CHAPTER IV
Lynda sat again upon her ottoman—her capacity for sitting hours without a support to her back had always been one of her charms for William Truedale. The old man looked at her now; how strong and fine she was! How reliant and yet—how appealing! How she would always give and give—be used to the breaking point—and rarely understood. Truedale understood her through her mother!
“I want to ask you, Lynda, why do you come here—you of all the world? I have often wondered.”
“I—I like to come, generally, Uncle William.”
“But—other times, out of the general? You come oftener then. Why?”
And now Lynda turned her clear, dark eyes upon him. A sudden resolve had been taken. She was going to comfort him as she never had before, going to recompense him for the weeks just past when she had failed him while espousing Con’s cause. She was going to share her secret with him!
“Just before mother went, Uncle William, she told me—”
The hand holding the cigar swayed—it was a very frail, thin hand.
“Told you—what?”
“That you once—loved her.”
The old wound ached as it was bared. Lynda meant to comfort, but she was causing excruciating pain.
“She—told you that? And you so young! Why should she so burden you—she of all women?”
“And—my mother loved you, Uncle William! She found it out too late and—and after that she did her best for—for Brace and me and—father!”
The room seemed swaying, as all else in the universe was, at that moment, for William Truedale. Everything that had gone to his undoing—to the causing of his bitter loneliness and despair—was beaten down by the words that flooded the former darkness with almost terrifying light. For a moment or two he dared not speak—dared not trust his voice. The shock had been great. Then, very quietly:
“And—and why did she—speak at the last?”
Lynda’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because,” she faltered, “since she could not have come to you without dishonour—she sent me! Her confidence has been the sacredest thing in my life and I have tried to do as she desired. I—I have failed sadly—lately, but try to forgive me for—my mother’s sake!”
“And you—have”—the voice trembled pitifully in spite of the effort Truedale made to steady it—“kept silence—since she went; why? Oh! youth is so ignorant, so cruel!” This was said more to himself than to the girl by his knee upon whose bowed head his shrivelled hand unconsciously rested.
“First it was for father that I kept the secret. He seemed so stricken after—after he was alone. And then—since I was trying to be to you what mother wanted me to be—it did not seem greatly to matter. I wanted to win my way. I always meant to tell you, and now, after these weeks of misunderstanding, I felt you should know that there will always be a reason for me, of all the world, to share your life.”
“I see! I see!” A great wave of emotion rose and rose, carrying the past years of misery with it. The knowledge, once, might have saved him, but now it had come too late. By and by he would be able to deal with this staggering truth that had been so suddenly hurled upon him, but not now while Katherine Kendall’s daughter knelt at his side!
“Lynda, I cannot talk to you about this. When you are older—when life has done its best or its worst for you—you will understand better than you do to-day; but remember this: what you have told me has cut deep, but it has cut, by one stroke, the hardness and bitterness from my heart. Remember this!”
Then with a sudden reversion to his customary manner he said:
“And now tell me about Morrell.”
Lynda started; the situation puzzled her. She had meant to comfort—instead she seemed to have hurt and confused her old friend.
“About John Morrell?” she murmured with a rising perplexity; “there isn’t much to tell.”
“I thought it was a long story, Lynda.”
“Somehow it doesn’t seem long when you get close to it. But surely you must see, Uncle William, that after—after father and mother—I would naturally be a bit keener than most girls. It would never do for me to marry the wrong man and, of course, a girl never really knows until—she faces the situation at close quarters. I should never have engaged myself to John Morrell—that was the real mistake; and it was only when he felt sure of me—that I knew! Uncle William, I must have my own life, and John—well, he meant to have his own and mine, too. I couldn’t stand it! I have struggled up and conquered little heights just as he has—just as Con and Brace have; we’ve all scrambled up together. It didn’t seem quite fair that they should—well, fly their colours from their peaks and that I should” (here Lynda laughed) “cuddle under John’s standard. I don’t always believe in his standard; I don’t approve of it. Much as I like men, I don’t think they are qualified to arrange, sort, fix, and command the lives of women. If a woman thinks the abdication justifies the gains, that’s all right. If I had sold myself, honourably, to John Morrell I would have kept to the agreement; I hate and loathe women who don’t! I’m not belittling the romance and sentiment, Uncle William, but when all’s told the usual marriage is a bargain and half the women whine about holding to it—the others play up and, if there is love enough, it pans out pretty well—but I couldn’t! You see I had lived with father and mother—felt the lack between them—and I saw mother’s eyes when she—let go and died! No! I mean to have my own life!”
“And you are going to forego a woman’s heritage—home and children—for such a whim? Your mother had recompenses; are you not afraid of the—future?”
“Not if I respect it and do not dishonour the present.”
“A lonely man or woman—an outcast from the ordinary—is a creature of hell!”
Lynda shook her head.
“Go on!” Truedale commanded sternly. “Morrell is a good fellow. From my prison I took care to find that out. Brace did me practical service when he acted as sleuth before your engagement!”
Lynda coloured and frowned.
“I did not know about that,” was all she said.
“It doesn’t matter—only I’m glad I can feel sorry for him and angry at you. I never knew you could be a fool, Lynda.”
“I dare say we all can, if we put our minds to it—sometimes without. Well! that’s the whole story, Uncle William.”
“It’s only the preface. See here, Lynda, did it ever strike you that a woman like you doesn’t come to such a conclusion as you have without an experience—a contrast to go by?”
“I—I do not know what you mean, Uncle William.”
“I think you do. I have no right to probe, but I have a right to—to help you if I can. You’ve done much for your mother; can you deny me the—the honour of doing something for her?”
“There’s nothing—to do.”
“Let us see! You’re just a plain girl when all’s said and done. You’ve got a little more backbone and wit than some, but your heart’s in the same place as other women’s and you’re no different in the main. You want the sane, right things just as they do—home, children, and security from the things women dread. A man can give a woman a chance for her best development; she ought to recognize that and—yes—appreciate it.”
“Surely!” this came very softly from the lips screened now by two cold shivering hands. “A woman does recognize it; she appreciates it, but that does not exclude her from—choice.”
“One man—of course within limits and reason—is as good as another when he loves a woman and makes her love him. You certainly thought you loved Morrell. You had nothing to gain unless you did. You probably earned as much as he.”
“That’s true. All quite true.”
“Then something happened!” Truedale flung his half-smoked cigar in the fire. “What was it, Lynda?”
“There—was nothing—really—”
“There was something. There was—Con!”
“Oh! how—how can you?” Lynda started back. She meant to say “How dare you?”—but the drawn and tortured face restrained her.
