IX

THE summons was from his father, and was emphatic; and

Clayton did not delay. The girl accepted his departure with a pale

face, but with a quiet submission that touched him. Of Raines he

had seen nothing and heard nothing since the night he had left the

cabin in anger; but as he came down the mountain after bidding

Easter good-by, he was startled by the mountaineer stepping from

the bushes into the path.

Ye air a-goin' home, I hear," he said, quietly.

"Yes," answered Clayton; " at midnight."

Well, I'll walk down with ye a piece, ef ye don't mind. Hit's not

out o' my way."

As he spoke his face was turned suddenly to the moonlight. The

lines in it had sunk deeper, giving it almost an aged look; the eyes

were hollow as from physical suffering or from fasting. He

preceded Clayton down the path, with head bent, and saying

nothing till they reached the spur of the mountain. Then in the

same voice:

"I want to talk to ye awhile, 'n' I'd like to hev ye step inter my

house. I don't mean ye no harm," he added, quickly, " 'n' hit ain't

fer."

Certainly," said Clayton.

The mountaineer turned into the woods by a narrow path, and soon

the outlines of a miserable little hut were visible through the dark

woods. Raines thrust the door open. The single room was dark

except for a few dull coals in a gloomy cavern which formed the

fireplace.

Sit down, ef ye kin find a cheer," said Raines, " 'n' I'll fix up the

fire."

Do you live here alone?" asked Clayton. He could hear the keen,

smooth sound of the mountaineer's knife going through wood.

"Yes," he answered; " fer five year."

The coals brightened; tiny flames shot from them; in a moment the

blaze caught the dry fagots, and shadows danced over the floor,

wall, and ceiling, and vanished as the mountaineer rose from his

knees. The room was as bare as the cell of a monk. A rough bed

stood in one corner; a few utensils hung near the fireplace,

wherein were remnants of potatoes roasting in the ashes, and close

to the wooden shutter which served as a window was a board table.

On it lay a large book-a Bible-a pen, a bottle of ink, and a piece of

paper on which were letters traced with great care and difficulty.

The mountaineer did not sit down, but began pacing the floor

behind Clayton. Clayton moved his chair, and Raines seemed

unconscious of his presence as with eyes on the floor he traversed

the narrow width of the cabin.

Y'u hevn't seed me up on the mount 'in lately, hev ye? " he asked.

"I reckon ye haven't missed me much. Do ye know whut I've been

doin'?" he said, with sudden vehemence, stopping still and resting

his eyes, which glowed like an animal's from the darkened end of

the cabin, on Clayton.

"I've been tryin' to keep from killin' ye. Oh, don't move-don't fear

now; ye air as safe as ef ye were down in the camp. I seed ye that

night on the mount'in," he continued, pacing rapidly back and

forth. "I was waitin' fer ye. I meant to tell ye jest whut I'm goin' to

tell ye ter-night; 'n' when Easter come a-tearin' through the bushes,

'n' I seed ye-ye-a-standin' together "-the words seemed to stop in

his throat-" I knowed I was too late.

"I sot thar fer a minute like a rock, 'n' when ye two went back up

the mount'in, before I knowed it I was hyer in the house thar at the

fire mouldin' a bullet to kill ye with as ye come back. All at oncet

I heerd a voice plain as my own is at this minute:

"'Air you a-thinkin' 'bout takin' the life of a fellow-creatur, Sherd

Raines-you that air tryin' to be a servant o' the Lord?'"

"But I kept on a-mouldin', 'n' suddenly I seed ye a-layin' in the road

dead, 'n' the heavens opened 'n' the face o' the Lord was thar, 'n' he

raised his hand to smite me with the brand o' Cain-'n' look thar!"

Clayton had sat spellbound by the terrible earnestness of the man,

and as the mountaineer swept his dark hair back with one hand, he

rose in sudden horror. Across the mountaineer's forehead ran a

crimson scar yet unhealed. Could he have inflicted upon himself

this fearful penance?

