway,itmustbehisway.Thevoices
were calling—always calling—and it might as well be tonight. Destiny is
impatient of temporizing. Yes, tonight he would start out there, somewhere,
wherethebattleswereaman'sbattles,andtherewardsaman'srewards.
Butatthedoorhismothermethim.Therewasamoistureofunshedtearsin
her eyes, and she spoke in the appeal of dependence—dependence upon her
eldestsonwhohadneverfailedher.
"Son,yourfather'sinbed—he'shadsomesortofstroke.He'sfeelin'mighty
low in his mind, an' he says he's played out with the fight of all these years. I
toldhimthatheneedn'tfrethimselfbecausewehaveyou.You'vealwaysbeen


so strong an' manly—even when you were a little feller. You'd better see him,
Ham,an'cheerhimup.Tellhimyoucantakerightholdan'runthefarm."
Hamturnedawayafacesuddenlydrawn.Alemonafterglowhungabovethe
hills,andwhereitdarkenedintotheeveningsky,asinglestarshoneinafeeble
pointoflight.Itwassetting—notrising—andtotheboyitseemedtobehisstar.
"I'llgoinandseehim,"hesaidcurtly.
ThomasBurtonlayonhisbedwithhisfaceturnedtothewall.Whenhisson
entered,heraiseditandshifteditsothattheyellowlightofanoillampshoneon
itabovethefadedquilt.
Itwasahopeless,beatenface,andforthefirsttimeinhislifeHamsawthe
callousedhandwhichcreptouttohisownshakefeebly.
Hetookit,andthefathersaidslowly:
"Ham,somehowIfeellikeanoldhossthatjustgoesaslongashecanan'then
laysdown.Rightoftenhedon'tgetupnomore.It'sahardfightforaboytotake
up,thisfightwithrocksandpoorsoil,butIguessyou'llhavetotackleit.Ididn't
quitsolongasIcouldkeepgoin'."
Theboynodded.Hecomposedhisfaceandansweredsteadily:"Iguessyou
candependonme."

But outside by the barn fence he set down his milk-pail a few minutes later
andinthecomingnighthisfacetwitchedandblackened.
"Soafterall,"Hamtoldhimselfbitterly,"I'vegottostay."
Hereachedoutmechanicallyandbeganloosingthetopbarfromitssockets,
whilehecalledinthecowstobemilked.Somanytimeshadhetakendownand
put up that panel of bars that his hands knew from habit every roughness and
knotineveryrail.
"Mornin' an' evenin' for three hundred and sixty-five days a year;" the boy
saidtohimselfinalowandverybittervoice."Thatmakessevenhundredand
thirtytimesayearIdothissame,identicalthing.Iain'tnothin'morethanservant
to a couple of cows." He stood and watched the two heifers trot through the
opening to the water-trough by the pump. "By the time I'm thirty-five," he
continued, "I'll do it fourteen thousand and six hundred times more—When


Napoleonwasthirty-five—"Buttherehebrokeoffwithaninarticulatesoundin
hisbrownedyoungthroatthatwasverylikeagroan.


CHAPTERII

M ARY Burton was eleven. Of late, thoughts which had heretofore not
disturbed her had insistently crept into the limelight of consciousness. One
morningasshestood,dish-towelinhand,overthekitchentable,hereyesstole
ever and anon to the cracked mirror that hung against the wall, and after each
glancesheturneddefiantlyawaywithsomethinglikesullennessaboutherlips.
ElizabethBurton,themother,andHannahBurton,thespinsteraunt,wentabout
their accustomed tasks with no thought more worldly than the duties of the
moment.ItneveroccurredtoAuntHannahtocomplainofanythingthatwas.If
herlifespelledunrelieveddrudgerysheaccepteditasthestationtowhichithad

pleased God to call her, and conceived that complaint would be a form of
blasphemy. Now as she wielded her broom, her angular shoulders ached with
rheumatism,and,inavoiceascreakingasherjoints,shesang,"FortheMaster
said there is work to do!" Such was Aunt Hannah's creed, and it pleased her
whileshemoiledovertheworktoannounceinsongthatsheactedupondivine
command.ToAuntHannah'smind,thislentanaugustdignitytoadust-rag.
WhenMarysavagelythrewdownherdish-towelandburstunaccountablyinto
tears,bothwomenlookedup,startled.Marywasnormallyasunnychildandone
notgiventoweeping.
"Forthenameofgoodness!"exclaimedthemotherinbewilderment."Whatin
the world can have struck the child?" It was to Aunt Hannah that she put the
question, but it was Mary who answered, and answered with a sudden flow of
vehemence:
"Why didn't God make me pretty?" demanded the girl in an impassioned
voice."Theycallmespindle-legsatschool,andyesterdayJimmyMarquesssaid,
'IfIhadasisterMarythathadeyeslikethat,
I'dputheroutofpainwithabaseballbat.'
"Itain'tfairthatI'vegottobeugly."
Mrs.Burton,confrontedwithasituationshehadnotanticipated,foundherself


