THE GATHERING CLOUDS
Immediately after the burial of Lucky Joe, Paul Waffington had seized
the opportunity, when all Blood Camp was seriously reflecting upon the
frailties of human life, and organized a Sunday-school in the little
school-house. The superintendent, Miss Emeline Hobbs, had promised to
faithfully stand by the little school and keep the spark of life going
until the end of the year, when Paul Waffington had promised to return.
Miss Emeline Hobbs was rather large, with stringy red hair and
possessed a deep bass voice. She had been born a cripple and walked on
a wooden peg. But a kinder or better human heart never beat than her’s.
During the long winter and throughout the hot summer she, with a few
others, had kept the spark of life going in the little school. Each
Sunday morning she went to the little school-house, arranged the three
classes, balanced herself on the wooden peg and proceeded in a profound
way to explain and “teach the Scriptures as I understand them” to the
little band.
Aside from the Sunday-school, there had been but one other new thing
that stirred Blood Camp during the year, and that was the coming of
the old fiddler. Yes, he came. It was just about the middle of the
summer, or “corn-hoeing time,” as Fen Green would say, that the old
fiddler came. Nobody seemed to know whence he came nor did anybody
care, so long as he would be sociable with the “boys” and play “Old
Dan Tucker,” “Shortening in the Bread,” “Cripple Creek,” “Eliza
Jane,” “Shady Grove” and a half score of other similar tunes. He had
told the people at the store that his name was Bull Jones, and that he
was an old worn-out man--an old member of a marine band, and that he
had once had a brown stone front in the greatest city of the world.
But, ah, temptation had come, and nothing was left but his dear old
fiddle. He said that his home was now wherever his hat was on his head.
This was too much for the fathers of Blood Camp, and with no further
investigation they took him in to their homes. He was the center of
attraction at the store. Hours at a time he sat on a coffee bag in the
store playing the tunes as called for by the boys.
“Greatest fiddler I ever saw, an’ I guess the greatest ’ne thet enybody
else ever saw,” exclaimed Fen Green.
Sometimes the old fiddler went home with a farmer of the hills for the
night. On the morning he would go with the others to the field, and pay
for his keep with the hoe. Another night he went with the blacksmith
and made himself “handy” with the milking and other chore work, as pay
for his night’s lodging. He was always happy, lodged with all, made a
good workman at whatever was needed to be done, and, best of all, he
could always be depended upon to play the fiddle, and to play the very
tune that each individual liked best.
Bull Jones looked to be a man of some fifty years. He wore a grey
beard, a suit of well-worn clothes with patches, and chewed tobacco and
“swapped” with the boys. Bull Jones, the fiddler, was soon in great
demand in the settlement. The fact is, that he had not been in the
neighborhood a fortnight until he had more invitations to “stay all
night” than he was able to fill for months.
On rainy days the fiddler took his place on the bag of coffee in the
store and played the whole day through. Those were great days for the
folks of Blood Camp. Even old Jase Dillenburger would hang about and
whittle on a pine stick and enjoy the music with the others. Then, too,
perchance, Miss Emeline Hobbs would come into the store when some such
tune as “Sourwood Mountain” had begun, and would fain have thumped her
wooden peg against the floor a few times out of sheer delight, had not
she recalled that she was the superintendent of the Sunday-school and
thereby the leader and example of the community.
Winter had come again, and Emeline Hobbs longed for the day when Paul
Waffington would return, that she might tell him that she had “held
out” in the matter of the Sunday-school. The expected time of his visit
was passing by, and hope gave way to fear and she gave it up.
“I’ve give him out,” she said as she sat down. “Don’t think he’s comin’
back. I’ve ’splained every Scripture over four times--every one that I
can think of, an’ I jist don’t know no more (but mind that you don’t
tell anybody that I said so, Aunt Mina). I was athinken’ that I’d begin
on Jonah next Sunday, if he didn’t come. I need a new start, somehow.
If I just had a new start! I could run fine for ’nother year, if I just
had a new start!”
