CHAPTER VI.

CLINTON’S STORY.

The days went on quietly at Bright Farm, and the stranger improved rapidly in health. Doctor Conway continued his daily visits at the farm, but his patient occupied but little of his time. He could do nothing more, the doctor said. It only remained to build up the wasted strength by careful diet, and nature would do the rest. Conway did not believe in dosing at any time, being a firm advocate of the old maxim, “Throw physic to the dogs.”

The doctor had remembered his patient’s impatient demand for removal, and as soon as he dared had informed that gentleman that he might change his quarters at any time, taking the chance to inform him further that there existed excellent accommodations at the village hotel.

In fact, the good doctor had even gone beyond that, for he had placed the little rough pony and springy carryall at his patient’s service for the aforesaid purpose of removal. And when we consider that there was even less good-will existing between the two than there had been at first, we must admit the doctor’s disinterestedness--a disinterestedness, however, that was doomed to go unrewarded.

It was not accepted in the right spirit, the doctor thought; for the patient, preferring the good he had to the possible ills awaiting him, declined to move, and remained in his cozy little room at the cottage, and improved in health at a great rate. And so the second week had gone by, and Clinton had improved so much that he could even sit up for a short space of time in the big easy-chair by the fire.

It was while sitting there one day, watching the angular Higgins engaged in making the bed, that it occurred to him that in all his two weeks’ stay he had never seen the master of Bright Farm--not that he had cared particularly, so long as he saw the mistress often enough--but it gave him something to think about and speculate upon.

“Mrs. Higgins,” he said, as pleasantly as possible, “is Mr. Bright at home now, do you think?”

“No, he hain’t,” returned that uncompromising female.

“Ah! gone to town, I suppose?” returned Clinton.

But Mrs. Higgins, probably taking no interest in his suppositions, made no response, but continued her struggles with the pillow she was endeavoring to entrap into a case at least two sizes too small for it.

“How soon do you expect him back?” persisted Clinton.

“Back from whar?” inquired the Higgins.

“Why, from--from town, I suppose,” returned Clinton meekly.

“Who said he was in town?” demanded Higgins, with altogether unnecessary acerbity.

“You said he was not at home,” suggested Clinton mildly.

“Well, he ain’t to home, nuther,” returned Higgins. “He’s over ’n the medder a-plowin’. Then what?”

And she shot this question at him with a suddenness that was startling.

“Why, I should be very glad to see him,” said Clinton calmly. “Will you say so to him when he comes in to dinner?”

But Higgins only replied, “that she thought it was about time he wanted to see Jim Bright.” And so, having completed her work, she left her charge to his own reflections.

Clinton was not wrong in expecting a visit from his host, and consequently was not surprised when, at about noon, the door of his room opened and admitted a tall, sunburned man of about his own age, who, judging from the flushed face and damp, brown hair, had only stopped work long enough to have performed his ablutions. He advanced to the chair.

“I hope you are getting better,” he said. “Mrs. Higgins tells me that you wished to see me.”

“You are Mr. Bright?” Clinton said, with a pleasing smile, and stretching out his hand in greeting. “Yes, I have wanted to see you badly. I have so much to thank you for, and I wanted to give you such return as I may for the kind treatment that I have received.”

He said all this in such a sincere, hearty fashion that he quite touched honest Jim, who, to tell the truth, had been more than half disposed to dislike his guest.

“You owe me no thanks,” he said quietly. “You are welcome to everything we can do for you until you recover.”

Perhaps Jim unconsciously emphasized his last few words; the emphasis was plainly discernible, and Clinton flushed a little as he repeated his thanks and hoped--with some dignity--that he would not trouble them much longer.

“I believe,” he said, in conclusion, “that I owe you for more than your hospitality, great as that debt is. I am afraid if you had not found me when you did, there would have been very little need of carrying me anywhere.”

“You are giving me more credit than I deserve,” replied Jim quietly. “I did not find you. It was my sister.”

“Norine!” exclaimed Clinton.

“Miss Norine,” said Jim, with gentle correction.

“I beg your pardon--and hers,” said Clinton. “I had supposed that you found me. I have one more favor to ask of you, Mr. Bright.”

