THE PASSING OF THE CLOUDS
On the very top of the Blue Ridge, over against Mt. Mitchell itself,
the highest peak of the Appalachian system, nestles the little village
of Blowing Rock. The distinction of being a great summer resort and
at the same time boasting the highest altitude of any town in the
Appalachian system belongs to Blowing Rock. A town of some five hundred
inhabitants, with six or seven summer hotels and long strings of summer
cottages, its population is easily doubled twice over during the hot
summer season, by the rich of the north and east, and the well-to-do
from the south. The northerner and southerner meet here for a month’s
rest, not forgetting (albeit they come for rest) to find time enough in
which to exchange a few shares of cotton-mill stock of the South for a
few shares of shoe-factory stock of the East.
The artist, too, is found in Blowing Rock. He comes and finds both
rest and profit. He walks out upon the great rock--the Blowing Rock
itself--which projects horizontally out into space at the very apex of
the Blue Ridge, and looks out into the very countenance of the great
Appalachian system of mountains. He sees just in front of him Mt.
Mitchell itself, in all of its midsummer glory. To the right he beholds
Grandfather Mountain, the old man reclining in silent sleep beneath
sapphire skies--his aged head pillowed upon the everlasting piles of
stone, and his couch draped in summer’s mantle of emerald green. Then
thousands of feet down he beholds the plains of the valleys below
stretching away, beyond the vision of his eyes, on into the endless
cotton-fields of the South.
He has beheld visions before. But this is sublime! From lofty crags
and peaks he has many a time looked upon all nature, but here he is
overcome by matchless beauty. He snatches up his brush, and under the
inspiration the daubs of hard, cold paint begin to warm on the canvas,
and resolve themselves into green valleys and peaks and shadows, a
picture of the truth.
Into this same Blowing Rock--not the Blowing Rock on the page of a
book--but the Blowing Rock of reality, the little picnic party from
Blood Camp came bowling along, past the rows of summer cottages and
drew up at the great rock itself.
“Oh, how beautiful!” cried Gena Filson. “Oh, how grand! And the great
mountains, how dearly I love them!”
The wagon was stopped under the trees, and the mules were made
comfortable. Then came reconnoitering, exploration and the gathering
of flowers and ferns. Going to the wagon Paul Waffington returned with
a package in his hand, that he had brought with him from the city. All
were inquisitive to know its contents.
“Giant firecrackers,” he said. “Glorious Fourth! Let us throw a few
over the rock and celebrate.” Suiting the action to the word, he tore
open the package, touched a flame to the fuse of one of the giant
crackers and threw it over the rock with all his might. It went down,
down, down through space--then boom! came the terrific report, and all
screamed with delight.
“Oh, do it again!” begged Gena Filson, clapping her hands. Suddenly
she arose, ran to the wagon, drew from her basket a silk flag and came
running back, waving it and exclaiming:
“The glorious Fourth and the Stars and Stripes! Hurrah, hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” came the thundering rejoinder from all.
During the exciting moments that followed, the giant crackers became
scattered on the ground. Inadvertently the chaperon, Miss Emeline
Hobbs, sat down among them. A match was struck and went to Fen Green’s
pipe, then to the ground. In a wink it touched the protruding end
of the fuse of a giant cracker on which sat Miss Emeline Hobbs.
Before anyone could give warning--boom! went the report of the great
explosion, and up into the air went Emeline Hobbs, then down again on
to the ground with a thump. But, thanks to her lucky star, she was
unharmed, save a faint through fright.
Cold water and persistent rubbing soon brought her again to normal
conditions. With her head still pillowed on Paul Waffington’s coat,
that he had shed in a twinkle and made into a pillow for the occasion
she refused to get up until she had propounded the following question:
“Oh, where am I? Am I in the valley or still on the rock?”
“You’d better be a leetle more careful what you’re asettin’ down on
nixt time, Emeline,” said Boaz. “Ef you’d abin jist a leetle closer to
the edge of the rock whin thet thing busted, you’d a hit a farm ’bout a
mile below here, I reckon.”
That was too much for her--and from Boaz Honeycutt. It fired her up.
She jumped up and shook her fist at the boy. But when Waffington put
out his hand in surprise she resumed her normal state and stood in her
place with the rest and watched the giant crackers go down over the
rock and explode.
