The garden of faith

Front matter

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Book -/' i c>v 1

CJDFlCRIGllT DEPOSm

Dedication

To those friends whose lives have taught me many beautiful truths ; whose faith and love has encouraged me to live more closely to my God, my fellowmen, and to myself ; who trusted in me when others failed to believe ; who saw good while others sought the evil ; to those friends, if such friends I have, I humbly dedicate this story, accompanying the dedication with an earnest — God bless you.

C. E. R.

CHAPTER L

Chapter II. At The Point

Twenty miles to the north of the house in the city where Keith Barrington had begun bearing his burden, the country was a desolate, thinly populated woodland, made up of hills, valleys, crags and rippling streams.

Uncle Johnny Gardner says : “The folks what lives off down thar in the city comes up here a thinkin’ they be our betters, but matter o’ course they aint.”

Uncle Johnny was right about this, for the people living here among these hills and valleys were a giant people with giant hearts. Of all the people living in the hill country Uncle Johnny was the shortest. In fact he was the only one of short stature. His short legs were always enclosed in three pairs of trousers, each pair being about eight inches too long, making it essential for him to turn about eight inches of three pairs of trousers’ legs up around his limbs.

Upon one occasion a traveler from the city while stopping at the Point during the hottest of the summer weather, questioned him: “Uncle Johnny, what makes you wear three pairs of trousers in this hot weather?”

The: Garden oe Faith.

‘T gaddy,” the old man replied, as he plied his hammer with vigor. “What’ll keep out the cold ’ll keep out the heat.”

Uncle Johnny was a cooper by trade having his shop next to the blacksmith shop over on the Point. He was a cheerful, good-natured old soul, who sang as he worked, and worked as he sang. Everybody in the country, for miles around, knew him, and likewise everybody loved him. Uncle Johnny says: “I gaddy; I tell ye it’s everybidy’s God-given duty to go to the burryin’s.” At one time, when he had neglected his work in order to go to a funeral, his pretty niece had asked him: “Uncle Johnny, what made ye leave all that work to go that funeral?”

“I gaddy, Annie Devers, I reckon if I don’t go to none of these burryin’s o’ these folks what dies they won’t be none o’ them come to mine.”

The one railroad running through the hill country had a station at the Point. The Point also boasted of a postoffice, a store, a mill, a saloon and a livery barn, besides the blacksmith shop and the cooper shop just mentioned.

The postoffice occupied a space about three feet square, in one corner of the store. Sal Brody, Bill Brody’s “woman,” acted as postmistress. The office was fitted with equipment fully adequate to the service. A home-made box.

At The: Point.

upon a home-made table, was divided into ten pigeon holes. In a drawer beneath the table were stamps and envelopes.

Ann reigned supreme over this space of “guv’- ment” property. It may also be said that the very mysterious things of the office lost none of their mystery as long as Ann held her position.

Today Ann took the wonderful pouch from the hands of the depot agent, and with silent dignity she reached for the key which hung fastened to the table by a chain — the key and chain being furnished by the “guv’ment.” Unlocking the mysterious bag she turned it bottom side up, and gave it a shake, after which she peeped in to make sure there was nothing left sticking to the bottom. ‘'A person what works fur the ‘guv'ment’ has to be so keerful,” she said as she picked up the three letters and one paper, which made up the day’s mail. “The Postoffice Inspector says I mustn’t leave nothin’ in the pouch, but la me, they don’t never seem to be nothin’ to leave.”

In happy expectation the hill people stood around, while the worthy one held the letters up and examined them. “La me, I never did see the beat. If here ain’t another letter for Annie Devers, from her beau. He’s that feller what stopped at their place last winter wher her paw

The Garden oe Faith.

had the rumatiz. Now jist see what he has writ. ‘Roses be red, violets be blue, sugar be sweet, and so be you.’ La me, what made him write that fur ? Bill use to write that me twenty years ago.”

“Annie’s a nice gal.” said a bystander.

