To Begin Again

By William R. Furr

Anton Rheba, Barbaras father, is in
love with Clara Haines, his secretary,
but she is married to Ronald Haines.
Michael is asked to help with the
situation as a human-relations expert,
and Barbara tries to help also, without
being asked.
Contrasting a new love with a mature
love, the portrayals are of the human
spirit, amid the passionate and
overpowering forces that destroy the
soul and grind ambitions to dust.
As a record of a life dedicated to come as
near to complete happiness as possible,
in spite of the vexations that beset us
all, the climax is the true test of the
greatest controversial issue of all time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493161713

Book preview

CONTENTS

William Furr—The Teacher

Introduction

To Begin Again

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Her Soul

a Paradise

Waiting for

the Master Lover

to Walk in

In this novel, William Furr turns to a power greater than we are for a theme and tells the story of Michael Patterson, a young man with a faith so strong, he is sure a far greater measure of happiness can be achieved in the everyday world in which we live. In Michael, he has created a most significant personality, to the extent that along the path of life each of us must take, there will be signs of the Master Lover having been there, possibly with no more recognition than a breeze too gentle to make it audible, but nevertheless there and, the same as providence, can and does change the course of human existence.

Michael falls in love with Barbara, who experiences the impact of a new love almost beyond human mortality.

The Master Lover

in the Intimate

Human Relations

of

One to Another

Anton Rheba, Barbara’s father, is in love with Clara Haines, his secretary, but she is married to Ronald Haines. Michael is asked to help with the situation as a human-relations expert, and Barbara tries to help also, without being asked.

Contrasting a new love with a mature love, the portrayals are of the human spirit, amid the passionate and overpowering forces that destroy the soul and grind ambitions to dust.

As a record of a life dedicated to come as near to complete happiness as possible, in spite of the vexations that beset us all, the climax is the true test of the greatest controversial issue of all time.

However Life Comes

to a Woman

She Will Know

All There Is

in Love

The art of relaxation comes to us in our patience to attain it and, once attained as habit, becomes a priceless possession in life.

Sincerely yours,

William Furr

All characters, persons, or places depicted herein are purely fictional, and any resemblance to incidents, persons, groups, places, or things, living or dead, are purely coincidental, in hopes that you will mark passage after passage, to read again and again, until your heart and soul have many happy voyages with the Master Lover!

Sincerely,

WILLIAM FURR

WILLIAM FURR—

THE TEACHER

Bill Furr, as he related to his associates, was born at the start of the twentieth century in the vicinity of Morganton, North Carolina, to a well-to-do family engaged in the distilling of whiskey. A barrel of first-run whiskey was kept on the kitchen table, and he recalled serving it to his five year old friends as his father would do for his. When older, he and his brothers were responsible for setting up and attending to a Yule log at Christmastime. The largest and longest green log they could find was selected and was kept burning as long as possible, during which time work was suspended around their homestead. During the same period, he remembered riding horseback through the snows over the mountain ranges to the north to visit a girl who lived in East Tennessee.

Later, the family sold their whiskey business and moved to Florida, where young Furr went off to college to become a civil engineer. This was a time of great expansion for Florida, with the draining of swamps and building of railways and roads and, not least of all, bridges. On one occasion while crossing Florida by boat on the cross-state barge canal that starts at Fort Myers, Bill Furr pointed out a hand-operated rotary bridge that he had designed and had built. Along the way, he owned and flew his own Stinson airplane to get around the country quickly to visit his various job sites.

During World War II, Bill Furr’s engineering talents were put to good use by the War Production Board in the construction of tunnels required to harness the hydroelectric power the TVA needed for the production of uranium. In one of these tunnels, Bill Furr was exposed to an excessive amount of rock dust, which led to a potential lethal case of silicosis. Confined for months in a hospital with no conventional treatment appearing to produce any positive results, Furr went deep inside his own subconscious mind to identify what eventually led to a cure. In the process, he learned a great deal about the energy flows in the body and the mind functions needing energizing to initiate self-healing of physical, emotional, and mental problems, a state of mind he called the Rebalance. He also referred to it as AVA, each letter standing for one of three mental functions he identified needed for healing: Awareness, Visualization, and Attending.

After the war, he established himself in Tampa, just North of McDill AFB, and there wrote his award-winning novel, Tomorrow Achieved, about a young man who used inner self-awareness to straighten out his own life and at the same time provide leadership in a very difficult environment—the coalfields of Appalachia. As a means of providing himself with a steady income, Bill Furr started a cigar manufacturing business in Tampa to produce premium-grade cigars for the most demanding customers.

Still, Bill Furr’s main interest was teaching self-improvement, and he next organized the Teleologic Foundation as a vehicle to pass on to others what he had learned in the process of healing himself. At this point, he could talk to the seagulls in the morning, and in the afternoon, as a means of helping others, he could contact what was happening inside another’s mind and body. The Teleologic Foundation was committed to continuing research, but its main emphasis was to provide the operation of a correspondence school, particularly for the handicapped and shut-ins, as Bill Furr had been. The main emphasis of the school was the development of internal awareness of what Bill Furr called the Thirty Senses, with a packet of information sent out each month over a two-year period. Students having difficulties could request to visit the Foundation in person to receive individual help from Bill Furr and his associates.