Dinner time! By a rustic seat and under a bower of rhododendrons the
dexterous hands of Gena Filson led the other ladies of the party
in spreading the dinner. It was indeed a feast, a feast on the
mountaintop. There were pickles and slaw; chicken salad and cold ham;
stuffed eggs and many, many sweets. Fen Green and Boaz Honeycutt tried
a little of all and pronounced it all good. When dinner was over, the
baskets went back to their places under the seats in the wagon. The
mules had just been given their corn and hay when the wheels of an
approaching carriage was heard. The carriage rolled up and stopped a
few yards distant from the party.
“Ah, how do you do, ah, Miss Filson. Ah, may I speak with you a moment,
ah?” It was no other than “Mr. L. Texas” himself, and Paul Waffington
ground his teeth.
“Why, how do you do, Mr. Texas,” said Gena Filson, going over to the
carriage and offering her hand.
Waffington was dazed. His heart nearly failed him. What did it all
mean? What did he mean by thrusting himself into the happiness of this
little picnic party? Did she know that he was coming? Why, as a matter
of course, she must have known. Why, then, had she not told him?
She came back. Walking slowly she finally stopped within a few feet of
the party and said:
“I beg that you, Mr. Waffington, and the others will excuse me for a
few minutes.”
“Why, certainly, certainly, Miss Filson,” he replied, almost against
his will.
She returned to the carriage and was assisted in by Mr. Texas and
disappeared.
Forty-five minutes had elapsed when the carriage again appeared, and
Gena Filson alighted and bade Mr. Texas good-bye.
“Well, by giggers! Who is thet jug-headed dude, Genie?” demanded Boaz,
as she came up.
“Boaz!” intervened Waffington. “You should always speak politely of
gentlemen--of strangers.”
Then the party separated for a time. Boaz and Fen Green went off in
the direction of one of the big hotels, while the three Allisons and
Emeline Hobbs chose another direction. Paul Waffington was left in the
company of Gena Filson. He sat away out on the projecting rock with his
feet hanging over the edge, looking out on the matchless scene before
him.
“Oh, is it not grand!” ventured Gena Filson.
“Indeed it is a grand sight to behold,” calmly replied Waffington.
He broke off a bit of stick and threw it over the rock. At first
it poised in the strong breeze that came up from the valley below,
but finally tilted on end and began slipping away thousands of feet
downward, towards the valley. He mechanically threw out another stick
in the air and raised his head to speak.
“Doesn’t the wind bear it up beautifully?” she intercepted him.
“Yes, rather,” came the quiet reply. “But I must confess that it
reminds me of insincere friendship. There are those in this big world
who are treacherous, like the wind with the stick. They bear us up
beautifully at first, then upon their strength we begin to build; but
in the end, they betray the trust and dash us to pieces on the rocks
below.”
“But are my friends like that, Mr. Waffington?” she painfully asked.
“Well, I’m not a judge. I don’t know who are your best friends.”
“Well, may I ask, is your friendship like the stick and the wind, Mr.
Waffington?”
“No, Gena,” he said quietly. Then after a long silence he threw the
remaining stick that he held in his hand far back on the grass and
finished, “Once a friend, always a friend with me--at least nothing
less.” Then his heart cried out and begged him to tell her all, but his
voice failed to do his bidding.
“Well, I wisht I may die, ef I didn’t think I’d slip upon on you all
an’ ketch you atalkin’ courtin’ talk, but I didn’t, I reckon,” piped
Boaz Honeycutt, as he bounded out from behind a clump of rhododendrons.
They both blushed, and she smiled as her eyes met Waffington’s and said:
“Why, Boaz!”
“All aboard!” bawled out Emeline Hobbs; “all aboard for Boone an’ Blood
Camp--all aboard!”
The wagon was made ready for the homeward trip. Once more Waffington
led the little company out upon the Blowing Rock, and Gena Filson waved
the silk flag as Waffington commanded:
“Three cheers for the glorious Fourth.”
The cheers went ringing out into space with a roar that all but awoke
the aged grandfather from his long sleep on his green-mantled couch in
the distance.
The sun was still an hour high when the party in high spirits returned
to Blood Camp. At the store they rose up in the wagon, gave three last
cheers for the glorious Fourth, and disbanded.
