Storm King Banner E-Book

H. A. Cody

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The story begins with a tragic event. Jim Weston’s house burned to the ground, which caused a lot of talk not only in the valley, but along the entire coastal road. The most interesting thing is that the houses in the district are also affected by fire. There were several reasons. Perhaps this was done by Jim’s former enemy, or maybe by accident.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER I

Why He Laughed

When Jim Weston’s house burned to the ground, it caused a great deal of talk not only in the Valley but all along the Shore Road. There had been other fires in the parish, but none had aroused such a general interest as this. There were several reasons. The record of Jim’s past life was well known. Many had shaken their heads in disapproval when the “jail bird” had settled in the Valley. They did not want such a man in their midst, for there was no telling what he might do. They were, therefore, not surprised when his wife had left him two weeks before the fire. Perhaps she knew that he intended to burn the house down to get the insurance, and she would not agree to the deed. A man who would scuttle his ship for gain would not stop at anything, so people openly declared.

This suspicion was strengthened by the fact that Jim Weston had laughed when his dwelling was destroyed. There was no doubt about that, for several had heard him, and it formed a choice topic of conversation at the Corner store where a number of people were gathered.

“I can swear I heard him laugh,” Billy Wright declared, “for I was only a few feet away. But it was a funny laugh which sent the shivers up an’ down me spine. Jim was standin’ right by his household stuff we had saved, an’ lookin’ at the burnin’ sticks, when he gave that queer laugh. I asked him what he was laughin’ at, but he made me no answer. You heard him, Tom, for you were quite near.”

“Oh, I heard him, all right,” Tom Griswell replied. “His laugh was queer, and no mistake. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Jim’s been a puzzle to me ever since he came among us. But he puzzled me still more this morning. I happened to be passing his place when the fire broke out. Jim was at the barn, and I yelled to him, so we both got to the house about the same time. There was nothing we could do to save the building, but there was a chance to get some of the furniture out. To my surprise, Jim dashed at once upstairs and dragged down a baby’s cradle. He ran a considerable risk, for the smoke was so thick up there that I don’t know how he could see or breathe. But down he came with that cradle and carried it out in the yard. After that he didn’t seem to care whether anything else was saved or not, and if the neighbors hadn’t soon arrived he would have lost everything except what I managed to rescue.”

“It was his baby’s cradle,” Billy explained. “He lost her last year, and it nearly broke his heart. She meant everything to him and his missus. But why he laughed is more’n I can understand.”

Jim Weston himself was the only one who could solve the mystery. But he offered no explanation. Perhaps he did not know that his short laugh had aroused so much curiosity among his neighbors. And if he had known, it would not have concerned him in the least. He had other things to think about, and one was the home-coming of his wife. She had written that she would arrive on the evening boat, and for him to meet her at the wharf.

When his neighbors had gone, Jim remained for some time near the ruins of his house. Nell was coming home today, home to this! Again he laughed, but no one was near to hear him this time. He then pulled a letter from his pocket and held it in his blackened hands.

Dear Jim,

I am going home on Tuesday. Meet me at the wharf. I am sorry I left you, and want to go back to you again. Please forgive me. You need me, and I need you.

Your loving wife, Nell.

For some time he stood there with the letter in his hand. He was a lone figure of a man, in harmony with the ruins around him. Ruins! He had known nothing else for years. The destruction of his house was as nothing to the ruin of his own life. One could be restored; the other was beyond repair. He folded the letter and thrust it back into his pocket.

“Nell once said she wished the house would burn down. Her wish has been granted, and she is coming home today! Home to this!”

The rest of the morning he worked at a small building near the barn used for storing waggons, plow, harrow, and other farming implements. He cleared the place of these, and then set to work to make the building as habitable as possible. It would have to serve as their dwelling for the present. He worked with a feverish energy as an outlet to the passion that was stirring his soul. Life had treated him hard, but he would fight to the last. He would not give up. He had often driven his ship, the Ocean Belle, through a raging sea with mountainous waves reaching out their cruel arms to engulf him, and he had laughed their utmost efforts to scorn. And he would do the same now against the winds and waves of fate and the deviltry of men. That sea-spirit was in his blood and had upheld him in most trying times. While clearing his rough land, when building his fences during the heat of summer, or facing the storms of winter, he was always the captain in command, and the Ocean Belle with her graceful lines, her proudly-lifting prow, her tall masts, swaying yards, and her clouds of canvas, was his inspiration. Nothing could ever blur that vision. Once a captain, always a captain, whether on sea or land.

