UNTO THE HILLS.
A tap on the door aroused the sleeper, and she sprang up hastily to see
the anxious face of old Prue. “Law, honey,” she exclaimed, “I sutt’nly
was skeered. Huccome yuh ain’t sleep down in yo’ ma’s room? All
higglety-pigglety up hyar. An’ yuh ain’t sleep on dat baid ’thout no
kivers, is yuh?”
Persis tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt; the increasing pain
which her brave heart felt had come with sharper force with the day. “I
had so much to do,” she faltered. “I just threw myself down here when I
had finished.”
Aunt Prue sniffed disapprovingly. “That ain’t no way o’ doin’,” she
declared. “Yuh look lak yuh been drawed th’ough a knot-hole. Po’ chile!
yuh sholy is plum wo’ out. Come down an’ git a good cup o’ coffee. I
done fix yuh up a good breakfus’. Is yuh ready soon?”
Persis looked at her dishevelled attire. Her usually dainty habits
asserted themselves, however miserable she might be. “I’ll take my bath
first. I’ll not be long,” she replied. She felt feverish and thirsty,
but breakfast was not a pleasing prospect, and to Aunt Prue’s
dissatisfaction she only nibbled at the chicken and waffles.
“Yuh sholy is plum wo’ out,” repeated the old woman. “Yuh ain’t gwine
ter do no trab’lin’ dis day, chile, not if I kin he’p hit. Yuh is white
as a ghos’, an’ yo’ eyes is all holler in yo’ face. Yuh ain’t fittin’
fo’ no trab’lin.”
“I must go, I must. Oh, Prue!” For a moment the impulse came to confide
in the old woman, who had so long been a faithful servitor in the
family. No doubt she could tell her all she wanted to know, but a
shrinking from discussing the subject at all forbade her to unburden her
heart, and she sipped her coffee slowly, wishing that Aunt Prue would
not be quite so solicitous. She was nervous and weary, but still was
unshaken in her purpose.
The expressman came for her trunk, and the moment arrived when the break
must come. She went from room to room, feeling strangely weak, but she
did not falter in her decision. It seemed to her that Mrs. Estabrook’s
room was the hardest to leave. A dozen little familiar objects reminded
her so acutely of the dear old lady’s presence. The comfortable chair by
the sunny window; the little work-table; the row of books on the shelf
above; the footstool; the clock and the old-fashioned ornaments on the
mantel, all seemed to bring the owner vividly before her. There had
always been a peculiar bond between Persis and Mrs. Estabrook, which
made them closer in their confidences and sympathies than is usual
between persons of such a disparity of age. “How sorry she must always
have been for me,” Persis thought, “for not even papa and mamma seemed
to care so much for me. Lisa was always her mother’s favorite, and
Mellicent her father’s. Of course, I could not be the same to them, but
they tried, they did try to love me, yet how could they?” She sighed,
and then two tears splashed on the chintz cover of grandma’s easy-chair,
as the girl bent over and kissed it.
At the last moment she threw her arms around old Prue with a clinging
touch, at which the old woman wondered. “Oh, dear old Prue,” she said,
“don’t forget me.”
“Law, chile, you sutt’nly is quare. I ain’t gwine fo’get yuh in two or
free weeks. I ain’t got such a terr’ble good remember; ‘taint so good as
hit used to be, but it’ll las’ dat long, honey.” And she chuckled at the
idea. Yet she felt very anxious about the girl. “She in fo’ a spell o’
sickness, dat I know,” said Prue, as she watched Persis go down the
street.
It was not northward that Persis turned her face, however, for she took
a train which bore her back over the ground she had but lately left. She
showed almost the craftiness of one insane in the way she arranged her
plans, for she had consulted maps and time-tables, and had selected as
her destination a little town in an unfrequented part of Virginia. From
thence she had determined to make her way to the village near which she
and Basil had been overtaken by the storm. Her yearning was for the
mountains. “If I can find peace anywhere, it will be there,” she said to
herself, sighing wearily, as she laid her head back against the cushions
of the car.
She was tired out mind and body, but the wearisome round of thought kept
up its treadmill, and she could not rid herself of going over and over
the same ground. To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow it would be the
same. She could see no respite ahead.
She thought of all her wise philosophies, of how loftily she had
maintained that an exterior cheerfulness was always possible for those
who would but think so. “The Cheerful Three!” What a different being it
was who had been one of them; and, yes, it was a very different being;
that was Persis Holmes, this was Anne Maitland.
The place of her destination was not reached till about nine o’clock.
Persis had not realized that it would be so late, and that she did not
know whether or not she could find accommodations in the town; but she
plucked up heart, and consulted the conductor.
“Can you tell me if there is a safe place to stop at the next station?”
she asked him,—“for a lady, I mean.”
“Why, yes, I reckon there is. There’s the Mansion House. Ladies most
always go there. It’s all right.”
“Can I find my way easily?”
The conductor reflected. “Well, I can’t tell you just how to get there;
but there’ll be some one from the house down at the station, I reckon.”
Persis thanked him; and when the train drew up at her stopping-place she
stepped out and looked around. A building bearing the name “City Hotel”
stood across the street, but that Persis knew was not where she had been
directed to go.
