ON the following Sunday morning, when Clayton walked up to the
cabin, Easter and her mother were seated in the porch. He called to
them cheerily as he climbed over the fence, but only the mother
answered. Easter rose as he approached, and, without speaking,
went within doors. He thought she must be ill, so thin and drawn
was her face, but her mother said, carelessly:
Oh, hit's only one o' Easter's spells. She's been sort o' puny 'n'
triflin' o' late, but I reckon she'll be all right ag'in in a day or two."
As the girl did not appear again, Clayton concluded that she was
lying down, and went away without seeing her. Her manner had
seemed a little odd, but, attributing that to ill-ness, he thought
nothing further about it. To his surprise, the incident was repeated,
and thereafter, to his wonder, the girl seemed to avoid him. Their
intimacy was broken sharply off. When Clayton was at the cabin,
either she did not appear or else kept herself busied with
household duties. Their studies ceased abruptly. Easter had
thrown her books into a corner, her mother said, and did nothing
but mope all day; and though she insisted that it was only one of
the girl's " spells," it was plain that something was wrong. Easter's
face remained thin and drawn, and acquired gradually a hard,
dogged, almost sullen look. She spoke to Clayton rarely, and then
only in monosyllables. She never looked him in the face, and if his
gaze rested intently on her, as she sat with eyes downcast and
hands folded, she seemed to know it at once. Her face would color
faintly, her hands fold and unfold nervously, and sometimes she
would rise and go within. He had no opportunity of speaking with
her alone. She seemed to guard against that, and, indeed, Raines's
presence almost prevented it, for the mountaineer was there
always, and always now the last to leave. He sat usually in the
shadow of the vine, and though his-face was unseen, Clayton could
feel his eyes fixed upon him with an intensity that sometimes
made him nervous. The mountaineer had evidently begun to
misinterpret his visits to the cabin. Clayton was regarded as a rival.
In what other light, indeed, could he appear to Raines? Friendly
calls between young people of opposite sex were rare in the
mountains. When a young man visited a young woman, his
intentions were supposed to be serious. Raines was plainly
jealous.
But Easter? What was 'the reason for her odd behavior? Could
she, too, have misconstrued his intentions as Raines had? It was
impossible. But even if she had, his manner had in no wise
changed. Some one else had aroused her suspicions, and if any
one it must have been Raines. It was not the mother, he felt sure.
For some time Clayton's mother and sister had been urging him to
make a visit home. He had asked leave of absence, but it was a
busy time, and he had delayed indefinitely. In a fort-night,
however, the stress of work would be over, and then he meant to
leave. During that fortnight he was strangely troubled. He did not
leave the camp, but his mind was busied with thoughts of
Easter-nothing but Easter. Time and again he had reviewed their
acquaintance minutely from the beginning, but he could find no
cause for the change in her. When his work was done, he found
himself climbing the mountain once more. He meant to solve the
mystery if possible. He would tell Easter that he was going home.
Surely she would betray some feeling then.
At the old fence which he had climbed so often he stopped, as was
his custom, to rest a moment, with his eyes on the wild beauty
before him-the great valley, with mists floating from its gloomy
depths into the tremulous moonlight; far through the radiant space
the still, dark masses of the Cumberland lifted in majesty against
the east; and in the shadow of the great cliff the vague outlines of
the old cabin, as still as the awful silence around it. A light was
visible, but he could hear no voices. Still, he knew he would find
the occupants seated in the porch, held by that strange quiet which
nature imposes on those who dwell much alone with her. He had
not been to the cabin for several weeks, and when he spoke Easter
did not return his greeting; Raines nodded almost surlily, but from
the mother came, as always, a cordial welcome.
"I'm mighty glad to see ye," she said; "you haven't been up fer a
long time."
No," answered Clayton; "I have been very busy-getting ready to go
home." He had watched Easter closely as he spoke, but the girl did
not lift her face, and she betrayed no emotion, not even surprise;
nor did Raines. Only the mother showed genuine regret. The girl's
apathy filled him with bitter disappointment. She had relapsed into
barbarism again. He was a fool to think that in a few months he
could counteract influences that had been moulding her character
for a century. His purpose had been unselfish. Curiosity, the girl's
beauty, his increasing power over her, had stimulated him, to be
sure, but he had been conscientious and earnest. Somehow he was
more than disappointed; he was hurt deeply, not only that he
should have been so misunderstood, but for the lack of gratitude in
the girl. He was bewildered. What could have happened? Could
Raines really have poisoned her mind against him? Would Easter
so easily believe what might have been said against him and not
allow him a hearing?