“Because I must, Lynda. Because I must. You know I told you I had a story? You must bear with me and listen. Sit down again and try to remember—I am doing this for your mother! I repeat—there was Con. At first you took up arms for him as Brace did; your sex instincts were not awakened. You were all good fellows together until you drifted, blindfolded, into the trap poor Morrell set for you. You thought I was ill-treating Con—disregarding his best interests—starving his soul! Oh! you poor little ignoramus; the boy never had a soul worth mentioning until it got awakened, in self-defense, and grew its own limit. What did you and Brace know of the past—the past that went into Con’s making? You were free enough with your young condemnation and misplaced loyalty—but how about justice?”
Lynda’s eyes were fixed upon Truedale’s face. She had never seen him in this mood and, while he fascinated, he overawed her.
“Why, girl, Con’s father, my younger brother, was as talented as Con, but he was a scamp. He had money enough to pave the way to his own destruction. Until it was gone he spurned me—spurned even his own genius. He married a woman as mad as himself and then—without a qualm—tossed her aside to die. He had no sense of responsibility—no shame. He had temperament—a damnable one—and he drifted on it to the end. When it was all over, I brought Conning here. Just at that time—well, it was soon after your mother married your father—this creeping disease fell upon me. If it hadn’t been for the boy I’d have ended the whole thing then and there, but with the burden laid upon me I couldn’t slip out. It has been a kind of race ever since—this menace mounting higher and higher and the making of Con keeping pace. I swore that if he had talent it must prove itself against hardship, not in luxury. I made life difficult in order to toughen and inspire. I never meant to kill—you must do me that justice. Only you see, chained here, I couldn’t follow close enough, and Con had pride, thank God! and he thought he had hate—but he hasn’t or he’d have starved rather than accept what I offered. In his heart he—well, let us say—respects me to a certain extent. I saw him widening the space between himself and his inheritance—and it has helped me live; you saw him making a man of himself and it became more absorbing than the opportunity of annexing yourself to a man already made. Oh, I have seen it all and it has helped me in my plan.”
“Your—plan?” The question was a feeble attempt to grapple with a situation growing too big and strong. “Your plan—what is your plan?”
“Lynda, I have made my will! Sitting apart and looking on, the doing of this has been the one great excitement of my life. Through the years I have believed I was doing it alone; now I see your mother’s guiding hand has led me on; I want you to believe this as—I do!”
“I—I will try, Uncle William.” Lynda no longer struggled against that which she could not understand. She felt it must have its way with her.
“This house,” Truedale was saying, “was meant for your mother. I left it bare and ready for her taste and choice. After—I go, I want you to fit it out for her—and me! You must do it at once.”
“No! No!” Lynda put up a protesting hand, but Truedale smiled her into silence and went on: “I may let you begin to-morrow and not wait! You must fill the bare corners—spare no expense. You and I will be quite reckless; I want this place to be a—home at last.”
And now Lynda’s eyes were shining—her rare tears blinded her.
“You have always tried indirectly, Lynda, to secure Con’s greatest good; you have done it! I mean to leave him a legacy of three thousand a year. That will enable him to let up on himself and develop the talent you think he has. I have seen to it that the two faithful souls who have served me here shall never know want. There will be money, and plenty of it, for you to carry out my wishes regarding this house, should—well—should anything happen to me! After these details are attended to, my fortune, rather a cumbersome one, goes to—Dr. McPherson, my old and valued friend!”
Lynda started violently.
“To—to Dr. McPherson?” she gasped, every desire for Conning up in arms.
“There! there! do not get so excited, Lynda. It is only for—three years. McPherson and I understand.”
“And then?”
“It will go to Conning—if—”
“If what?” Lynda was afraid now.
“If he—marries you!”
“Oh! this is beyond endurance! How could you be so cruel, Uncle William?” The hot, passionate tears were burning the indignant face.
“He will not know. The years will test and prove him.”
“But I shall know! If you thought best to do this thing, why have you told me?”
“There have been hours when I myself did not know why; I understand to-night. Your mother led me!”
“My mother could never have hurt me so. Never!”
“You must trust—her and me, Lynda.”
“Suppose—oh! suppose—Con does not ... Oh! this is degrading!”
“Then the fortune will—be yours. McPherson and I have worked this out—most carefully.”
“Mine! Mine! Why”—and here Lynda flung her head back and laughed relievedly—“I refuse absolutely to accept it!”
“In that case it goes—to charities.”
A hush fell in the room. Baffled and angry, Lynda dared not trust herself to speak and Truedale sank back wearily. Then came a rattle of wheels in the quiet street—a toot of a taxi horn.
“Thomas has not forgotten to provide for your home trip; but the man can wait. The night is mild”—Truedale spoke gently—“and you and I are rich.”
Lynda did not seem to hear. Her thoughts were rushing wildly over the path set for her by her old friend’s words.
“Conning would not know!” she grasped and held to that; “he would be able to act independently. At first it had seemed impossible. Her knowledge could affect no one but herself! If”—and here Lynda breathed faster—“if Conning should want her enough to ask her to share his life that the three thousand dollars made possible, why then the happiness of bringing his own to him would be hers!—hers!”
Again the opposite side of the picture held her. “But suppose he did not want her—in that way? Then she, his friend—the one who, in all the world, loved him the best—would profit by it; she would be a wealthy woman, for her mother’s sake or”—the alternative staggered her—“she could let everything slip, everything and bear the consequences!”
At this point she turned to Truedale and asked pitifully again:
“Oh! why, why did you do this?”
There was no anger or rebellion in the words, but a pathos that caused the old man to close his eyes against the pleading in the uplifted face. It was the one thing he could not stand.
“Time will prove, child; time will prove. I could not make you understand; your mother might have—I could not. But time will show. Time is a strange revealer. All my life I have been working in darkness until—now! I should have trusted more—you must learn from me.
“There, do not keep the man waiting longer. I wonder—do not do it unless you want to, or think it right—but I wonder if you could kiss me good-bye?”
Lynda rose and, tear-blinded, bent over and kissed him—kissed him twice, once for her mother!—and she felt that he understood. She had never touched her lips to his before, and it seemed a strange ceremony.
An hour later Truedale called for Thomas and was wheeled to his bedroom and helped to bed.
“Perhaps,” he said to the man, “you had better put those drops on the stand. If I cannot sleep—” Thomas smiled and obeyed. There had been a time when he feared that small, dark bottle, but not now! He believed too sincerely in his master’s strength of character. Having the medicine near might, by suggestion, help calm the restlessness, but it had never been resorted to, so Thomas smiled as he turned away with a cheery:
“Very well, sir; but there will be no need, I hope.”
“Good-night, Thomas. Raise the shade, please. It’s a splendid night, isn’t it? If they should build on that rear lot I could not see the moon so well. I may decide to buy that property.”
