With a mystified smile but with no question, Hale silently handed his
penknife to June and when, smiling but without a word, she walked behind
the old Pine, he followed her. There he saw her reach up and dig the
point of the knife into the trunk, and when, as he wonderingly watched
her, she gave a sudden cry, Hale sprang toward her. In the hole she was
digging he saw the gleam of gold and then her trembling fingers brought
out before his astonished eyes the little fairy stone that he had given
her long ago. She had left it there for him, she said, through tears,
and through his own tears Hale pointed to the stricken oak:
“It saved the Pine,” he said.
“And you,” said June.
“And you,” repeated Hale solemnly, and while he looked long at her, her
arms dropped slowly to her sides and he said simply:
“Come!”
Leading the horses, they walked noiselessly through the deep sand around
the clump of rhododendron, and there sat the little cabin of Lonesome
Cove. The holy hush of a cathedral seemed to shut it in from the world,
so still it was below the great trees that stood like sentinels on
eternal guard. Both stopped, and June laid her head on Hale's shoulder
and they simply looked in silence.
“Dear old home,” she said, with a little sob, and Hale, still silent,
drew her to him.
“You were _never_ coming back again?”
“I was never coming back again.” She clutched his arm fiercely as though
even now something might spirit him away, and she clung to him, while he
hitched the horses and while they walked up the path.
“Why, the garden is just as I left it! The very same flowers in the very
same places!” Hale smiled.
“Why not? I had Uncle Billy do that.”
“Oh, you dear--you dear!”
Her little room was shuttered tight as it always had been when she was
away, and, as usual, the front door was simply chained on the outside.
The girl turned with a happy sigh and looked about at the nodding
flowers and the woods and the gleaming pool of the river below and up
the shimmering mountain to the big Pine topping it with sombre majesty.
“Dear old Pine,” she murmured, and almost unconsciously she unchained
the door as she had so often done before, stepped into the dark room,
pulling Hale with one hand after her, and almost unconsciously reaching
upward with the other to the right of the door. Then she cried aloud:
“My key--my key is there!”
“That was in case you should come back some day.”
“Oh, I might--I might! and think if I had come too late--think if I
hadn't come _now!_” Again her voice broke and still holding Hale's arm,
she moved to her own door. She had to use both hands there, but before
she let go, she said almost hysterically:
“It's so dark! You won't leave me, dear, if I let you go?”
For answer Hale locked his arms around her, and when the door opened, he
went in ahead of her and pushed open the shutters. The low sun flooded
the room and when Hale turned, June was looking with wild eyes from one
thing to another in the room--her rocking-chair at a window, her sewing
close by, a book on the table, her bed made up in the corner, her
washstand of curly maple--the pitcher full of water and clean towels
hanging from the rack. Hale had gotten out the things she had packed
away and the room was just as she had always kept it. She rushed to him,
weeping.
“It would have killed me,” she sobbed. “It would have killed me.”
She strained him tightly to her--her wet face against his cheek:
“Think--_think_--if I hadn't come now!” Then loosening herself she went
all about the room with a caressing touch to everything, as though it
were alive. The book was the volume of Keats he had given her--which had
been loaned to Loretta before June went away.
“Oh, I wrote for it and wrote for it,” she said.
“I found it in the post-office,” said Hale, “and I understood.”
She went over to the bed.
“Oh,” she said with a happy laugh. “You've got one slip inside out,” and
she whipped the pillow from its place, changed it, and turned down the
edge of the covers in a triangle.
“That's the way I used to leave it,” she said shyly. Hale smiled.
“I never noticed that!” She turned to the bureau and pulled open a
drawer. In there were white things with frills and blue ribbons--and she
flushed.
“Oh,” she said, “these haven't even been touched.” Again Hale smiled
but he said nothing. One glance had told him there were things in that
drawer too sacred for his big hands.
“I'm so happy--_so_ happy.”
Suddenly she looked him over from head to foot--his rough riding boots,
old riding breeches and blue flannel shirt.
“I am pretty rough,” he said. She flushed, shook her head and looked
down at her smart cloth suit of black.
“Oh, _you_ are all right--but you must go out now, just for a little
while.”
“What are you up to, little girl?”
“How I love to hear that again!”
“Aren't you afraid I'll run away?” he said at the door.
“I'm not afraid of anything else in this world any more.”
“Well, I won't.”
He heard her moving around as he sat planning on the porch.
“To-morrow,” he thought, and then an idea struck him that made him
dizzy. From within June cried:
“Here I am,” and out she ran in the last crimson gown of her young
girlhood--her sleeves rolled up and her hair braided down her back as
she used to wear it.
“You've made up my bed and I'm going to make yours--and I'm going to
cook your supper--why, what's the matter?” Hale's face was radiant with
the heaven-born idea that lighted it, and he seemed hardly to notice the
change she had made. He came over and took her in his arms:
“Ah, sweetheart, _my_ sweetheart!” A spasm of anxiety tightened her
throat, but Hale laughed from sheer delight.
“Never you mind. It's a secret,” and he stood back to look at her. She
blushed as his eyes went downward to her perfect ankles.