“Now, Miss Emeline, doan’t you pester yo’self ’bout ’im comin’ anymo’.
He’s acomin’. He’s acomin’ whin he said he would. He’ll be he’ar an’
do’an you bothar ’bout it any mo’. Lordy bless yo’, honey, dat man is
a plum po’re gentleman, he is. Yo’ jist go on holden’ dat Sunday-skule
an’ akeepin’ it agoin’. An’ my o’le black man, Laz, he’ll keep yo’
fires agoin’ jes’ like he promi’se.”
It was the voice of good Aunt Mina, the old black woman of the village.
“But he ain’t acomin’, taint no use,” persisted Emeline.
“Now, honey, yo’ jes lis’en he’ar. Yo’ go right on an’ tell ’em Jonah
next Sunday. Dat’s good. I like dat m’self. I tell yo’ he’s acomin’.
Here, Laz, yo’ poke de fire an’ put on some mo’ bark. Jis’ fo’ mo’
sheets an’ three dresses, an’ I’ll git yo’ supper, Laz--best o’le
negger man ebber lived! Yess’um I’ll have yo’ iron’on’ done by fo’
o’clock fo’ yo’, Miss Emeline, I’ll have it done by dat time sure. Now
he’s acomin’, an’ do’an yo’ pester yo’self ’bout it no mo’.”
True to his promise to Emeline Hobbs and Gena Filson, Paul Waffington
went back to Blood Camp. His first promise had been to Gena Filson--to
visit her in her mountain home. It was late in the afternoon when he
walked up in front of the little cabin that had been the home of Lucky
Joe. He drew up by the gate and called out loudly, but no response. He
called again and again, but heard only the echo of his own words in
answer. Again and again he called, but all was silent.
“Poor Mrs. Filson, not at home. Poor woman! Perhaps she had gone to
make her home with some distant relative,” he said sorrowfully. Then
hailing a passing mountain youth, he asked:
“Where are the people who live here?”
“Nobody lives there,” replied the boy.
“Where are the people who did live here?” he again asked.
“Don’t know. They’re gone. Some dead--some gone off.”
He turned in at the little gate, and as he approached the house he
noted that everything about it went to prove that it was fast crumbling
back to mother dust. There was no inviting gateway, no fence now--in
fact, nothing to keep out even the unwary intruder. The wild flowers
and vines that had voluntarily entwined their tendrils about the
doorway in the budding springtime had drooped their feeble, thirsty
heads and died, and in this late November afternoon there remained of
them little more than a memory.
The house looked as if it had been transformed into a conference hall
of spooks and ghosts. But, taking courage, he managed to push open its
decaying door and walk through its empty chambers with stealthy steps.
Within all was still and deathlike, save the ringing echoes of his
own footsteps upon the floor. He looked upon the walls, and they were
barren. He turned to the little open window, through which, no doubt,
the eyes of hope had longingly gazed upon the world; there, too, was
the fireplace, with its broken hearthstone, where mountain love had
often gathered in the evening. But, lo! their taper had burned low and
gone out!
As Paul Waffington came out and sat upon the doorstep of this deserted
mountain home, thoughts came to him that hitherto were foreign, and a
feeling stole over him that he will not soon forget. He recalled the
face in the casket. He heard again the cries of the sweet little Gena.
He again sees the mother as she sobbed and moaned that day over the
casket:
“O Joe, dear Joe, dear Joe, I forgive you all--I forgive you all.”
As the terribleness of it all comes up before him, and remembering that
God does not look upon sin with the least degree of allowance, his
heart bleeds within him, and he would give worlds were they his to give
if it were not so.
He got up from his place and circled the house, but no new discoveries
were made. He took another look through the door, shook his head and
walked slowly away.
“A deserted home!” he said, as he took a last look at the house from
the gate. A friendly bird called out one note from a tree above. “The
very birds of the air seem to say it--a deserted home,” he said, as he
turned to go into the village, with his hat pulled well down over his
eyes.