To publicize the Teleologic Foundation and recruit new students, Bill Furr wrote another novel, To Begin Again, which deals with all aspects of love—from divine love to human love and its lowest form, animal lust. His system included correcting negative tendencies and emotions. Furr, by no means perfect himself, showed that with persistence to try again after each failure, even the worst social offender can be redeemed, hence the admonition, To try again, which became the title of his book. In today’s world, the concept of reprogramming oneself to correct deficiencies is becoming an important aspect of the modern psychology movement of which William Furr must be considered a pioneer.

A liberty has been taken with the story to add a few lines detailing a Teleologic healing that is part of the plot that would otherwise leave the reader baffled as to how the outcome was accomplished. Furr no doubt felt he would have ample opportunities to present his healing process which was foreclosed by his untimely death.

Interestingly, the book also illustrates what mystics have taught through the ages, that through relaxation and internal awareness in meditation, one can directly experience the Supreme Being, whom Furr called the Master Lover. He does not say it is any easy path, since one needs to experience the Master Lover as the teacher.

Considering that at the time Furr wrote To Begin Again divorce was still considered a scandal and birth outside of wedlock came with a lifelong stigma—two elements of the story—no publisher wanted to risk his reputation on at the time. Another controversial aspect of the story To Begin Again was that Furr openly deals with the problem of women being abused by men, something that at the time of his writing was swept under the rug as if it did not even exist.

Meanwhile, Bill Furr continued his correspondence school but found that without his personal guidance, few if any of the correspondence students attained the results he had envisioned. As a result, he shifted his attention to those able to move to be close to him to be able to get personal attention.

In 1955, he bought a sixty-five-foot, two-story houseboat, on which he was to live the rest of his life, changing his home port with the seasons, along the Gulf Coast from Clearwater, then around the Keys to Miami. In 1960, he and his boat, the Princess, were in Marathon, Florida, when Hurricane Donna struck with gusts of up to 180 miles per hour. The Princess weathered the storm well, tied up to mangroves, but unfortunately, Bill Furr was struck on the head by a board with a large protruding nail, which entered his brain. While he survived the encounter, after the hurricane, he was never his old self, and a few years later he died suddenly one morning, October 17, 1964.

The work of the Foundation was continued for several years by his associates, with particular emphasis on developing multidimensional radionics devices, a pet project of Bill Furr. Without his charismatic leadership, however, the various associates of the Foundation went their several ways, but they were certainly improved in body, emotions, and mind for having known Bill Furr. Meanwhile the manuscript of To Begin Again remained in a forgotten drawer, awaiting a time when it might be more appreciated. The fiftieth anniversary of Bill Furr’s death, sixty years from the time of its writing, seems a good time to release To Begin Again to the public.

For those not strongly drawn to the human issues Furr deals with in To Begin Again, the setting of the story may still be of considerable interest in that it well depicts life on the Florida ranches in the time period of the early 20th century

W. Isely

Student, associate, and friend

INTRODUCTION

In attempting to illustrate and contrast what everyone in the world is seeking in one way or another, and only a few attain in some small degree—the individual hoping to achieve a greater measure of happiness—I marvel at myself in attempting that which only the Master Lover could adequately portray.

To illustrate an ideal love is to portray happiness itself, and if I have reached the heights of all lovers’ love scenes, under the whispering pines and on the lake—when a woman’s love is beautiful—it is also purely intentional.

Is love a matter of competition or conflict? No! That which is beautiful should not be polluted or destroyed. Conflict is an artifice in comparison with the high ideals involved, and there is already too much misleading in the world, of which we are a part. The conquest of love, the pursuit of happiness, the invasion of privacy, or encroachment upon one’s own reality are forced upon us in an advancing existence that considers it has outdated old-fashioned social ethics; and it would be more correct to say conquest of business, pursuit of selfishness, invasion of conflicting personal magnetism, and encroachment upon one’s own person—for such are from the viewpoints of business and social contacts. Ideal love is not regulated by money, position, or prestige. A true love should be just that. So…

What is love? In simplicity, the shortest explanation I can give is that love is selfless devotion. In reaching the depths, it embraces the all of man, for what could be adequate enough when approaching the Infinite?

In serious motivations, there are ideals in every life, and in dealing with the greatest controversial issues of all time, in possibly a new light—the human spirit amid passion, love, religion, and sex—I have laid bare mankind’s basic and most powerful emotions, in this quest for a greater measure of the most precious thing on earth. And I make no apologies for including so many thoughts that so adequately take the measure of man and life, of love and happiness and sex—each of which is a story within itself—for the portrayals are of a very intimate nature, involving many human emotions that enhance or affect the reasons for the actions portrayed.

Many volumes were referred to, and parts of the most significant passages ever written, the greatest thoughts on love and sex and life the world has ever known—thoughts that have stood the test of time and will live forever—have been modernized and woven into the theme of the story. The reader can easily see where I have inserted these and is of course at perfect liberty to accept or reject them. Many will be immediately recognized by those widely read and are included for the same reasons historians perpetuate facts—for the intrinsic or subjective value they possess—and are given illustration as well as contrast in the portrayals of a beautiful young love, in comparison with a more mature love, each significant to life and the fullness of living.

The attempts to portray what causes, enhances, or curbs basic human emotions and strengthens or lessens our very existence, while illustrating what happens when more than one emotion is experienced at one time, leading to the most supreme and powerful combination of emotions man can experience, is still basically nothing more than that which is as old as the intimate relations of life itself; yet if the clarifying psychological background for this sex story becomes a guiding providence or helping hand to those who would deliberately seek to find more moments of what makes life worthwhile, even though it means to begin again, the work will have accomplished its purpose.