“It _is_ too short,” she said.
“No, no, no! Not for me! You're mine now, little girl, _mine_--do you
understand that?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her mouth trembling, Again he laughed joyously.
“Come on!” he cried, and he went into the kitchen and brought out an
axe:
“I'll cut wood for you.” She followed him out to the wood-pile and then
she turned and went into the house. Presently the sound of his axe rang
through the woods, and as he stooped to gather up the wood, he heard a
creaking sound. June was drawing water at the well, and he rushed toward
her:
“Here, you mustn't do that.”
She flashed a happy smile at him.
“You just go back and get that wood. I reckon,” she used the word
purposely, “I've done this afore.” Her strong bare arms were pulling the
leaking moss-covered old bucket swiftly up, hand under hand--so he got
the wood while she emptied the bucket into a pail, and together they
went laughing into the kitchen, and while he built the fire, June got
out the coffee-grinder and the meal to mix, and settled herself with the
grinder in her lap.
“Oh, isn't it fun?” She stopped grinding suddenly.
“What would the neighbours say?”
“We haven't any.”
“But if we had!”
“Terrible!” said Hale with mock solemnity.
“I wonder if Uncle Billy is at home,” Hale trembled at his luck. “That's
a good idea. I'll ride down for him while you're getting supper.”
“No, you won't,” said June, “I can't spare you. Is that old horn here
yet?”
Hale brought it out from behind the cupboard.
“I can get him--if he is at home.”
Hale followed her out to the porch where she put her red mouth to the
old trumpet. One long, mellow hoot rang down the river--and up the
hills. Then there were three short ones and a single long blast again.
“That's the old signal,” she said. “And he'll know I want him _bad_.”
Then she laughed.
“He may think he's dreaming, so I'll blow for him again.” And she did.
“There, now,” she said. “He'll come.”
It was well she did blow again, for the old miller was not at home and
old Hon, down at the cabin, dropped her iron when she heard the horn
and walked to the door, dazed and listening. Even when it came again
she could hardly believe her ears, and but for her rheumatism, she would
herself have started at once for Lonesome Cove. As it was, she ironed
no more, but sat in the doorway almost beside herself with anxiety and
bewilderment, looking down the road for the old miller to come home.
Back the two went into the kitchen and Hale sat at the door watching
June as she fixed the table and made the coffee and corn bread. Once
only he disappeared and that was when suddenly a hen cackled, and with a
shout of laughter he ran out to come back with a fresh egg.
“Now, my lord!” said June, her hair falling over her eyes and her face
flushed from the heat.
“No,” said Hale. “I'm going to wait on you.”
“For the last time,” she pleaded, and to please her he did sit down, and
every time she came to his side with something he bent to kiss the hand
that served him.
“You're nothing but a big, nice boy,” she said. Hale held out a lock
of his hair near the temples and with one finger silently followed the
track of wrinkles in his face.
“It's premature,” she said, “and I love every one of them.” And she
stooped to kiss him on the hair. “And those are nothing but troubles.
I'm going to smooth every one of _them_ away.”
“If they're troubles, they'll go--now,” said Hale.
All the time they talked of what they would do with Lonesome Cove.
“Even if we do go away, we'll come back once a year,” said Hale.
“Yes,” nodded June, “once a year.”
“I'll tear down those mining shacks, float them down the river and sell
them as lumber.”
“Yes.”
“And I'll stock the river with bass again.”
“Yes.”
“And I'll plant young poplars to cover the sight of every bit of uptorn
earth along the mountain there. I'll bury every bottle and tin can in
the Cove. I'll take away every sign of civilization, every sign of the
outside world.”
“And leave old Mother Nature to cover up the scars,” said June.
“So that Lonesome Cove will be just as it was.”
“Just as it was in the beginning,” echoed June.
“And shall be to the end,” said Hale.
“And there will never be anybody here but you.”
“And you,” said June.
While she cleared the table and washed the dishes Hale fed the horses
and cut more wood, and it was dusk when he came to the porch. Through
the door he saw that she had made his bed in one corner. And through
her door he saw one of the white things, that had lain untouched in her
drawer, now stretched out on her bed.
The stars were peeping through the blue spaces of a white-clouded sky
and the moon would be coming by and by. In the garden the flowers were
dim, quiet and restful. A kingfisher screamed from the river. An owl
hooted in the woods and crickets chirped about them, but every passing
sound seemed only to accentuate the stillness in which they were
engulfed. Close together they sat on the old porch and she made him tell
of everything that had happened since she left the mountains, and she
told him of her flight from the mountains and her life in the West--of
her father's death and the homesickness of the ones who still were
there.
[Illustration: She made him tell of everything, 0444]
“Bub is a cowboy and wouldn't come back for the world, but I could
never have been happy there,” she said, “even if it hadn't been for
you--here.”
“I'm just a plain civil engineer, now,” said Hale, “an engineer without
even a job and--” his face darkened.
“It's a shame, sweetheart, for you--” She put one hand over his lips and
with the other turned his face so that she could look into his eyes. In
the mood of bitterness, they did show worn, hollow and sad, and around
them the wrinkles were deep.
