XVI

The boy was curled up on the rear seat of the smoking-car. His face was

upturned to the glare of light above him, the train bumped, jerked, and

swayed; smoke and dust rolled in at the open window and cinders stung

his face, but he slept as peacefully as though he were in one of the

huge feather-beds at his grandfather's house--slept until the conductor

shook him by the shoulder, when he opened his eyes, grunted, and closed

them again. The train stopped, a brakeman yanked him roughly to his

feet, put a cheap suit-case into his hand, and pushed him, still dazed,

into the chill morning air. The train rumbled on and left him blinking

into a lantern held up to his face, but he did not look promising as a

hotel guest and the darky porter turned abruptly; and the boy yawned

long and deeply, with his arms stretched above his head, dropped on the

frosty bars of a baggage-truck and rose again shivering. Cocks were

crowing, light was showing in the east, the sea of mist that he well

knew was about him, but no mountains loomed above it, and St. Hilda's

prize pupil, Jason Hawn, woke sharply at last with a tingling that went

from head to foot. Once more he was in the land of the Blue-grass, his

journey was almost over, and in a few hours he would put his confident

feet on a new level and march on upward. Gradually, as the lad paced

the platform, the mist thinned and the outlines of things came out. A

mysterious dark bulk high in the air showed as a water-tank, roofs new

to mountain eyes jutted upward, trees softly emerged, a desolate dusty

street opened before him, and the cocks crowed on lustily all around

him and from farm-houses far away. The crowing made him hungry, and he

went to the light of a little eating-house and asked the price of the

things he saw on the counter there, but the price was too high. He

shook his head and went out, but his pangs were so keen that he went

back for a cup of coffee and a hard-boiled egg, and then he heard the

coming thunder of his train. The sun was rising as he sped on through

the breaking mist toward the Blue-grass town that in pioneer days was

known as the Athens of the West. In a few minutes the train slackened

in mid-air and on a cloud of mist between jutting cliffs, it seemed,

and the startled lad, looking far down through it, saw a winding yellow

light, and he was rushing through autumn fields again before he

realized that the yellow light was the Kentucky River surging down from

the hills. Back up the stream surged his memories, making him faint

with homesickness, for it was the last link that bound him to the

mountains. But both home and hills were behind him now, and he shook

himself sharply and lost him-self again in the fields of grass and

grain, the grazing stock and the fences, houses, and barns that reeled

past his window. Steve Hawn met him at the station with a rattle-trap

buggy and, stared at him long and hard.

"I'd hardly knowed ye--you've growed like a weed."

"How's the folks?" asked Jason.

"Stirrin'."

Silently they rattled down the street, each side of which was lined

with big wagons loaded with tobacco and covered with cotton

cloth--there seemed to be hundreds of them.

"Hell's a-comin' about that terbaccer up here," said Steve.

"Hell's a-comin' in the mountains if that robber up here at the capital

steals the next election for governor," said Jason, and Steve looked up

quickly and with some uneasiness. He himself had heard vaguely that

somebody, somewhere, and in some way, had robbed his own party of their

rights and would go on robbing at the polls, but this new Jason seemed

to know all about it, so Steve nodded wisely.

"Yes, my feller."

Through town they drove, and when they started out into the country

they met more wagons of tobacco coming in.

"How's the folks in the mountains?"

"About the same as usual," said the boy, "Grandpap's poorly. The war's

over just now--folks 'r' busy makin' money. Uncle Arch's still takin'

up options. The railroad's comin' up the river"--the lad's face

darkened--"an' land's sellin' fer three times as much as you sold me

out fer."

Steve's face darkened too, but he was silent.

"Found out yit who killed yo' daddy?"

Jason's answer was short.

"If I had I wouldn't tell you."

"Must be purty good shot now?"

"I hain't shot a pistol off fer four year," said the lad again shortly,

and Steve stared.

"Whut devilmint are you in up here now?" asked Jason calmly and with no

apparent notice of the start Steve gave.

"Who's been a-tellin' you lies about me?" asked Steve with angry

suspicion.

"I hain't heerd a word," said Jason coolly. "I bet you burned that

toll-gate the morning I left here. Thar's devilmint goin' on everywhar,

an' if there's any around you I know you can't keep out o' it."

Steve laughed with relief.

"You can't git away with devilmint here like you can in the mountains,

an' I'm 'tendin' to my own business."

Jason made no comment and Steve went on:

"I've paid fer this hoss an' buggy an' I got things hung up at home an'

a leetle money in the bank, an' yo' ma says she wouldn't go back to the

mountains fer nothin'."

"How's Mavis?" asked Jason abruptly.

"Reckon you wouldn't know her. She's al'ays runnin' aroun' with that

Pendleton boy an' gal, an' she's chuck-full o' new-fangled notions.

She's the purtiest gal I ever seed, an'," he added slyly, "looks like

that Pendleton boy's plumb crazy 'bout her."