At some time or another, many of us become lost in a world of confusion and are distracted by conflicting interests; so wishful of good while doing so little to make it so; so sophisticated on the outside, so diffident within; so kind, so hard; so trustful, so mean; so jealous, so hateful; so generous, so selfish; so timid, so bold. It is good to know there is a way we can disintegrate what should be changed within ourselves, instead of helplessly blaming our lot on the tide of humanity, of which we are a part.

Written from the positive or optimistic viewpoint of warmth and love, so essential to well-being, the story, of one who has mastered the principles of psychology and teleology, is mostly true, of and about people who would be happy; and psychologically I hope many will find an equal attitude or outlook in life and everyday living, which will bring thoughts conducive to more happiness in habitual everyday conduct of self, for it could be that the way of life the young man I write about has chosen for himself, and his strength of character may have a growing influence so that many will come to understand how he attained such a large measure of the most precious things on earth.

It will be found along the road of life each of us must take. There will be signs of his having been there, possibly with no more force than a breeze too gentle to make it audible, but nevertheless there and, the same as providence, can and does change the course of human existence.

Following the preface, the story opens with this remarkable young man of whom I write.

WILLIAM FURR

Tampa, Florida

Jan-June 1953

TO BEGIN AGAIN

by

William Furr

In this story, you will become better acquainted with

The Master Lover: Himself—The Creator of All

Michael Patterson: Theological seminary graduate and now a human-relations expert entering upon a new assignment, 26 (Irish)

In Florida: On Whispering Pines Ranch (the Station Wagon Set)

Barbara Rheba: Just home from finishing school, 20 (Dutch French)

Anton Rheba: Barbara’s father, author and sportsman, 40 (Dutch)

Clara Haines: Anton’s secretary, 32 (English), married to

Ronald Haines: A paranoia victim, 34 (Russian)

Reece: Boyfriend of Barbara, 22 (Norwegian)

Red: Foreman of Whispering Pines, a ranch in Florida’s

Wonderland, 35 (Swedish)

Reynolds: The cook, 42 (Canadian)

Hilda: Reynolds’s wife, 40 (Australian)

PeeWee: Ranch hand, 25 (Chinese)

Indian Joe: Ranch hand, 30 (American Indian)

Dr. Mason: Family physician, 55 (Spanish)

Sarah Haines: Prostitute acquaintance, 27 (English)

PREFACE

When a January northwest wind blows across myriads of Florida lakes, the waters become troubled and disturbed. Little waves beat angrily upon the roots of cypress and mango along the shore, hyacinths are pulled from their moorings, fish seek the deeper places, and waders fly inland, deep into the Everglades, their wings skimming the surface while calling to one another as they seek refuge from the high wind.

Along the coast, a northwest wind causes an angry sea, bringing huge waves to fall hard upon the beach; and mingling with the surge of white foam, the wind becomes filled with the tang of salt spray as it travels inland to cool and refresh the tropical countryside.

Only the large birds remain, their feathers glistening as they ride the waves, the ducks diving now and again in search of food. The gulls, wheeling above the foam, cry their eerie sound, pelicans serenely seek protection of the bays, geese noisily find their way to sheltered marshes, and far inland, the flamingoes quietly fluff their feathers and majestically await the salt-laden air.

A northwest wind makes cold air in a warm atmosphere; windows are closed against the inevitable rains that follow, and all await a change to the south, when the air becomes fragrant with the growth of the jungle, uneasiness disappears, and the natural way of life—where the tropics meet the sea—is again supreme.

The terrain is almost flat, dotted with ranches, farms, and groves, the many clearings separated by lakes and rivers amid the innumerable acres of jungle known as palmettos and pines. The call of the wild is not that of the deer, the eagle, or the panther, but the whisper of the wind in the trees, the roar of the waves, and the shrill whistle of bobwhite.

The groves are well kept, the houses modern and restful, and there is an abundance of all that is worthwhile. A man can catch the gleam of sunlight on the lakes, lift his face to the sky, and feel the warm tropical sun on his face.

The lowing of cattle can be heard, the roar of tractors tending ranches and groves, the noise of trains and planes, the voices of neighbors calling to one another—all is an innovation that looks with contempt on the remaining marshes and virgin lands as stumbling blocks to modern progress.

On lakes and rivers, pleasure boats come and go, leaving a churning wake; yachtsmen visit one another, and fishermen call to one and all, displaying their good luck. There is laughter from swimmers along the shore, music from lawn parties, waves of friendliness from sunbathers, and gestures of goodwill from those enjoying the tropical sunshine.

All is a modernistic way of life, in contrast to the not so long ago when the Indian claimed all as his own, with every action of nature aiding instead of hindering his way of life and every rain, every wind, and every growth bringing an abundance known only in the tropics.

On a knoll amid the gently rolling terrain, two rows of ancient and majestic pines stand lofty and supreme, towering above the countryside as a landmark to all who ventured to travel the jungle paths that are now highways and roads. Only a few stop to wonder how they came to be there or know of a forgotten past when an Indian maiden and her brave lived under the tall pines and loved and worshipped the Great Spirit among their flamingo birds—and a legend was in the making.

The great and ageless pines stand today, taller and more serene than ever, a symbol of the colorful past, highlighting the landscape with a memory of the once upon a time and influencing all who come within their magic spell.

