by John Fox
XXIII
June, tired though she was, tossed restlessly that night. The one lookshe had seen in Hale's face when she met him in the car, told her thetruth as far as he was concerned. He was unchanged, she could give himno chance to withdraw from their long understanding, for it was plainto her quick instinct that he wanted none. And so she had asked himno question about his failure to meet her, for she knew now that hisreason, no matter what, was good. He had startled her in the car, forher mind was heavy with memories of the poor little cabins she hadpassed on the train, of the mountain men and women in the wedding-party,and Hale himself was to the eye so much like one of them--had sostartled her that, though she knew that his instinct, too, was at work,she could not gather herself together to combat her own feelings, forevery little happening in the dummy but drew her back to her previoustrain of painful thought. And in that helplessness she had told Halegood-night. She remembered now how she had looked upon Lonesome Coveafter she went to the Gap; how she had looked upon the Gap after heryear in the Bluegrass, and how she had looked back even on the first bigcity she had seen there from the lofty vantage ground of New York. Whatwas the use of it all? Why laboriously climb a hill merely to see andyearn for things that you cannot have, if you must go back and live inthe hollow again? Well, she thought rebelliously, she would not go backto the hollow again--that was all. She knew what was coming and hercousin Dave's perpetual sneer sprang suddenly from the past to cutthrough her again and the old pride rose within her once more. She wasgood enough now for Hale, oh, yes, she thought bitterly, good enoughNOW; and then, remembering his life-long kindness and thinking what shemight have been but for him, she burst into tears at the unworthiness ofher own thought. Ah, what should she do--what should she do? Repeatingthat question over and over again, she fell toward morning into troubledsleep. She did not wake until nearly noon, for already she had formedthe habit of sleeping late--late at least, for that part of theworld--and she was glad when the negro boy brought her word that Mr.Hale had been called up the valley and would not be back until theafternoon. She dreaded to meet him, for she knew that he had seenthe trouble within her and she knew he was not the kind of man to letmatters drag vaguely, if they could be cleared up and settled by openfrankness of discussion, no matter how blunt he must be. She had to waituntil mid-day dinner time for something to eat, so she lay abed, pickeda breakfast from the menu, which was spotted, dirty and meagre inofferings, and had it brought to her room. Early in the afternoon sheissued forth into the sunlight, and started toward Imboden Hill. It wasvery beautiful and soul-comforting--the warm air, the luxuriantly woodedhills, with their shades of green that told her where poplar and oak andbeech and maple grew, the delicate haze of blue that overlay them anddeepened as her eyes followed the still mountain piles north-eastwardto meet the big range that shut her in from the outer world. The changeshad been many. One part of the town had been wiped out by fire and a fewbuildings of stone had risen up. On the street she saw strange faces,but now and then she stopped to shake hands with somebody whom she knew,and who recognized her always with surprise and spoke but few words, andthen, as she thought, with some embarrassment. Half unconsciouslyshe turned toward the old mill. There it was, dusty and gray, and thedripping old wheel creaked with its weight of shining water, and themuffled roar of the unseen dam started an answering stream of memoriessurging within her. She could see the window of her room in the oldbrick boarding-house, and as she passed the gate, she almost stoppedto go in, but the face of a strange man who stood in the door with aproprietary air deterred her. There was Hale's little frame cottage andhis name, half washed out, was over the wing that was still his office.Past that she went, with a passing temptation to look within, and towardthe old school-house. A massive new one was half built, of gray stone,to the left, but the old one, with its shingles on the outside that hadonce caused her such wonder, still lay warm in the sun, but closed anddeserted. There was the playground where she had been caught in"Ring around the Rosy," and Hale and that girl teacher had heard herconfession. She flushed again when she thought of that day, but theflush was now for another reason. Over the roof of the schoolhouse shecould see the beech tree where she had built her playhouse, and memoryled her from the path toward it. She had not climbed a hill for a longtime and she was panting when she reached it. There was the scatteredplayhouse--it might have lain there untouched for a quarter of acentury--just as her angry feet had kicked it to pieces. On a root ofthe beech she sat down and the broad rim of her hat scratched the trunkof it and annoyed her, so she took it off and leaned her head againstthe tree, looking up into the underworld of leaves through whicha sunbeam filtered here and there--one striking her hair which haddarkened to a duller gold--striking it eagerly, unerringly, as thoughit had started for just such a shining mark. Below her was outspreadthe little town--the straggling, wretched little town--crude, lonely,lifeless! She could not be happy in Lonesome Cove after she had knownthe Gap, and now her horizon had so broadened that she felt now towardthe Gap and its people as she had then felt toward the mountaineers: forthe standards of living in the Cove--so it seemed--were no fartherbelow the standards in the Gap than they in turn were lower than the newstandards to which she had adapted herself while away. Indeed, even thatBluegrass world where she had spent a year was too narrow now for hervaulting ambition, and with that thought she looked down again on thelittle town, a lonely island in a sea of mountains and as far fromthe world for which she had been training herself as though it were inmid-ocean. Live down there? She shuddered at the thought and straightwaywas very miserable. The clear piping of a wood-thrush rose far away, atear started between her half-closed lashes and she might have gone toweeping silently, had her ear not caught the sound of something movingbelow her. Some one was coming that way, so she brushed her eyes swiftlywith her handkerchief and stood upright against the tree. And thereagain Hale found her, tense, upright, bareheaded again and her handsbehind her; only her face was not uplifted and dreaming--it was turnedtoward him, unstartled and expectant. He stopped below her and leanedone shoulder against a tree.