“You are welcome to anything I can do,” replied Jim courteously.

“Well, this is not much,” said Clinton, with his pleasing smile again. “But if you have your evenings at liberty, I should be glad if you would spare me some of them. I am afraid I trouble you greatly.”

“Not at all--not at all,” said Jim heartily. “I shall be as greatly pleased as you will. We are very quiet here,” he added, “and I suppose the evenings seem long to you.”

Jim was pleased with the implied compliment, as I have no doubt Clinton intended he should be, and he was rapidly thawing out into his genial, friendly self, when the interview was brought to a close by the irrepressible voice of Mrs. Higgins.

“Jim Bright!” cried that lady, with her head thrust through the open door, “be you a-comin’ to dinner?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Higgins,” said Jim. “I did not know that dinner was ready.”

But the unappeased Mrs. Higgins only muttered that “thanks waz cheap, and there waz no use in a-stay-in’ there all day to lay in a stock o’ ’em.”

After dinner, Norine came in as usual, with her work in her hand.

Clinton used to think that the day began about three o’clock, for she always came about the same time, and he had been very well satisfied to lay and watch her while she worked, just speaking often enough to bring her face to the light that he might watch the expressive play of every feature. But he was in a more talkative mood to-day.

“Miss Norine,” he said, when she had taken her usual low chair by the window, “why did you never tell me that it was you who found me that day?”

“Did I never tell you?” asked Norine. “Then probably it was because I did not think it of sufficient importance.”

“The finding was of very little importance,” rejoined Clinton, “and you will probably set very little value on the thanks, but they are yours, nevertheless, and they are very sincere.”

“I did not mean that,” said Norine, flushing a little and getting confused. “I only meant that it was not necessary for you to thank me. I could take your gratitude for granted. Besides,” she added, “if I had not found you, some one else might have.”

“I think not,” said Clinton. “I am a great believer in fate, and I think it was ordained that you should find me.”

“Do you believe that bug was ordained to fly over my nose and thus call my attention to you?” asked Norine laughingly.

“Why not?” returned Clinton seriously. “There are stranger things than that in this world. Perhaps the poor bug was created for that purpose, unimportant as it was. At any rate,” he continued lightly, “I was found, and I am very glad that I was found by you. I only hope that I shall be able to convince you of my gratitude.”

“That is very easy. I will absolve you.”

“Oh! but I may not be able to absolve myself!” said Clinton gravely.

There was a pause now of some moments. Clinton lay, with his eyes half closed, watching Norine’s face, and speculating upon his probable fate in case he had been found by any one else. After a while, finding that field of conjecture limitless, he broke the silence again.

“Miss Norine,” he said, “I wish you would tell me about it. How you found me, I mean. Where is that hut?”

And then Norine told him of the deserted hut and of the ailing Higgins, and of her errand in their behalf, how she had found him, and how they had brought him there.

“Do you remember anything of that awful night?” she asked, in conclusion.

“I only remember the storm,” replied Clinton, “and my fighting against it. It does not seem possible that it lasted only one day, or night, rather. It seems as if I had been for months wandering over that confounded mountain. I do not remember how or when I got hurt, neither do I remember finding the cabin.”

“There is one thing Jim and I have spoken of several times,” said Norine gently, changing the subject. “We have thought perhaps you might wish to have your friends notified.”

“My friends,” said Clinton, with a bitter laugh. “There is only one person in this world that I know of that would have felt one spark of interest if my life had been snuffed out that night.”

“Oh, you must not talk that way,” said Norine, greatly shocked. “I am sure you must be wrong. Have you no relatives?”

“None,” answered Clinton, “unless some distant cousins whom I have never seen, and whom, I doubt, know of my existence. I have neither friends nor relatives.”

“You just spoke of one friend,” suggested Norine gently.

“No, not a friend exactly in the sense you mean it. There is one person in New York with whom I left a few--a very few hundred dollars, to keep for me; but he is more a banker than a friend.”

“How terrible!” said Norine softly; “and what a very lonesome place the world must be to one without kindred or friends.”

“I have never felt it so until now,” replied Clinton. “Perhaps I have been too selfishly interested in my own existence to feel the need of other ties; but after my narrow escape on that mountain, I feel that I should not like to die without some one to mourn for me.”

