The Trail of the Lonesome Pine

by John Fox

  XXI

  Hale was beyond Black Mountain when her letter reached him. His workover there had to be finished and so he kept in his saddle the greaterpart of two days and nights and on the third day rode his big blackhorse forty miles in little more than half a day that he might meether at the train. The last two years had wrought their change in him.Deterioration is easy in the hills--superficial deterioration inhabits, manners, personal appearance and the practices of all the littleniceties of life. The morning bath is impossible because of the crowdeddomestic conditions of a mountain cabin and, if possible, might ifpractised, excite wonder and comment, if not vague suspicion. Sleepinggarments are practically barred for the same reason. Shaving becomes arare luxury. A lost tooth-brush may not be replaced for a month. In timeone may bring himself to eat with a knife for the reason that it is hardfor a hungry man to feed himself with a fork that has but two tines. Thefinger tips cease to be the culminating standard of the gentleman. Itis hard to keep a supply of fresh linen when one is constantly in thesaddle, and a constant weariness of body and a ravenous appetite make aman indifferent to things like a bad bed and worse food, particularlyas he must philosophically put up with them, anyhow. Of all these thingsthe man himself may be quite unconscious and yet they affect him moredeeply than he knows and show to a woman even in his voice, his walk,his mouth--everywhere save in his eyes, which change only in severity,or in kindliness or when there has been some serious break-down of soulor character within. And the woman will not look to his eyes for thetruth--which makes its way slowly--particularly when the woman hasstriven for the very things that the man has so recklessly let go. Shewould never suffer herself to let down in such a way and she does notunderstand how a man can.

  Hale's life, since his college doors had closed behind him, had alwaysbeen a rough one. He had dropped from civilization and had gone backinto it many times. And each time he had dropped, he dropped the deeper,and for that reason had come back into his own life each time with moredifficulty and with more indifference. The last had been his roughestyear and he had sunk a little more deeply just at the time when June hadbeen pluming herself for flight from such depths forever. Moreover,Hale had been dominant in every matter that his hand or his brain hadtouched. His habit had been to say "do this" and it was done. Thoughhe was no longer acting captain of the Police Guard, he always acted ascaptain whenever he was on hand, and always he was the undisputed leaderin all questions of business, politics or the maintenance of order andlaw. The success he had forged had hardened and strengthened his mouth,steeled his eyes and made him more masterful in manner, speech andpoint of view, and naturally had added nothing to his gentleness, hisunselfishness, his refinement or the nice consideration of little thingson which women lay such stress. It was an hour by sun when he clatteredthrough the gap and pushed his tired black horse into a gallop acrossthe valley toward the town. He saw the smoke of the little dummy and, ashe thundered over the bridge of the North Fork, he saw that it was justabout to pull out and he waved his hat and shouted imperiously for it towait. With his hand on the bell-rope, the conductor, autocrat that he,too, was, did wait and Hale threw his reins to the man who was nearest,hardly seeing who he was, and climbed aboard. He wore a slouched hatspotted by contact with the roof of the mines which he had hastilyvisited on his way through Lonesome Cove. The growth of three days'beard was on his face. He wore a gray woollen shirt, and a bluehandkerchief--none too clean--was loosely tied about his sun-scorchedcolumn of a throat; he was spotted with mud from his waist to the solesof his rough riding boots and his hands were rough and grimy. But hiseye was bright and keen and his heart thumped eagerly. Again it was themiddle of June and the town was a naked island in a sea of leaveswhose breakers literally had run mountain high and stopped for all timemotionless. Purple lights thick as mist veiled Powell's Mountain. Below,the valley was still flooded with yellow sunlight which lay along themountain sides and was streaked here and there with the long shadow ofa deep ravine. The beech trunks on Imboden Hill gleamed in it like whitebodies scantily draped with green, and the yawning Gap held the yellowlight as a bowl holds wine. He had long ago come to look upon the hillsmerely as storehouses for iron and coal, put there for his specialpurpose, but now the long submerged sense of the beauty of it allstirred within him again, for June was the incarnate spirit of it alland June was coming back to those mountains and--to him.