*

One can walk along the highway—alone, in the afterglow of sunset—when there is no noise to disturb the silence, and hear the rustling of the trees in the wind, bringing a sensitiveness and a feeling of solitude that is almost indefinable.

The low murmur of running water can be heard from the darkening purple shadows, and in the pine-scented, salt-laden air, the great pines whisper. Some say they moan and sigh in the wind, while others know they speak of the future, as well as the past, and many have interpreted them to say, Come, follow me, and leave the world to its babblings.

*

Approaching the great pines under the blanket of night, with only moonlight illuminating the countryside, there is an enchantment.

Time and the rest of the world stand still… all is quiet… and yet… can that be a movement… just under the trees? Is somebody there? Does a figure stand… the moonlight shining through her hair? And does a man appear… to hold her tenderly in his arms… and whisper… so only she can hear? Does the moment become sacred? Does the spirit of the Master Lover enter the soul? Do the trees join in?

Or are those only shadows? The whisper no more than the rustle of leaves in the wind, the call of an owl, or the cooing of a dove?

Yes… ! No… ! Somehow the listener is baffled but suddenly knows the beautiful vision must not be destroyed. It must always remain a vision—a wonderful dream!

The wind increases… the whispers are more insistent… there comes a sound… like the musical tones of a great organ… then a faint swish… and a curious lilting sound.

The massed shadows under the trees loom soft and veiled… There are two figures… forming slowly… They face each other… They move softly… flowing with movements of living grace and beauty… like mist suspended in thin air…

The heart beats faster… The breeze strengthens… The sound of whispering voices comes from the branches of the great trees… The moon comes from behind a cloud… Shafts of soft golden light pierce the darkness… Yes, more clearly now… under the trees… it is there… something that is not of this world…

The outline of the woman stands sharp and clear… She is calling softly… her voice as enchanting as the vibrating tones of a distant bell… Oooo doooo luvvv meeee! Oooo dooo! Oooo dooo! and she holds her arms appealingly.

Time and the rest of the world stand still… The vision clears… And as though born of two separate parts, the image of the man floats from nowhere… into her arms.

The wind ceases… The light changes… and they disappear… two souls that God hath joined together.

Again there is only the stillness of the night… the wind in the trees… the feeling of self… and the inspiration of a fast-beating heart.

As though having intruded upon what is sacred, the wanderer moves away, lest he breaks the enchantment, and stares steadfastly forward—the full moon shining on his face. And he turns again to continue along the highway, alone, the full moon bathing the tropical splendor of the countryside in the soft loveliness of moonlight and the wind whispering many things to come.

A nightjar sounds in the palmettos, a bird calls softly to its mate, a cricket begins to sing, and a fish breaks the surface of the lake with a little plopping sound, yet the sacredness of vision and thought… the blessedness of relaxation and solitude… are not broken…

From the majestic enchantment of the great pines, memories teem in the subconscious mind, and he is with them, a part of them… The past peers from nowhere… He walks in another time… A vision forms… Intimate echoes whisper from the past… A door swings open, and he sees the image of… her… as she first brought love… to him… and feels… that which will live as long as there is life to live… her arms about him… her breath in his ear… the warmth of her being… and the soft loveliness of her lips… as gentle as the breeze caressing his cheeks…

The past is alive… and becomes omnipotent in the present… He holds her tenderly in his arms… and she loves… with all that is meant by heart, body, and soul… inspiring… warm… yielding… tender… lovely…

The instinct of all creation… the surge of passion… the joys of relaxation… are his… to have and to hold… in ecstasy and vision… forever!

He utters little guttural sounds of delight… for the Master Lover has entered into him… and in his soul there is… the call of life.

Yes… his heart beats faster… in the great exhilaration… for the soft, lovely vision of… her… and he feels… and lives… intimately… the loveliness of being loved… amid the passionate surge of youth… that was not so long ago…

A vision… that will remain… in his heart… forever!

He passes a bend in the road, and the enchantment is no more.

When he sees the majestic pines again in the daytime, serene and majestic—above all—a huge sea of green waving in the sun, he knows he will visit them, again and again, for they have said, Come, follow me, and leave the world to its babblings!

** CHAPTER ONE **

MICHAEL PATTERSON, theological seminary graduate and now a human-relations expert entering a new assignment, stood beside the highway, leisurely staring at a large sign supported by two immense rock columns.

Dressed in a brown suit, tan shoes, and a panama, he was a pleasant-looking young man, tall, thin, and loose limbed. His face was slightly tanned, with high cheekbones, high forehead, and dark brown hair parted on the left side. His brown eyes, which were large, under heavy eyebrows and long lashes and with a straight, steady look, were unusually attractive in that they were filled with a keen perception, as though from an enjoyment of all that was real. When he smiled, his face lit up suddenly, and there were small and white and even teeth, firm chin, sensitive lips, and full mouth. His hands were strong but not large for his size, and his expressions were involuntary, as though from a personality that radiated a fraternal attitude of good fellowship and genuine love of life.

He continued to stare at the sign:

WHISPERING PINES

-J. Anton Rheba-

The name of his prospective client was interesting, and he said it aloud. It seemed to have a rhythm he had not realized before.