“Ah, well, that is all over now,” said Norine cheerfully; “and it is always so easy for a man to make friends.”

“Why easier for a man, than one of the other sex?” interposed Clinton.

“Your late experience would answer that question,” replied Norine quietly. “A man is free to come and go. If he does not find friends at home, he can go out into the world and search for them, as you have done. But I will admit,” she continued, smiling archly, “that you sometimes get into trouble in the search.”

“That does not matter if we only accomplish our ends.”

“You can generally do that; at least, you can find friends if you wish to.”

“As I have done?”

Norine looked up quickly.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I think you have found friends here, but you will, no doubt, find better ones.”

“No kinder ones, I am sure,” replied the sick man gratefully. “They are friends whom I shall never forget.”

Norine made no reply, and shortly after left the room to find her favorite seat upon the doorstep, where she fell into a profound reverie.

It became the custom for the brother and sister to join their guest in the evening. He could sit up in bed and play cribbage with Jim, while Norine, with her work or a book, would sit by the little table, coming over to the bedside occasionally when the game became more than usually interesting.

It was a very happy time for all, although I have no doubt Clinton enjoyed it the most.

He was something of a vagabond, and had seen a great many things that were new to these simple country people; and as he was clever and entertaining, his stories lost nothing in interest from his manner of relating them.

On the other hand, he found in this brother and sister, neither of whom had ever been fifty miles away from their little farm, two remarkably intelligent and well-read people. It was astonishing, he thought, that, isolated as they were, they should acquire so many of the graces that usually can only be obtained by mingling in the society of cultured people.

He hinted at this once to Jim; but as that gentleman considered it unnecessary to explain matters of family history to this stranger, he got very little satisfaction.

“I read a great deal and think a little,” Jim had said shortly; and Clinton was too wise to push the matter further.

True, he once tried to interrogate Mrs. Higgins delicately as to the history of his host, but he got even less satisfaction there. That good woman informed him that:

“A fox onct was er peekin’ er round ther barn, expectin’ ter find er chicken; instead o’ which, a steel trap found him.”

Having posted him on that bit of farmyard history, she snorted once or twice significantly, but said no more, and Clinton gave up all hopes of obtaining any information from her.

Still, his curiosity did not detract any from the pleasure of their company, and so the pleasant evenings came and went until the bed was no longer necessary, and they gathered around the kitchen fireplace instead; but still they enjoyed themselves, and still Clinton continued to improve. He was nearly well now, but nothing had been said about him leaving Bright Farm.

Of course Jim could not mention the matter, and Clinton did not choose to do so, and so he stayed on.

Sometimes--not very often--Doctor Conway would join the little circle in front of the kitchen fire: but these evenings were not very enjoyable to him. Clinton rather monopolized the conversation--and monopolized Norine also, Conway thought; so he only dropped in once in a while, and joined in the game of cards, or the discussion that happened to be in progress.

He had just come in one evening, and found the young people discussing a visit they had received from the pastor of the little church.

“He is a good, kind-hearted man,” Jim was saying, “and does a great deal for the poor people of the neighborhood, though he has very little to do it with. I like him very much.”

“He seems to be kind enough,” replied Clinton, carelessly; “but he hardly impresses me with his ability as a teacher. Besides, he talks ‘shop’ too much.”

“That is his mission,” interposed Norine.

“Less his mission than his profession, perhaps,” replied Clinton in that careless, almost sneering tone. “After all, it is only another way of making a living.”

“I doubt that,” said Jim warmly. “I do not believe as he does, but I think that he is undoubtedly sincere. Besides that, Carlton is a very clever fellow in his way, and very poorly paid. I feel sure that if it were only a question of money he could do better in other ways.”

“He is certainly not very original,” sneered Clinton, repressing a yawn. “I have heard those same expressions of faith before.”

“They may be none the less sincere for that,” replied Jim sternly. “I hold that sincere faith is always worthy of respect.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Clinton, not at all abashed. “You must pardon my criticism. I did not know that you were such an earnest believer.”

Conway laughed. Jim was not considered a very earnest believer by his neighbors.