"I saw you pass the office," he said, "and I thought I should find youhere."
His eyes dropped to the scattered playhouse of long ago--and a faintsmile that was full of submerged sadness passed over his face. It washis playhouse, after all, that she had kicked to pieces. But he did notmention it--nor her attitude--nor did he try, in any way, to arouse hermemories of that other time at this same place.
"I want to talk with you, June--and I want to talk now."
"Yes, Jack," she said tremulously.
For a moment he stood in silence, his face half-turned, his teeth hardon his indrawn lip--thinking. There was nothing of the mountaineer abouthim now. He was clean-shaven and dressed with care--June saw that--buthe looked quite old, his face seemed harried with worries and ravaged bysuffering, and June had suddenly to swallow a quick surging of pity forhim. He spoke slowly and without looking at her:
"June, if it hadn't been for me, you would be over in Lonesome Cove andhappily married by this time, or at least contented with your life, foryou wouldn't have known any other."
"I don't know, Jack."
"I took you out--and it rests with you whether I shall be sorry Idid--sorry wholly on your account, I mean," he added hastily.
She knew what he meant and she said nothing--she only turned her headaway slightly, with her eyes upturned a little toward the leaves thatwere shaking like her own heart.
"I think I see it all very clearly," he went on, in a low and perfectlyeven voice. "You can't be happy over there now--you can't be happy overhere now. You've got other wishes, ambitions, dreams, now, and I wantyou to realize them, and I want to help you to realize them all Ican--that's all."
"Jack!--" she helplessly, protestingly spoke his name in a whisper, butthat was all she could do, and he went on:
"It isn't so strange. What is strange is that I--that I didn't foreseeit all. But if I had," he added firmly, "I'd have d
one it just thesame--unless by doing it I've really done you more harm than good."
"No--no--Jack!"
"I came into your world--you went into mine. What I had grownindifferent about--you grew to care about. You grew sensitive while Iwas growing callous to certain--" he was about to say "surface things,"but he checked himself--"certain things in life that mean more to awoman than to a man. I would not have married you as you were--I've gotto be honest now--at least I thought it necessary that you should beotherwise--and now you have gone beyond me, and now you do not want tomarry me as I am. And it is all very natural and very just." Veryslowly her head had dropped until her chin rested hard above the littlejewelled cross on her breast.
"You must tell me if I am wrong. You don't love me now--well enough tobe happy with me here"--he waved one hand toward the straggling littletown below them and then toward the lonely mountains--"I did notknow that we would have to live here--but I know it now--" he checkedhimself, and afterward she recalled the tone of those last words, butthen they had no especial significance.
"Am I wrong?" he repeated, and then he said hurriedly, for her facewas so piteous--"No, you needn't give yourself the pain of saying it inwords. I want you to know that I understand that there is nothing in theworld I blame you for--nothing--nothing. If there is any blame at all,it rests on me alone." She broke toward him with a cry then.
"No--no, Jack," she said brokenly, and she caught his hand in both herown and tried to raise it to her lips, but he held her back and sheput her face on his breast and sobbed heart-brokenly. He waited for theparoxysm to pass, stroking her hair gently.
"You mustn't feel that way, little girl. You can't help it--I can't helpit--and these things happen all the time, everywhere. You don't have tostay here. You can go away and study, and when I can, I'll come to seeyou and cheer you up; and when you are a great singer, I'll send youflowers and be so proud of you, and I'll say to myself, 'I helped dothat.' Dry your eyes, now. You must go back to the hotel. Your fatherwill be there by this time and you'll have to be starting home prettysoon."