“Fust Foth of July I ever seed, an’ I wisht I may die, ef we aint
agoin’ to have one next year again,” declared Boaz Honeycutt as he went
off in the direction of his home, to tell his sisters and brothers of
the pleasures of the day.
Paul Waffington led Gena Filson up the mountainside to her cabin home
and was saying good-bye. He was going back to his city home on the
morrow. He had experienced, after all he thought, the best day of his
life. But at the thoughts of going away his heart grew heavy.
“But won’t you sit down, Mr. Waffington? It is early yet,” Gena Filson
gently said. “We can sit here in the fresh evening air, here on these
boards,” she finished.
“Thank you, I will sit down,” and seated himself by her side.
He looked upon the lovely face of Gena Filson in the bright evening
sun, and reasoned with his heart again. Tut! tut! she belonged to
another. But how did he know so much? He had failed to learn the truth
while at Blowing Rock. Why had he not the speech to say the things that
were in his heart now? Why, Paul Waffington could recall the time when,
in college debate, he had stood upon the floor and fearlessly battled
against the best. Scores of times he had stood before public audiences
and juggled with words and themes without embarrassment. Yes, he had
stood in the very face of death, so far as he knew--not a rod distant
from where he now sat--and shot out his fist into the face of old Jase
Dillenburger, expecting nothing but death in the end--and had done it
all without a tremor. But how was it now, that a woman, a daughter of
the simple hills could without a single command hold him dumb?
He turned his head and looked away off down the mountainside as he
turned it all over in his mind again. Suppose that Gena Filson was the
daughter of Lucky Joe. She was now his equal. She had already proven
that she had a wonderful brain capacity; that she could succeed, he
had said so to her himself at the college. Suppose that her father had
been a bandit--a moonshiner. Many another have yielded to the same
temptation. But still there remained with her the memories and the
sweet benediction of a kind and gentle mother. A mother who, when her
heart was young, came into the hills with good blood in her veins, of
sterling character, polished and refined.
But after all, he thought that he could have been, perhaps, long since
mated to his mother’s choice, Imogene. She was of his station in life,
he had been told. Culture, education, refinement, jewels and money were
hers. But beyond the reach of the jewels and moneys Paul Waffington’s
heart reached out and yearned for the true love of his heart, and he
finds it in Gena Filson by his side.
He looked upon the face of the woman at his side again, and it was
fair. She was born and bred in that congenial southern clime, among
the beautiful green hills, where crystal streams purl and ripple on
forever; where sweet song-birds dwell; where acres of wild flowers come
forth in summer time, only for bees to plunder and birds to swing and
sway in tuneful song. “I must know all,” he cried to himself, and his
voice yielded to his heart’s desire.
“It’s been seven years since I first saw you there in the snow, Gena.
You were thirteen then. And--then--old Jase managed to get you, and
shifted the hard burdens from his own shoulders to yours. And then I
came and saw you burning up there on the bunk with fever. Then I took
you away, and, well, I thought I was doing right!” He paused and looked
away to the west, and saw the sun sinking down into fathomless seas of
purple and gray. Then he busied himself pushing the stem of a daisy
into the worm-holes in the board on which they sat, as he went on, “And
then Jase went to prison.”
“Yes, and it saved us both, Paul.” Her hands flew to her lips and held
them, as if they had allowed something that was terrible to pass them.
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me,” she cried. “I didn’t----”
“That’s it, that’s it, Gena. For seven years I have yearned for you to
simply say Paul. I go away tomorrow, Gena, and I just as well have it
out and be done with it. The first time that I ever saw you, it was
there in the snow and the storm; I loved you, and I love you still.
Tonight I want to know all. Tell me, Gena, will you be my wife?”
He lifted his eyes to hers as he finished. In the short interval of
time his heart seemed to be dropping, dropping, dropping down through
fathomless depths of space. The sun was gone now. But the big blue eyes
at his side looked out over the mountains and watched the purple clouds
with their rims of gold. Then they turned their vision upon him, and
welled up with tears as she whispered:
“Yes.”
Under the starry dome of night he gently drew her within his arms, and
there, together, they finished the bridge of love that spanned the
present and reached into the future, that thitherland.