“That is the first time I ever heard you complimented in that way, Jim.”

“I do not deserve the compliment,” replied Jim soberly. “Not but that I am sincere in my belief.”

“What is that?” inquired Clinton, with an appearance of interest.

“Oh, Jim is what you might call a believer in nature,” interposed Norine. “Just as you believe in fate, and Doctor Conway in--I don’t know what.”

“Say in you, for instance,” said Conway quietly.

Norine blushed a little.

“We are talking of religious matters now, sir,” she pouted.

“I doubt if any of us would pass as orthodox,” said Clinton, paying no attention to this little by-play. “As for me, I am in doubt. I am something of a fatalist, as Miss Norine has said. And yet at times I am undecided in my mind, and inclined to believe that we are all the result of chance.”

“Would you trust your hereafter to chance?” inquired Jim quietly.

“I am hardly sure that I believe in a life after this,” replied the young man. “I have never seen any proof of it. Have you?” he inquired in his turn.

“Yes, a great many,” said Jim. “In fact, that is the one point of all others that I hold to be indisputably proven.”

Clinton looked doubtful.

“I would be glad to see the proof,” he said.

“Do you believe in the possibility of destruction?”

“In the possibility, yes.”

Jim reached down on the hearth and picked up a sliver of wood.

“Can you destroy that?” he asked.

“Certainly,” replied Clinton promptly, and he tossed it into the glowing fire. “There,” he said, “fire has completely destroyed it.”

Jim smiled.

“Don’t you see,” he inquired scornfully, “that you have only changed its form? You can not destroy. You often hear the term used, but I do not believe destruction is possible. Take the smallest grain of sand possible to find. Let the best chemists and scientists combine to destroy it--completely destroy it, understand; not merely change its form--and if they succeed, I will believe destruction possible. But until they are able to destroy the smallest thing in nature, I will not believe in the destruction or extinction of soul.”

“Horatio, thou reasonest well,” quoted Clinton. “But why, if there is a world beyond this, is there no communication with it? Or do you hold it possible that we may return to this world after death?”

“I do not know,” replied Jim thoughtfully. “We may not desire to return. The grub may think he will return to his fellows after death. But what reason would the butterfly have for entering into communication with the grubs? Then, again, as the grub can not understand or care for the butterfly, so we, too, may be surrounded by friends who have merely changed their forms and yet are beyond our comprehension.”

“I do not believe that!” cried Clinton. “If there is any life after this, I would find some way of returning; and if I had suffered a wrong in this world, I should try to return, if only to express my anger.”

“Fy!” cried Norine, shuddering; “what a cruel belief!”

And she remembered that expression long after.

Jim smiled superior.

“You think so now,” he said; “but your opinions may change with your existence.”

“I doubt it,” replied Clinton; “but it is possible. What is your opinion, doctor?”

Conway rose and buttoned his coat, ready to depart.

“I think there are two subjects that should be tabooed in ordinary conversation,” he said coolly. “They are politics and religion. In regard to the latter question, I think we are all on the same footing. We know that we are here--we may differ in opinion as to how we came, or where we are going--but that really sums up our knowledge of the subject. After that, what we don’t know would make more volumes than our actual knowledge of the matter would pages. I think we are all alike--equally ignorant.”

And with that candid expression of opinion, the doctor departed.

After this, these discussions came to be of almost nightly occurrence, and Clinton soon understood why his host was looked upon by his neighbors as an “original.”

Jim had original views of almost everything, but particularly of religion. He was sincerely earnest in all he said, and very tolerant of the opinions of others.

But he was original. He had got his ideas from a close communication with nature. He was religious by nature.

It was one of the anomalies of that fruitful theme of discussion that Clinton, scornful and rather superficial, should uphold sectarianism and all its superstitions, as it was preached in that little country chapel, with all the decidedly fervent descriptions of hell-fire and burning brimstone, while Jim, pious and earnest in all he thought and did, should reject this preposterous idea of eternal punishment, accepting instead the grander thoughts of eternal love that nature had taught him.

There was very little good obtained by these discussions--there seldom is--but they served as a zest for their quiet life, furnishing the spice necessary to make their quiet evenings enjoyable.