Like a child she obeyed him, but she was so weak and trembling thathe put his arm about her to help her down the hill. At the edge of thewoods she stopped and turned full toward him.
"You are so good," she said tremulously, "so GOOD. Why, you haven't evenasked me if there was another--"
Hale interrupted her, shaking his head.
"If there is, I don't want to know."
"But there isn't, there isn't!" she cried, "I don't know what is thematter with me. I hate--" the tears started again, and again she was onthe point of breaking down, but Hale checked her.
"Now, now," he said soothingly, "you mustn't, now--that's all right. Youmustn't." Her anger at herself helped now.
"Why, I stood like a silly fool, tongue-tied, and I wanted to say somuch. I--"
"You don't need to," Hale said gently, "I understand it all. Iunderstand."
"I believe you do," she said with a sob, "better than I do."
"Well, it's all right, little girl. Come on."
They issued forth into the sunlight and Hale walked rapidly. The strainwas getting too much for him and he was anxious to be alone. Withouta word more they passed the old school-house, the massive new one, andwent on, in silence, down the street. Hitched to a post, near the hotel,were two gaunt horses with drooping heads, and on one of them was aside-saddle. Sitting on the steps of the hotel, with a pipe in hismouth, was the mighty figure of Devil Judd Tolliver. He saw themcoming--at least he saw Hale coming, and that far away Hale saw hisbushy eyebrows lift in wonder at June. A moment later he rose to hisgreat height without a word.
"Dad," said June in a trembling voice, "don't you know me?" The old manstared at her silently and a doubtful smile played about his beardedlips.
"Hardly, but I reckon hit's June."
She knew that the world to which Hale belonged would expect her to kisshim, and she made a movement as though she would, but the habit of alifetime is not broken so easily. She held out her hand, and with theother patted him on the arm as she looked up into his face.
"Time to be goin', June, if we want to get home afore dark!"
"All right, Dad."
The old man turned to his horse.
"Hurry up, little gal."
In a few minutes they were ready, and the girl looked long into Hale'sface when he took her hand.
"You are coming over soon?"
"Just as soon as I can." Her lips trembled.
"Good-by," she faltered.
"Good-by, June," said Hale.
From the steps he watched them--the giant father slouching in hissaddle and the trim figure of the now sadly misplaced girl, erect on theawkward-pacing mountain beast--as incongruous, the two, as a fairy onsome prehistoric monster. A horseman was coming up the street behind himand a voice called:
"Who's that?" Hale turned--it was the Honourable Samuel Budd, cominghome from Court.
"June Tolliver."
"June Taliaferro," corrected the Hon. Sam with emphasis.
"The same." The Hon. Sam silently followed the pair for a moment throughhis big goggles.
"What do you think of my theory of the latent possibilities of themountaineer--now?"
"I think I know how true it is better than you do," said Hale calmly,and with a grunt the Hon. Sam rode on. Hale watched them as they rodeacross the plateau--watched them until the Gap swallowed them up and hisheart ached for June. Then he went to his room and there, stretched outon his bed and with his hands clenched behind his head, he lay staringupward.
Devil Judd Tolliver had lost none of his taciturnity. Stolidly,silently, he went ahead, as is the custom of lordly man in themountains--horseback or afoot--asking no questions, answering June's inthe fewest words possible. Uncle Billy, the miller, had been complaininga good deal that spring, and old Hon had rheumatism. Uncle Billy'sold-maid sister, who lived on Devil's Fork, had been cooking for him athome since the last taking to bed of June's step-mother. Bub had "growedup" like a hickory sapling. Her cousin Loretta hadn't married, and somefolks allowed she'd run away some day yet with young Buck Falin. Hercousin Dave had gone off to school that year, had come back a monthbefore, and been shot through the shoulder. He was in Lonesome Cove now.
This fact was mentioned in the same matter-of-fact way as the otherhappenings. Hale had been raising Cain in Lonesome Cove--"A-cuttin'things down an' tearin' 'em up an' playin' hell ginerally."
The feud had broken out again and maybe June couldn't stay at home long.He didn't want her there with the fighting going on--whereat June'sheart gave a start of gladness that the way would be easy for her toleave when she wished to leave. Things over at the Gap "was agoin' toperdition," the old man had been told, while he was waiting for June andHale that day, and Hale had not only lost a lot of money, but if thingsdidn't take a rise, he would be left head over heels in debt, if thatmine over in Lonesome Cove didn't pull him out.
