THE PLACE OF MIRACLES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 12067, 24 July 1917, Page 8

THE PLACE OF MIRACLES.

(By DEREK VANE.) Author of "The Soul of a Man,". "The Sin of Judas," etc.

[All Rights Reserved.]

I was travelling in the great western plateau of North America on a geological expedition, and had reached the wilds of Arizona when I was unfortunate enough to fall ill with .1 severe attack of fever, which completely prostrated me.

"The Stone Breaker (my Indian sobriquet) must bathe in the Black Lake," my head man said, with decision, as 1 showed no Signs of getting better. He was a faithful half-breed, who had passed his youth in this marvellous region, where few white men ever penotrate. "It will draw all the fever out."

" The Black Lake," I repeated, languidly, for though I know tho country abounded in natural phenomena, I had not hoard of this particular one before. "What is that?"

"It is the place of miracles," said Yampa, solemnly (he was named after the river near which he was born). " You go there to be made alive again." . "A most convenient arrangement, l. said, scoffmgly, and yet not with the same unbelief I should have felt in more commonplace surroundings. " And why have I never heard you speak before of this wonderful lake?" I asked.

"We do not talk of it." he said, gravely. "It is only known to the Indians and a few great white travellers like the Stone Breaker. It is a Btrange place, and none but those in sore need would seek it out." "Well, my need is great enough; this fever will soon burn me to ashes if I don't get. some relief. I don't want to leave my bones in this wilderness; it is not a comfortable place to die in. How far are we from your lake of mirncles ? For want of anything better, I feel inclined to try it." "One day—two days' journey,' Yampa. answered, vaguely, shrugging his shoulders. Then, with the simple candour of his race: "The Stone Breaker should not hesitate. Ho is in ci bad way." " I agree with you," I said, with a twisted smile. " Well, give orders for o start to bo made as soon as possible." Two weary days we journeyed, for 1 bad to be carried on a stretcher and our progress was slow, before we entered the, region of the mysterious lake. Then, just as the sun was sinking on the second day, Yampa had me gently lowered to the ground, and bade me open my eves. Leaning against his supporting arm, 1 raised myself a little and looked round. If the scene at our last hail- had been grand and impressive, this was weird in the extreme—almost, terrifying. In the midst of volcanic, mountains, bare and blighting to life, lay a pool of blackest wa;rer—a. Jake, of ink. It was onlv about a. quarter of n. mile in length, by half as much wide; but it was tho supreme thing that caught and held one's attention in that, desolate wilderness. The water rose to within thn P or four inches of its level shore.-, and the surface was covered with ashes and oily matter half an iuch thick, which was agitated continually by millions of bubbles, suggestive of some hidden force always at work below. _ "It is an evil place, Yampa," 1 murmured as I gazed. "It, is evil and good," he replied, sentenriously.

•'• 1 do not. feel very much inclined to So near it, - ' 1 said, looking down on the unattractive, oily blackness, which gave nho impression of immense depth. iini; my objections were overruled. Mo was u. powerful swimmer, and, keeping near the shore, he supported mo in his arms for a few minutes. The. sensaMoa was delightful. 1 felt as though wrapped in the warmest and soffe?.; velvet; the water was so buoyant that it seemed as though T could hardly sink if ! wished. It was hob and bitter to the. tastf, and I imagined the lake was fed by mineral springs. But- v> hat over cans?: made it what it was, J soon began to fee] the effects. Tt drew our- the fire in my veins and left instead a feeling of strength and exhilaration. 1 was imbued with fresh life, my pulse grew calm and regular, the deadly lassitude had gone. "Tint is enough for the. present," Yam pa .said, as he helped me out. i; You wiil lio down and rest now."

lie, covered mo. up warmly, and in a i'r.w minutes 1 was asleep; the iirst rcstlul sleep I had had for days. It., was early morning v.-hen 1 opened my eyes, and for a while. I lay in happy idleness, enjoying iho sensation of renewed well-being. 1 felt weak and languid still, but that was all, and I looked at the wonderful lake, which lay a. little helow our cam}), with feelings of respect and gratitude, i longed to feel again its soft, life-giving embrace.