Oh, it was only the moulds. I seed it all so plain that I throwed up

my hands, fergittin' the moulds, 'n' the hot lead struck me thar;

but," he continued, solemnly, "I knowed the Lord hed tuk that way

o' punishin' me fer the sin o havin' murder in my mind, 'n' I fell on

my knees right thar a-prayin' fer fergiveness: 'n' since that night I

hev stayed away from ye till the Lord give me power to stand ag'in

the temptation o' harmin' ye. He hev showed me another way, 'n'

now I hev come to ye as he hev tol' me. I hevn't tol' ye this fer

nothin'. Y'u in see now whut I think o' Easter, ef I was tempted to

take the life o' the man who tuk her from me, 'n' I reckon ye will

say I've got the right to ax ye whut I'm a-goin' to. I hev knowed the

gal sence she was a baby. We was children together, and thar

hain't no use hidin' that I never keered a straw fer anuther woman.

She used to be mighty wilful 'n' contrary, but as soon as you come I

seed at oncet that a change was comm' over her. I mistrusted ye,

'n' I warned her ag'in' ye. But when I l'arned that ye was a-teachin'

her, and a-doin' whut I had tried my best to do 'n' failed, I let things

run along, thinkin' that mebbe ever'thing would come out right,

after all. Mebbe hit air all right, but I come to ye now, 'n' I ax ye in

the name of the livin' God, who is a-watchin' you a-guidin' me, air

ye goin' to leave the po' gal to die sorrowin' fer ye, or do ye aim to

come back 'n' marry her?

Raines had stopped now in the centre of the cabin, and the

shadows flickering slowly over him gave an unearthly aspect to his

tall, gaunt figure, as he stood with uplifted arm, pale face, glowing

eyes, and disordered hair.

"The gal hasn't got no protecter-her dad, as you know, is a-hidin'

from jestice in the mount'ins-and I'm a-standin' in his place, 'n' I ax

ye to do only whut you know ye ought."

There was nothing threatening in the mountaineer 's attitude, nor

dictatorial; and Clayton felt his right to say what he had, in spite of

a natural impulse to resent such interference. Besides, there sprang

up in his heart a sudden great admiration for this rough, uncouth

fellow who was capable of such unselfishness; who, true to the

trust of her father and his God, was putting aside the strongest

passion of his life for what he believed was the happiness of the

woman who had inspired it. He saw, too, that the sacrifice was

made with perfect unconsciousness that it was unusual or

admirable. He rose to his feet, and the two men faced each other.

"If you had told me this long ago," said Clayton, "I should have

gone away, but you seemed distrustful and suspicious. I did not

expect the present state of affairs to come about, but since it has, I

tell you frankly that I have never thought of doing anything else

than what you have asked."

And he told the truth, for he had already asked himself that

question. Why should he not marry her? He must in all

probability stay in the mountains for years, and after that time he

would not be ashamed to take her home, so strong was his belief in

her quickness and adaptibility.

Raines seemed scarcely to believe what he heard. He had not

expected such ready acquiescence. He had almost begun to fear

from Clayton's silence that he was going to refuse, and then-God

knows what he would have done.

Instantly he stretched out his hand.

"I hev done ye great wrong, 'n' I ax yer par-din," he said, huskily.

"I want to say that I bear ye no gredge, 'n' thet I wish ye well. I

hope ye won't think hard on me," he continued; "I he had a hard

fight with the devil as long as I can ricolect. I hev turned back

time 'n' ag'in, but thar hain't nothin' ter keep me from goin' straight

ahead now."

As Clayton left the cabin, the mountaineer stopped him for a

moment on the threshold.

"Thar's another thing I reckon I ought to tell ye," he said; " Easter's

dad air powerfully sot ag'in ye. He thought ye was an officer at

fust, 'n' hit was hard to git him out o' the idee thet ye was spyin' fer

him; 'n' when he seed ye goin' to the house, he got it inter his head

that ye mought be meanin' harm to Easter, who air the only thing

alive thet he keers fer much. He promised not to tech ye, 'n' I

knowed he would keep his word as long as he was sober. It'll be

all right now, I reckon," he concluded, "when I tell him whut ye

aims to do, though he hev got a spite ag'in all furriners. Far'well! I

wish ye well; I wish ye well."