unequippedwithareply,butAuntHannah'sfacebecamesevere.
"YouareasGodmadeyou,child,"sheannouncedinatoneoffinality,"and
it'ssinfultobedissatisfied."
But,ifdissatisfactionwaswicked,Marywasresolveduponsin.Forthefirst
timeinherelevenyearsoflifeshestoodforthmutinous.Hereyesblazed,and
she trembled passionately through her slender child-body, with her hands
clenchedintotightlittlefists.
"If God made me this way on purpose, He didn't treat me fair," she
rebelliouslyflamedout."WhatgoodcanitdoGodtohavemeskinnyandwhite,

witheyesthatdon'tevenmatch?"
AuntHannah'sfacepaledasthoughshefearedthatshemustfallaninnocent
victim to the avenging bolt which might momentarily be expected to crash
throughtheroof.
"Elizabeth,"shegasped,"stopthechild!Don'tletherinvitethewrathofthe
Almighty like that! Tell her how wicked it is to complain an' rebel against
InfiniteWisdom."
They heard a low, rather contemptuous laugh, and saw Ham standing in the
door. His coarse lumberman's socks were pulled up over his trousers' legs and
splashedwithmudofthestablelot.
"Aunt Hannah, what gave you the notion that there's anything wrong about
complainin'?" he demanded shortly, and Mary knew that she had acquired a
champion.
"Complainin' against God's will is a sin. Every person knows that." Aunt
Hannahspokewiththeaggrieveduncertaintyofoneunexpectedlycalleduponto
defendanaxiom."An'foragirltofretaboutherlooksisworldly."
"Oh,Isee,"theboynoddedslowly,buthisvoicewasinsurgent."Iguessyou
think Almighty GodwantsthecreaturesHe madeto sit aroundandsingabout
therebein'worktodo.Iwonderyoudon'tfeelafraidtoeatbuckwheatcakesthat
Hedoesn'tsenddowntoyoubyanangelwithHiscompliments.Myideaisthat
Hewantsfolkstodothingsforthemselvesandnottosingaboutit.Asforbeing
discontented,that'stheonethingthatdrivestheworldaround.IthinkGodmade
discontentjustforthat."


AuntHannahmoistenedherlips.Fordecadesshehadbeenthememberofa
God-fearing, toiling family whose righteousness was the righteousness of
stagnation.Nowshestoodfacetofacewithradicalheresy.
"But," she argued with some dumb feeling that she was defending Divinity,
"theScripturesteachcontentmentan'it'sworldlytobevain."

"Whynotbeworldly?"flaredtheboywithanewandindomitablelightinhis
eyes."AsformeI'msickofthislifeinaplacethat'sdry-rotting.WhatIwantis
the world—the whole of it, good an' bad. I want what you can win out of
fighting.Marywantstobepretty.Whyshouldn'tshe?Whatdoesanywomanget
out of life except what men give her—and what man gives much to the ugly
ones?"
"Itain'twhatmengivethat'stobecountedaprize,"camethepiousrejoinder.
"It'swhatheavengives."
"Heaven gave you a dust-rag and rheumatism. If they suit you, all well and
good.I'mgoingtoseethattheworldgivesMarywhatshewants.Ifagirlcanbe
made pretty Mary's going to be pretty. It's what a woman's got a right to want
andI'mgoingtogetitforher."
Withaviolentgesturetheboyflunghimselffromtheroomandslammedthe
doorbehindhim.
BecauseitwasSaturdayandtherewasnoschoolthatday,Hamleftthehouse
and turned into the woods. He tramped with his brow drawn and a hundred
insurgentthoughtsswirlinginhisbrain.
Hepassedacrosshillsholdingtotheirfinalflareofcolor,whereleaveswere
driftingdownfromtreesofyellowandcrimson.Hethreadedalderthicketsand
passedthroughgrovesofsilverbirchesthatshiveredfastidiouslyinthebreeze.
Wild apple treesraised gnarledbranchesunderwhichthe"punches" ofhooves
toldofdeerthathadbeenfeeding.Atlast,hecametoaclearingwherefirehad
eaten its way and charred the ruins of the forest. There a large buck lifted its
antleredheadamongtheberrybushesandstoodforamomentatstartledgaze.
ButHammadenomovementtoraisetheriflethatswungathisside,andasthe
red-brown shape disappeared with a soft clatter, the boy did not even throw a
glanceafterit.Hewassayingtohimself:"WilliamtheConquerorwasabaker's
son;Napoleonwasthefriendofawasher-woman;CecilRhodeswasapoorboy
—buttheydidn'tstaytieddowntoolong."

