"He is here to promise me that he will not put the name of Phyllis Fontaine in the month of every drunken gambler and scornful man and woman to satisfy his own selfish, false pride."

"He is too big a coward to fight a gentleman, he prefers fighting half-armed savages; but I propose to honor his behavior with more attention than it deserves unless he runs away."

"John, dear John, do not mind what Richard says now. He will be sorry for it. If you care for me, ever so little, you will not fight about me. The shame would kill me. I don't deserve it. I will never marry a man who drags my name into a quarrel. Richard, for our mother's sake, be yourself. Brother, you ought to protect me! I appeal to you! For G.o.d's sake, dear Richard, give me that pistol!"

"Phyllis," said John, "I will go. I will not fight. Your desire is sufficient."

"Coward! You shall fight me! I will call you coward wherever I meet you."

"No one, who knows us both, will believe you."

It was not the taunt, so much as the look of deep affection which John gave Phyllis, that irritated the angry man beyond further control.

In a moment he had struck John, and John had c.o.c.ked his pistol. In the same moment Phyllis was between them, looking into John's eyes, and just touching the dangerous weapon. John trembled all over and dropped it. "Go your ways safely, Richard Fontaine. I could kill you as easy as a baby, but for Phyllis's sake you are safe."

"But I will make you fight, sir;" and as he uttered the threat, he attempted to push Phyllis aside. Ere one could have spoken, she had faced Richard and fallen. Her movement in some way had fired the c.o.c.ked pistol, and, with a cry of horror, he flung it from him. John lifted her. Already the blood was staining the snowy muslin that covered her breast. But she was conscious.

"Kiss me, John, and go. It was an accident, an accident, dear. Remember that."

"Stay with her, Richard. I will go for a doctor, my horse is saddled at the door;" and John rode away, as men ride between life and death.

Richard sat in a stupor of grief, supporting the white form that tried to smile upon him, until the eyes closed in a death-like unconsciousness.

CHAPTER VI.

"Who redeemeth thy life from destruction."

"Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires; G.o.d, and your native land!"

The hours that followed were full of suffering to the heart. John came back with the doctors he summoned, and during their investigation he walked restlessly up and down the room in which the tragedy had occurred. Richard never noticed him. He sat in a chair by the open window, with his head in his hands, quite overcome by grief and remorse. It was in John's strong arms Phyllis had been carried to her own room, and no one now disputed his right to watch and to wait for the doctors' verdict. He was very white; white through all the tan of wind and sun; and, as he paced the room, he wrung his hands in an agony beyond speech. Terrible, indeed, to both men was the silent house, with the faint noises of hurried footsteps and closing doors up stairs! What a mockery seemed the cool, clear sunshine outside! What a strange sadness there was in the call of the crickets, and the faint blooms of the last few flowers! There are scenes and sounds which, as backgrounds to great events in life, photograph themselves in their smallest details upon the mind. In the midst of his distress John could not help noticing the pattern of the wall-paper, and the rustling of the dropping leaves and nuts in the garden.

He pitied Richard; for, even in the depth of his own sorrow, he perceived a grief he could not touch--the anguish of a remorse which might have no end in this life. As the doctors came down stairs John went to meet them, for even a minute's reprieve from his torturing anxiety was worth going for. The foremost made a slight movement, a motion of the lips and eyes which somehow conveyed a hope, and when he heard the words, "She may recover," he hastened back to Richard, and said, "There is a hope for her, and for us. G.o.d forgive us!"

Richard never answered a word, and John wandered for hours upon the beach, gazing at the gray melancholy sea, and trying to understand how far he had been to blame. Perhaps it is in the want of pity that the real _infernal_ of Satan consists; for whenever he sees us overwhelmed with sorrow, then he casts into our throbbing heart his fiercest weapons. Doubt, anguish, and prostration of hope, worse than death, a.s.sailed him. He tried to pray, but felt as if his cries were uttered to an inexorable silence.

As for Richard, he was so mentally stunned that it was not until he had been taken to Phyllis, and she had whispered, "I shall be better soon, Richard," that a saving reaction could be induced. Then the _abandon_ of his grief was terrible; then he felt something of that remorse for sin which needs no material fiery adjunct to make a h.e.l.l for the soul. The Bishop watched him with infinite pity, but for several days offered him no consolation. He thought it well he should sorrow; he wished him to know fully that humiliation which Jesus exalts, that wretchedness which he consoles, that darkness which he lightens.

So, when he heard him one night, muttering as he walked gloomily up and down, "O that I could forget! O that I could forget!" he answered, "Not so, son Richard. Can you escape eternity by forgetting it? And even for this life to forget is a kind of moral forfeiture, a treason against your own soul. Forget nothing, carry every thing about yourself to G.o.d--your weakness, your regrets, and your desires."

"How can the infinite G.o.d heed my pitiful regrets and desires?"

"Because he loves men individually; he deals with them soul by soul.

You, Richard Fontaine, you, your very self, must go to him. You are not only a sinner in the general ma.s.s, but a particular sinner under your own name and in your special person. So, then, for you he has a special pardon. He has the special help you need; the very word of grace, that your soul, and yours only, may be able to understand."

"O that G.o.d would pity me!"

"You belong to the G.o.d of compa.s.sions. He resists the proud, but he comes to abide with the broken in spirit."

"If I was only sure Phyllis would recover!"

"And if not?"

"Then I have no hope for this life or the other."

"G.o.d will do what seemeth good to him."

"I do not understand--G.o.d seems so indifferent to my cries."