He was about to enter the home of a man known to be rough and ready, his work as an author read by millions. It was uncanny how anyone could write so many things that reached inside and rang the bell, while in his own personal life there remained unsolved the one most important problem in human existence. He wondered if the home life of such an author would be that of the country gentleman or the station-wagon set, and while waiting for the chauffeur that was to meet him, he continued to wonder what a man whom he had not seen in fifteen years would be like.

Beyond the natural rock columns supporting the large sign were two rows of stately pines that were very tall and ancient, standing like slender giants towering above the smaller trees.

There was a strong breeze, and the lower limbs moved majestically while the slender top branches snapped back and forth violently.

He was greatly impressed. The immense pines stood between the house and the highway like guarding sentinels, shielding those who lived there from passers-by more than a solid wall, for when people cannot see on the other side, they wonder and with their own interpretations imagine with suspicion what might be going on hidden and unseen.

The stately pines attracted immediate attention, bringing thoughts of those who lived beyond into deeper respect and associating their lives with the serene and majestic appearance.

*

A station wagon approached and stopped beside him. The driver was certainly not the chauffeur type. Dressed in a red leather jacket, brown sport shirt, khaki pants, and buckaroo boots, he was a heavyset bundle of muscles, and a small green feather in his largo hat attracted immediate attention, until he produced a friendly broad grin amid an abundance of freckles. Are you Michael Patterson?

Yes.

They call me Red. I’m the foreman at Whispering Pines.

Pleased to meet you, Red.

Guess the bus was right on time, and sorry I’m late. Mr. Rheba said to welcome you as an old friend of the family.

Thank you, Red. I have one bag. Another will arrive by express.

The house is less than a mile. Just beyond the lane of trees.

Red started the car in silence and drove toward the open gate. Feeling a keen appraisal in the strong fraternal attitude, Michael smiled and sensed that Red was as much a part of the country as the country itself.

Whispering Pines is a nice name for a home.

Yes, sure is. Since Mr. Rheba had me come here ten years ago, we’ve called it every name you could think of. There was a small farmhouse, a clearing, and thirty thousand acres of what he called jungle, but I called it woods. It was palmettos and pines, scrub-oak thickets and swamps.

It certainly doesn’t look like that now.

Quite a bit can be done in only ten years when you plan ahead. We’ve changed it a little each year. When we purchased a herd of fifty cattle, it was the ranch. The herd has now grown to over ten thousand. When we planted the first hundred acres of citrus, it became the grove, although I still called it a ranch, until everybody agreed it should be called Whispering Pines. The farmhouse is the bunkhouse now, and we’ve added the main house, the stables, and so on, with practically everything in the shade of the trees.

An estate in the country is a man’s pride.

Yes, and we try to live up to Mr. Rheba’s ideals. I like being foreman here. I studied agriculture in college, and it only made me realize more than ever that ranch life is the life for me. We have the finest cattle and the best hunting. Most of our guests like to go hunting while here.

Michael smiled. Apparently Red had found himself and a measure of happiness in being a genial sunburned, freckled-faced Florida Cracker. Hunting is something I’ve always wanted to do.

I’ll be glad to take you anytime.

They drove along the lane between the two rows of immense pines. The trees formed an arch completely shading the road in places, and at intervals, tables and rustic chairs provided places to picnic or rest.

Michael was amazed at the length of the lower branches. Australian pines, aren’t they?

Yes. They’re so tall, the slender tops whip the wind, and it sounds as if they moan and sigh and talk. In the evening, when it’s quiet, you can hear them make sounds like words. People say they have an enchantment.

Looks like they’ve been here forever.

Red produced his broad grin. Maybe they’re not native to this country, but according to a very old legend these were planted by a Seminole Indian maiden, each row a thousand paces long, here among the millions of smaller trees known as Florida yellow pines. I’ll be glad to tell you the story sometime.

They certainly are beautiful.

I agree with Mr. Rheba. They’re the most impressive things on the place. Lots of people wonder what they whisper while others say maybe the pines would or would not approve. They’re a great influence hereabouts, and many come to sit under them and welcome. The boys call this Lovers’ Lane.

Oh, I see… One row is close together, the other wide apart?

Yes. That’s also explained in the legend. I don’t know whether it has anything to do with causing them to say words or not. Mr. Rheba says they speak as a woman whispers, deep, vital, and significant. Miss Barbara says they say things that come from far away, that lull the soul to relaxation and the mind to repentance over a misspent life.

Sounds like Miss Barbara’s grown up?

She’s just home from finishing school and not married yet, if that’s what you mean.

Michael tried to imitate Red’s broad grin. Barbara was my childhood sweetheart in the sixth grade.

Oh! Then I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you again.

And what do you think the pines say?

I don’t exactly know at times, but while trying to understand the legend, I get the impression a man is a fool to kid himself because he thinks it will impress others. Some things get next to you when you let yourself think about them deep enough—down-to-earth things that cause you to feel and move something inside.

Michael sensed a genuine quality and knew he was going to like this stocky, clean-shaven, square-jawed, hazel-eyed Swede with wide shoulders, pudgy hands, big ears, and an attitude of total self-sufficiency; although amid such qualities there was a strong character trait of bashfulness, which he attempted to cover up with a deliberate flair for showmanship.

In the bashfulness, Michael seemed to find so much in common with Red. Throughout life, such had always been a confusing issue. Was it a character trait that was detrimental and to be corrected, or was it beneficial and to be left to remain?

At any rate, he was sure that whenever necessary, he would be able to depend upon Red.

His attention again returned to the trees. I never knew trees really talked.