Jason made no answer and showed no sign of interest, much less

jealousy, and yet, though he was thinking of the Pendleton girl and

wanted to ask some question about her, a little inconsistent rankling

started deep within him at the news of Mavis's disloyalty to him. They

were approaching the lane that led to Steve's house now, and beyond the

big twin houses were visible.

"Yo' Uncle Arch's been here a good deal, an' he's tuk a powerful fancy

to Mavis an' he's goin' to send her to the same college school in town

whar you're goin'. Marjorie and Gray is a-goin' thar too, I reckon."

Jason's heart beat fast at these words. Gray had the start of him, but

he would give the Blue-grass boy a race now in school and without. As

they turned into the lane, he could see the woods--could almost see the

tree around which he had circled drunk, raging, and shooting his

pistol, and his face burned with the memory. And over in the hollow he

had met Marjorie on her pony, and he could see the tears in her eyes,

hear her voice, and feel the clasp of her hand again. Though neither

knew it, a new life had started for him there and then. He had kept his

promise, and he wondered if she would remember and be glad.

His mother was on the porch, waiting and watching for him, with one

hand shading her eyes. She rushed for the gate, and when he stepped

slowly from the buggy she gave a look of wondering surprise and pride,

burst into tears, and for the first time in her life threw her arms

around him and kissed him, to his great confusion and shame. In the

doorway stood a tall, slender girl with a mass of black hair, and she,

too, with shining eyes rushed toward him, stopping defiantly short

within a few feet of him when she met his cool, clear gaze, and,

without even speaking his name, held out her hand. Then with intuitive

suspicion she flashed a look at Steve and knew that his tongue had been

wagging. She flushed angrily, but with feminine swiftness caught her

lost poise and, lifting her head, smiled.

"I wouldn't 'a' known ye," she said.

"An' I wouldn't 'a' known you," said Jason.

The girl said no more, and the father looked at his daughter and the

mother at her son, puzzled by the domestic tragedy so common in this

land of ours, where the gates of opportunity swing wide for the passing

on of the young. But of the two, Steve Hawn was the more puzzled and

uneasy, for Jason, like himself, was a product of the hills and had had

less chance than even he to know the outside world.

The older mountaineer wore store clothes, but so did Jason. He had gone

to meet the boy, self-assured and with the purpose of patronage and

counsel, and he had met more assurance than his own and a calm air of

superiority that was troubling to Steve's pride. The mother, always

apologetic on account of the one great act of injustice she had done

her son, felt awe as she looked, and as her pride grew she became

abject, and the boy accepted the attitude of each as his just due. But

on Mavis the wave of his influence broke as on a rock. She was as much

changed from the Mavis he had last seen as she was at that time from

the little Mavis of the hills, and he felt her eyes searching him from

head to foot just as she had done that long-ago time when he saw her

first in the hunting-field. He knew that now she was comparing him with

even higher standards than she was then, and that now, as then, he was

falling short, and he looked up suddenly and caught her eyes with a

grim, confident little smile that made her shift her gaze confusedly.

She moved nervously in her chair and her cheeks began to burn. And

Steve talked on--volubly for him--while the mother threw in a timid

homesick question to Jason now and then about something in the

mountains, and Mavis kept still and looked at the boy no more. By and

by the two women went to their work, and Jason followed Steve about the

little place to look at the cow and a few pigs and at the garden and up

over the hill to the tobacco-patch that Steve was tending on shares

with Colonel Pendleton. After dinner Mavis disappeared, and the

stepmother reckoned she had gone over to see Marjorie Pendleton--"she

was al'ays a-goin' over thar"--and in the middle of the afternoon the

boy wandered aimlessly forth into the Blue-grass fields.

Spring green the fields were, and the woods, but scarcely touched by

the blight of autumn, were gray as usual from the limestone turnpike,

which, when he crossed it, was ankle-deep in dust. A cloud of yellow

butterflies fluttered crazily before him in a sunlight that was hardly

less golden, and when he climbed the fence a rabbit leaped beneath him

and darted into a patch of ironweeds. Instinctively he leaped after it,

crashing, through the purple crowns, and as suddenly stopped at the

foolishness of pursuit, when he had left his pistol in his suit-case,

and with another sharp memory of the rabbit hunt he had encountered

when he made his first appearance in that land. Half unconsciously then

his thoughts turned him through the woods and through a pasture toward

the twin homes of the Pendletons, and on the top of the next hill he

could see them on their wooded eminences--could even see the stile

where he had had his last vision of Marjorie, and he dropped in the

thick grass, looking long and hard and wondering.

Around the corner of the yard fence a negro appeared leading a prancing

iron-gray horse, the front doors opened, a tall girl in a black

riding-habit came swiftly down the walk, and a moment later the

iron-gray was bearing her at a swift gallop toward the turnpike gate.

As she disappeared over a green summit, his heart stood quite still.