Now and again, a rabbit scuttled off to cover, and often with the whir of
drummingwingsagrouserosenoisilyandlumberedawaywithspreadtailinto
the painted foliage. But all the beauty of it was a beauty of wildness and of
nature'svictoryoverman.ForsuchbeautyHamfeltnoanswerofpulseorheart.
Of the cabins he passed, most were empty and those quiet vandals, Weather
andDecay,werenoiselesslyatworkwreckingthem.Hereadoorswungaskew;
there a chimney teetered. Every such tenantless lodging was an outpost
surrendered on a field scarred with human defeat; a place where a family had
foughtpovertyandbeenputtoflight.Oncehepausedandlookeddownalong
slopetoahabitationbytheroadside.Themiserablebattlewasjustendingthere,
and,thoughhestoodaquarterofamileaway,hestoppedtowatchthefinalact.
The family that had dwelt there for two generations was leaving behind
everything that it had known. John Marrow was at that moment nailing a
padlocktothefrontdoor,alockatwhichthequietvandalswouldlaughsilently.
Inafarmwagonwasheapedthelitterofhouseholdeffects.Thesepeoplewere
whipped,starvedout,beaten.HamBurtonturnedonhisheelandtrudgedaway.
Hisfather'sfarmwaslittlemoreproductivethanthisone,buthisfatherhadthat
uncompromisingironinhisbloodthatcomesfromPilgrimforebears.Hewould
holdontotheend—buttowhatendandhowlong?

ThatSaturdayafternoon,Marywaswalkingalongthesandyroadthatledto
the village. She had no purpose, except to be alone, and she carried an old
fashion paper which she meant to con. This newly discovered necessity of
beauty was a very serious affair, and since she meant to devote herself to its
studysheconceivedthatthesepagesshouldgivetidingsfromthefountainhead.
She did not expect to meet anyone, and she was quite content to spend that
Indian-summerafternoonwithhercompanionsoftheprintedpage.Thesewere
beautiful ladies, appareled in the splendid vogues of Paris and Vienna. There
weredelightfulbitsofinformationconcerningsomemysteriousthingcalledthe

hautemonde and likewise pictures that instructed one how to dress one's hair
and adorn the coiffure with circlets of pearls. Mary's sheer delight in such
mysteries was not marred by any suspicion that the text she devoured told of
fashionslongextinctandsupplantedbyneweredicts.


Onthegreatrockwhichjuttedoutfromthewoodedtangleintothemarginof
LakeForsaken,withlessersentinelrocksaboutit,shesatcross-leggeduntilshe
glancedupatlasttoseethatthewestwaskindling,andthatshemuststartback
to the duller realities of home. She had been interrupted by no break in the
silenceexceptthelittleforesttwitterofbirdsandnowandthenthecoolsplash
whereabassleapedinthelake.
Butasshemadeherwayalongthetwistingroadsheheardtherattleofwheels
ontherocksandturnedtoseeavehicledrivenbyamanwhoobviouslyhadno
kinshipwithstonyfarmsorlumbercamps.Shepaused,andthebuggycameup.
Itsdriverdrewhishorse down,andinasingularlypleasingandfriendlyvoice
inquired:
"Canyoutellme,littlesister,howIcangettoMiddleFork?"
MiddleForkwasthevillageattheendofthesix-milemountaindescent,and
Mary,whokneweverytrailandwoodlandpath,toldhim,notonlyoftheroad,
butofapassableshort-cut.
The girl had come to judge human faces through the eyes of her own
circumstance,andthoseofthemenandwomenaboutherworeforthemostpart
theresignationofsurrenderandhardship,butthisman'sfacewasdifferent.He
wasamantoherelevenyears,thoughamoreexperiencedeyewouldhaveseen
that he was hardly more than a prematurely old boy. Lines traced a network
around his eyes, but they were whimsical lines such as come from persistent
laughter—thesortoflaughterthatinsistsonexpressingitselfeveninthefaceof
misfortune. His open mackinaw collar revealed a carelessly knotted scarf
decoratedwithalargeblackpearl,andashedrewoffagloveshenoticedthathis

brown hand was slender and that one finger wore a heavily carved ring, from
whose quaint setting glowed the cool, bright light of an emerald. Her frank
curiosity showed so plainly in her face that the fine wrinkles about the young
man'seyesbecamelittleradiantsofamusementcenteringaroundgraypupilsand
hislipspartedinasmileoververyeventeeth.
Thereareafewmenintheworldwhomwefeelthatwehavealwaysknown,
when once we have seen them, and upon whom we find ourselves bestowing
confidencesassoonaswehavesaid,"Good-day."Perhapstheyaretheisolated
survivorsofknight-errantdays,whosebusinessitistolistentothetroublesof
others.
ItwasonlythematterofminutesbeforeMarywaschattingartlesslywiththis