That evening Jim arrived as the River Queen nosed her way into the wharf. He saw Nell, carrying her small grip, coming down the gang-plank. How pretty she looked, and so happy. She smiled as she came to where her husband was standing by the waggon. But the smile faded when she saw the expression upon his face. She shrank back as from a blow. Her lip quivered and a sudden weakness came upon her. Jim took the grip and tossed it into the waggon.

“Climb up,” he ordered.

His wife, however, hesitated and glanced back at the steamer, as if she longed to return. Jim saw and interpreted her look. His face darkened, and he clutched her somewhat roughly by the arm.

“Climb up,” he repeated.

His wife at once obeyed, and in another minute they were on their way towards the main road. Nothing was said for a time, and Mrs. Weston sat very rigid by her husband’s side. She was angry, and it was impossible for her to remain silent any longer.

“This is a strange welcome you have given me,” she began. “You don’t seem one bit glad to have me home again.”

Jim aroused as from a deep reverie and laughed sarcastically.

“H’m, what other kind of a welcome should a deserter receive?”

“But I’m not a deserter. I merely went home to visit mother.”

“I suppose so. But if any one of my men had left the Ocean Belle for two weeks, I know what it would have been called. It would have been desertion, pure and simple.

“But I’m not a sailor. I’m your wife, and I have a right to go on a visit when I desire. It is the first time I have left you since we came to the Valley. Surely you do not begrudge me a holiday.”

“No, I can’t say I do. But it was the way you left, Nell. You didn’t intend to come back. I don’t know what changed your mind, and it’s not necessary for me to know.”

“It was the thought of you all alone without any one to help you. I was tired when I left, and my nerves were unstrung. But when I had a good rest, I saw things in a new light, so decided to come home.”

“Well, that’s interesting. I did miss you, Nell, that’s a fact. When I came in from work the house was mighty lonely. Outside of the Deans I saw very few of the neighbors. They don’t want anything to do with a jail-bird.”

“Don’t say that word. Please don’t. You are going to live it down, and I am going to help all I can. And oh, Jim, I am going to fix up the house and make it more cosy. Mother gave me some lovely stuff for new window-curtains, and other things which you will like.”

“That will be very nice, Nell. It will take a lot of stuff to fix up the windows.”

“But I have plenty, more than enough. There is some specially fine material for the front windows. I have always been ashamed of those old muslin curtains. I knew the neighbors criticized them.”

“They did, and everything else, chiefly me.”

“But the Deans didn’t, Jim.”

“Oh, no; they’re different. But for them I wouldn’t stay a day in this cursed Valley.”

“Have you seen Jacynth lately?”

“Mostly every day as she rode by. She always waved to me, and several times brought me over a hot dinner. She’s a great girl.”

“Indeed she is, and she will be delighted to help me fix up the house. Mother gave me several pieces of cloth to cover those old chairs which are worn thread-bare.”

“They need fixing, all right.”

“And, Jim don’t you think the house should be made more respectable outside? We can’t afford paint, I know, but it could be whitewashed, and that would improve its appearence so much. I could do it myself.”

“Yes, I suppose it would be an improvement. It’s a mighty good idea. It’ll take a lot of work, though, Nell, to put our house in good shape now. It’s in a pretty bad mess.”

“Oh, I’ll soon get it set to rights again, and with the new curtains to the windows, and other improvements I have in mind, it will be almost a new place.”

Jim smiled grimly as he flicked the horse with the whip. What a surprise was in store for Nell. She would soon find out what the house was like. She had wanted it to burn down, so her wish had been granted.

It took them about an hour to drive from the wharf over a road by no means smooth. The old waggon bumped a great deal, for the small bridges were composed of poles with earth piled in mounds on top, the ruts were deep, and many holes lined the way. Mrs. Weston did most of the talking, telling about her visit to her mother and the friends she had met. Jim said little, and as they drew near their journey’s end, he became somewhat restive. He knew the ordeal was ahead, and dreaded it. But it served Nell right, he reasoned with himself. It was a just punishment.

As they at length rounded a bend in the road, Mrs. Weston looked eagerly ahead for a view of the house which she was planning to transform. At once a startled expression came into her eyes, and she clutched her husband’s arm.

“Where is the house?” she gasped. “It is gone!”

