Commencement day was over, Jason Hawn had made his last speech in
college, and his theme was "Kentucky." In all seriousness and innocence
he had lashed the commonwealth for lawlessness from mountain-top to
river-brim, and his own hills he had flayed mercilessly. In all
seriousness and innocence, when he was packing his bag three hours
later in "Heaven," he placed his big pistol on top of his clothes so
that when the lid was raised, the butt of it would be within an inch of
his right hand. On his way home he might meet little Aaron on the
train, and he did not propose to be at Aaron's mercy again.
While the band played, ushers with canes wrapped with red, white, and
blue ribbons had carried him up notes of congratulation, and among them
was a card from Marjorie and a bouquet from her own garden. John
Burnham's eyes sought his with pride and affection. The old president,
handing him his diploma, said words that covered him with happy
confusion and brought a cheer from his fellow-students. When he
descended from the platform, Gray grasped his hand, and Marjorie with
lips and eyes gave him ingenuous congratulations, as though the things
that were between them had never been.
An hour later he drove with John Burnham through soldiers in the
streets and past the Gatling-gun out into the country, and was
deposited at the mouth of the lane. For the last time he went to the
little cottage that had been his mother's home and walked slowly around
garden and barn, taking farewell of everything except memories that he
could never lose. Across the fields he went once more to Colonel
Pendleton's, and there he found Gray radiant, for his father was
better, and the doctor, who was just leaving, said that he might yet
get well. And there was little danger now from the night riders, for
the county judge had arranged a system of signals by bonfires through
all the country around the town. He had watchers on top of the
court-house, soldiers always ready, and motor-cars waiting below to
take them to any place of disturbance if a bonfire blazed. So Gray said
it was not good-by for them for long, for when his father was well
enough he was coming back to the hills. Again the old colonel wished
Jason well and patted him on the arm affectionately when they shook
hands, and then Jason started for the twin house on the hill across the
turnpike to tell Marjorie and her mother good-by.
An hour later Gray found Marjorie seated on a grape-vine bench under
honeysuckles in her mother's old-fashioned garden, among flowers and
bees. Jason had just told her good-by. For the last time he had felt
the clasp of her hand, had seen the tears in her eyes, and now he was
going for the last time through the fragrant fields--his face set
finally for the hills.
"Father is better, the county judge has waked up, and there is no more
danger from the night riders, and so I am going back to the mountains
now myself."
"Jason has just gone."
"I know."
"Back to Mavis?"
"I don't know."
Marjorie smiled with faint mischief and grew serious.
"I wonder if you have had the same experience, Gray, that I've had with
Mavis and Jason. There was never a time that I did not feel in both a
mysterious something that always baffled me--a barrier that I couldn't
pass, and knew I never could pass. I've felt it with Mavis, even when
we were together in my own room late at night, talking our hearts to
each other."
"I know--I've felt the same thing in Jason always."
"What is it?"
"I've heard John Burnham say it's a reserve, a reticence that all
primitive people have, especially mountaineers; a sort of Indian-like
stoicism, but less than the Indian's because the influences that
produce it--isolation, loneliness, companionship with primitive
wilds-have been a shorter while at work."
"That's what attracted me," said Marjorie frankly, "and I couldn't help
always trying to break it down--but I never did. Was--was that what
attracted you?" she asked naively.
"I don't know--but I felt it."
"And did you try to break it down?"
"No; it broke me down."
"Ah!" Marjorie looked very thoughtful for a moment. They were getting
perilously near the old theme now, and Gray was getting grim and
Marjorie petulant.
And then suddenly:
"Gray, did you ever ask Mavis to marry you?"
Gray reddened furiously and turned his face away.
"Yes," he said firmly. When he looked around again a hostile right
shoulder was pointing at him, and over the other shoulder the girl was
gazing at--he knew not what.
"Marjorie, you oughtn't to have asked me that. I can't explain very
well. I--" He stumbled and stopped, for the girl had turned astonished
eyes upon him.
"Explain what?" she asked with demure wonder. "It's all right. I came
near asking Jason to marry me."
"Marjorie!" exploded Gray.
"Well!"
A negro boy burst down the path, panting:
"Miss Marjorie, yo' mother says you an' Mr. Gray got to come right
away."
Both sprang to their feet, Gray white and Marjorie's mischievous face
all quick remorse and tenderness. Together they went swiftly up the
walk and out to the stile where Gray's horse and buggy were hitched,
and without a word Marjorie, bareheaded as she was, climbed into the
buggy and they silently sped through the fields.
Mrs. Pendleton met them at the door, her face white and her hands
clenched tightly in front of her. Speechless with distress, she
motioned them toward the door of the sick-room, and when the old
colonel saw them coming together, his tired eyes showed such a leap of
happiness that Gray, knowing that he misunderstood, had not the heart
to undeceive him, and he looked helplessly to Marjorie. But that
extraordinary young woman's own eyes answered the glad light in the
colonel's, and taking bewildered Gray by the hand she dropped with him
on one knee by the bedside.
"Yes, Uncle Bob," Gray heard her say tenderly, "Gray's not going back
to the mountains. He's going to stay here with us, for you and I need
him."
The old man laid a hand on the bright head of each, his eyes lighting
with the happiness of his life's wish fulfilled, and chokingly he
murmured:
"My children--Gray--Marjorie." And then his eyes rose above them to the
woman who had glided in.
"Mary--look here."
She nodded, smiling tenderly, and Gray felt Marjorie rising to her feet.
"Call us, mother," she whispered.
Both saw her kneel, and then they were alone in the big hallway, and
Gray, still dazed, was looking into Marjorie's eyes.
"Marjorie--Marjorie--do you--"
Her answer was a rush into his outstretched arms, and, locked fast,
they stood heart to heart until the door opened behind them. Again hand
in hand they kneeled side by side with the mother. The colonel's eyes
dimmed slowly with the coming darkness, the smiling, pallid lips moved,
and both leaned close to hear.
"Gray--Marjorie--Mary." His last glance turned from them to her, rested
there, and then came the last whisper:
"Our children."