Every Saturday the distinguished physician from Angelica City came toManzanita on the afternoon train, spent two or three hours at CamillaVan Arsdale's camp, and returned in time to catch Number Seven back. Noimaginable fee would have induced him to abstract one whole day from hisenormous practice for any other patient. But he was himself an ardentvocal amateur, and to keep Royce Melvin alive and able to give forth hersongs to the world was a special satisfaction to his soul. Moreover, heknew enough of Banneker's story to take pride in being partner in hisplan of deception and self-sacrifice. He pretended that it was a neededholiday for him: his bills hardly defrayed the traveling expense.
Now, riding back with Banneker, he meditated a final opinion, and out ofthat opinion came speech.
"Mr. Banneker, they ought to give you and me a special niche in the Hallof Fame," he said.
A rather wan smile touched briefly Banneker's lips. "I believe that myambitions once reached even that far," he said.
The other reflected upon the implied tragedy of a life, so young, forwhich ambition was already in the past tense, as he added:
"In the musical section. We've got our share in the nearest thing togreat music that has been produced in the America of our time. You andI. Principally you."
Banneker made a quick gesture of denial.
"I don't know what you owe to Camilla Van Arsdale, but you've paid thedebt. There won't be much more to pay, Banneker."
Banneker looked up sharply.
"No." The visitor shook his graying head. "We've performed as near amiracle as it is given to poor human power to perform. It can't lastmuch longer."
"How long?"
"A matter of weeks. Not more. Banneker, do you believe in a personalimmortality?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
"I don't know, either. I was thinking.... If it were so; when she getsacross, what she will feel when she finds her man waiting for her. God!"He lifted his face to the great trees that moved and murmured overhead."How that heart of hers has sung to him all these years!"
He lifted his voice and sent it rolling through the cathedral aisles ofthe forest, in the superb finale of the last hymn.
"For even the purest delight may pall,And power must fail, and the pride must fallAnd the love of the dearest friends grow small--But the glory of the Lord is all in all."
The great voice was lost in the sighing of the winds. They rode on,thoughtful and speechless. When the physician turned to his companionagain, it was with a brisk change of manner.
"And now we'll consider you."
"Nothing to consider," declared Banneker.
"Is your professional judgment better than mine?" retorted the other."How much weight have you lost since you've been out here?"
"I don't know."
"Find out. Don't sleep very well, do you?"
"Not specially."
"What do you do at night when you can't sleep? Work?"
"No."
"Well?"
"Think."
The doctor uttered a non-professional monosyllable. "What will you do,"he propounded, waving his arm back along the trail toward the VanArsdale camp, "when this little game of yours is played out?"
"God knows!" said Banneker. It suddenly struck him that life would beblank, empty of interest or purpose, when Camilla Van Arsdale died, whenthere was no longer the absorbing necessity to preserve, intact andimpregnable, the fortress of love and lies wherewith he had surroundedher.
"When this chapter is finished," said the other, "you come down toAngelica City with me. Perhaps we'll go on a little camping triptogether. I want to talk to you."
The train carried him away. Oppressed and thoughtful, Banneker walkedslowly across the blazing, cactus-set open toward his shack. There wasstill the simple housekeeping work to be done, for he had left earlythat morning. He felt suddenly spiritless, flaccid, too inert even forthe little tasks before him. The physician's pronouncement had taken thestrength from him. Of course he had known that it couldn't be verylong--but only a few weeks!
He was almost at the shack when he noticed that the door stood halfajar.
But here, where everything had been disorder, was now order. The bed wasmade, the few utensils washed, polished, and hung up; on the table ahandful of the alamo's bright leaves in a vase gave a touch of color.
In the long chair (7 T 4031 of the Sears-Roebuck catalogue) sat Io. Abook lay on her lap, the book of "The Undying Voices." Her eyes wereclosed. Banneker reached out a hand to the door lintel for support.
A light tremor ran through Io's body. She opened her eyes, and fixedthem on Banneker. She rose slowly. The book fell to the floor and layopen between them. Io stood, her arms hanging straitly at her side, herwhole face a lovely and loving plea.
"Please, Ban!" she said, in a voice so little that it hardly came to hisears.
Speech and motion were denied him, in the great, the incredible surpriseof her presence.
"Please, Ban, forgive me." She was like a child, beseeching. Her firmlittle chin quivered. Two great, soft, lustrous tears welled up from theshadowy depths of the eyes and hung, gleaming, above the lashes. "Oh,aren't you going to speak to me!" she cried.
At that the bonds of his languor were rent. He leapt to her, heard thebroken music of her sob, felt her arms close about him, her lips seekhis and cling, loath to relinquish them even for the passionate murmursof her love and longing for him.
"Hold me close, Ban! Don't ever let me go again! Don't ever let me doubtagain!"
When, at length, she gently released herself, her foot brushed thefallen book. She picked it up tenderly, and caressed its leaves as sheadjusted them.
"Didn't the Voices tell you that I'd come back, Ban?" she asked.
He shook his head. "If they did, I couldn't hear them."
"But they sang to you," she insisted gently. "They never stoppedsinging, did they?"
"No. No. They never stopped singing."
"Ah; then you ought to have known, Ban. And I ought to have known thatyou couldn't have done what I believed you had. Are you sure you forgiveme, Ban?"
She told him of what she had discovered, of the talk with RussellEdmonds ("I've a letter from him for you, dearest one; he loves you,too. But not as I do. Nobody could!" interjected Io jealously), of theclue of the telegram. And he told her of Camilla Van Arsdale and thelong deception; and at that, for the first time since he knew her, shebroke down and gave herself up utterly to tears, as much for him as forthe friend whom he had so loyally loved and served. When it was over andshe had regained command of herself, she said:
"Now you must take me to her."
So once more they rode together into the murmurous peace of the forest.Io leaned in her saddle as they drew near the cabin, to lay a hand onher lover's shoulder.
"Once, a thousand years ago, Ban," she said, "when love came to me, Iwas a wicked little infidel and would not believe. Not in the EnchantedCanyon, nor in the Mountains of Fulfillment, nor in the Fadeless Gardenswhere the Undying Voices sing. Do you remember?"
"Do I not!" whispered Ban, turning to kiss the fingers that tightened onhis shoulder.
"And--and I blasphemed and said there was always a serpent in everyParadise, and that Experience was a horrid hag, with a bony fingerpointing to the snake.... This is my recantation, Ban. I know now thatyou were the true Prophet; that Experience has shining wings and eyesthat can lock to the future as well as the past, and immortal Hope for alover. And that only they two can guide to the Mountains of Fulfillment.Is it enough, Ban?"
"It is enough," he answered with grave happiness.
"Listen!" exclaimed Io.
The sound of song, tender and passionate and triumphant, came pulsingthrough the silence to meet them as they rode on.
THE END.
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