When Thomas had gone and he was alone at last, Truedale heaved a heavy sigh. It seemed to relieve the restraint under which he had been labouring for weeks.
All his life the possibility of escape from his bondage had made the bondage less unendurable. It was like knowing of a secret passage from his prison house—an exit dark and attended by doubts and fears, but nevertheless a sure passage to freedom. It had seemed, in the past, a cowardly thing to avail himself of his knowledge—it was like going with his debts unpaid. But now, in the bright, moonlit room it no longer appeared so. He had finished his task, had ended the bungling, and had heard a clear call ringing with commendation and approval. There was nothing to hold him back!
Over in the cabinet by the window were a photograph and a few letters; Truedale turned toward them and wondered if Lynda, instead of his old friend McPherson, would find them? He wished he had spoken—but after all, he could not wait. He had definitely decided to take the journey! But he spoke softly as if to a Presence:
“And so—you played a part? Poor girl! how well—you played it! And you—suffered—oh! my God—and I never did you the justice of understanding. And you left your girl—to me—I have tried not to fail you there, Katherine!”
Then Truedale reached for the bottle. He took a swallow of the contents and waited! Presently he took another and a thrill of exhilaration stirred his sluggish blood. Weakly, gropingly, he stretched his benumbed hand out again; he was well on his way now. The long journey was begun in the moonlight and, strange to say, it did not grow dark, nor did he seem to be alone. This surprised him vaguely, he had always expected it would be so different!
And by and by one face alone confronted him—it was brighter than the moonlit way. It smiled understandingly—it, too, had faced the broad highway—it could afford to smile.
Once more the heavy, dead-cold hand moved toward the stand beside the bed, but it fell nerveless ere it reached what it sought.
The escape had been achieved!
CHAPTER V
The days passed and, unfettered, Jim White remained in the deep woods. After Nella-Rose’s disturbing but thrilling advent, Truedale rebounded sharply and, alone in his cabin, brought himself to terms. By a rigid arraignment he relegated, or thought he had relegated, the whole matter to the realm of things he should not have permitted, but which had done no real harm. He brought out the heavy book on philosophy and endeavoured to study. After a few hours he even resorted to the wet towel, thinking that suggestion might assist him, but Nella-Rose persistently and impishly got between his eyes and the pages and flouted philosophy by the magic of her superstition and bewitching charm.
Then Truedale attacked his play, viciously, commandingly. This was more successful. He reconstructed his plot somewhat—he let Nella-Rose in! Curbed and somewhat re-modelled, she materialized and, while he dealt strictly with her, writing was possible.
So the first day and night passed. On the second day Truedale’s new strength demanded exercise and recreation. He couldn’t be expected to lock himself in until White returned to chaperone him. After all, there was no need of being a fool. So he packed a gunny sack with food and a book or two, and sallied forth, after providing generously for the live stock and calling the dogs after him.
But Truedale was unaware of what was going on about him. Pine Cone Settlement had, since the trap episode, been tense and waiting. Not many things occurred in the mountains and when they did they were made the most of. With significant silence the friends and foes of Burke Lawson were holding themselves in check until he returned to his old haunts; then there would be considerable shooting—not necessarily fatal, a midnight raid or two, a general rumpus, and eventually, a truce.
All this Jim White knew, and it was the propelling factor that had sent him to the deep woods. His sentiments conflicted with duty. Guilty as Lawson was, the sheriff liked him better than he did Martin and he meant, should he come across Burke in “the sticks,” to take him off for a bear hunt and some good advice. Thus he would justify his conscience and legal duties. But White, strange to say, was as ignorant as Truedale was of an element that had entered into conditions. It had never occurred to Jim to announce or explain his visitor’s arrival. To Pine Cone a “furriner” aroused at best but a superficial interest and, since Truedale had arrived, unseen, at night, why mention him to a community that could not possibly have anything in common with him? So it was that Greyson and a few others, noting Truedale at a distance and losing sight of him at once, concluded that he was Burke, back and in hiding; and a growing but stealthy excitement was in the air. He was supposed by both factions to be with the sheriff, and feeling ran high. In the final estimate, could White have known it, he himself held no small part!
Beloved and hated, Lawson divided the community for and against himself about equally. There were those who defended and swore they would kill any who harmed the young outlaw—he was of the jovial, dare-devil type and as loyal to his friends as he was unyielding to his foes. Others declared that the desperado must be “finished”; the trap disagreement was but the last of a long list of crimes; it was time to put a quietus on one who refused to fall into line—who called the sheriff his friend and had been known to hobnob with revenue men! That, perhaps, was the blackest deed to be attributed to any native.
So all Pine Cone was on the war path and Truedale, heedless and unaware, took his air and exercise at his peril.
The men of the hills had a clear case now, since Peter Greyson had given his evidence, which, by the way, became more conclusive hour by hour as imagination, intoxication, and the delight of finding himself important, grew upon Greyson.
“Jim told me,” Peter had confided to Jed Martin, “that he was going to get a posse from way-back and round Lawson up.”
This was wholly false. White never took any one into his business secrets, least of all Greyson for whom he had deep contempt. “But I don’t call that clean to us-all, Jed. We don’t want strangers to catch Burke; we don’t want them to—to string him up or shoot him full of holes; what we-all want is to force White to hand him over to justice, give him a fair trial, and then send him to one of them prison traps to eat his soul out behind bars. Jed—just you shut your eyes and see Burke Lawson behind bars—eating sop from a pan, drinking prison water—just you call that picture up.”
Jed endeavoured to do so and it grew upon his imagination.
“We-all wants to trail him,” Greyson continued, “we don’t want to give him a free passage to Kingdom-Come by rope or shot—we-all want prison for Lawson, prison!”
As Jed was the one most concerned, this edict went abroad by mountain wireless.
“Catch him alive!” Friend and foe were alert.
“And when all’s fixed and done—when Burke’s trapped,” Greyson said, “what you going to do—for me, Jed?”
This was a startling, new development.
“I didn’t reckon yo’ war doin’ this—fur pay!” Jed faltered. Then Greyson came forth:
“No pay, Jed. Gawd knows I do my duty as I see it. But being keen about duty, I see more than one duty. When you catch and cage Lawson, Jed, I want to be something closer to you than a friend.”
“Closer than—” Jed gasped.
“And duty drives me to confess to you, Jed, that the happiness of a lady is at stake.”
Jed merely gaped now. Visions of Nella-Rose made him giddy and speechless.
“The day you put Lawson in jail, Jed, that day I’ll give you the hand of my daughter. She loves you; she has confessed! You shall come here and share—everything! The hour that Burke is convicted—Marg is yours!”