Red produced his broad grin again. Everybody here thinks these do, but Reynolds, the cook. He says they moan like a hound sitting on a cocklebur and too lazy to get off. He don’t know so much about the finer things in life though, as you’ll see when you taste the food. His wife, Hilda, the maid, keeps him from cooking everything until it falls apart, but he says Mr. Rheba likes everything well done… Miss Barbara can tell you about the pines.

*

At the end of the two rows of majestic trees, the car entered a large yard, shaded by massive oaks, around a circular driveway at the side of the house. In the center of the circle was an immense flower bed, blazing with color. The deep red of the cardinal flower and royal poinsettia contrasted the yellow poppies, multicolored pansies, and gladiolas, and he recognized larkspur, zinnias, asters, sweet peas, roses, and petunias around a giant cluster of the rare tropical Strelitzia.

On the well-kept lawn, a number of tables with circular benches of colorful tile set in concrete were shaded by large aluminum umbrellas set on an angle and contrasting the lawn with alternately a bright green and white and red and white.

On the other side of the house, beyond a large hedge-fenced vegetable garden and grape arbor, were scenic rows of orange trees as far as the eye could see; and behind the house, along the edge of a pecan grove, were stables and other buildings, also painted white and trimmed in green, beyond which were the innumerable acres of Florida ranchland known as palmettos and pines.

There were neatly trimmed hibiscus hedges with ornamental iron gates instead of fences, and although it was midwinter, the lawn was a beautiful expanse of green. The hibiscuses were in full bloom; their blossoms and falling petals lined the lawn with a bright red-and-pink border.

The large one-story ranch-type house, of Spanish stucco construction, painted white and trimmed in green, had a red tile roof and spread over a large area, with many angles, arches, and windows. Along the side of the house, below large modernistic picture windows, a wide uncovered terrace and side entrance faced the circular driveway; and in front of the house, facing a large lake, a covered brown flagstone porch was shaded by an immense oak, with long fronds of gray Spanish moss hanging from its branches.

Between the house and the lake, a paved tennis court, an elaborate sundial, a large water fountain, and a number of birdbaths were most artistically placed in the open spaces between the immense trees; and a number of ornamental iron benches were placed at intervals along a path from the house to a long dock, to which several boats were tied.

To add to the colorful beauty, a large Dutch windmill and water tank, built like a lighthouse to form a pigeon loft above the structure, had a red tile roof and small artificial windows decorated with painted green blinds to match the house.

It was beautiful, with birds and squirrels everywhere amid the many bright colors, and the atmosphere was pleasant, relaxing, and inviting.

The car stopped at the end of the porch in front of the house, and Red opened the door of the station wagon. If you’ll wait on the front porch, I’ll take your things through the side entrance and tell them you’re here.

*

Michael stood on the porch, admiring the broad expanse of a beautiful lawn and excellent view of the large lake. Apparently all the material things necessary for a complete and happy life were accumulated in this modern secluded setting, in the shade of the immense trees.

He noticed the rippling waves on the lake from the slight breeze and saw a quail dart under the hibiscus hedge. Two large squirrels on the lawn were watching him intently. A fish broke the smooth surface of the water beside the dock and caused more waves to ripple in all directions. A whip-poor-will sounded sharp and clear under the weeping willows, and the first nightingale he had ever seen in America burst forth lustily from the branches of the large oak that shaded the front of the house. Certainly there was everything to make a home most attractive, complete, and relaxing. The atmosphere was warm, quiet, serene, majestic, and exhilarating!

*

The door opened, and he turned to find himself staring into girlish deep-brown eyes that were studying him intently. Then the girl crossed the porch, to stand close beside him, straight as a poplar and appraising with a frankness that caused him to blush.

She smiled and said, Hello, in a voice that was almost a whisper and so deep and rich, surely it was the soft musical tones of a bell.

He felt a touch of embarrassment for his clumsiness while seeing rich deep-auburn hair, parted in the middle, to end loosely in billowy waves above her shoulders.

She was beautiful! So beautiful, it was unbelievable, and yes, now he was sure she was really his dynamic little childhood sweetheart who had cut herself so she might send him a note written in her own blood; and after all these years, she had grown more attractive than his wildest dreams.

Michael, you’ve grown up!

And so have you!

And you’re a prim, prissy stick-in-the-mud!

I’m not!

You are!

Dammit!

That’s better! I always admired you for that word. You were so daring and manly when mad.

He found both her hands in his. They were soft and warm and delicate, and her eyes were sparkling—so much so, it made words unnecessary. She squeezed his fingers and rubbed the back of his hands with her thumbs, beaming a radiance and warmth that brought color to his cheeks.

Barbara…

Yes, Michael?

It’s been a long time. You’ve grown so—so beautiful!

Yes, Michael, I knows it! And… ?

You are so… so—

Yes, Michael!

Is that all you can say?

Yes, Michael!

Dammit! If you stick your finger in your mouth, you’re still a sassy little dabbler.

Yes, Michael, but we’re grown up now, and I bite instead. Come into the house.

She released his hands, and a warm, comforting glow possessed him as he followed her across the porch. Her movements were like liquid, with such utter abandon of self, and her hair moved like rippling waves in complete freedom yet seemed to stay perfectly in place.