“Silly,” she said, tracing them gently with her finger tips, “I love
every one of them, too,” and she leaned over and kissed them.
“We're going to be happy each and every day, and all day long! We'll
live at the Gap in winter and I'll teach.”
“No, you won't.”
“Then I'll teach _you_ to be patient and how little I care for anything
else in the world while I've got you, and I'll teach you to care for
nothing else while you've got me. And you'll have me, dear, forever and
ever----”
“Amen,” said Hale.
Something rang out in the darkness, far down the river, and both sprang
to their feet. “It's Uncle Billy!” cried June, and she lifted the old
horn to her lips. With the first blare of it, a cheery halloo
answered, and a moment later they could see a gray horse coming up the
road--coming at a gallop, and they went down to the gate and waited.
“Hello, Uncle Billy” cried June. The old man answered with a
fox-hunting yell and Hale stepped behind a bush.
“Jumping Jehosophat--is that you, June? Air ye all right?”
“Yes, Uncle Billy.” The old man climbed off his horse with a groan.
“Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, but I was skeered!” He had his hands on June's
shoulders and was looking at her with a bewildered face.
“What air ye doin' here alone, baby?”
June's eyes shone: “Nothing Uncle Billy.” Hale stepped into sight.
“Oh, ho! I see! You back an' he ain't gone! Well, bless my soul, if this
ain't the beatenest--” he looked from the one to the other and his kind
old face beamed with a joy that was but little less than their own.
“You come back to stay?”
“My--where's that horn? I want it right now, Ole Hon down thar is
a-thinkin' she's gone crazy and I thought she shorely was when she said
she heard you blow that horn. An' she tol' me the minute I got here,
if hit was you--to blow three times.” And straightway three blasts rang
down the river.
“Now she's all right, if she don't die o' curiosity afore I git back
and tell her why you come. Why did you come back, baby? Gimme a drink o'
water, son. I reckon me an' that ole hoss hain't travelled sech a gait
in five year.”
June was whispering something to the old man when Hale came back, and
what it was the old man's face told plainly.
“Yes, Uncle Billy--right away,” said Hale.
“Just as soon as you can git yo' license?” Hale nodded.
“An' June says I'm goin' to do it.”
“Yes,” said Hale, “right away.”
Again June had to tell the story to Uncle Billy that she had told to
Hale and to answer his questions, and it was an hour before the old
miller rose to go. Hale called him then into June's room and showed him
a piece of paper.
“Is it good now?” he asked.
The old man put on his spectacles, looked at it and chuckled:
“Just as good as the day you got hit.”
“Well, can't you----”
“Right now! Does June know?”
“Not yet. I'm going to tell her now. June!” he called.
“Yes, dear.” Uncle Billy moved hurriedly to the door.
“You just wait till I git out o' here.” He met June in the outer room.
“Where are you going, Uncle Billy?”
“Go on, baby,” he said, hurrying by her, “I'll be back in a minute.”
She stopped in the doorway--her eyes wide again with sudden anxiety, but
Hale was smiling.
“You remember what you said at the Pine, dear?” The girl nodded and she
was smiling now, when with sweet seriousness she said again: “Your least
wish is now law to me, my lord.”
“Well, I'm going to test it now. I've laid a trap for you.” She shook
her head.
“And you've walked right into it”
“I'm glad.” She noticed now the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and
she thought it was some matter of business.
“Oh,” she said, reproachfully. “You aren't going to bother with anything
of that kind _now?_”
“Yes,” he said. “I want you to look over this.”
“Very well,” she said resignedly. He was holding the paper out to her
and she took it and held it to the light of the candle. Her face flamed
and she turned remorseful eyes upon him.
“And you've kept that, too, you had it when I----”
“When you were wiser maybe than you are now.”
“God save me from ever being such a fool again.” Tears started in her
eyes.
“You haven't forgiven me!” she cried.
“Uncle Billy says it's as good now as it was then.”
He was looking at her queerly now and his smile was gone. Slowly his
meaning came to her like the flush that spread over her face and throat.
She drew in one long quivering breath and, with parted lips and her
great shining eyes wide, she looked at him.
“Now?” she whispered.
“Now!” he said.
Her eyes dropped to the coarse gown, she lifted both hands for a moment
to her hair and unconsciously she began to roll one crimson sleeve down
her round, white arm.
“No,” said Hale, “just as you are.”
She went to him then, put her arms about his neck, and with head thrown
back she looked at him long with steady eyes.
“Yes,” she breathed out--“just as you are--and now.”
Uncle Billy was waiting for them on the porch and when they came out, he
rose to his feet and they faced him, hand in hand. The moon had risen.
The big Pine stood guard on high against the outer world. Nature was
their church and stars were their candles. And as if to give them even
a better light, the moon had sent a luminous sheen down the dark
mountainside to the very garden in which the flowers whispered like
waiting happy friends. Uncle Billy lifted his hand and a hush of
expectancy seemed to come even from the farthest star.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, by John Fox, Jr.