“Marg!” The word came on a gasp.
“Not a word!” Greyson waved his hand in a princely way—this gesture was an heirloom from his ancestry. “I understand your feelings—I’ve seen what has been going on—but naturally I want my daughter to marry one worthy of her. You shall have my Marg when you have proven yourself! I’ve misjudged you, Jed, but this will wipe away old scores.”
With a sickening sense of being absorbed, Jed sank into black silence. If Marg wanted him and old Greyson was helping her, there was no hope! Blood and desire would conquer every time; every mountaineer recognized that!
And so things were seething under a surface of deadly calm, when Truedale, believing that he had himself well in control, packed his gunny sack and started forth for a long tramp. He had no particular destination in mind—in fact, the soft, dreamy autumn day lulled him to mental inertia—he simply went along, but he went as directly toward the rhododendron slick as though he had long planned his actions. However, it was late afternoon before he came upon Nella-Rose.
On the instant he realized that he had been searching for her all day. His stern standards crumbled and became dry dust. One might as well apply standards to flickering sunlight or to swirling trifles of mountain mist as to Nella-Rose. She came upon him gaily; the dogs had discovered her on one of their ventures and were now quietly accompanying her.
“I—I’ve been looking for you—all day!” Truedale admitted, with truth but indiscretion. And then he noted, as he had before, the strange impression the girl gave of having been blown upon the scene. The pretty, soft hair resting on the cheek in a bewildering curve; the large, dreamy eyes and black lashes; the close clinging of her shabby costume, as if wrapped about her slim body by the playful gale that had wafted her along; all held part in the illusion.
“I had to—to lead Marg to Devil-may-come Hollow. She’s hunting there now!” Nella-Rose’s white teeth showed in a mischievous smile. “We’re right safe with Marg down there, scurrying around. Come, I know a sunny place—I want to tell you about Marg.”
Her childish appropriation of him completed Truedale’s surrender. The absolute lack of self-consciousness drove the last remnant of caution away. They found the sunny spot—it was like a dimple in a hill that had caught the warmth and brightness and held them always to the exclusion of shadows. It almost seemed that night could never conquer the nook.
And while they rested there, Nella-Rose told him of the belief of the natives that he was the refugee Lawson.
“And Marg would give you up like—er—this” (Nella-Rose puffed an imaginary trifle away with her pretty pursed lips). “She trailed after me all day—she lost me in a place where hiding’s good—and there I left her! She’ll tell Jed Martin this evening when she gets back. Marg is scenting Burke for Jed and his kind to catch—that’s her way and Jed’s!” Stinging contempt rang in the girl’s voice.
“But not your way I bet, Nella-Rose.” The fun, not the danger, of the situation struck Truedale.
“No!—I’d do it all myself! I’d either warn him and have done with it, or I’d stand by him.”
“I’m not sure that I like the misunderstanding about me,” Truedale half playfully remarked, “they may shoot me in the back before they find out.”
“Do you” (and here Nella-Rose’s face fell into serious, dangerously sweet, lines), “do you reckon I would leave you to them-all if there was that danger? They don’t aim to shoot or string Burke up; they reckon they’ll take him alive and—get him locked up in jail to—to—”
“What, Nella-Rose?”
“Die of longing!”
“Is that what would happen to Burke Lawson?”
The girl nodded. Then the entrancing mischief returned to her eyes and she became a child once more—a creature so infinitely young that Truedale seemed grandfatherly by comparison.
“Can’t you see how mighty funny it will be to lead them and let them follow on and then some day—they’ll plump right up on you and find out! Godda’mighty!”
Irresponsible mirth swayed the girl to and fro. She laughed, silently, until the tears stood in the clear eyes. Truedale caught the spirit of her mood and laughed with her. The picture she portrayed of setting jealousy, malice, and stupidity upon the wrong trail was very funny, but suddenly he paused and said seriously:
“But in the meantime this Burke Lawson may return; you may be the death of him with your pranks.”
Nella-Rose shook her head. “I would know!” she declared confidently. “I know everything that’s going on in the hills. Burke would let me know—first!”
“It’s like melodrama,” Truedale murmured half to himself. By some trick of fancy he seemed to be looking on as Brace Kendall might have. The thought brought him to bay. What would good old Brace do in the present situation?
“What is melodrama?” Nella-Rose never let a new word or suggestion escape her. She was as keen as she was dramatic and mischievous.
“It would be hard to make you understand—but see here”—Truedale drew the gunny sack to him—“I bet you’re hungry!” He deliberately put Brace from his thoughts.
“I reckon I am.” The lovely eyes were fixed upon the hand that was bringing forth the choicest morsels of the food prepared early that morning. As he laid the little feast before her, Truedale acknowledged that, in a vague way, he had been saving the morsels for Nella-Rose even while he had fed, earlier, upon coarser fare.
“I don’t know about giving you a chicken wing!” he said playfully. “You look as if you were about to fly away as it is—but unfortunately I’ve eaten both legs!”
“Oh! please”—Nella-Rose reached across the narrow space separating them, she was pleading prettily—“I just naturally admire wings!”
“I bet you do! Well, eat plenty of bread with them. And see here, Nella-Rose, while you are eating I’m going to read a story to you. It is the sort of thing that we call melodrama.”
“Oh!” This through the dainty nibbling of the coveted wing. “I’m right fond of stories.”
“Keep quiet now!” commanded Truedale and he began the spirited tale of love and high adventure that, like the tidbits, he knew he had brought for Nella-Rose!
The warm autumn sun fell upon them for a full hour, then it shifted and the chill of the approaching evening warned the reader of the flight of time. He stopped suddenly to find that his companion had long since forgotten her hunger and food. Across the débris she bent, absorbed and tense. Her hands were clasped close—cold, little hands they were—and her big eyes were strained and wonder-filled.
“Is that—all?” she asked, hoarsely.
“Why, no, child, there’s more.”
“Go on!”
“It’s too late! We must get back.”
“I—I must know the rest! Why, don’t you see, you know how it turns out; I don’t!”
“Shall I tell you?”
“No, no. I want it here with the warm sun and the pines and your—yourself making it real.”
“I do not understand, Nella-Rose!” But as he spoke Truedale began to understand and it gave him an uneasy moment. He knew what he ought to do, but knew that he was not going to do it! “We’ll have to come again and hear the rest,” was what he said.
“Yes? Why”—and here the shadowy eyes took on the woman-look, the look that warned and lured the man near her—“I did not know it ever came like that—really.”
“What, Nella-Rose?”
“Why—love. They-all knew it—and took it. It was just like it was something all by itself. That’s not the sort us-all have. Does it only come that—er—way in mel—melerdrammer?”