  * * * * * * *

  And June--June had seen the change in Hale. The first year he had comeoften to New York to see her and they had gone to the theatre and theopera, and June was pleased to play the part of heroine in what was sucha real romance to the other girls in school and she was proud of Hale.But each time he came, he seemed less interested in the diversions thatmeant so much to her, more absorbed in his affairs in the mountains andless particular about his looks. His visits came at longer intervals,with each visit he stayed less long, and each time he seemed more eagerto get away. She had been shy about appearing before him for the firsttime in evening dress, and when he entered the drawing-room she stoodunder a chandelier in blushing and resplendent confusion, but he seemednot to recognize that he had never seen her that way before, and foranother reason June remained confused, disappointed and hurt, for hewas not only unobserving, and seemingly unappreciative, but he was moresilent than ever that night and he looked gloomy. But if he had grownaccustomed to her beauty, there were others who had not, and smart,dapper college youths gathered about her like bees around a flower--atriumphant fact to which he also seemed indifferent. Moreover, he wasnot in evening clothes that night and she did not know whether he hadforgotten or was indifferent to them, and the contrast that he was madeher that night almost ashamed for him. She never guessed what the matterwas, for Hale kept his troubles to himself. He was always gentle andkind, he was as lavish with her as though he were a king, and she wasas lavish and prodigally generous as though she were a princess. Thereseemed no limit to the wizard income from the investments that Halehad made for her when, as he said, he sold a part of her stock in theLonesome Cove mine, and what she wanted Hale always sent her withoutquestion. Only, as the end was coming on at the Gap, he wrote once toknow if a certain amount would carry her through until she was ready tocome home, but even that question aroused no suspicion in thoughtlessJune. And then that last year he had come no more--always, always he wastoo busy. Not even on her triumphal night at the end of the session washe there, when she had stood before the guests and patrons of the schoollike a goddess, and had thrilled them into startling applause, herteachers into open glowing pride, the other girls into bright-eyed envyand herself into still another new world. Now she was going home and shewas glad to go.

  She had awakened that morning with the keen air of the mountains in hernostrils--the air she had breathed in when she was born, and her eyesshone happily when she saw through her window the loved blue hills alongwhich raced the train. They were only a little way from the town whereshe must change, the porter said; she had overslept and she had no timeeven to wash her face and hands, and that worried her a good deal. Theporter nearly lost his equilibrium when she gave him half a dollar--forwomen are not profuse in the way of tipping--and instead of putting herbag down on the station platform, he held it in his hand waiting to doher further service. At the head of the steps she searched about forHale and her lovely face looked vexed and a little hurt when she did notsee him.

  "Hotel, Miss?" said the porter.

  "Yes, please, Harvey!" she called.

  An astonished darky sprang from the line of calling hotel-porters andtook her bag. Then every tooth in his head flashed.

  "Lordy, Miss June--I never knowed you at all."

  June smiled--it was the tribute she was looking for.

  "Have you seen Mr. Hale?"

  "No'm. Mr. Hale ain't been here for mos' six months. I reckon he aint inthis country now. I aint heard nothin' 'bout him for a long time."

  June knew better than that--but she said nothing. S
he would rather havehad even Harvey think that he was away. So she hurried to the hotel--shewould have four hours to wait--and asked for the one room that had abath attached--the room to which Hale had sent her when she had passedthrough on her way to New York. She almost winced when she looked in themirror and saw the smoke stains about her pretty throat and ears, andshe wondered if anybody could have noticed them on her way from thetrain. Her hands, too, were dreadful to look at and she hurried to takeoff her things.

  In an hour she emerged freshened, immaculate from her crown of lovelyhair to her smartly booted feet, and at once she went downstairs. Sheheard the man, whom she passed, stop at the head of them and turn tolook down at her, and she saw necks craned within the hotel office whenshe passed the door. On the street not a man and hardly a womanfailed to look at her with wonder and open admiration, for she was anapparition in that little town and it all pleased her so much that shebecame flushed and conscious and felt like a queen who, unknown, movedamong her subjects and blessed them just with her gracious presence.For she was unknown even by several people whom she knew and that, too,pleased her--to have bloomed so quite beyond their ken. She was like ameteor coming back to dazzle the very world from which it had flown fora while into space. When she went into the dining-room for the middaydinner, there was a movement in almost every part of the room as thoughthere were many there who were on the lookout for her entrance. The headwaiter, a portly darky, lost his imperturbable majesty for a moment insurprise at the vision and then with a lordly yet obsequious wave of hishand, led her to a table over in a corner where no one was sitting. Fouryoung men came in rather boisterously and made for her table. She liftedher calm eyes at them so haughtily that the one in front halted withsudden embarrassment and they all swerved to another table from whichthey stared at her surreptitiously. Perhaps she was mistaken for thecomic-opera star whose brilliant picture she had seen on a bill board infront of the "opera house." Well, she had the voice and she mighthave been and she might yet be--and if she were, this would be thedistinction that would be shown her. And, still as it was she wasgreatly pleased.