An hour later Clayton was in Jellico. It was midnight when the

train came in, and he went immediately to his berth. Striking the curtain accidentally, he loosed it from its fastenings, and, doubling the pillows, he lay looking out on the swiftly passing landscape. The moon was full and brilliant, and there was a strange, keen pleasure in being whirled in such comfort through the night. The mists almost hid the mountains. They seemed very, very far away. A red star trembled in the crest of Wolf Mountain. Easter's cabin must be almost under that Star. He wondered if she were asleep. Perhaps she was out on the porch, lonely, suffering, and thinking of him. He felt her kiss and her tears upon his hand. Did he not love her? Could there be any doubt about that? His thoughts turned toRaines, and he saw the mountaineer in his lonely cabin, sitting with his head bowed in his hands in front of the dying fire. He closed his eyes, and another picture rose before him-a scene at

home. He had taken Easter to New York. How brilliant the light!

what warmth and luxury! There stood his father, there his mother.

What gracious dignity they had! Here was his sister-what beauty

and elegance and grace of manner! But Easter! Wherever she was

placed the other figures needed readjustment. There was

something irritably incongruous-Ah! now he had it-his mind grew

hazy-he was asleep.

X

DURING the weeks that followed, some malignant spirit seemed

to be torturing him with a slow realization of all he had lost;

taunting him with the possibility of regaining it and the certainty of

losing it forever.

As he stepped from the dock at Jersey City the fresh sea wind had

thrilled him like a memory, and his pulses leaped instantly into

sympathy with the tense life that vibrated in the air. He seemed

never to have been away so long, and never had home seemed so

pleasant. His sister had grown more beautiful; his mother's quiet,

noble face was smoother and fairer than it had been for years; and

despite the absence of his father, who had been hastily summoned

to England, there was an air of cheerfulness in the house that was

in marked contrast to its gloom when Clayton was last at home.

He had been quickened at once into a new appreciation of the

luxury and refinement about him, and he soon began to wonder

how he had inured himself to the discomforts and crudities of his

mountain life. Old habits easily resumed sway over him. At the club friend and acquaintance were so unfeignedly glad to see him that he began to suspect that his own inner gloom had darkened their faces after his father's misfortune. Day after day found him in his favorite corner at the club, watching the passing pageant and listening eagerly to the conversational froth of the town-the gossip of club, theatre, and society. His ascetic life in the mountains gave to every pleasure the taste of inexperience. His early youth seemed renewed, so keen and fresh were his emotions. He felt, too, that he was recovering a lost identity, and still the new one that had grown around him would not loosen its hold. He had told his family nothing of Easter-why, he could scarcely have said-and the difficulty of telling increased each day. His secret began to weigh heavily upon him; and though he determined to unburden himself on his father's return, he was troubled with a vague sense of deception. When he went to receptions with his sister, this sense of a double identity was keenly felt amid the lights, the music, the flowers, the flash of eyes and white necks and arms, the low voices, the polite, clear-cut utterances of welcome and

compliment.

Several times he had met a face for which he had once had a

boyish infatuation. Its image had never been supplanted during his

student career, but he had turned from it as from a star when he came home and found that his life was to be built with his own hands. Now the girl had grown to gracious womanhood, and when he saw her he was thrilled with the remembrance that she had once

favored him above all others. One night a desire assailed him to

learn upon what footing he then stood. He had yielded, and she

gave him a kindly welcome. They had drifted to reminiscence,

and Clayton went home that night troubled at heart and angry that

he should be so easily disturbed; surprised that the days were

passing so swiftly, and pained that they were filled less and less

with thoughts of Easter. With a pang of remorse and fear, he

determined to go back to the mountains as soon as his father came

home. He knew the effect of habit. He would forget these

pleasures felt so keenly now, as he had once forgotten them, and

he would leave before their hold upon him was secure.