"I've been expecting to take a trip home for several weeks," he
found himself saying a moment later; "I think I shall go
to-morrow."
He hardly meant what he said; a momentary pique had forced the
words from him, but, once spoken, he determined to abide by
them. Easter was stirred from her lethargy at last, but Clayton's
attention was drawn to Raines 's start of surprise, and he did not
see the girl's face agitated for an instant, nor her hands nervously
trembling in her lap.
"Ter-morrer! " cried the old woman. "Why, ye 'most take my
breath away. I declar', I'm downright sorry you're goin', I hev tuk
sech a shine to ye. I kind o' think I'll miss ye more'n Easter."
Raines's eyes turned to the girl, as did Clay-ton's. Not a suggestion
of color disturbed the pallor of the girl's face, once more
composed, and she said nothing.
You're so jolly 'n' lively," continued the mother, 'n' ye allus hev so
much to say. You air not like Easter 'n' Sherd hyar, who talk 'bout
as much as two stumps. I suppose I'll hev to sit up 'n' talk to the
moon when you air gone."
The mountaineer rose abruptly, and, though he spoke quietly, he
could hardly control himself.
"Ez my company seems to be unwelcome to ye," he said, "I kin
take it away from ye, 'n' I will."
Before the old woman could recover herself, he was gone.
Well," she ejaculated, " whut kin be the matter with She rd? He
hev got mighty cur'us hyar of late, 'n' so hev Easter. All o' ye been
a-settin' up hyar ez ef you was at a buryin'. I'm a-goin' to bed. You
'n' Easter kin set up long as ye please. I suppose you air comm'
back ag'in to see us," she said, turning to Clayton.
"I don't know," he answered. "I may not; but I sha'n't forget you."
"Well, I wish ye good luck." Clayton shook hands with her, and
she went within doors.
The girl had risen, too, with her mother, and was standing in the
shadow.
"Good-by Easter," said Clayton, holding out his hand.
As she turned he caught one glimpse of her face in the moonlight,
and its whiteness startled him. Her hand was cold when he took it,
and her voice was scarcely audible as she faintly repeated his
words. She lifted her face as their hands were unclasped, and her
lips quivered mutely as if trying to speak, but he had turned to go.
For a moment she watched his darkening figure, and then with
stifled breath almost staggered into the cabin.
The road wound around the cliff and back again, and as Clayton
picked his way along it he was oppressed by a strange uneasiness.
Easter's face, as he last saw it, lay in his mind like a keen reproach.
Could he have been mistaken? Had he been too hasty? He recalled
the events of the evening. He began to see that it was significant
that Raines had shown no surprise when he spoke of going home,
and yet had seemed almost startled by the suddenness of his
departure. Perhaps the mountaineer knew he was going. It was
known at the camp. If he knew, then Easter must have known.
Perhaps she had felt hurt because he had not spoken to her earlier.
What might Raines not have told her, and honestly, too? Perhaps
he was unconsciously confirming all the mountaineer might have
said. He ought to have spoken to her. Perhaps she could not speak
to him. He wheeled suddenly in the path to return to the cabin,
and stopped still.
Something was hurrying down through the undergrowth of the
cliffside which towered darkly behind him. Nearer and nearer the
bushes crackled as though some hunted animal were flying for life
through them, and then through the laurel-hedge burst the figure of
a woman, who sank to the ground in the path be-fore him. The
flash of yellow hair and a white face in the moonlight told him
who it was.
"Easter, Easter! " he exclaimed, in sickening fear. "My God! is
that you? Why, what is the matter, child? What are you doing
here?"
He stooped above the sobbing girl, and pulled away her hands
from her face, tear-stained and broken with pain. The limit of her
self-repression was reached at last; the tense nerves, strained too
much, had broken; and the passion, so long checked, surged
through her like fire. Ah, God! what had he done? He saw the
truth at last. In an impulse of tenderness he lifted the girl to her
feet and held her, sobbing uncontrollably, in his arms, with her
head against his breast, and his cheek on her hair, soothing her as
though she had been a child.
Presently she felt a kiss on her forehead. She looked up with a
sudden fierce joy in her eyes, and their lips met.