“No, little girl. It comes that way in real life when hearts are big enough and strong enough to bear it.” Truedale watched the effect of his words upon the strange, young face before him. They forced their way through her ignorance and untrained yearning for love and admiration. It was a perilous moment, for conscience, on Truedale’s part, seemed drugged and sleeping and Nella-Rose was awakening to that which she had never known before. Gone, for her, were caprice and mischief; she seemed about to see and hear some wonderful thing that eluded but called her on.
And after that first day they met often. “Happened upon each other” was the way Truedale put it. It seemed very natural. The picturesque spots appealed to them both. There was reading, too—carefully selected bits. It was intensely interesting to lead the untrained mind into bewildering mazes—to watch surprise, wonder, and perplexity merge into understanding and enjoyment. Truedale experienced the satisfaction of seeing that, for the first time in his life, he was a great power. The thought set his brain whirling a bit, but it made him seriously humble as well.
Gradually his doubts and introspections became more definite; he lived day by day, hour by hour; while Jim White tarried, Nella-Rose remained; and the past—Truedale’s past—faded almost from sight. He could hardly realize, when thinking of it afterward, where and how he decided to cut loose from his past, and all it meant, and accept a future almost ludicrously different from anything he had contemplated.
One day a reference to Burke Lawson was made and, instead of letting it pass as heretofore, he asked suddenly of Nella-Rose:
“What is he to you?”
The girl flushed and turned away.
“Burke?—oh, Burke isn’t—anything—now!”
“Was he ever—anything?”
“I reckon he wasn’t; I know he wasn’t!”
Then, like a flash, Truedale believed he understood what had happened. This simple girl meant more to him than anything else—more than the past and what it held! A baser man would not have been greatly disturbed by this knowledge; a man with more experience and background would have understood it and known that it was a phase that must be dealt with sternly and uncompromisingly, but that it was merely a phase and as such bound to pass. Not so Truedale. He was stirred to the roots of his being; every experience was to him a concrete fact and, consequently, momentous. In order to keep pure the emotions that overpowered him at times, he must renounce all that separated him from Nella-Rose and reconstruct his life; or—he must let her go!
Once Truedale began to reason this out, once he saw Nella-Rose’s dependence upon him—her trust and happiness—he capitulated and permitted his imagination to picture and colour the time on ahead. He refused to turn a backward glance.
Of course all this was not achieved without struggle and foreboding; but he saw no way to hold what once was dear, without dishonour to that which now was dearer; and he—let go!
This determined, he strenuously began to prepare himself for the change. Day by day he watched Nella-Rose with new and far-seeing interest—not always with love and passion-blinded eyes. He felt that she could, with his devotion and training, develop into a rarely sweet and fine woman. He was not always a fool in his madness; at times he was wonderfully clear-sighted. He meant to return home, when once his health was restored, and take the Kendalls into his confidence; but the thought of Lynda gave him a bad moment now and then. He could not easily depose her from the most sacred memories of his life, but gradually he grew to believe that her relations to him were—had always been—platonic; and that she, in the new scheme, would play no small part in his life and Nella-Rose’s.
There would be years of self-denial and labour and then, by and by, success would be achieved. He would take his finished work, and in this he included Nella-Rose, back to his old haunts and prove his wisdom and good fortune. In short, Truedale was love-mad—ready to fling everything to the ruthless winds of passion. He blindly called things by wrong names and steered straight for the rocks.
He meant well, as God knew; indeed all the religious elements, hitherto unsuspected in him, came to the fore now. Conventions were absurd when applied to present conditions, but, once having accepted the inevitable, the way was divinely radiant. He meant to pay the price for what he yearned after. He had no other intention.
Now that he was resigned to letting the past go, he could afford to revel in the joys of the present with a glad sense of responsibility for the future.
Presently his course seemed so natural that he wondered he had ever questioned it. More and more men with a vision—and Truedale devoutly believed he had the vision—were recognizing the absurdity of old ideals.
Back to the soil meant more than the physical; it meant back to the primitive, the simple, the real. The artificial exactions of society must be spurned if a new and higher morality were to be established.
If Truedale in this state of mind had once seen the actual danger, all might have been well; but he had swung out of his orbit.
At this juncture Nella-Rose was puzzling her family to the extent of keeping her father phenomenally sober and driving Marg to the verge of nerve exhaustion.
The girl had, to put it in Greyson’s words, “grown up over night.” She was dazzling and recalled a past that struck deep in the father’s heart.
There had been a time when Peter Greyson, a mere boy, to be sure—and before the cruel war had wrecked the fortunes of his family—had been surrounded by such women as Nella-Rose now suggested. Women with dancing eyes and soft, white hands. Women born and bred for love and homage, who demanded their privileges with charm and beauty. There had been one fascinating woman, a great-aunt of Nella-Rose’s, who had imperilled the family honour by taking her heritage of worship with a high hand. Disregarding the rights of another, she boldly rode off with the man of her choice and left the reconstruction of her reputation to her kith and kin who roused instantly to action and lied, like ladies and gentlemen, when truth was impossible. Eventually they so toned down and polished the deed of the little social highwaywoman as to pass her on in the family history with an escutcheon shadowed only, rather than smirched.
Nella-Rose, now that her father considered, was dangerously like her picturesque ancestress! The thought kept Peter from the still, back in the woods, for many a day. He, poor down-at-heel fellow, was as ready as any man of his line to protect women, especially his own, but he was sorely perplexed now.
Was it Burke Lawson who, from his hiding place, was throwing a glamour over Nella-Rose?
Then Peter grew ugly. The protection of women was one thing; ridding the community of an outlaw was another. Men knew how to deal with such matters and Greyson believed himself to be very much of a man.
“Nella-Rose,” he said one day as he smoked reflectively and listened to his younger daughter singing a camp meeting hymn in a peculiarly sweet little voice, “when my ship comes in, honey, I’m going to buy you a harp. A gold one.”
“I’d rather have a pink frock, father, and a real hat; I just naturally hate sunbonnets! I’d favour a feather on my hat—flowers fade right easy.”
“But harps is mighty elegant, Nella-Rose. Time was when your—aunts and—and grandmothers took to harps like they was their daily nourishment. Don’t you ever forget that, Nella-Rose. Harps in families mean blood, and blood don’t run out if you’re careful of it.”
Nella-Rose laughed, but Marg, in the wash-house beyond, listened and—hated!
No one connected her with harps or blood, but she held, in her sullen heart and soul, the true elements of all that had gone into the making of the best Greysons. And as the winter advanced, Marg, worn in mind and body, was brought face to face with stern reality. Autumn was gone—though the languorous hours belied it. She must prepare. So she gathered her forces—her garden products that could be exchanged for necessities; the pork; the wool; all, all that could be spared, she must set in circulation. So she counted three dozen eggs and weighed ten pounds of pork and called Nella-Rose, who was driving her mad by singing and romping outside the kitchen door.