“Sure, it’s gone. It went up in smoke this morning. You wanted it to burn, didn’t you?”

With a pitiful little cry, Mrs. Weston slumped down in the seat and remained silent for a few minutes. It was only with considerable difficulty that Jim Weston controlled himself. If his wife had begun to scold and upbraid it would have been different. But to feel her limp form at his side, and to hear her half-smothered sobs, touched his heart. He regretted now that he had not told her sooner about the fire.

“Did you do it, Jim?” Mrs. Weston at length asked in a low voice which was scarcely more than a whisper.

“Burn it? No! What made you think I would do such a thing?”

“To spite me. You thought–”

“I’m not a devil, Nell, although fate is trying to make me one. Yes, fate and the demons of hell. But, by God, I’ll win out in spite of them. I’m not down yet, even though my house is burned to the ground, and I’m a tainted jail-bird.”

In a few minutes Jim stopped his horse by the blackened embers and the heap of household effects. His wife said nothing, but stared at the desolate ruins where but a short time before had stood their small house. She then looked at the pile of stuff on her right, beds, tables, chairs, cupboard, and stove. But she hardly noticed these, for her eyes were centred upon one object. With a little cry of joy, she quickly alighted and went at once to the cradle. Kneeling by its side, she examined it carefully. It was just as she had left it two weeks before, made up, as for a child. And there at the foot she saw a doll and a pair of little shoes. Nothing had been disturbed, although the clothes were somewhat blackened by the smoke. Then, overcome by her emotion, she flung out her arms over the cradle and sobbed as if her heart would break. In an instant Jim was by her side, and with his right hand upon her shoulder stood silently there gazing down upon the doll and the shoes. Presently Mrs. Weston lifted her head and looked at her husband.

“Oh, I am glad you have saved this, Jim. It’s all we have to remind us of Annie.”

“That and–and memory.”

He suddenly turned, and his hand dropped from his wife’s shoulder, for the sound of a horse’s hoofs had reached him. And as he looked, he beheld a man mounted upon a large bay mare coming towards him. Mrs. Weston rose to her feet, wiped away her tears, and smiled as the horseman approached. No one could have been more welcome at such a time than this man who had been their firm friend during their trying years, and who understood them better than anyone else.

Prosper Dean took in the whole situation at a glance. He had seen the kneeling woman and the man standing by her side, so surmised its meaning. He lifted his hat to the woman in a courtly manner as he drew rein. His whole appearance, in fact, was in keeping with the noble horse he was riding. They were both thoroughbreds, as any one could see at a glance. Erect and with an easy grace, Mr. Dean rode as if born to the saddle. He might have been a commander leading a victorious army, so strong and confident did he seem. The proud, dignified poise of his head, the high, broad forehead, keen eyes, slightly aquiline nose, sensitive mouth, clean-shaven intellectual face, stamped him as no ordinary person. He seemed like a man of such dominating force of personality that he was not only able to rule himself, but all with whom he came into contact. And this was so, for Prosper Dean was a name of respect, not only in the Valley, but for miles around.

“Accept my sincerest sympathy,” he began. “I have been to the city today, so only learned of your loss a short time ago from Mrs. Jukins. Have you any insurance?”

Jim shook his head.

“Ah, that is too bad. But you have saved your furniture, I see. That is something, anyway. In a day or two I shall help you with a new house, as I have plenty of boards and scantling to which you are welcome. But at present I want your help, Mrs. Weston. Hettie Jukins came home yesterday. She is sick, and she will be worse shortly. The doctor is away from home and will not be back until some time to-morrow. Mrs. Jukins is at her wit’s end. She is generally like that, poor soul, always upset about something. Now, however, she has real cause for worry. She hailed me as I was passing and told me about Hettie. When I heard that you were home, I came at once to you for help. I hope you can go.”

“Why certainly I shall go, unless I am needed here,” Mrs. Weston replied as she looked at her husband.

“There is nothing you can do just now, Nell,” was the quiet response. “You will have shelter, anyway, over your head to-night.”

“And where will you sleep?” his wife inquired.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter about me. But I have been fixing up the waggon-house over there, so it will be quite comfortable. To-morrow I shall get it all set to rights, and it will do until we get a new house built.”

“Come with me to-night,” Mr. Dean invited. “We have plenty of room.”

“No, thank you kindly, sir. I prefer to stay here.”