She had grown lithe and slender, with radiant plump cheeks that suggested a dimple, a slightly oval face, a straight nose, fine eyes, and a full mouth. She had hands that were so very warm and expressive, and she had a very small waist; and in shorts, her bare legs were long and shapely, her skin delicately suntanned to the color of rose petals, her knees athletic, and her ankles small, with the muscles drawn over them like whipcord.

You took my breath away.

She turned her head, raised one eyebrow in an appraising and sophisticated manner, and continued on across the living room and down a long hall. Just keep going, Sir Dammit, and I’ll show you to your room. Why people stop to light cigarettes in living rooms and lobbies is more than I can understand when what you really want is to wash the dust of travel from your brow. In here, Sir Galahad, and if you say it’s lovely, I’ll put salt in your bed and hope it itches you all night!

Cruel creature. If I trusted you with my soul, would you destroy and grind it to dust?

Yes, Michael!

Dammit!

And change that tie! It looks like your nose bled and you didn’t have a handkerchief. I’ll wait for you in the living room.

*

Michael glared at his tie in the mirror. He had thought it a bit fancy. Now it did look like it had been wet and the colors ran together. Separate plaids would be better. Anyway, it might be a nice present for the cook.

He shaved, felt better, and wondered reverently if Anton Rheba had sent for him on account of Barbara. With such a gay, vivacious, and devil-may-care impudence, she certainly would be the central figure in anything, anywhere, or not at all.

Finding his nerves tense and tingling, he smiled and relaxed. He was excited and suddenly in a very great mental hurry, for no material reason at all. Her radiant health, playful gaiety, and apparent enjoyment of all that was real came from such a youthful abundance of energy, it was precious, and she was so natural, without acting; her freshness penetrated every fiber of his being. Even in his wildest dreams, he had imagined she would be much more conservative and reserved.

*

Finding her alone in the living room reading a book and remembering the short little whistle that was just for her so they could walk to school together, he whistled brazenly.

Indian moccasins, long legs, brown shorts, deep-blue silk blouse covered with butterflies and flowers, a string of beads on which was a pencil, and the book—all came off the lounge together.

Oh, Michael! I haven’t had a thrill like that since we were in school! Shame on you! I was all goose pimples reading this! Now my blood turns to water!

He blushed. In her frustration, she was blooming with high color—the rich brown of her hair, her large round shining eyes, her soft clear skin—the mere fact of being alive; it was all so exhilarating. Her full lower lip puckered a little and made it look as though it would be easy for her to pout, and he felt inclined to laugh with delight. She reminded him of a full-blown peach, delicious and luscious and perfectly ripe and simply asking to be eaten while radiating a warmth so strong—if he held out his hands, maybe he could feel its comfort.

With effort, he controlled the emotion in an attempt to keep it out of his voice. My humble apologies for staring, not for whistling.

Such behavior, for a human-relations expert who looks so precise, so staid, so reserved, so proud! Certainly not the gawky little boy I used to know! And about as far from little Barbara as the other side of the moon.

My profound apologies—and not far away at all! Just staring because I haven’t seen you for such a long time—my fine and much ado!

That’s better!

Maybe I’ve accumulated a bit of experience in dealing with matters pertaining to God, flesh, and the devil since we were kids together.

Oh, Michael! Does that mean you’re going to make love to me! Or is that a proposition?

Dammit!

Yes, Michael! You snap up so straight and indignant indeed with that word, just like you did when everybody in school didn’t follow your exact instructions.

It’s still my pet word.

I’d like to sit down and talk, but my daddy’s waiting to see you, so attend to your business first. Then I’ll attend to you. He’s in lots of trouble, and if by any chance you can solve his problems and save his soul, you can have mine on a silver platter, to cherish or grind to dust as you please.

I—

Never mind now. You go down the hall and first door to your right. I’d go with you, but he wouldn’t want me. He’s told nearly everything around here to go to and stay put lately, excepting the whispering pines, and me, and who knows, me may be next.

She hesitated, then watched him intently while fingering the string of beads with one hand and holding the book with the other.

He gathered she had shrewdness too, with a quick eye for the absurd. It was plain she was very affectionate, simply would rather ignore little vexations; and responsibilities, unless requested, would be accepted with reluctance.

He did not smile. Possibly I am to beard the lion in his den?

A grouchy but lovable old bear would be better.

Straightening up to his full height, he assumed an expression of solemn dignity. Possibly, I should meet Mr. Rheba in a most formal manner? After all, we’re grown up now! He bowed from the waist most formally.

Her reactions were unexpected, making it plain she was suddenly confused more than ever. Her face flushed, and she stood with one arm outstretched, pointing aimlessly toward the hall with the book, knees and wrists slightly bent, palms forward, staring like he might explode any minute, and frankly she made no attempt to conceal her embarrassment.

He felt the change keenly, as though having done something wrong, smiled, dropped his stiff formality immediately, and tossing his head to one side gave her a critical glance from under a raised eyebrow, then assumed a jaunty air—a bit gay and debonair—made a gesture to mimic her as best he could, and walked away, feeling her gaze on his back as strong as the rays of the sun, he expected the book to come sailing through the air to land between his shoulder blades.

Turning at the entrance to the hallway, with the intention of calling her attention to his changed tie, he stopped when she said on an outgoing breath, That’s better, little boy. Don’t ever do me like that again!

He smiled. I am humbled in the presence of such… such vivaciousness, such radiance—such beauty!

She relaxed, and her eyes were beaming again.

He turned and sought his way down the hall, the comforting glow returned, and the genuine warmth of informal welcome flowed through his veins like hot wine.