"My son, G.o.d's indifference does not exist; and if to comprehend the cross of Christ, you must suffer to extremity, I would not spare you, Richard; though I love you. There are four words that you can say, which will shake the gates of heaven; which will make the Father meet you, and the elder Brother welcome you, and the angels sing for joy.

Desolate souls, full of anguish, and yet full of hope, have comprehended them: _Have mercy upon me!_"

But the soul is a great mystery. How often is it called, and will not answer. Richard for many weeks could neither believe, nor yet ardently desire. The hour in which he heard that Phyllis was out of danger was the hour of his spiritual deliverance. Then a speechless, overwhelming grat.i.tude took possession of him. He went into his room, and, amid tears and broken prayers of thankfulness, his heart melted. A wondrous revelation came to him, the revelation of a love greater than his sin.

He was lost in its rapture, and arose with the sacred, secret sign of the eternal Father in his soul.

Phyllis saw the change as soon as he knelt down by her side, for his whole countenance was altered. She drew near to him, and kissed him.

It was after Christmas, and the days bleak and cold; but a great fire of cedar logs burned in the grate, and Phyllis had been lifted to a lounge near it. She was whiter than the pillow on which she lay, white with that pallor of death which the shadowy valley leaves. But O, what a joy it was to see her there once more, to feel that she was coming back, though as one from the grave, to life again!

After half an hour's happy talk he walked to the window and looked out. It faced the garden and the beach. The trees were now bare, and through their interlacing branches he could see the waters of the gulf.

As he stood watching them, a figure came in sight. He knew well the tall erect form, the rapid walk, the pause at the gate, the eager look toward the house. He had seen it day after day for weeks, and he knew that, however cold the wind or heavy the rain, it would keep its watch, until Harriet went to the gate with a word of comfort.

Suddenly a thought came into Richard's heart. He left Phyllis, put on his hat, and walked rapidly down to the gate. John was about fifty yards away, and he went to meet him. John saw him coming and walked steadily forward. He expected unkind words, and was therefore amazed when Richard put out his hand, and said, "John, forgive me."

"With all my heart, Richard." The tears were in his eyes, his brown face flushed scarlet with emotion. He held Richard's hand firmly, and said, "I beg your pardon also, Richard."

"Will you come in and see Phyllis?"

"Do you really mean such a kindness?"

"I do, indeed; if Phyllis is able to see you. Let us go and ask."

Harriet was idling about the parlor, dusting the already dusted furniture as they entered. The face was as impa.s.sive as a bronze statue. "Go and ask Miss Phillis, Harriet, if she is able to see Mr.

Millard."

In a minute she was by Phyllis's side. "Miss Phill, honey, Miss Phill, dar's a miracle down stairs, nothin' at all less. Ma.s.s'r Richard and Ma.s.s'r John sittin' together like two lambs, and Ma.s.s'r Richard says, 'Can you see Ma.s.s'r John a few minutes?'"

The poetic Greek said, "Destiny loves surprises," and our Christian forefathers called all unexpected pleasures and profits, "G.o.dsends."

I think such "G.o.dsends" come often to those who ask them. At any rate, Phyllis was asking this very favor, and even while the supplication was on her lips it was granted her. It was Richard, too, who brought John to her side; and he clasped their hands in his, and then went away and left them together. The solemn tenderness of such a meeting needed but few words. John thought life could hardly give him again moments so holy and so sweet. O, how precious are these sudden unfoldings of loving-kindness! These G.o.dsends of infinite love! He had not dared to expect any thing for himself; he had only asked for the life of Phyllis, and it had been given him with that royal compa.s.sion that adds, "grace unto favor."

The happy come back to life easily; and when the snow-drops were beginning to peep above the ground, Phyllis, leaning upon John and Richard, stood once more under the blue of heaven, and after that her recovery was rapid and certain. The months of January and February were peculiarly happy ones, full of delightful intercourse and hopeful dreams. Of course they talked of the future; they knew all its uncertainties, and faced, with happy hearts, the struggle they might have together.

At the termination of John's last service he had possessed about two thousand dollars, but this sum had been already much encroached upon, and he was anxious to find a career which would enable him to make a home for Phyllis. There seemed, however, but two possible ways for John: he must have military service, or he must take up land upon the frontier, stock it, and then defend it until he had won it. He had lived so long the free life of the prairie and the woods, that the crowds of cities and their occupations almost frightened him. For theology he had no vocation and no "call." Medicine he had a most decided repugnance to. Law seemed to him but a meddling in other people's business and predicaments. He felt that he would rather face a band of savages than a constant invasion of shoppers; rather stand behind a breastwork than behind a desk and ledger. The planter's life was too indolent, too full of small cares and anxieties; his whole crop might be ruined by an army of worms that he could not fight. But on the frontier, if there was loss or danger, he could defy it or punish it.

He talked to Phyllis of the healthy, happy life of the prairies; of the joy of encamping in forests, and seeing the sun rise between the leaves; of wandering without hinderance; of being satisfied with little. It was these sweet, unplanted places of earth, these grand wastes of green, unpart.i.tioned off into squares of mine and thine, that attracted John and charmed Phyllis: for her heart was with his.

She thought of the little home that was to have a look southward and eastward, and which she was to make beautiful; and no grand dame, with the prospect of royal favor and court splendor, was ever half so glad in her future as Phyllis in her dream of a simple and busy Arcadia.

It cannot be said that Richard shared her enthusiasm. In his heart he thought Phyllis "too good" for such a life, and to the Bishop he once permitted himself a little lament on the subject.

"But, son Richard," was the answer, "what kind of men build up new States and lead the van of the onward march? Are they not the heroes of the republic? brave men of large souls and large views, that go naturally to the front because they are too big for the ranks?"