“La yes, she’s nice enough, aint nobody said she aint, is they?” replied the worthy, with pepper in her tone. “But jist listen to this,” here the voice lost its peppery strength, “Mr. Keith Barrington, M. R. S. L.’ — now, did ye ever see the beat? What do ye reckon that means?”

For a moment all in the store was quiet. In fact the stillness was so profound that the ticking of watches in several pockets could be plainly heard. Bud Shaver pushed his hat back and scratched his head. Dad Hazelton shut one eye and squirted a streak of tobacco juice toward the sawdust box. Big Bill Brody gave Bud a forcible poke in the ribs. “What do ye reckon it means. Bud?”

“I reckon it means sumthin’ pretty big. Aint he that feller what was up here in the hills last summer with his woman?”

“La me, yes he is,” said the postmistress, “and her so stuck up she wouldn’t look at a body.”

“Ain’t he the chap what’s got the swelled fixed house over on the Ridge, below Deverses

At The: Point.

mill?” asked Dad, chewing his tobacco with contented relish.

‘T gaddy, matter o’course he’s the feller” said Uncle Johny.

“La me, yes it’s him, and I reckon he’s a cornin’ back or this letter wouldn’t ha’ come here. I cal’late I’ll have to keep it fur fourteen days and find out,” said the lady of high esteem while the crowd exchanged glances of admira^ tion.

“Wall, I reckon I won’t be worrying’ none about him,” said Bud. “What’s a worryin’ me is that thar ’hant over by the mill.”

“I gaddy, they ain’t nobidy seed it lately, hev they?” asked Uncle Johny.

“I reckon as how they hev. Uncle Johny” Bud answered, as he reached around and scratched his back between the shoulders. “I seed it myself jist last Tuesday evenin’.’"

“La me. Bud, ye don’t mean sure ?” came from the “guv’ment” employee.

“I cal’late I do Mrs. Brody, I seed it as sure as shootin’.”

Big George Fee glanced at Little George Fee. The Fees lived over by the mill, on the Ridge. Bud lived on the Ridge too, and if Bud had seen the ‘hant’ as he said he had, why of

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course they wouldn’t want to be traveling over the road by the mill after dark.

“Don’t ye reckon we better be a startin’ home?” asked Big George of Little George.

“I reckon, Pap.”

“I cal’late I’d better go along with ye,” said Bud.

“How’s Grandmother’s George a gittin’?” questioned one of the crowd of the Fee’s.

“Wall, I can’t jist say,” Big George replied, “Some o’ the time he seems pert enough, and then again he ain’t so lively. Reckon he won’t never be no better, seein’ as how he’s never bin jist right in his head, ye know.”

“I gaddy, fur his Grandmother’s sake it would be a God’s blessin’ if he could be took. But matter o’ course he won’t go till his time comes,” Uncle Johny said.

“’Taint likely he’ll be took very soon sein’ as how it’s mostly in his head that he’s sick, “replied Big George as he gathered up his bundles preparatory to making a start.

The next afternoon, up on the Ridge, a youth might have been seen wending his way along a lonely, wooded path. He was a lightly built lad of sixteen years. His face was strongly moulded, and set with big gray eyes, fringed with long lashes. Those gray eyes told a sad

At Th^ Point.

tale. At times they looked almost normal, then again they told of the lad’s suffering from a severe state of mental aberration.

Behind the lad, at a short distance, an old lady followed. Her tall form was bent with the storms and trials of many years. As she walked she leaned totteringly upon a cane.

The old lady called softly, “Come George, don’t ye think ye better come with Grannie?”

The boy turned. One glance into his face told his present mental condition. Every now and then he gave a low cry.

“Grannie’s goin’ to make a corn pone fur supper,” said the old lady, as she took him by the hand.

“Grannie,” the lad said in dreary tones,” they’s so many kinds o’ colors.”

“Yes, darlin’. Grannie knows,” and the old lady gently guided the faltering feet toward a log house standing on the hill.

