by John Fox
XXII
June sat in the little dummy, the focus of curious eyes, while Hale wasbusy seeing that her baggage was got aboard. The checks that she gavehim jingled in his hands like a bunch of keys, and he could hardlyhelp grinning when he saw the huge trunks and the smart bags that weretumbled from the baggage car--all marked with her initials. There hadbeen days when he had laid considerable emphasis on pieces like those,and when he thought of them overwhelming with opulent suggestions thatdebt-stricken little town, and, later, piled incongruously on the porchof the cabin on Lonesome Cove, he could have laughed aloud but for anameless something that was gnawing savagely at his heart.
He felt almost shy when he went back into the car, and thoughJune greeted him with a smile, her immaculate daintiness made himunconsciously sit quite far away from her. The little fairy-cross wasstill at her throat, but a tiny diamond gleamed from each end of it andfrom the centre, as from a tiny heart, pulsated the light of a littleblood-red ruby. To him it meant the loss of June's simplicity and wasthe symbol of her new estate, but he smiled and forced himself intohearty cheerfulness of manner and asked her questions about her trip.But June answered in halting monosyllables, and talk was not easybetween them. All the while he was watching her closely and not amovement of her eye, ear, mouth or hand--not an inflection of hervoice--escaped him. He saw her sweep the car and its occupants witha glance, and he saw the results of that glance in her face and thedown-dropping of her eyes to the dainty point of one boot. He sawher beautiful mouth close suddenly tight and her thin nostrils quiverdisdainfully when a swirl of black smoke, heavy with cinders, camein with an entering passenger through the front door of the car. Twohalf-drunken men were laughing boisterously near that door and even herears seemed trying to shut out their half-smothered rough talk. The carstarted with a bump that swayed her toward him, and when she caught theseat with one hand, it checked as suddenly, throwing her the other way,and then with a leap it sprang ahead again, giving a nagging snap to herhead. Her whole face grew red with vexation and shrinking distaste,and all the while, when the little train steadied into its creaking,puffing, jostling way, one gloved hand on the chased silver handle ofher smart little umbrella kept nervously swaying it to and fro on itssteel-shod point, until she saw that the point was in a tiny pool oftobacco juice, and then she laid it across her lap with shudderingswiftness.
At first Hale thought that she had shrunk from kissing him in the carbecause other people were around. He knew better now. At that moment hewas as rough and dirty as the chain-carrier opposite him, who was justin from a surveying expedition in the mountains, as the sooty brakemanwho came through to gather up the fares--as one of those good-natured,profane inebriates up in the corner. No, it was not publicity--she hadshrunk from him as she was shrinking now from black smoke, rough men,the shaking of the train--the little pool of tobacco juice at her feet.The truth began to glimmer through his brain. He understood, even whenshe leaned forward suddenly to look into the mouth of the gap, that wasnow dark with shadows. Through that gap lay her way and she thought himnow more a part of what was beyond than she who had been born of it was,and dazed by the thought, he wondered if he might not really be. At oncehe straightened in his seat, and his mind made up, as he always made itup--swiftly. He had not explained why he had not met her that morning,nor had he apologized for his rough garb, because he was so glad to seeher and because there were so many other things he wanted to say; andwhen he saw her, conscious and resentful, perhaps, that he had not donethese things at once--he deliberately declined to do them now. He becamesilent, but he grew more courteous, more thoughtful--watchful. She wasvery tired, poor child; there were deep shadows under her eyes whichlooked weary and almost mournful. So, when with a clanging of the enginebell they stopped at the brilliantly lit hotel, he led her at onceupstairs to the parlour, and from there sent her up to her room, whichwas ready for her.
"You must get a good sleep," he said kindly, and with his usual firmnessthat was wont to preclude argument. "You are worn to death. I'll haveyour supper sent to your room." The girl felt the subtle change in hismanner and her lip quivered for a vague reason that neither knew, but,without a word, she obeyed him like a child. He did not try again tokiss her. He merely took her hand, placed his left over it, and with agentle pressure, said:
"Good-night, little girl."
"Good-night," she faltered.
* * * * * * *
Resolutely, relentlessly, first, Hale cast up his accounts, liabilities,resources, that night, to see what, under the least favourable outcome,the balance left to him would be. Nearly all was gone. His securitieswere already sold. His lots would not bring at public sale one-half ofthe deferred payments yet to be made on them, and if the company broughtsuit, as it was threatening to do, he would be left fathoms deep indebt. The branch railroad had not come up the river toward LonesomeCove, and now he meant to build barges and float his cannel coal down tothe main line, for his sole hope was in the mine in Lonesome Cove.The means that he could command were meagre, but they would carry hispurpose with June for a year at least and then--who knew?--he might,through that mine, be on his feet again.
The little town was dark and asleep when he stepped into the coolnight-air and made his way past the old school-house and up ImbodenHill. He could see--all shining silver in the moonlight--the still crestof the big beech at the blessed roots of which his lips had met June'sin the first kiss that had passed between them. On he went through theshadowy aisle that the path made between other beech-trunks, harnessedby the moonlight with silver armour and motionless as sentinels on watchtill dawn, out past the amphitheatre of darkness from which the deadtrees tossed out their crooked arms as though voicing silently now hisown soul's torment, and then on to the point of the spur of foot-hillswhere, with the mighty mountains encircling him and the world, adreamland lighted only by stars, he stripped his soul before the Makerof it and of him and fought his fight out alone.
His was the responsibility for all--his alone. No one else was toblame--June not at all. He had taken her from her own life--had swervedher from the way to which God pointed when she was born. He had givenher everything she wanted, had allowed her to do what she pleasedand had let her think that, through his miraculous handling of herresources, she was doing it all herself. And the result was natural. Forthe past two years he had been harassed with debt, racked with worries,writhing this way and that, concerned only with the soul-tormentingcatastrophe that had overtaken him. About all else he had growncareless. He had not been to see her the last year, he had writtenseldom, and it appalled him to look back now on his own self-absorptionand to think how he must have appeared to June. And he had gone on inthat self-absorption to the very end. He had got his license to marry,had asked Uncle Billy, who was magistrate as well as miller, to marrythem, and, a rough mountaineer himself to the outward eye, he hadappeared to lead a child like a lamb to the sacrifice and had found awoman with a mind, heart and purpose of her own. It was all his work. Hehad sent her away to fit her for his station in life--to make her fit tomarry him. She had risen above and now HE WAS NOT FIT TO MARRY HER. Thatwas the brutal truth--a truth that was enough to make a wise man laughor a fool weep, and Hale did neither. He simply went on working to makeout how he could best discharge the obligations that he had voluntarily,willingly, gladly, selfishly even, assumed. In his mind he treatedconditions only as he saw and felt them and believed them at that momenttrue: and into the problem he went no deeper than to find his simpleduty, and that, while the morning stars were sinking, he found. And itwas a duty the harder to find because everything had reawakened withinhim, and the starting-point of that awakening was the proud glow inUncle Billy's kind old face, when he knew the part he was to play in thehappiness of Hale and June. All the way over the mountain that day hisheart had gathered fuel from memories at the big Pine, and down themountain and through the gap, to be set aflame by the yellow sunlight inthe valley and the throbbing life in everything that w
as alive, for themonth was June and the spirit of that month was on her way to him. Sowhen he rose now, with back-thrown head, he stretched his arms suddenlyout toward those far-seeing stars, and as suddenly dropped them with anangry shake of his head and one quick gritting of his teeth that such athought should have mastered him even for one swift second--the thoughtof how lonesome would be the trail that would be his to follow afterthat day.
