Clouds were gathering as Hale rode up the river after telling old Hon
and Uncle Billy good-by. He had meant not to go to the cabin in Lonesome
Cove, but when he reached the forks of the road, he stopped his horse
and sat in indecision with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle
and his eyes on the smokeless chimney. The memories tugging at his heart
drew him irresistibly on, for it was the last time. At a slow walk he
went noiselessly through the deep sand around the clump of rhododendron.
The creek was clear as crystal once more, but no geese cackled and
no dog barked. The door of the spring-house gaped wide, the barn-door
sagged on its hinges, the yard-fence swayed drunkenly, and the cabin was
still as a gravestone. But the garden was alive, and he swung from his
horse at the gate, and with his hands clasped behind his back walked
slowly through it. June's garden! The garden he had planned and planted
for June--that they had tended together and apart and that, thanks to
the old miller's care, was the one thing, save the sky above, left in
spirit unchanged. The periwinkles, pink and white, were almost gone. The
flags were at half-mast and sinking fast. The annunciation lilies were
bending their white foreheads to the near kiss of death, but the pinks
were fragrant, the poppies were poised on slender stalks like brilliant
butterflies at rest, the hollyhocks shook soundless pink bells to
the wind, roses as scarlet as June's lips bloomed everywhere and the
richness of mid-summer was at hand.
Quietly Hale walked the paths, taking a last farewell of plant and
flower, and only the sudden patter of raindrops made him lift his eyes
to the angry sky. The storm was coming now in earnest and he had hardly
time to lead his horse to the barn and dash to the porch when the very
heavens, with a crash of thunder, broke loose. Sheet after sheet swept
down the mountains like wind-driven clouds of mist thickening into water
as they came. The shingles rattled as though with the heavy slapping
of hands, the pines creaked and the sudden dusk outside made the cabin,
when he pushed the door open, as dark as night. Kindling a fire, he lit
his pipe and waited. The room was damp and musty, but the presence of
June almost smothered him. Once he turned his face. June's door was ajar
and the key was in the lock. He rose to go to it and look within and
then dropped heavily back into his chair. He was anxious to get away
now--to get to work. Several times he rose restlessly and looked out the
window. Once he went outside and crept along the wall of the cabin to
the east and the west, but there was no break of light in the murky sky
and he went back to pipe and fire. By and by the wind died and the rain
steadied into a dogged downpour. He knew what that meant--there would be
no letting up now in the storm, and for another night he was a prisoner.
So he went to his saddle-pockets and pulled out a cake of chocolate, a
can of potted ham and some crackers, munched his supper, went to bed,
and lay there with sleepless eyes, while the lights and shadows from the
wind-swayed fire flicked about him. After a while his body dozed but his
racked brain went seething on in an endless march of fantastic dreams in
which June was the central figure always, until of a sudden young Dave
leaped into the centre of the stage in the dream-tragedy forming in his
brain. They were meeting face to face at last--and the place was the big
Pine. Dave's pistol flashed and his own stuck in the holster as he tried
to draw. There was a crashing report and he sprang upright in bed--but
it was a crash of thunder that wakened him and that in that swift
instant perhaps had caused his dream. The wind had come again and was
driving the rain like soft bullets against the wall of the cabin next
which he lay. He got up, threw another stick of wood on the fire and
sat before the leaping blaze, curiously disturbed but not by the dream.
Somehow he was again in doubt--was he going to stick it out in the
mountains after all, and if he should, was not the reason, deep down
in his soul, the foolish hope that June would come back again. No,
he thought, searching himself fiercely, that was not the reason. He
honestly did not know what his duty to her was--what even was his inmost
wish, and almost with a groan he paced the floor to and fro. Meantime
the storm raged. A tree crashed on the mountainside and the lightning
that smote it winked into the cabin so like a mocking, malignant eye
that he stopped in his tracks, threw open the door and stepped outside
as though to face an enemy. The storm was majestic and his soul went
into the mighty conflict of earth and air, whose beginning and end were
in eternity. The very mountain tops were rimmed with zigzag fire, which
shot upward, splitting a sky that was as black as a nether world, and
under it the great trees swayed like willows under rolling clouds of
gray rain. One fiery streak lit up for an instant the big Pine and
seemed to dart straight down upon its proud, tossing crest. For a moment
the beat of the watcher's heart and the flight of his soul stopped
still. A thunderous crash came slowly to his waiting ears, another flash
came, and Hale stumbled, with a sob, back into the cabin. God's finger
was pointing the way now--the big Pine was no more.