The train thundered on, and she was left almost alone on the platform,
in the dim light of a kerosene lamp which hung by the door of the little
waitingroom. A couple of men standing by looked at her curiously. One of
them stepped up to her. “Were you expecting some one to meet you?” he
asked, respectfully.
“No,” replied the traveller; “I want to go to the Mansion House. Is
there any one from there meeting this train?”
“Why, there doesn’t happen to be for this train. They don’t always come.
Bill!” raising his voice; “none of Clark’s folks around, are there?”
“No; John came down, but he didn’t stay.”
Persis looked distressed.
The man called Bill came forward.
“Mr. Haines will go up with you,” said the first speaker. “He’ll see you
get there all right. He’s our policeman.”
So, under the escort of the village policeman Persis was piloted across
the street, up a bit of road, and down a long lane, at the end of which
an old-fashioned stuccoed house stood. Mr. Haines swung his lantern
cheerfully and warned Persis of mud-puddles and rocks in the way. He
ushered her into the house without ceremony, and went to hunt up the
host, who presently appeared. The policeman evidently departed as soon
as his business was finished, for Persis did not see him again.
“Can you give me a room?” asked the newly arrived guest.
“I reckon we can, if you all don’t mind the first floor.”
Persis did not mind anything of that kind. The hobgoblins which
terrorized her were not such as a strange room in a strange house could
furnish.
The man disappeared, and soon returned, bringing fresh towels hung over
his arm and a slip of paper in his hand. “I ain’t got a register handy,”
he remarked. “Just put your name here.”
Persis was startled for a moment. She had not thought of being obliged
to decide so quickly as to which of her names she would bear; but she
did not hesitate long, and “Anne Maitland” was written on the slip which
the man left lying on the table, while he requested Persis to follow
him.
She was shown into a lofty, old-fashioned room, which was furnished
comfortably enough, but which seemed close and stuffy.
The man filled the pitcher, brought matches, and hung the towels on the
rack, being evidently used to performing any office which came his way.
“Shall you all want breakfast?” he asked, pausing at the door.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“What time?”
“About eight o’clock.”
“All right; she’ll see that you have it. If I ain’t around just go hunt
her up.”
Who this mysterious _she_ might be, Persis did not inquire, but she was
given an opportunity to find out the next morning. She was too utterly
exhausted not to sleep, despite the rather too hard bed and too soft
pillows; and although she was early awakened by the tramp of feet
overhead and by the running down the uncovered stairs of several
persons, she did not get up till the sun was high.
She left her room, to find no one in sight, and she proceeded to examine
her surroundings. The house was an old country mansion set in the midst
of a garden. The mountains—once more the mountains—rose up on every
side, but at this hour covered with the mist which obscured their peaks.
After standing on the porch a few minutes, Persis went to hunt up her
hostess, whom she found in a back room.
“He said you’d be along about eight,” was her greeting, given with a
smile. “I reckon you all are hungry as a hunter. Like corn-cakes? I’m
just stirring up some. Just go in and set down,” opening a door leading
to another room, “and I’ll have your breakfast right in. Si! Si! you Si!
bring me in some wood.”
A little woolly-headed darky popped up from some dark corner and
scuttled out. He was the only servant Persis saw while she was in the
house. When the breakfast was ready,—fried fish, crisp bacon and fresh
eggs, fried potatoes, butter, bread, and corn-cakes,—Persis was able to
eat more than at first she thought possible, although her hostess
protested that she didn’t eat more than a bird, and was evidently
disappointed that her efforts were not more substantially appreciated.
Persis asked about the little village nestled in the mountains, where
she had determined to go.
“Black Rock? Why, yes; it’s about eight or ten miles, I reckon,” the
woman informed her.
“Can I get any one to take me over there, me and my trunks?”
“How many trunks?”
“Two.”
“Hm! I reckon you must be the new school-teacher,” thought the mistress
of the Mansion House. “I heard they were going to have a strange teacher
there this year,” she remarked, irrelevantly, as it seemed to Persis. “I
reckon some of the folks in town can take you. Want to go to-day?”
“I think I should like to.”
“Si! Si!” called the woman; “you go tell Marster Torm to come in.”
The small darky departed, and Persis returned to her room.
Later in the day she was jogging along a country road towards the little
village of Black Rock, her trunks piled up behind her in the wagon, and
herself seated by the side of a lazy-looking, good-natured countryman,
who drove a pair of dun mules, and only now and then, to his companion’s
relief, made any remark.
Persis had clung persistently to the one idea of reaching this place.
For some reason it seemed to offer her the surest haven. If she could
only be received under the roof of the kind woman at whose gate she and
Basil had stopped—was it less than two weeks ago? Was it not years? she
thought.
“Do you know the house to which I want to go?” she said to the man who
accompanied her. “It is the last house in the village before you reach
the school-house.”
“T’other end?”
“Yes, I think so; on the road to—to the Natural Bridge.”
The man nodded. “I know,—Jim Temple’s.”