“Grannie,” the lad repeated in a tone of wistfullness, “they’s so many kinds o’ colors that I don’t know who I be. Sometimes I’m pink, and sometimes I’m blue, and sometimes I’m a snake what crawls and bites.” The lad rubbed his hand across his brow. Then giving a shrill cry he threw himself upon the ground and glided along on his belly. He wriggled along

The Garden oe Faith.

in the grass until they came to the clearing around the old house and then, Big George Fee came and carried him into the dwelling. Up into the loft he carried him, there to leave him until his ’bad spell had passed.

CHAPTER III. IN THE HEART OiF THE HILLS

Standing upon the hill facing the valley below, the little log bungalow stood empty and alone. Behind it lay the garden surrounded by a hedge. Big rose bushes within the garden looked desolate, since the last year’s weeds had not been uprooted, but stood among them all dead and dry. For five summers the roses had bloomed and died without a hand to touch a bud. For five autumns the moon had looked down upon a mass of tangled thistles and milk-weed.

At the end of a thistled path, in one corner of the garden, a majestic bush cast portentious shadows over smaller bushes, even in the moonlight. Every summer this one bush, with its broken top, put to shame its companions by shooting forth one perfect, large, red rose.

One giant oak tree grew near the front veranda, and from the lower step a board was missing. The moon shone capriciously among the barren branches of the tree and cast unsteady shadows over the broken stoop. The March wind, as it came whistling around the corner of the house made the night seem lonely

The Garden oe Faith.

and dreary. The stars shone clearly through the floating clouds above, and in the clearing about the house the starlight, shadow things darted back and forth as though playing at some elf-like game.

By the light of the moon a solitary man, followed by a dog, ascended the wooded path which led to the gate. Up the path the man came with drooping shoulders and bowed head.

As the man walked up the path and neared the door he took from his pocket a bunch of keys. Reaching the door he sat his grip upon the porch floor and fitted a key to the lock. Turning the knob the door swung backward upon its hinges and the man passed inside.

Feeling in his pocket he produced a match and struck it. Shading it with his cupped hand he made his way to the table and lighted a lamp. The flame flickered and sputtered until the chimney had been replaced, and then it shone forth, clearly revealing the objects of the room.

It was a long room lighted by big French windows. On one side of the room was a fireplace. At either side of the fireplace were shelves lined with books — good books — in fact the best books ever written by man for his fellow man. Upon the floor lay a costly rug. Upon the walls hung many paintings — Raphaels

In The; Heart of the Hills.

and Rembrandts. Soft, rich draperies and delicate hangings tended to soften the atmosphere, while in the corner stood a grand piano, upon which music was scattered in a careless manner.

Across the open front of the fireplace hung a drapery of cobwebs. A thick drapery it was, as though summer after summer a new web had been woven in front of the old. At present no weaver was in sight, and the dirt and dust from the room had lodged in the delicate meshes.

A garment of feminine apparel lay upon a chair close by a table, and upon the table lay a yard or so of tatting with the shuttle fully wound. A pipe half filled with tobacco lay upon the mantle, and on the floor in front of the fireplace were a pair of house slippers.

The man approached the mantel and lifted the pipe. A smile, grim and cold, moved the corners of his mouth. He tossed the pipe into the ashes, making a ragged hole in the finely woven web.

The wind blew against the windows, creating a dismal sound. The man glanced toward them for a brief moment, and then disappeared into a rear room to return a minute later with material with which to build a fire; for the outer

The Garden oe Faith.

man must needs be warmed even though the inner man is dead and cold.

After the fire had been kindled, and when it sprang forth into a goodly blaze, the man seated himself in a big chair, where, with elbows resting on knees, and chin in plams, he watched the sparks fly upward. One or two flew out into the room, but the man did not see them.

Thus, with bowed head and frozen heart, the man sat looking into the blaze until the fire died down and the room grew cold. Then he rose, and walking slowly to the window he stood for some time looking upon the moon-lighted garden.

Suddenly he started. Was it fancy, or did he see a woman with a ghostlike veil trailing behind her?

Quickly he moved across the room to the door, and out into the night. With hair blowing and body shivering he hurried up and down among the rose bushes, but naught could he find of a phantom-like form.