They were approaching the big Pine now, and June was beginning to acheand get sore from the climb. So Hale was in trouble--that was what hemeant when he said that, though she could leave the mountains when shepleased, he must stay there, perhaps for good.
"I'm mighty glad you come home, gal," said the old man, "an' that ye airgoin' to put an end to all this spendin' o' so much money. Jack saysyou got some money left, but I don't understand it. He says he made a'investment' fer ye and tribbled the money. I haint never axed him noquestions. Hit was betwixt you an' him, an' 'twant none o' my businesslong as you an' him air goin' to marry. He said you was goin' to marrythis summer an' I wish you'd git tied up right away whilst I'm livin',fer I don't know when a Winchester might take me off an' I'd die a sighteasier if I knowed you was tied up with a good man like him."
"Yes, Dad," was all she said, for she had not the heart to tell him thetruth, and she knew that Hale never would until the last moment he must,when he learned that she had failed.
Half an hour later, she could see the stone chimney of the
little cabinin Lonesome Cove. A little farther down several spirals of smoke werevisible--rising from unseen houses which were more miners' shacks, herfather said, that Hale had put up while she was gone. The water of thecreek was jet black now. A row of rough wooden houses ran along itsedge. The geese cackled a doubtful welcome. A new dog leaped barkingfrom the porch and a tall boy sprang after him--both running for thegate.
"Why, Bub," cried June, sliding from her horse and kissing him, and thenholding him off at arms' length to look into his steady gray eyes andhis blushing face.
"Take the horses, Bub," said old Judd, and June entered the gate whileBub stood with the reins in his hand, still speechlessly staring herover from head to foot. There was her garden, thank God--with all herflowers planted, a new bed of pansies and one of violets and the borderof laurel in bloom--unchanged and weedless.
"One o' Jack Hale's men takes keer of it," explained old Judd, andagain, with shame, June felt the hurt of her lover's thoughtfulness.When she entered the cabin, the same old rasping petulant voice calledher from a bed in one corner, and when June took the shrivelled old handthat was limply thrust from the bed-clothes, the old hag's keen eyesswept her from head to foot with disapproval.
"My, but you air wearin' mighty fine clothes," she croaked enviously."I ain't had a new dress fer more'n five year;" and that was the welcomeshe got.
"No?" said June appeasingly. "Well, I'll get one for you myself."
"I'm much obleeged," she whined, "but I reckon I can git along."
A cough came from the bed in the other corner of the room.
"That's Dave," said the old woman, and June walked over to where hercousin's black eyes shone hostile at her from the dark.
"I'm sorry, Dave," she said, but Dave answered nothing but a sullen"howdye" and did not put out a hand--he only stared at her in sulkybewilderment, and June went back to listen to the torrent of the oldwoman's plaints until Bub came in. Then as she turned, she noticed forthe first time that a new door had been cut in one side of the cabin,and Bub was following the direction of her eyes.
"Why, haint nobody told ye?" he said delightedly.
"Told me what, Bub?"
With a whoop Bud leaped for the side of the door and, reaching up,pulled a shining key from between the logs and thrust it into her hands.
"Go ahead," he said. "Hit's yourn."
"Some more o' Jack Hale's fool doin's," said the old woman. "Go on, gal,and see whut he's done."
With eager hands she put the key in the lock and when she pushed openthe door, she gasped. Another room had been added to the cabin--and thefragrant smell of cedar made her nostrils dilate. Bub pushed by her andthrew open the shutters of a window to the low sunlight, and June stoodwith both hands to her head. It was a room for her--with a dresser, along mirror, a modern bed in one corner, a work-table with a student'slamp on it, a wash-stand and a chest of drawers and a piano! On thewalls were pictures and over the mantel stood the one she had firstlearned to love--two lovers clasped in each other's arms and under themthe words "Enfin Seul."
"Oh-oh," was all she could say, and choking, she motioned Bub from theroom. When the door closed, she threw herself sobbing across the bed.
Over at the Gap that night Hale sat in his office with a piece of whitepaper and a lump of black coal on the table in front of him. His foremanhad brought the coal to him that day at dusk. He lifted the lump to thelight of his lamp, and from the centre of it a mocking evil eye leeredback at him. The eye was a piece of shining black flint and told himthat his mine in Lonesome Cove was but a pocket of cannel coal and worthno more than the smouldering lumps in his grate. Then he lifted thepiece of white paper--it was his license to marry June.