traveler of the mountain road, and since she was a child she was talking of
herself,whilehenoddedgravelyandlistenedwithadeferenceofattentionthat
wastohernewanddisarminglycharming.
He, too, was just now an exile here in the hills, he explained, but before he
camehehadlivedallovertheworld.Hehadstudiedundertutorswhiletraveling
about the Continent, and being prepared to take up his work in the banking
house which his grandfather had established and his father had extended in
scope.Thenithadhappened.
"Whathappened?"ThechildofLakeForsakenputthequestioneagerly,and
his reply was laconic, though he smiled down from the buggy seat with a
peculiarlynaïvetwistofhislips."Bugs,"hetoldher.
"What kind of bugs?" It seemed strange to Mary that a man would let such
smallcreaturesasfliesorspidersorevenbigbeetlesstandbetweenhimselfand
agreatbank.
"Ibegyourpardon,"helaughed."Iforgotthatyoulivedinaworldunsullied
bysuchargot.Youknowwhatalungeris?"
That she did know. It is a term familiar enough in the mountains to which

comerefugeesfromthewhiteplague,seekinginthetonicairahealingfortheir
sickenedlungs.
"Andsoyousee,"saidthestrangeyoungman,"Ihavebuiltmealogshack
back in the hills where I amuse myself writing verses—which, fortunately, no
onereads—anddoingequallyinconsequentialthings.NowI'mgoingdownfora
fewdaysinthecity.Icanonlygowhentheweatherisfineandwhenwintersets
in,Imustcomebackandburymyselfwithnocompanionsexceptsomebooks
andapairofsnowshoes."
"Areyougoingtodie?"sheaskedhiminlarge-eyedconcern.
"SomedayIam,"helaughed."ButI'mratherstubborn.I'mgoingtopostpone
that as long as possible. Several doctors tell me that I have an even chance. It
seemstobeasortoffifty-fiftybetbetweenthebugsandme.Isupposeafellow
oughtn'ttoaskmorethananevenbreak."
Shestoodregardinghimwithvastinterest.Shehadneverknownamanbefore
whochattedsocasuallyabouttheprobablenecessityofdying.Hegrewasshe
watchedhimtoveryinterestingandromanticproportions.


"What'syourname?"shedemanded.
"Mylastname'sEdwardes,"hetoldher.Anditwasonlyherownout-of-theworld ignorance that kept her from recognizing in the name a synonym for
titanicfinance."InfrontofthattheyputanumberofridiculousprefixeswhenI
was quite young and helpless. There is Jefferson and Doorland and others. At
collegetheycalledmePup."
Inreturnforhisconfidence,thegirltoldhimwhoshewasandwhereshelived
andhowoldshewas.
"YousayyournameisMaryBurton?Imustrememberthatbecausein,sayten
years,providedIlastthatlong,Iexpecttohearofyou."
"Hearofme?Why?"shedemanded.
Thestrangerbentforwardandcoughed,andwhentheparoxysmhadendedhe
smiledwhimsicallyagain.

"I'lltellyouasecret,thoughGodknowsit'saperilousthingtofeedawoman's
vanity—even a woman of eleven. Did anyone ever tell you that you are
possessedofamarvelouspairofeyes?"
Instinctively little Mary Burton flinched as though she had been struck and
sheraisedonehandtoherfacetotouchherlonglashes.Silenttearswelledup;
tearsofindignantpainbecauseshethoughtshewasbeingcruellyridiculed.
But the stranger had no such thought. If to the uneducated opinion of Lake
Forsaken,Mary'sfacewasamatterforjestandlibel,theimpressionmadeonthe
youngmanwhohadbeenrearedinthecapitalsofEuropewasquitedifferent.He
had been sent, on the verge of manhood, into the hermit's seclusion with the
hermit's opportunity of reflecting on all he had seen, and digesting his
experienceintoaphilosophybeyondhisyears.
PerhapshadMarybeenbornintoherownPuritanenvironmenttwocenturies
earlier,shemighthavefacedevensternercriticism,fortherewaswithoutdoubt
a strange uncommonplaceness about her which the thought of that day might
havechargedtotheattendanceofwitchesaboutherbirth.Thepromiseofbeauty
shehad,butabeautyunlikethatofcommonstandards.Itwasaqualitythatat
firstcaughtthebeholderliketheshockofaplungeintocoldwater,andthenset
himtinglingthroughhispulses—alsolikeaplungeintoanicypool.