  At four o'clock she started for the hills. In half an hour she wasdropping down a winding ravine along a rock-lashing stream with thosehills so close to the car on either side that only now and then couldshe see the tops of them. Through the window the keen air came from thevery lungs of them, freighted with the coolness of shadows, the scent ofdamp earth and the faint fragrance of wild flowers, and her soul leapedto meet them. The mountain sides were showered with pink and whitelaurel (she used to call it "ivy") and the rhododendrons (she used tocall them "laurel") were just beginning to blossom--they were her oldand fast friends--mountain, shadow, the wet earth and its pure breath,and tree, plant and flower; she had not forgotten them, and it was goodto come back to them. Once she saw an overshot water-wheel on the bankof the rushing little stream and she thought of Uncle Billy; she smiledand the smile stopped short--she was going back to other things as well.The train had creaked by a log-cabin set in the hillside and then pastanother and another; and always there were two or three ragged childrenin the door and a haggard unkempt woman peering over their shoulders.How lonely those cabins looked and how desolate the life they suggestedto her now--NOW! The first station she came to after the train hadwound down the long ravine to the valley level again was crowded withmountaineers. There a wedding party got aboard with a great deal oflaughter, chaffing and noise, and all three went on within and withoutthe train while it was waiting. A sudden thought stunned her like alightning stroke. They were HER people out there on the platform andinside the car ahead--those rough men in slouch hats, jeans and cowhideboots, their mouths stained with tobacco juice, their cheeks and eyeson fire with moonshine, and those women in poke-bonnets with their sad,worn, patient faces on which the sympathetic good cheer and joy ofthe moment sat so strangely. She noticed their rough shoes and theirhomespun gowns that made their figures all alike and shapeless, witha vivid awakening of early memories. She might have been one of thosenarrow-lived girls outside, or that bride within had it not been forJack--Hale. She finished the name in her own mind and she was consciousthat she had. Ah, well, that was a long time ago and she was nothing buta child and she had thrown herself at his head. Perhaps it was differentwith him now and if it was, she would give him the chance to withdrawfrom everything. It would be right and fair and then life was so fullfor her now. She was dependent on nobody--on nothing. A rainbow spannedthe heaven above her and the other end of it was not in the hills. Butone end was and to that end she was on her way. She was going to justsuch people as she had seen at the station. Her father and her kinsmenwere just such men--her step-mother and kinswomen were just such women.Her home was little more than just such a cabin as the desolate onesthat stirred her pity when she swept by them. She thought of how shefelt when she had first gone to Lonesome Cove after a few months at theGap, and she shuddered to think how she would feel now. She was gettingrestless by this time and aimlessly she got up and walked to the frontof the car and back again to her seat, hardly noticing that the otheroccupants were staring at her with some wonder. She sat down for a fewminutes and then she went to the rear and stood outside on the platform,clutching a brass rod of the railing and looking back on the droppingdarkness in which the hills seemed to be rushing together far behind asthe train crashed on with its wake of spark-lit rolling smoke. A cinderstung her face, and when she lifted her hand to the spot, she saw thather glove was black with grime. With a little shiver of disgust she wentback to her seat and with her face to the blackness rushing past herwindow she sat brooding--brooding. Why had Hale not met her? He had saidhe would and she had written him when she was coming and had telegraphedhim at the station in New York when she started. Perhaps he HAD changed.She recalled that even his letters had grown less frequent, shorter,more hurried the past year--well, he should have his chance. Always,however, her mind kept going back to the people at the station and toher people in the mountains. They were the same, she kept repeatingto herself--the very same and she was one of them. And always she keptthinking of her first trip to Lonesome Cove after her awakening and ofwhat her next would be. That first time Hale had made her go back asshe had left, in home-spun, sun-bonnet and brogans. There was the samereason why she should go back that way now as then--would Hale insistthat she should now? She almost laughed aloud at the thought. She knewthat she would refuse and she knew that his reason would not appeal toher now--she no longer cared what her neighbours and kinspeople mightthink and say. The porter paused at her seat.

  "How much longer is it?" she asked.

  "Half an hour, Miss."

  June went to wash her face and hands, and when she came back to her seata great glare shone through the windows on the other side of the car. Itwas the furnace, a "run" was on and she could see the streams of whitemolten metal racing down the narrow channels of sand to their narrowbeds on either side. The whistle shrieked ahead for the Gap and shenerved herself with a prophetic sense of vague trouble at hand.

  * * * * * * *

  At the station Hale had paced the platform. He looked at his watch tosee whether he might have time to run up to the furnace, half a mileaway, and board the train there. He thought he had and he was about tostart when the shriek of the coming engine rose beyond the low hills inWild Cat Valley, echoed along Powell's Mountain and broke against thewrinkled breast of the Cumberland. On it came, and in plain sight itstopped suddenly to take water, and Hale cursed it silently andrecalled viciously that when he was in a hurry to arrive anywhere,the water-tower was always on the wrong side of the station. He got sorestless that he started for it on a run and he had gone hardly fiftyyards before the train came on again and he had to run back to beat itto the station--where he sprang to the steps of the Pullman before itstopped--pushing the porter aside to find himself checked by the crowdedpassengers at the door. June was not among them and straightway he ranfor the rear of the car.

  June had risen.
The other occupants of the car had crowded forward andshe was the last of them. She had stood, during an irritating wait, atthe water-tower, and now as she moved slowly forward again she heardthe hurry of feet behind her and she turned to look into the eager,wondering eyes of John Hale.

  "June!" he cried in amazement, but his face lighted with joy and heimpulsively stretched out his arms as though he meant to take her inthem, but as suddenly he dropped them before the startled look in hereyes, which, with one swift glance, searched him from head to foot. Theyshook hands almost gravely.