“Suit yourself, Jim, but I want your help to-morrow. I have an order for several large ships-knees, which must be delivered in a few days for the Bonnie Lass which is now being built at Marsh Creek.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Dean, when I have so much to do here?”

“Because I am going to assist you with your new house. And, besides, I have news that will interest you. Old Thistle is in town.”

At these words Jim Weston started and a fierce gleam came into his eyes. His body became tense, and his hands clenched hard together as he stepped towards Mr. Dean.

“When did he come?” he asked.

“A week or so ago. One of his sons has been in the city for some time, and has opened up an office there.”

“What for?”

“Shipbuilding and lumbering.”

Jim asked no further questions but stood lost in thought. His eyes had narrowed to mere slits, and the expression upon his face was not pleasant to behold. Mr. Dean reached out and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“Steady, Jim. Be careful and don’t do anything rash. Come and help me to-morrow, for I want to have a talk with you.”

“But are you sure he’s in town, Mr. Dean?”

“I saw him on the street.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. But that will do now, for I must get home.”

As Prosper Dean rode away, he turned once, looked back and saw Jim Weston standing just as he had left him, unheeding his wife who was apparently pleading earnestly with him.

“Jim is in an ugly mood. If he meets Old Thistle, it’s hard to tell what might happen, murder, maybe. Now, what can I do to avoid a tragedy? I shall need much of Prospero’s magic to control Caliban.”

CHAPTER II

A Friend in Need

The musical click of Midnight’s steel-shod hoofs upon the Storm King Valley road harmonized well with the clear August afternoon. It was a fitting accompaniment to nature’s symphony of bird, insect, and lisping leaves. Midnight was a noble animal, black and glossy, with great chest, proudly-arching neck, full eye, swift as a grey hound and nimble as a mountain goat. He had given his fair mistress a thrilling ride from the river road. He had sped like the wind up hill and down, with ears laid back, flowing mane and loose rein. Now, however, at the entrance to the Valley he had been checked in his headlong speed, and he well knew the hand that restrained him. His strong body quivered with the excitement of the run, and he champed somewhat impatiently at his bit, for he was longing to overtake Lad, the thoroughbred collie, speeding on ahead.

Jacynth Dean noticed this, and smiled. Her face was flushed, and her dark hair was tossed by the wild ride. She knew how Midnight enjoyed such a run, with Lad just far enough ahead to keep clear of those lightning-like hoofs. But she was satisfied now, so the horse had to obey her imperious will. Grace, confidence, and repose marked every movement of her slightly-swaying body as Midnight strode forward. She was perfectly at home in the saddle, not the kind generally used by women, but a man’s saddle where she could ride astride, free and unrestrained by long flowing skirts which she despised when on horseback. She had ridden thus from girlhood, at first bareback, on horses as strong and noble as Midnight. She had scandalized her neighbors then. But when they came to know and understand her, they merely smiled, and decided that she was different from other girls. But Jacynth never minded what people said or thought. She enjoyed life too much to give a moment’s worry about the opinions of others.

For several hundred yards the road wound its way through thick trees, then suddenly opened upon a large newly-cleared piece of ground from which the grain had been recently gathered. It was enclosed by a rough snake-fence, the poles of which were charred by the fire they had undergone during the spring burning ere the sowing of the grain had taken place. The whole clearing was dotted with numerous stumps, and a serious expression came into Jacynth’s eyes as she thought of the man who had toiled there, the strong, reserved Jim Weston. She looked over to where the house had stood. No one was to be seen about the place, and she knew why. Jim had gone to the river to meet his wife who was coming on the afternoon boat. She had been away from home for two weeks, so Jim had burnt down the house to spite her, so people said. Yes, that was one of the things she had heard that afternoon. But she knew it was untrue. Jim Weston was not the man to do such a deed. She had too much confidence in him to believe such a report.

And she had heard something else which had inflamed her heart. Several had even suggested that Jim had burnt his house to get the insurance. A man who would scuttle his ship for money, would not hesitate to burn his house for the same reason. It was nothing more than could be expected from a jail-bird. She had spiritedly defended Jim, although she was well aware that it made no difference to what people thought. So the wild ride from the shore had been necessary to relieve her excited feelings, and it had accomplished its purpose. She was quite calm now, and as Midnight clipped on his way she was in a most thoughtful mood. She paid no attention as formerly to the beauty of the scenery, the great wooded hills surrounding the Valley, the soft foliage of the sun-kissed trees, the twitter of birds, and hum of insects. Even Lad, racing and doubling after squirrel or rabbit, did not arouse her from the reverie into which she had sunk. For a time she was lost to the world, and thought only of the two upon whom the gossip of the community had centred.