“You—Nella-Rose!” she called, “are you plumb crazy?”
Nella-Rose became demure at once and presented herself at the door.
“Do I look it?” she said, turning her wonderful little face up for inspection. Something in the words and in the appealing beauty made Marg quiver. Had happiness and justice been meted out to Marg Greyson she would have been the tenderest of sisters to Nella-Rose. Several years lay between them; the younger girl was encroaching upon the diminishing rights of the older. The struggle between them was as old as life itself, but it could not kill utterly what should have existed ardently.
“You got to tote these things”—Marg held forth the basket—“down to the Centre for trade, and you can fetch back the lil’ things like pepper, salt, and sugar. Tell Cal Merrivale to fetch the rest and bargain for what I’ve got ready here, when he drives by. If you start now you can be back by sundown.”
To Marg’s surprise, Nella-Rose offered no protest to the seven-mile walk, nor to the heavy load. She promptly pulled her sunbonnet to the proper angle on her head and gripped the basket.
“Ain’t you goin’ to eat first?” asked Marg.
“No. Put in a bite; I’ll eat it by the way.”
As the Centre was in the opposite direction from the Hollow, as seven miles going and seven miles coming would subdue the spirits and energy even of Nella-Rose, Marg was perplexed. However, she prepared food, tucked it in the basket, and even went so far as to pin her sister’s shawl closely under her chin. Then she watched the slim, straight figure depart—still puzzled but at peace for the day, at least.
Nella-Rose, however, was plotting an attack upon Truedale quite out of the common. By unspoken consent he and she had agreed that their meetings should be in the open. Jim White might return at anytime and neither of them wanted at first to include him in the bewildering drama of their lives. For different reasons they knew that Jim’s cold understanding of duty would shatter the sacred security that was all theirs. Truedale meant to confide everything to White upon his return—meant to rely upon him in the reconstruction of his life; but he knew nothing could be so fatal to the future as any conflict at the present with the sheriff’s strict ideas of conduct. As for Nella-Rose, she had reason to fear White’s power as woman-hater and upholder of law and order. She simply eliminated Jim and, in order to do this, she must keep him in the dark.
Early that morning she had looked, as she did every day, from the hill behind the house and she had seen but one thin curl of smoke from the clearing! If White had not returned the night before the chances were that he would make another day of it! Nella-Rose often wondered why others did not note the tell-tale smoke—a clue which often played a vital part in the news of the hills. Only because thoughts were focussed on the Hollow and on White’s absence, was Truedale secure in his privacy.
“I’ll hurry mighty fast to the Centre,” Nella-Rose concluded, after escaping from Marg’s disturbed gaze, “then I’ll hide the things by the big road and I’ll—go to his cabin. I’ll—I’ll surprise him!”
Truedale had told her the day before, in a moment of caution, that he would have to work hard for a time in order to make ready for White’s return. The fact was he had now got to that point in his story when he longed for Jim as he might have longed for safety on a troubled sea. With Jim back and fully informed—everything on ahead would be safe.
“I’ll surprise him!” murmured Nella-Rose, with the dimples in full play at the corners of her mouth; “old Jim White can’t keep me away. I’ll watch out—it’s just for a minute; I’ll be back by sundown; it will be only to say ‘how-de?’”
Something argued with the girl as she ran on—something quite new and uncontrolled. Heretofore no law but that of the wilds had entered into her calculations. To get what she could of happiness and life—to make as little fuss as possible—that had been her code; but now, the same restraint that had held Marg from going to the Hollow awhile back, when she thought that, with night, Burke Lawson might disclose his whereabouts, held Nella-Rose! So insistent was the rising argument that it angered the girl. “Why? Why?” her longings and desires cried. “Because! Because!” was the stern response, and the woman in Nella-Rose thrilled and throbbed and trembled, while the girlish spirit pleaded for the excitement of joy and sweetness that was making the grim stretches of her narrow existence radiant and full of meaning.
On she went doggedly. The dimples disappeared; the mouth fell into the pathetic, drooping lines that by and by, unless something saved Nella-Rose, would become permanent and mark her as a hill-woman—one to whom soul visions were denied.
CHAPTER VI
Wisdom had all but conquered Nella-Rose’s folly when she came in sight of Calvin Merrivale’s store. But—who knows?—perhaps the girl’s story had been written long since, and she was not entirely free. Be that as it may, she paused, for no reason whatever as far as she could tell, and carefully took one dozen eggs from the basket and hid them under some bushes by the road! Having done this she went forward so blithely and lightly that one might have thought her load had been considerably eased. She appeared before Calvin Merrivale, presently, like a refreshing apparition from vacancy. It was high noon and Merrivale was dozing in a chair by the rusty stove, in which a fire, prepared against the evening chill, was already burning.
“How-de, Mister Merrivale?” Calvin sprang to his feet.
“If it ain’t lil’ Nella-Rose. How’se you-all?”
“Right smart. I’ve brought you three dozen eggs and ten pounds of pork.” Nella-Rose almost said po’k—not quite! “And you must be mighty generous with me when you weigh out—let me see!—oh, yes, pepper, salt, and sugar.”
“I’ll lay a siftin’ more in the scale, Nella-Rose, on ’count o’ yo’ enjoyin’ ways. But I can’t make this out”—he was counting the eggs—“yo’ said three dozen aigs?”
“Three dozen, and ten pounds of pork!” This very firmly.
Merrivale counted again and as he did so Nella-Rose remembered! The red came to her face—the tears to her ashamed eyes.
“Stop!” she said softly, going close to the old man. “I forgot. I took one dozen out!”
Merrivale stood and looked at her and then, what he thought was understanding, came to his assistance.
“Who fo’, Nella-Rose, who fo’?”
There was no reply to this.
“Yo’ needn’t be afraid to open yo’ mind ter me, Nella-Rose. Keeping sto’ is a mighty help in gettin’ an all-around knowin’ o’ things. Folks jest naterally come here an’ talk an’ jest naterally I listen, an’ ’twixt Jim White, the sheriff, an’ old Merrivale, there ain’t much choosin’, jedgmatically speakin’. I know White’s off an’ plannin’ ter round up Burke Lawson from behind, as it war. T’warnt so in my day, lil’ Nella-Rose. When we-uns had a reckonin comin’, we naterally went out an’ shot our man; but these torn-down scoundrels like Jed Martin an’ his kind they trap ’em an’ send ’em to worse’n hell. Las’ night”—and here Merrivale bent close to Nella-Rose—“my hen coop was ’tarnally gone through, an’ a bag o’ taters lifted. I ain’t makin’ no cry-out. I ain’t forgot the year o’ the fever an’—an’—well, yo’ know who—took care o’ me day an’ night till I saw faces an’ knew ’em! What’s a matter o’ a hen o’ two an’ a sack o’ taters when lined up agin that fever spell? I tell yo’, Nella-Rose, if yo’ say thar war three dozen aigs, thar war three dozen aigs, an’ we’ll bargain accordin’!”