Could that tall woman be the little girl who, with a tear, a tremor of

the voice, and a touch of the hand, had swerved him from the beaten

path of a century? Mavis had grown, he himself had grown--and, of

course, Marjorie, too, had grown. He began to wonder whether she would

recollect him, would know him when he met her face to face, would

remember the promise she had asked and he had given, and if she would

be pleased to know that he had kept it. In the passing years the boy

had actually lost sight of her as flesh and blood, for she had become

enshrined among his dreams by night and his dreams by day; among the

visions his soul had seen when he had sat under the old circuit rider

and heard pictured the glories of the blessed when mortals should

mingle with the shining hosts on high: and above even St. Hilda, on the

very pinnacle of his new-born and ever-growing ambitions, Marjorie sat

enthroned and alone. Light was all he remembered of her--the light of

her eyes and of her hair--yes, and that one touch of her hand. His

heart turned to water at the thought of seeing her again and his legs

were trembling when he rose to start back through the fields. Another

rabbit sprang from its bed in a tuft of grass, but he scarcely paid any

heed to it. When he crossed the creek a muskrat was leisurely swimming

for its hole in the other bank, and he did not even pick up a stone to

throw at it, but walked on dreaming through the woods. As he was about

to emerge from them he heard voices ahead of him, high-pitched and

angry, and with the caution of his race he slipped forward and stopped,

listening. In a tobacco-patch on the edge of the woods Steve Hawn had

stopped work and was leaning on the fence. Seated on it was one of the

small farmers of the neighborhood. They were not quarrelling, and the

boy could hardly believe his ears.

"I tell you that fellow--they're callin' him the autocrat already--that

fellow will have two of his judges to your one at every election booth

in the State. He'll steal every precinct and he'll be settin' in the

governor's chair as sure as you are standing here. I'm a Democrat, but

I've been half a Republican ever since this free-silver foolishness

came up, and I'm going to vote against him. Now, all you mountain

people are Republicans, but you might as well all be Democrats. You

haven't got a chance oh earth. What are you goin' to do about it?"

Steve Hawn shook his head helplessly, but Jason saw his huge hand grip

his tobacco knife and his own blood beat indignantly at his temples.

The farmer threw one leg back over the fence.

"There'll be hell to pay when the day comes," he said, and he strode

away, while the mountaineer leaned motionless on the fence with his

grip on the knife unrelaxed.

Noiselessly the boy made his way through the edge of the woods, out

under the brow of a hill, and went on his restless way up the bank of

the creek toward Steve's home. When he turned toward the turnpike he

found that he had passed the house a quarter of a mile, so he wheeled

back down the creek, and where the mouth of the lane opened from the

road he dropped in a spot of sunlight on the crest of a little cliff,

his legs weary but his brain still tirelessly at work. These people of

the Blue-grass were not only robbing him and his people of their lands,

but of their political birthright as well. The fact that the farmer was

on his side but helped make the boy know it was truth, and the

resentments that were always burning like a bed of coals deep within

him sprang into flames again. The shadows lengthened swiftly about him

and closed over him, and then the air grew chill. Abruptly he rose and

stood rigid, for far up the lane, and coming over a little hill, he saw

the figure of a man leading a black horse and by his side the figure of

a woman--both visible for a moment before they disappeared behind the

bushes that lined the lane. When they were visible again Jason saw that

they were a boy and girl, and when they once more came into view at a

bend of the lane and stopped he saw that the girl, with her face

downcast, was Mavis. While they stood the boy suddenly put his arm

around her, but she eluded him and fled to the fence, and with a laugh

he climbed on his horse and came down the lane. In a burning rage Jason

started to slide down the cliff and pull the intruder, whoever he was,

from his horse, and then he saw Mavis, going swiftly through the

fields, turn and wave her hand. That stopped him still--he could not

punish where there was apparently no offence--so with sullen eyes he

watched the mouth of the lane give up a tall lad on a black

thoroughbred, his hat in his hand and his handsome face still laughing

and still turned for another glimpse of the girl. Another hand-wave

came from Mavis at the edge of the woods, and glowering Jason stood in

full view unseen and watched Gray Pendleton go thundering past him down

the road.

Mavis had not gone to see Marjorie--she had sneaked away to meet Gray;

his lips curled contemptuously--Mavis was a sneak, and so was Gray

Pendleton. Then a thought struck him--why was Mavis behaving like a

brush-girl this way, and why didn't Gray go to see her in her own home,

open and above-board, like a man? The curl of the boy's lips settled

into a straight, grim line, and once more he turned slowly down the

stream that he might approach Steve's house from another direction.

Half an hour later, when he climbed the turnpike fence, he heard the

gallop of iron-shod feet and he saw bearing down on him an iron-gray

horse. It was Marjorie. He knew her from afar; he gripped the rail

beneath him with both hands and his heart seemed almost to stop. She

was looking him full in the face now, and then, with a nod and a smile

she would have given a beggar or a tramp, she swept him by.