Vampa, was sound asleep, like everyone eJ.se, and I did not wish to disturb Ids well earned rest. But the desire for that salt, black ba.th was too strong to be rr.sir-.ted. 1 felt sure I was strong enough.to keep myself afloat for a few'minutes; there was no risk. So, swaying a little from weakness, I crept down ito the shore. But as my iect touched the water I saw something a little way off i-hati made me stop .short as though T had been turner! to stone. I could scarcely breathe.

'•" It can't be," 1 rnutt?red, staring intently at the spot. "Tt is the fever ftill : my hear] is not quite right or.. 1 niu.it, be. dreaming." But, all the same, I mechanically began to move m that direction.

'" It will disappear as I get cltKior to it," I told myself. "I did not reo it last night.'' I cre-it closer, i'eeline that I must know what it was, whether real or a vision of my disordered brain, but shrinking and half-afraid, for my nerves werp shattered by fever, and to corao upon a solitary '■human being in such a, spot seemed a strange thing. I was within a few feet of th> iecumbent figure, and it was still there.. It was ical enough then. I stooped and looked z£, it. It was the figure of a man, the head sunk on the. breast, as though in sleep—a white man, «uid of my own race, 1 was inclined to think. How still and quiet he \ stooped dowr. and looked into the hidden face, and then. I sprang back with a little cry. He was dead !

" He can't havp been dead Ipsg,'' I thought; "a few hours at most. What a cruel fate with help so close at hand!" He looked so lifelike sitting there, his back against the tree, that impulsively I put my hand and touched him gently, not quite convinced. Then I saw that he held a little pocketbook in his dead hands, and that it was open at a page which was covered with writing. Instinctively T looked and read. It began :

"If this hook should ever be found —which seems very unlikely considering how far T have strayed from tho beaten track—it is the wish—nay, tho command—of a dying man that the finder shall take it to "Mrs Lascelks, "240, Portland Place, "London.

"I have no hope of seeing England again myself • if I were not an exceptionally strong man I should not have lived so long. My men have died or deserted, and I am alone and dying of hunger and fatigue—dying like a homeless tramp, with the knowledge of untold wealth almost within my grasp." I looked down into the still, white face, a face that must have been handsome enough once, but never peasant, I thought, with the close-set c*es and thin lips, and the sneering, disdainful expression which death had caught and

fiscd for ever. The contents of the book did not seem to be of a private raturc, and I turned over a. loaf to see whether there might be any other instructions. I glanced down the next page, and before I realised what 1 was doing I had read to the end. Then I sprang to my feet, away from the dead man, with an exclamation of horror and disgust. "You scoundrel!" I cried. "Oh, you cruel scoundrel!'' The sight of his white sneering face infuriated me: for a moment I forgot that he had gone beyond the. reach of earthly blame or praise. I hastened back to the camp, exhausted with the shock and excitement. I. gave orders that the man should bo buried, but T did not stand ■ at tho grave myself; 1 did not wish to show him any honour or respect. His secret had filled me with repulsion.

I lay all day in my tent thinking of the wonderful chance—or was it something more?—that had led me to take part in the final scene of the tragedy, and I was eager, to see justice done at last. It seemed an act. of fjuch cold, deliberate cruelty, not repented of until the fear of death awoke a tardy remorse. When T found myself in London a, month or two later, close to where the woman lived who had been so hardly treated by fate, I made haste to bring her the relief of which she must, have despaired. As I set out from the Langham Hotel and -walked down Portland Place T could not but think of the distance and difference between the two scenes that had brought me in touch with the story. The strangeness and desolation of the one; the commonplaceness of the other.

I felt a little nervous as I knocked at the door of No 240. My errand was not an ordinary one; it would be a little difficult to explain So much would depend on Mrs Lascellcs herself. I had thought of her a good deal; my interest and curiosity were both excited.

She was at home, and while 1 was waiting I looked round the room, trying to learn something from her surroundings. Then the door opened, and I saw at a glance that the room harmonised with the woman.