She was at length aroused as Midnight turned suddenly from the main road upon a path among the thick trees on the left. This led to the brook, and in another minute the horse was knee-deep in the water. He was about to drink, when he threw up his head and started back with a snort of fright. Something on the opposite bank had attracted his attention, and as Jacynth looked in that direction, she saw a young man seated upon the ground with his back against a great pine tree. Astonished at the sudden appearance of the horse and its rider, he rose to his feet, and leaning upon a stick, limped slowly towards the brook. At his side hung a flat knapsack, suspended by a strap across his right shoulder. This Jacynth noticed at a glance, for the brook was narrow here, and she was almost in midstream. Midnight, having recovered from his fright, had his nose buried into the flowing water, and was slaking his burning thirst. A jerk at the rein, and a sharp word of command, caused him reluctantly to lift his head and move forward, splash his way across the stream and leap with a bound up the bank.

With kindling eyes the young man watched the horse and rider. Never had he beheld such a scene. It thrilled his soul, and at once his right hand moved towards his knapsack. He was about to unfasten the strap, when he hesitated and a smile overspread his face. He limped forward a few steps and then stopped.

“Pardon me,” he began, “but may I sketch you and that great horse? I was tempted to do so without your permission.”

Jacynth smiled as she looked into the clear eyes upraised to hers. They were fearless, honest eyes, and she felt that she could trust this stranger.

“And I should like to sketch you, too, sir, if I had the ability. My, what a picture you would make! What has happened to you, anyway?”

“Nothing much. Just a sprained ankle. I hurt it back there in the woods, and had a hard time getting here. I became separated from my companion, and he is searching for me, most likely. But no one will worry much over me. Some might even be glad if Kent Rayson never came back.”

Jacynth was surprised at this note of bitterness. What was this young man doing in the woods? Where had he come from? Perhaps he would explain later. Now, however, he needed assistance.

All at once a peculiar fancy came into her mind. She was suddenly transported back to the days of ancient chivalry of which she had read so much in her father’s wonderful books. This young man was a knight of fair renown who had gone forth against a cruel enemy. He had been wounded and unhorsed in a fierce encounter, and now needed her help. A smile flitted across her face as this vision passed, and a slight flush mantled her cheeks. What if this stranger surmised what she was thinking about? Did he notice her momentary confusion?

Kent Rayson, however, was not looking at her just then. He was gazing at the brook, and in his eyes was a dreamy expression. The scene he had beheld of the girl mounted upon the horse was stirring his imagination. What a picture that would make, with the trees as a verdant background. Again his hand fumbled at the strap of the knapsack, and he looked at the girl.

“Do you mind if I sketch you, Miss–?”

“Jacynth Dean. That is my name, with no ‘Miss’ attached to it. But suppose you wait and make your sketch later. You are tired and suffering, so I want you to come with me.”

“Do you live near here, Miss–Jacynth, I mean? What a pretty name. It is another form of hyacinth, a flower I love, and which I have often painted. Or it might be the sapphire, as some think, worthy to adorn a queen’s hand or a monarch’s crown. But to me it is now both a flower and a jewel when it is the name of a woodland princess who has so unexpectedly rescued me in my sad plight.”

A sunny smile overspread the girl’s face, and her heart quickened at these words. She had never heard a man speak like this before. He was different from any she had ever met. And she admired his courage, too.

“This is no time or place for poetry, sir,” she reminded. “How can you talk in such a way when you are suffering?”

“Suffering means little to me in surroundings such as these. ‘It is the mind that makes the body rich’, as Master Shakespeare says. And it is true, for though I suffer in body, I am still in the bliss of heaven, and think little of bodily pains.”

During this outburst Jacynth’s right hand had been stroking Midnight’s glossy neck. She was thinking of her father. How he would enjoy talking to this stranger who quoted Shakespeare so readily. What a bond of friendship it would be between them, and what a pleasure it would be for her to listen. Her father had often told her that there was no one near to whom he could talk about the master minds of the ages, and he was forced to keep his great thoughts to himself. Now, perhaps, his wish would be satisfied in this young man.

Slipping lightly from her horse, she motioned Rayson to the saddle.

“You take my place, sir.”

“No, no,” the young man protested. “I can walk quite well.”