He had concluded that Persis was the new teacher, and began to make a
few remarks about the school, which were not interrupted. Indeed, Persis
was scarcely listening to what he said. She was looking closely at the
little village through which they were passing. Suppose this Mrs. Temple
should absolutely refuse to take her in. What then? “She must! She
must!” The girl had so persistently decided this, that now that the
possibility of a refusal met her she was anxious and worried.
The same little child came shyly out. “Hallo, sissy, anybody about?”
asked the man, who pulled up his mules before the gate.
And again, as before, the kind-looking woman appeared. Persis had been
helped down from her high seat, and stood eagerly waiting. She held out
her two hands as the child’s mother approached.
“Oh, Mrs. Temple,” she said, “can you take me in? Oh, please!”
The woman looked at her in surprise. Then her face cleared. “Oh, you’re
the new teacher. Why, yes, of course. The teacher most always boards
here, if she doesn’t happen to live near. Come right in.”
Persis hesitated; she could live under no more false pretences, she
thought. “I’m not the new teacher,” she replied; “but if you have room
for me, let me stay at least a little while.” Then, seeing hesitation
visible on Mrs. Temple’s face, she added, “Please do. I do not know
where else to go.”
“Poor child!” from the motherliness of her nature Mrs. Temple spoke out.
“I don’t reckon he’ll mind. You all can leave the trunks, John.”
The big man was lifting down the luggage, which he set on the porch; and
after accepting what Persis considered a very modest trifle for his
services, he drove off and left a lonely girl to take up a strange new
life.
“I made sure you all were the teacher,” Mrs. Temple began as they went
inside. “She sent word to the trustees that she was sick, and mightn’t
be able to begin next Monday.” The thought that here was a possible
opening came like an inspiration to Persis.
“Oh, then, if she doesn’t come, do you think they would take me till she
is well? I have been to college. I could take an examination if
necessary.”
“Well, now, perhaps you could, then. I know the trustees were mighty put
out. They were talking it over day before yesterday. The one who had it
last year got married this summer, and they thought some one who didn’t
live in the neighborhood could discipline the scholars better. She knew
everybody, and they thought she was partial, and I reckon maybe she was.
She certainly had her own kin to teach, and she wasn’t going to get into
hot water with their fathers and mothers, her own cousins. Where have I
seen you before? Your face certainly does look mighty familiar.”
Persis flushed up. She was too truthful to evade the question. “I
stopped here on horseback one day, and you gave me and my companion some
biscuits and honey.”
“Why, to be sure; I remember. I wondered if you got caught in that
storm. Did you get cold? You look like you had been sick.”
“We found shelter under the school-house porch, and did not get very
wet. I know, Mrs. Temple,” she went on, “that my coming seems strange to
you, and I cannot tell you a great deal about myself. I have had a great
sorrow since I was here. My name is Anne Maitland. I have been well
educated, and am able and willing to support myself. I had a little
money, but I gave it up, because I found out I was not the person for
whom it was intended. Is that enough for you to know? I wish I could
tell you more. I don’t want you to think I am an adventuress.”
“Bless your heart, child, no one would ever think such a thing. I can
see you look pale, as if you had been ill. That’s why I didn’t recognize
you at first.”
“No, I’m not ill, only tired, very tired; and oh, trouble that comes so
suddenly is very hard to bear.”
“Poor dear, poor dear; there, never mind, you’re safe. I’m not going to
turn out a homeless girl while I’ve a place for her. Now, miss, come up
and take off your hat, and get the dust off. Here, Mattie, take this
lady, Miss Maitland, up to the spare room, and tell Columbus to get some
fresh water for her.”
With a sudden impulse Persis turned and held out her hands, her eyes dim
with tears. “Thank you! how good you are!” she murmured. “I knew you
were the one to whom I could come. I have felt it all along.”
“Indeed, did you? I declare. You remembered me? I didn’t know you came
a-purpose. I thought it was because they told you the teacher boarded
here always, and you thought we took regular boarders.”
“No, no; it was because I remembered you.”
A pleased smile gave Mrs. Temple’s face a kindlier expression than even
before. “I declare,” she repeated. “I’m sure I’m glad you feel so. Hurry
up, Mattie. Did you find Columbus?”
The aforesaid Columbus, a very black, lank, barefooted darky boy,
appeared. As soon as his eyes fell on Persis an eager and pleased look
came into them. His mistress laughed softly, as he whispered something
to her. “Go ’long Columbus, you’re clean daft. Hurry now, and get the
young lady some fresh water.” And Persis, preceded by the little Mattie,
and followed by the eager-eyed boy, was ushered into a big upper room,
the dormer windows of which showed deep recesses in the walls which
sloped in a long slant from the peaked roof.
As the door closed behind her, Persis gave a sigh of relief. A sure
refuge, this she believed it to be. These were good, kind people, plain
and homely, but full of generous hospitality and a sweet charity, and
she sank on her knees at the window where the last sunbeams were
shining. Before her rose, peak after peak, the steadfast mountains, in
all their solemn, tranquil majesty, and there came to the weary girl in
her sorrow a verse which she had often heard her grandmother repeat,—“I
will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”
[Illustration: '[Fleuron]’]