Keith Barrington stopped and rubbed his eyes. Surely he had not dreamed about the woman? No, for here he was up in the hills, in Faith’s garden, back of the little bungalow.

‘‘Tomorrow,” he said, forgetting the phantom

In The: He:art of the: Hills.

at the thought of Faith, “tomorrow I’ll begin clearing this garden.’"

All about the little clearing the scene was wild and rough. Only the twisted, crooked path told where feet were wont to trod in days gone by.

It was here, to this spot, that Keith had brought Faith to spend their honeymoon. Here he had built the little garden for her, filling it with only the choicest of roses and poppies. Roses — rich, and big and dark, and red. Poppies — big and yellow.

Tonight, in this moonlighted, dream-haunted garden of Faith’s Keith lived again the scenes of the past. Here, to this spot, he had brought Faith because he had loved the place. Here, to this spot in the heart of the wildwood, he had brought Faith because he felt that she would love the place as he had loved it, but Faith had not loved it — she was not of the kind who easily understand. Associating with this beautiful scenery of God’s make had not been such as would influence her mind to the things high and noble.

Faith never saw the moonlight things, and the starlight things dancing here among the roses. She never heard the forest things singing together making tones and music of perfect harm-

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ony. She never heard the lilly bells ringing with chimes all sweet and low. And because she could not see the moonlight things of the garden, nor hear the soft-toned musical sounds of the forest, she had begged Keith to take her back to the city home. Gladly Keith had left his paradise to comply with her request. To grant her every wish was the full desire of his heart.

Now, Keith turned to look at the big bush in the corner. That big bush with the broken top marked the exact spot where they had stood when last they visited the garden, and he plucked the red rose for her hair. He recalled how he had bent to kiss those locks, and had met a look from her lovely brown eyes — a look so filled with love and devotion.

The man shivered with cold, or perhaps it was with memory, and looked about. “Fll wait right here for her just as the first man waited for the first woman so many, many year ago,” he said as he started for the house.

The dog met him at the gate in the hedge. He came up and licked his hand. He wagged his tail and jumped up to receive his usual pat of aflfection. Keith stooped, and taking the dog’s head between his hands he looked long and earnestly into the knowing face.

Chapter IV. The Woman Begins Bearing Her Burden

It is April. A little over a year has passed since the day upon which Keith Barrington begun bearing his burden.

Out upon the ocean a vessel has been tossed about for days in the stormy weather, and upon an unknown sea. The mariner has just again got his bearings, and all is once more peaceful and serene.

The vessel rides evenly upon the waters of the deep, the stars shine thick in the sky above, and a young, beautiful, dark-eyed woman sits upon the deck, wrapped in a rich steamer rug. Her eyes are following the every movement of the nurse-maid, who paces the deck, carrying in her arms a bundle of infantile humanity.

'Ts he sleeping, Faustina?” questioned a voice of musical tone.

“No, madam, he isn’t,” replied the maid.

“Then mightn’t I hold him awhile?”

“Indeed you may, madam.”

“Vous etes fort, Faustina,” spoke the sweettoned voice.

The Garden oe Faith.

Faustina smiled. “Vous etes triste, madam,” she said, as she placed the little one in his mother’s! arms. “L’enfant est hon et joli,” she added.

“Et fort,” said the mother.

“Ah, he is, madam. You would so think were you to give him his bath. When I in the little tub put him, he kicks and splashes until I sometimes can no more bathe him.”

The mother smiled with pleasure. “He is mama’s little man,” she said, as she fondled him tenderly. Then she added, “I don’t feel sad, Faustina, when I hold him in my arms.”

Faustina had no chance to reply, but she glanced up at a tall, manly figure coming toward them.

“God, Faith but you do make a picture with that flimsy looking thing over your head and around your shoulders,” said John LaVelle, as he took a seat in the vacant chair beside her. “And how’s the kid?” he added a^^ he glanced at the bundle in her arms.