“Perhaps you think so. But from your words I judge you need a guardian. Your mind may be what you say it is, but if it makes you forget your suffering, your injured foot, for instance, it is necessary that some one more earthly should look after your body. Midnight and I must do that now, and Martha will attend to you later. So do as I say, and take my place.”

“And let you walk! No, I cannot. That would not be right.”

“Very well, I shall have to leave you here alone with your surroundings and the master minds. Perhaps they will care for you. But, come, be sensible.”

“I suppose I must,” Kent reluctantly agreed. “If you leave me here I shall be helpless. And, besides, I do not want to be separated from my woodland princess. Is it far to your home?”

“Not far when one is well, but a long way when every step is an agony. Mount, sir, and I shall take you there.”

Seeing that further resistance was useless, Kent was soon in the saddle, and Midnight was moving along the winter lumber road which led to the main highway. Nature was at her best on this bright August afternoon. The air was laden with the invigorating scent of balsam-dripping trees, leaves, damp moss, and woodland flowers. Bees buzzed, birds chirped, and squirrels chattered from over-hanging branches. The brook murmured gently over tiny bars and around smooth stones on its placid way to the river. Little wonder, then, that the hearts of the young man and maiden should be deeply affected by these mystic influences. Wise old nature was doing her part, and doing it wonderfully well, in weaving about these two young people her web of subtle enchantment.

So on they moved along the woodland road, Jacynth with her right hand upon the bridle rein restraining Midnight’s impatient haste, and guiding his steps over the rough places. To Kent Rayson it all seemed like a marvellous dream from which he was afraid he would suddenly awaken. He could not keep his eyes off the girl on his left. The proud poise of her head, her animated face, her strong self-reliance, and the ease with which she controlled the high-spirited horse, impressed him deeply. Who was she, anyway? And what was such a girl doing in a wilderness like this?

They came at length out upon the main highway, which was merely a rough road leading to the settlement farther inland. To the right a wooden bridge spanned the brook, and as they entered upon this Kent uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“What a scene for an artist! Let us stop here for a few minutes. I must make a sketch of that rippling water down among those stones and through such an entrancing setting of dark green trees. Oh, it is wonderful!”

“You can get that again,” Jacynth smilingly replied. “You are forgetting yourself in your enthusiasm. See,” and she motioned to the left, “I live there, quite near.”

Kent looked and caught a glimpse of a house among the trees. This was another surprise to him, although he said nothing more as they passed from the bridge, and a few rods beyond turned aside and entered upon a well-made, slightly-ascending gravel road. This led to the house beyond, a neat, fair-sized building, of artistic design, its soft, light-greenish color harmonizing well with the various shades of the trees surrounding the place. And around it was a garden filled with a profusion of old-fashioned flowers, now at their best. They were not arranged in a stiff formal manner, but seemed as if they had sprung from seeds sown at random. At a glance, however, Kent knew that such was not the case, for what appeared like confusion was really the outcome of an artistic arrangement. He turned inquiringly to the girl.

“This is fairy-land! Who did it?”

“Prospero, of course, with some help from Miranda, Ariel and Caliban.”

“Prospero! Miranda!”

Jacynth laughed outright at the bewildered expression upon the young man’s face. She was in a teasing mood, and it pleased her to see this stranger’s astonishment.

“Yes,” she continued, “Prospero has the magic art and is able to do wonderful things, even to producing flowers from this poor soil. Just wait until you see him and learn of his great wisdom.”

“But who is Prospero?”

“My father, and I am Miranda. Ariel is the spirit of the air, and Caliban is–but, perhaps, it is just as well that you do not know. Allow me to help you from the saddle, sir.”

But Kent did not seem to hear this invitation. He was staring up into the air, for his attention had been arrested by something above the trees on a hill, eastward of the house. There he beheld a flag floating from a pole attached to the top of a tall pine. It was the flag of no nation, so far as he could tell, but a piece of cloth in the shape of a pointed banner containing three colors, red, white and blue.

“What is that for?” he asked. “It’s a strange place for a flag.”

“It’s Prospero’s idea, so you will have to ask him. He can explain its meaning better than I can. But, come, let me assist you down.”

They were now in front of the verandah steps, and Kent alighted, his mind filled with wonder at the girl’s strange words, the meaning of this beautiful place in the forest, and the flag floating from the tall pine.

CHAPTER III

Controlling Caliban

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.