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The Twins Of Table Mountain
by
Rand and his companion returned late, but in high spirits. There was an unnecessary effusiveness in the way in which Euphemia kissed Mrs. Sol,–the one woman present, who UNDERSTOOD, and was to be propitiated,–which did not tend to increase Mrs. Sol’s good humor. She had her basket packed all ready for departure; and even the earnest solicitation of Rand, that they would defer their going until sunset, produced no effect.
“Mr. Rand–Mr. Pinkney, I mean–says the sunsets here are so lovely,” pleaded Euphemia.
“There is a rehearsal at seven o’clock, and we have no time to lose,” said Mrs. Sol significantly.
“I forgot to say,” said the “Marysville Pet” timidly, glancing at Mrs. Sol, “that Mr. Rand says he will bring his brother on Wednesday night, and wants four seats in front, so as not to be crowded.”
Sol shook the young man’s hand warmly. “You’ll not regret it, sir: it’s a surprising, a remarkable performance.”
“I’d like to go a piece down the mountain with you,” said Rand, with evident sincerity, looking at Miss Euphemia; “but Ruth isn’t here yet, and we make a rule never to leave the place alone. I’ll show you the slide: it’s the quickest way to go down. If you meet any one who looks like me, and talks like me, call him ‘Ruth,’ and tell him I’m waitin’ for him yer.”
Miss Phemia, the last to go, standing on the verge of the declivity, here remarked, with a dangerous smile, that, if she met any one who bore that resemblance, she might be tempted to keep him with her,–a playfulness that brought the ready color to Rand’s cheek. When she added to this the greater audacity of kissing her hand to him, the young hermit actually turned away in sheer embarrassment. When he looked around again, she was gone, and for the first time in his experience the mountain seemed barren and lonely.
The too sympathetic reader who would rashly deduce from this any newly awakened sentiment in the virgin heart of Rand would quite misapprehend that peculiar young man. That singular mixture of boyish inexperience and mature doubt and disbelief, which was partly the result of his temperament, and partly of his cloistered life on the mountain, made him regard his late companions, now that they were gone, and his intimacy with them, with remorseful distrust. The mountain was barren and lonely, because it was no longer HIS. It had become a part of the great world, which four years ago he and his brother had put aside, and in which, as two self-devoted men, they walked alone. More than that, he believed he had acquired some understanding of the temptations that assailed his brother, and the poor little vanities of the “Marysville Pet” were transformed into the blandishments of a Circe. Rand, who would have succumbed to a wicked, superior woman, believed he was a saint in withstanding the foolish weakness of a simple one.
He did not resume his work that day. He paced the mountain, anxiously awaiting his brother’s return, and eager to relate his experiences. He would go with him to the dramatic entertainment; from his example and wisdom, Ruth should learn how easily temptation might be overcome. But, first of all, there should be the fullest exchange of confidences and explanations. The old rule should be rescinded for once, the old discussion in regard to Mornie re-opened, and Rand, having convinced his brother of error, would generously extend his forgiveness.
The sun sank redly. Lingering long upon the ledge before their cabin, it at last slipped away almost imperceptibly, leaving Rand still wrapped in revery. Darkness, the smoke of distant fires in the woods, and the faint evening incense of the pines, crept slowly up; but Ruth came not. The moon rose, a silver gleam on the farther ridge; and Rand, becoming uneasy at his brother’s prolonged absence, resolved to break another custom, and leave the summit, to seek him on the trail. He buckled on his revolvers, seized his gun, when a cry from the depths arrested him. He leaned over the ledge, and listened. Again the cry arose, and this time more distinctly. He held his breath: the blood settled around his heart in superstitious terror. It was the wailing voice of a woman.