Knowing the danger that beset him, Puritan that he was, he had

avoided it all he could. He even stopped his daily visits to the

club, and spent most of his time at home with his mother and

sister. Once only, to his bitter regret, was he induced to go out.

Wagner's tidal wave had reached New York; it was the opening

night of the season, and the opera was one that he had learned to love in Germany. The very brilliancy of the scene threw him into gloom, so aloof did he feel from it all-the great theatre aflame with lights, the circling tiers of faces, the pit with its hundred musicians, their eyes on the leader, who stood above them

with baton upraised and German face already aglow.

In his student days he had loved music, but he had little more than

trifled with it; now, strangely enough, his love, even his

understanding, seemed to have grown; and when the violins

thrilled all the vast space into life, he was shaken with a passion

newly born. All the evening he sat riveted. A rush of memories

came upon him-memories of his student life, with its dreams and

ideals of culture and scholarship, which rose from his past again

like phantoms. In the elevation of the moment the trivial pleasures

that had been tempting him became mean and unworthy. With a

pang of bitter regret he saw himself as he might have been, as he

yet might be.

A few days later his father came home, and his distress of mind

was complete. Clayton need stay in the mountains but little

longer, he said; he was fast making up his losses, and he had hoped

after his trip to England to have Clayton at once in New York; but

now he had best wait perhaps another year. Then had come a struggle that racked heart and brain. All he had ever had was before him again. Could it be his duty to shut himself from this life-his natural heritage-to stifle the highest demands of his nature? Was he seriously in love with that mountain girl? Had he indeed ever been sure of himself? If, then, he did not love her beyond all question, would he not wrong himself, wrong her, by marrying her? Ah, but might he not wrong her, wrong himself -even more? He was bound to her by every tie that his sensitive honor recognized among the duties of one human being to another.

He had sought her; he had lifted her above her own life. If one

human being had ever put its happiness in the hands of another,

that had been done. If he had not deliberately taught her to love

him, he had not tried to prevent it. He could not excuse himself;

the thought of gaining her affection had occurred to him, and he

had put it aside. There was no excuse; for when she gave her love,

he had accepted it, and, as far as she knew, had given his own

unreservedly. Ah, that fatal moment of weakness, that night on the

mountam-side! Could he tell her, could he tell Raines, the truth,

and ask to be released? What could Easter with her devotion, and

Raines with his singleness of heart, know of this substitute for love

which civilization had taught him? Or, granting that they could understand, he might return home; but Easter-what was left for her?

It was useless to try to persuade himself that her love would fade

away, perhaps quickly, and leave no scar; that Raines would in

time win her for himself, his first idea of their union be realized,

and, in the end, all happen for the best. That might easily be

possible with a different nature under different conditions-a nature

less passionate, in contact with the world and responsive to varied

interests; but not with Easter -alone with a love that had shamed

him, with mountain, earth, and sky unchanged, and the vacant days

marked only by a dreary round of wearisome tasks. He remembered Raines s last words-" Air ye goin' to leave the po' gal

to die sorrowin' fer ye ? " What happiness would be possible for

him with that lonely mountain-top and the white, drawn face

forever haunting him?

That very night a letter came, with a rude superscription-the first

from Easter. Within it was a poor tintype, from which Easter's

eyes looked shyly at him. Before he left he had tried in vain to get

her to the tent of an itinerant photographer. During his absence,

she had evidently gone of her own accord. The face was very

beautiful, and in it was an expression of questioning, modest pride. "Aren't you surprised? "it seemed to say-" and pleased? Only the face, with its delicate lines, and the throat and the shoulders were visible. She looked almost refined. And the note-it was badly spelled and written with great difficulty, but it touched him. She was lonely, she said, and she wanted him to come back. Lonely- that cry was in each line.

His response to this was an instant resolution to go back at once,

and, sensitive and pliant as his nature was, there was no hesitation

for him when his duty was clear and a decision once made. With

great care and perfect frankness he had traced the history of his

infatuation in a letter to his father, to be communicated when the

latter chose to his mother and sister. Now he was nearing the

mountains again.