She was tall and slender, with a delicately proud face, softly tinted, lika a flower that has been kept from 'he, light and. the warmth, and deep brown eyes that looked straight ahead with a clear, steady gaze. "I have come with a message,'' T hastened to explain, ar, she looked at me inquiringly—",-!, message that I received some weeks ago when I was travelling in the wilds of North America." T wanted to break the news to her as gently as T could. I did not know what effect if, might have, and the "unconscious pathn?, of that quiet face awoke all my sympathy. I thought T knew what had made it so proud and cold. " A message?" slm repeated, and there seemed more life in her voice. "I do not know bis name, or anything about him, except what he himself has, written in this book." And T held the little pocket book towards her, open where the message began.

With the first dan re she started bark with a look of fear and wonder. ' Uis writing!-, his writing, after so nan.V years! "What does it. moan?" •'• It means, I think." I said, gravely, " that, before lir- died he repented anfficJ>ontly of the wrong He had done you to write this confession in the hope ihat/ it might reach your hands. By almost a miracle it has. His death was a lonely and cruel one. Perhaps you may- find it' in your heart to forgive him. ro.mcmnorinff how he suffered. Me must hn.ve been 'hired r-o far by tUj hope, of gold, and at least he died as a brave man, looking death in the face to the last."

She had glanced vapidly over the. brief, almost cvnical story of his dastardly act while T Avas speaking, bub now she looked up, and T saw that her whole face had oh an Red.

"'Forgive him?" she cried. " Never —never! T should lose my soli-yo.snect if I did. He was ray husband, and no put the deadliest insult on me that a man ran put on a woman. But, at least until this moment, T thought he believed bis own (dander.; that jealousy had so warped his .JMdjment that he was hnrdh- responsible for what lie s,l id or did. That was his only excuse. Now —now he has none! He .acknowledges that it was a. deliberate plot to ruin me. Oh! the coward—the coward!"

"Hush hush!" I said. "Bear m mind he is dead."

"But T am alive, and all my life 1 must suffer How can this help mo now?" dropping the book with a movement of aversion. "What can it do for mc? It is three years since he went, leaving me to fr.ee smvrs .and whispers of the curious world alone. A deserted wife! Can there be anything more, pitiable—more contemptible? My friends dropped a>vay from me—be would not have gone, without some reason, they said—and I did not try to keep them. They have forgotten me and mv story by -row. "What good would if do me to rake "ip the mist? His tardy confession crimes too late—too late for everything." "T do not defend him."' T .said. but did he go without any reason at all—without any excuse? It seems too monstrous."

" He had never cared fur me, and when f got tired of bis ceaseless demands for money and refused to be mined by his extravagance, bis indifference quickly turned to hate. I," with a little, cry, " J ought to have known him by that time. I ought to have given him every thing, then perhaps I might have escaped. Well, he looked about for a means of revenge and.*' drawing her breath hard, "he. found it.

" [ had a friend, a faithful, devoted friend, who was the only refuge from my unhappy life: a man .so chivalrous that not a hrcath had ever tarnished the brightness of his until my husband selected him as his victim. They, say if you throw mud enough some of it will stick He fought the evil with all his might, hut ho had not his enemy's cunning; or unscrupulousness, and he got the worst of it. For my sake more than for his own he went away. He thought he was the difficulty—that matters might right themselves when he, had gone—instead of which he was only the excuse. As soon as he had gone ahroad my husband left me, and for three year.s I have not known -whether he was alive or dead. That was part of my punishment, no doubt."

The passion was dying out of her voice, and her face was growing cold and quiet again. T longed to bring the light of hanpiness to it, I longed to sween away tlie horrible past, wherein she "find suffered so undeservedly. I could not feel towards her as a stranger. "You can tell the truth now," I .said. "You must make uso of your husband's confession and clear away all doubt and suspicion. You are young enough to make a fresh start. There must he happy davs in store for you." "A fresh start?" she repeated. "I don't think I have the strength or energy for that- now. The pence that follows a storm—a storm that left nothing worth destroying—has- come to me at last. Why should I disturb it?"

"If not for your own sake, for his," I cried —" your faithful friend. You owe it to him."

She bent over a pot of roses—the lovely Boulo de Neige—but tho snowy flowers were not whiter than her face. "It is too late," sh<? said, slowly. " He died sis mouths ago."