Certainly he could look forward to many sudden and unexpected things at Whispering Pines!

** CHAPTER TWO **

J. ANTON RHEBA, novelist and sportsman, sat in his study, deeply absorbed in writing a novel.

Dressed in a combination tan and brown sport shirt with long collar points and no tie, brown fancy belt to match sandals, and tan sport trousers, he was in the prime of life, still in his forties, tall, and over two hundred pounds but not overweight for his height. A most solid, distinguished-looking man, with full features, a high forehead, high cheekbones, a large, straight nose, big ears, a firm chin, and sensitive lips and mouth. His hair, graying just sufficiently at the temples and parted in the middle, gave his face length and a balanced, even appearance. His hands were large, and his fingers long and expressive, but there were no rings or jewelry.

Having discarded his straightlaced business attitude, and past life of style and polish, for the rough, informal, fraternal good fellowship of the retired sportsman, his attitude was inquiring, methodical, and reserved. Being relieved of material cares, he had given himself to relaxation, seeking a greater measure of right living and to his hobby of writing.

Distracted in thought, he stared at the wall… He gazed at the photographs under the glass on his desk, each representing a story character… He changed his position in the chair… He got up, thinking… He shouldn’t touch a typewriter today… He leaned against the door… He was not dizzy, not a bit, not even when he stooped over to pick up some papers… Writing requires concentration for long periods of time… Write in haste when you expect to be read in haste. Write slowly when you expect to be read slowly… There’s no hurry when you feel deeply.

It was a bright morning. He had no idea what time. His clock was long unwound.

There would be a guest today, or was he to be a guest? The son of his lifelong friend was now a human-relations expert, who had within a few short years made himself famous at a work so extensive, most men became bogged down in it and were forced to steadfastly carry on with narrow-minded viewpoints. It would be good to know such a man—a man who could judge human nature broadly, and although the reports said he was quite young, possibly he could still cope with the problems at Whispering Pines.

With a gesture, he decided to read his mail… Figures that did not balance, discrepancies, settlements that seemed incorrect… He needed an accountant…

He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He saw a man with brown eyes and brown hair; his daughter had brown eyes and auburn hair. It was a miracle of nature—what could come from seed. Brown eyes indicate warmheartedness; blue, optimism and idealism; gray, wisdom; green, astuteness and talent; black, a desire for power; hazel, a merry disposition… The eyes are a window to the soul.

He put oil on his hair. I anointest my head with oil—but brevity doth not come to me. He combed his hair, carefully parting it in the middle… He washed his hands and wondered why they needed it so often… He returned to his study.

A story could be a story within a story. Both could be the by-product of an idea, a slag of a dream. Partly true, partly figments of imagination to fill in… To say all he wanted to say… in half as many words… Groping for a vision sometimes took half an author’s time.

He looked out the window… The station wagon came in the driveway under the trees and scraped some limbs. It would be necessary to have those branches trimmed, and it seemed such a pity. What is beautiful should not be destroyed.

Somewhere, bells were ringing, and he wondered why. It was Hilda’s little music box in the dining room. He stopped to listen. It was playing something… Then it played a tune he recognized… and became very significant. Life itself is pleasant music when you know the tune.

He returned to his typewriter. For one who had retired, he worked harder than ever, which is something we all do when doing what we want to do.

A change in the story would be like making the foot fit the shoe. If he changed the ending, it would be a rigged plot. If he didn’t, it would be as formulated as a magazine story but easy to read and understand… happiness does not come from conflict. Yet how could anyone eliminate conflicting emotions while seeking happiness… It would be a great accomplishment to simplify a very complicated thing.

He moved some pencils on the desk, rearranging them carefully, and placed another piece of paper in the typewriter. Human relations should be settled by human relations, before admitting any convenient or mechanical means to satisfy those looking for the sensational. After that, it was admittedly a privilege of the author to insert what would please the abbreviated… happiness comes only from uninhibited emotions in free association with self… Death or marriage properly ends or begins all things… Psychologically, the right attitude was essential. Firm simplicity would be the key with which to approach the most important problem of human existence… Yes, firm simplicity…

A knock came on the door.

Come in…

*

Michael knew immediately he had interrupted the author at work and smiled his apology. A moment before, he was in a luxuriously furnished home, now he was in a business office, study, and library combined, with one side of the room a continuous wall of books from floor to ceiling. There was an open door to an adjoining office, a large glass-topped desk, table, typewriter desk next to the window, and a heavy rug on the floor. With a number of overstuffed chairs, the room was ultramodern, with the exception of a large family portrait on the wall, set in a heavy and elaborate gold frame.

Anton Rheba had changed very little over the years, and Michael remembered him as the most dynamic man he had ever known. Hope I haven’t disturbed you.

You have but glad you did. He turned from the typewriter and stood up. A novelist must necessarily get in and out of the mood to write as a habit, and sometimes when there’s indecision, interruptions are welcome… Let me look at you—the son of Mark Denton Patterson!

In the flesh!

So! After fifteen years, the frail little sapling has grown tall and sturdy—as an Irishman should—straight nose, prominent chin, firm step, steady look, disarming smile—all for the good. You shake hands like you were glad to be alive!

It was an honor when you sent for me.

"Ummmm—solid attitude, patient, understanding twinkle in your eye. I’d say you’re not easily upset by difficult things. And successful in your work, they say. Bluntly, what is the secret of