And now the dimples came slowly to the relieved face.
“I’ll—I’ll bring you an extra dozen right soon, Mister Merrivale.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ ter flex my soul ’bout that, Nella-Rose. Aigs is aigs, but human nater is human nater; an’ keepin’ a store widens yo’ stretch o’ vision. Now, watch out, lil’ girl, an’ don’t take too much fo’ granted. When a gun goes off yo’ hear it; but when skunks trail, yo’ don’t get no sign, ’less it’s a smell!”
Nella-Rose took her packages, smiled her thanks, and ran on. She ate her lunch by the bushes where the eggs lay hidden, then depositing in the safe shelter the home bundles Merrivale had so generously weighed, she put the eggs in the basket, packed with autumn leaves, and turned into the trail leading away from the big road.
Through the bare trees the clear sky shone like a shield of blue-gray metal. It was a sky open for storm to come and pass unchecked. The very stillness and calm were warnings of approaching disturbance. Nature was listening and waiting for the breaking up of autumn and the clutch of frost.
It was only two miles from the Centre to White’s clearing and the afternoon was young when Nella-Rose paused at the foot of the last climb and took breath and courage. There was a tangled mass of rhododendrons by the edge of the wood and suddenly the girl’s eyes became fixed upon it and her heart beat wildly. Something alive was crouching there, though none but a trained sense could have detected it! They waited—the hidden creature and the quivering girl! Then a pair of eager, suspicious eyes shone between the dead leaves of the bushes; next a dark, thin face peered forth—it was Burke Lawson’s! Nella-Rose clutched her basket closer—that was all. After a moment she spoke softly, but clearly:
“I’m alone. You’re safe. How long have you been back?”
“Mor’n two weeks!”
Nella-Rose started. So they had known all along, and while she had played with Marg the hunt might at any moment have become deadly earnest.
“More’n two weeks,” Lawson repeated.
“Where?” The girl’s voice was hard and cold.
“In the Holler. Miss Lois Ann helped—but Lord! you can’t eat a helpless old woman out of house and home. Last night—”
“Yes, yes; I know. And oh, Burke, Mister Merrivale hasn’t forgot—the fever and your goodness. He won’t give you up.”
“He won’t need to. I’m right safe, ’cept for food. There’s an old hole, back of a deserted still—I can even have a bit of fire. The devil himself couldn’t find me. After a time I’m going—”
“Where? Where, Burke?”
“Nella-Rose, would you come with me? ’Twas you as brought me back—I had to come. If you will—oh! my doney-gal—”
“Stop! stop, Burke. Some one might be near. No, no; I couldn’t leave the hills—I’d die from the longing, you know that!”
“If I—dared them all—could you take me, Nella-Rose? I’d run my chances with you! Night and day you tug and pull at the heart o’ me, Nella-Rose.”
Fear, and a deeper understanding, drove Nella-Rose to the wrong course.
“When you dare to come out—when they-all let you stay out—then ask me again, Burke Lawson. I’m not going to sweetheart with one who dare not show his head.”
Her one desire was to get Lawson away; she must be free!
“Nella-Rose, I’ll come out o’ this.”
“No! no!” the girl gasped, “they’re not after you to shoot you, Burke; Jed Martin is for putting you in jail!”
“Good God—the sneaking coward.”
“And Jim White is off raising a posse, he means to—to see fair play. Wait until Jim comes back; then give yourself up.”
“And then—then, Nella-Rose?”
The young, keen face among the dead leaves glowed with a light that sent the blood from Nella-Rose’s heart.
“See”—she said inconsequently—“I have” (she counted them out), “I have a dozen eggs; give them to Miss Lois Ann!”
“Let me touch you, Nella-Rose! Just let me touch your lil’ hand.”
“Wait until Jim White comes back!”
Then, because a rabbit scurried from its shelter, Burke Lawson sank into his, and Nella-Rose in mad haste took to the trail and was gone! A moment later Lawson peered out again and tried to decide which way she went, but his wits were confused—so he laughed that easy, fearless laugh of his and put in his hat the eggs Nella-Rose had left. Then, crawling and edging along, he retraced his steps to that hole in the Hollow where he knew he was as safe as if he were in his grave.
With distance and reassurance on her side, Nella-Rose paused to take breath. She had been thoroughly frightened. Her beautiful plans, unsuspected by all the world, had been threatened by an unlooked-for danger. She had never contemplated Burke Lawson as a complication. She was living day by day, hour by hour. Jim White she had accepted as a menace—but Burke never! She was no longer the girl Lawson had known, but how could she hope to make him understand that? Her tender, love-seeking nature had, in the past, accepted the best the mountains offered—and Burke had been the best. She had played with him—teased Marg with him—revelled in the excitement, but now? Well, the blindness had been torn from her eyes—the shackles from her feet. No one, nothing, could hold her from her own! She must not be defrauded and imprisoned again!
Yes, that was it—imprisoned just when she had learned to use her wings!
Standing in the tangle of undergrowth, Nella-Rose clenched her small hands and raised wide eyes to the skies.
“I seem,” she panted—and at that moment all her untamed mysticism swayed her—“like I was going along the tracks in the dark and something is coming—something like that train long ago!”
Then she closed her eyes and her uplifted face softened and quivered. Behind the drooping lids she saw—Truedale! Quite vividly he materialized to her excited fancy. It was the first time she had ever been able to command him in this fashion.
“I’m going to him!” The words were like a passionate prayer rather than an affirmation. “I’m going to follow like I followed long ago!” She clutched the basket and fled along.
And while this was happening, Truedale, in his cabin, was working as he had not worked in years. He had burned all his bridges and outlying outposts; he was waiting for White, and his plans were completed. He meant to confide everything to his only friend—for such Jim seemed in the hazy and desolated present—then he would marry Nella-Rose off-hand; there must be a minister somewhere! After that? Well, after that Truedale grasped his manuscript and fell to work like one inspired.