LaVelle was a handsome man, of about forty years, marvelously built, and of very pleasing manners. But there was a something lurking in his deep>set black eyes that caused one to hesitate before putting full trust in him.

“Faith, that kid’s too heavy for you to hold,”

The^ Woman Be:gins Bearing He^r Burde:n.

he now said in sharp tones, ‘‘besides, he looks too much like his damned daddy to suit me/’ Turning to Faustina, he commanded, “Here, you come get this kid and put him to bed.”

The maid took the little one from his mother’s arms. She did not look, but she knew there were tears in the eyes of her mistress as she loosed her arms from about her precious burden. A tear glistened in her own eye as she disappeared from view, murmuring to herself, “Elies ont ete folles.”

Faith sat looking out over the cool, quiet waters. Her heart was filled with sadness and remorse. “Why, oh why did I not know — why did I do that foolish thing?” she asked herself.

“God, Faith but you’re a stunner,” said LaVelle.

The woman shuddered as with a chill, though the night was warm. She turned her head and looked at the man; again she turned it and looked out over fhe peaceful, tranquility of the sea.

“See here. Faith,” Lavelle continued, “there isn’t any use of your actin’ that way. There’s no use of your getting peeved just because I sent that youngster to bed. I aint going to have it.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” Faith answered.

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“Now, what might you be meaning by that?’*

The woman looked at her companion as she arose. She did not honor him with a reply, but passed from the deck in silence. LaVelle looked after her while a smile played about the corners of his handsome mouth. “God, but she’s a stunner,” he said as he lighted a cigar, and stretched himself, handsome beast that he was, upon the steamer chair.

In her room the woman threw herself upon her knees. She hid her face in her hands and wept bitters tears — tears of longing mixed with regret. She had been so foolish, she could see that now. She had not relized what a dear, good fellow Keith really was. She could not recall one single time when he had been cross with her. Of course there had been times when he had been nervous and easily irritated, caused by overwork, loss of sleep, and the forgetting to come to meals, but to be really cross with her — he never had.

Now she knew how good and kind he had been. Now she saw the difference between his life and the life of him who was to have given her all things, and bring her happiness.

Only one short year since she had left him, but it was a year by the means of which she had been made fully cognizant of the reality,

The Woman Begins Bearing Her Burden.

and the truth, that, had she known of the little boy — of Keith’s little son — she never would have taken the contemptible step.

In her heart she was glad for the boy — the little creature that bound her life so closely to the life of him whom she had so wronged and deserted.

She thought of how proud Keith would have been of the boy. Her imagination pictured him looking at her, as she held his child in her arms. She could see the look of rapture and almost reverence upon his face as he gazed upon them. She knew so well the very look that would shine within his eye. The thought brought a pang to her heart. She wondered if he had forgotten her. She wondered if he had learned to hate her with a hatred as deep as his love had been. Reaching out her arms to the bare, empty void of the room, she sobbed in heart-breaking tones, ‘'Keith, Keith — forgive me. Come, come take me back into your heart and life — come, come take me and your little boy — our little son.” The words ended in a mournful, sorrowful sound.

Thus did the woman with whom my story has to deal begin bearing her burden, and in the bearing of the burden the woman was drawn nearer to her God.

Chapter V. Conscience Awakens

To Faith conscience awakened slowly but surely. She was not awakened as was Judas, who went out and hanged himself. Her awakening; was more like that of David, who lay prone upon the earth all night.

Conscience spoke to Faith several times. It spoke to her that night in her room upon the steamer. Two weeks later, an incident occurred which separated her from LaVelle forever.

Faustina had wheeled Robert to a place down by a shaded stream. A luncheon had been prepared, and she and her mistress were to have eaten it here together. She had left Faith here with Robert, and had returned to the house for cushions and other indispensable articles.

Left alone with the boy. Faith stood at the head of the deep green valley, carved from out the mountains in a perfect oval, with a fence of sheer rock standing around it, twenty feet or more high, from whose brink black wooded hills swept up to the sky line.

All unmindful of the child, she stood watching the rippling water at her feet. Her eyes followed its course until it passed from view around

Conscie:nce Awakens.

the ragged edge of the cliff. As the water flowed beneath her feet, carrying upon its bosom many pieces of drift-wood, likewise was her memory flowing backward, carrying upon its seat of affection the thoughts and the acts of her life.

Standing there beneath the wide-spreading trees, beside the rippling stream which sparkled in the sunshine and turned to inky blackness in the shadows, this girl-woman looked a fairy queen, reigning in fairy-land. Motherhood — grand, glorious, noble motherhood — had opened the eyes of Faith, that she might see and understand the magnanimity of God’s greatness and the wonders of His love. Looking up at the waving trees above her she extended her arms. “Keith,*’ she said, “Keith, I understand.”

Here LaVelle found her, interrupting the supremely felicitous fancies of meditation. “That kid grows like a weed, don’t he?” he said as he came near.

“I presume he grows as is the custom for all children to grow,” Faith replied.

“You ought to have a cyanotype taken of him, and send it to his little daddy. It might help to add a little more color to the little man’s blues.”

Faith bit her lip to keep back the angry retort that came to her mind.

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“Say, girlie, it is a mighty good thing I came along and picked you up, isn’t it?”

“I think not.”

“What’s that? You’ve forgotten how glad you were to come with me haven’t you? We’d get along all right too, if it wasn’t for that kid. We loved each other sure enough, now didn’t we?”

“But such love couldn’t last,” Faith answered. “It wasn’t right and you knew it. You have told me so a hundred times since. John, why did you do such a thing? Why did you bring me here? You knew you were taking advantage of my loneliness. You knew it was wrong. It always makes me think of a soap bubble — ^the way you pictured things to me — it was filled to the utmost with many beautifully tinted hues, and like a soap bubble, it bursted. I would give anything if I hadn’t helped to blow the bubble.”

See here. Faith, you don’t mean to tell me that you no longer love me, do you ?”

“Love,” she answered, “love is like two kinds of light, one rises with the dawning of the new day, lingers with a beautiful clearness all day long, and goes down at night. The other — the other is like a streak of lightning coming from a black, angry cloud — it strikes — ^it leaves one blackened and burned — and— and in time it kills one. The love that comes with the new day is the

Conscience: Awakens.

kind of love that lasts — it’s the kind that’s right. It stays with one all the whole, long day of life.”

“Pooh, you’re getting sentimental — you’rs getting just a little bit like that shrimp of a Barrington, and I’ll be damned if I don’t shake the stuffin’ out of that shrimp of a kid of his.” LaVelle started for the cab, wherein little Robert lay, pulling at the toe of his tiny blue shoe, and crowing lustily.

Faith stood before her child like a young tigress guarding its offspring. She was ready to shed her heart’s last drop of blood to protect her young.

The attitude she assumed tended to arouse LaVelle’s anger the more. His eyes turned to a sickening green, his teeth came together with a snap, and the blood rushed to his face and bulllike neck. He clenched his fists and stared at Faith; she threw back her head with a look of defiance, and her young, supple form became inflexible.

“Get out of my way this minute,” LaVelle commanded, in a hoarse tone.

Faith did not move. Behind her the boy, ignorant of the meaning of the scene, ignorant of the actions of the dramtis personae, cooed and gurgled in childish delight.

“Will you move?” asked LaVelle.

“No,” said Faith.

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‘'Then take that, and be damned,’^ and LaVelle grabbed her by the wrist and gave it a twist which threw her to the ground. Faith, almost fainting from the pain, lay helpless at his feet, her eyes wide with fright.

LaVelle gave a fiendish laugh, and reached for the boy, but his intent to do harm was nipped in the bud, for just at this minute a piping, boyish voice called out, “Here, Mister, I guess you’d better cut it.”

Turning, LaVelle looked into the barrel of an old, rusty rifle held by a hunchbacked boy. An expression of amazement and wonder crept into his face. Who was this boy? Where did he get those big, black eyes ? Where that profile ?