Lynda Kendall would never have known the play in its present form. Truedale’s ideal had always been to portray a free woman—a super-woman; one who had evolved into the freedom from shattered chains. He now had a heroine free, in that she had never been enslaved. If one greater than he had put a soul in a statue, Truedale believed that he could awaken a child of nature and show her her own beautiful soul. He had outlined, a time back, a sylvan Galatea; and now, as he sat in the still room, the framework assumed form and substance; it breathed and moved him divinely. It and he were alone in the universe; they were to begin the world—he and—
Just then the advance messenger of the coming change of weather entered by way of a lowered window. It was a smart little breeze and it flippantly sent the ashes flying on the hearth and several sheets of paper broadcast in the room. Truedale sprang to recover his treasures; he caught four or five, but one escaped his notice and floated toward the door, which was ajar.
“Whew!” he ejaculated, “that was a narrow escape,” and he began to sort and arrange the sheets on the table.
“Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two. Now where in thunder is that sixty-three?”
A light touch on his arm made him spring to his feet, every nerve a-tingle.
“Here it is! It seemed like it came to meet me.”
“Nella-Rose!”
The girl nodded, holding out the paper.
“So you have come? Why—did you?”
The dimples came into play and Truedale stood watching them while many emotions flayed him; but gradually his weakness passed and he was able to assume an extremely stern though kindly manner. He meant to set the child right; he meant to see only the child in her until White returned; he would ignore the perilously sweet woman-appeal to his senses until such time as he could, with safety, let them once more hold part in their relations with each other.
But even as he arrived at this wise conclusion, he was noting, as often before he had noted, the fascinating colour and quality of Nella-Rose’s hair. It was both dark and light. If smoke were filled with sunlight it would be something like the mass of more or less loosened tendrils that crowned the girl’s pretty head. Stern resolve began to melt before the girlish sweetness and audacity, but Truedale made one last struggle; he thought of staunch and true Brace Kendall! And, be it to Brace Kendall’s credit, the course Conning endeavoured to take was a wise one.
“See here, Nella-Rose, you ought not to come here—alone!”
“Why? Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Of course. But why did you come?” This was risky. Truedale recognized it at once.
“Just to say—‘how-de’! You certainly do look scroogy.”
At this Truedale laughed. Nella-Rose’s capacity for bringing forth his happier, merrier nature was one of her endearing charms.
“You didn’t come just for that, Nella-Rose!” This with stern disapproval.
“Take off the scroogy face—then I’ll tell you why I came.”
“Very well!” Truedale smiled weakly. “Why?”
“I’m right hungry. I—I want a party.”
Of course this would never do. White, or one of the blood-and-thunder raiders, might appear.
“You must go, Nella-Rose.”
“Not”—here she sat down firmly and undid her ridiculous plaid shawl—“not till you give me a bite. Just a mighty little bite—I’m starving!”
At this Truedale roared with laughter and went hurriedly to his closet. The girl must eat and—go. Mechanically he set about placing food upon the table. Then he sat opposite Nella-Rose while she ate with frank enjoyment the remains of his own noon-day meal. He could not but note, as he often did, the daintiness with which she accomplished the task. Other women, as Truedale remembered, were not prepossessing when attacking food; but this girl made a gracious little ceremony of the affair. She placed the small dishes in orderly array before her; she poised herself lightly on the edge of the chair and nibbled—there was no other word for it—as a perky little chipmunk might, the morsels she raised gracefully to her mouth. She was genuinely hungry and for a few minutes devoted her attention to the matter in hand.
Then, suddenly, Nella-Rose did something that shattered the last scrap of self-control that was associated with the trusty Kendall and his good example. She raised a bit of food on her fork and held it out to Truedale, her lovely eyes looking wistfully into his.
“Please! I feel so ornery eating alone. I want to—share! Please play party with me!”
Truedale tried to say “I had my dinner an hour ago”; instead, he leaned across his folded arms and murmured, as if quite outside his own volition:
“I—I love you!”
Nella-Rose dropped the fork and leaned back. Her lids fell over the wide eyes—the smile faded from her lips.
“Do you belong to any one—else, Nella-Rose?”
“No—oh! no.” This like a frightened cry.
“But others—some one must have told you—of love. Do you know what love means?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
And now she looked at him. Her eyes were dark, her face deadly pale; her lips were so red that in the whiteness they seemed the only trace of colour.
“How do I know? Why because—nothing else matters. It seems like I’ve been coming all my life to it—and now it just says: ‘Here I am, Nella-Rose—here’!”
“I, too, have been coming to it all my life, little girl. I did not know—I was driven. I rebelled, because I did not know; but nothing else does matter, when—love gets you!”
“No. Nothing matters.” The girl’s voice was rapt and dreamy. Truedale put his hands across the space dividing them and took hold of hers.
“You will be—mine, Nella-Rose?”
“Seems like I must be!”
“Yes. Doesn’t it? Do you—you must understand, dear? I mean to live the rest of my life here in the hills—your hills. You once said one was of the hills or one wasn’t; will they let me stay?”
“Yes”—almost fiercely—“but—but your folks—off there—will they let you stay?”
“I have no folks, Nella-Rose. I’m lonely and poor—at least I was until I found you! The hills have given me—everything; I mean to serve them well in return. I want you for my wife, Nella-Rose; we’ll make a home—somewhere—it doesn’t matter; it will be a shelter for our love and—” He stopped short. Reality and conventions made a last vain appeal. “I don’t want you ever again to go out of my sight. You’re mine and nothing could make that different—but” (and this came quickly, desperately) “there must be a minister somewhere—let’s go to him! Do not let us waste another precious day. When he makes you mine by his”—Truedale was going to say “ridiculous jargon” but he modified it to—“his authority, no one in all God’s world can take you from me. Come, come now, sweetheart!”
In another moment he would have had her in his arms, but she held him off.
“I’m mighty afraid of old Jim White!” she said.
Truedale laughed, but the words brought him to his senses.
“Then you must go, darling, until White returns. After I have explained to him I will come for you, but first let me hold you—so! and kiss you—so! This is why—you must go, my love!”
She was in his arms, her lifted face pressed to his. She shivered, but clung to him for a moment and two tears rolled down her cheeks—the first he had ever seen escape her control. He kissed them away.
“Of what are you thinking, Nella-Rose?”
“Thinking? I’m not thinking; I’m—happy!”
“My—sweetheart!” Again Truedale pressed his lips to hers.
“Us-all calls sweetheart—‘doney-gal’!”
“My—my doney-gal, then!”
“And”—the words came muffled, for Truedale was holding her still—“and always I shall see your face, now. It came to-day like it came long ago. It will always come and make me glad.”
Truedale lifted her from his breast and held her at arms’ length. He looked deep into her eyes, trying to pierce through her ignorance and childishness to find the elusive woman that could meet and bear its part in what lay before. Long they gazed at each other—then the light in Nella-Rose’s face quivered—her mouth drooped.
“I’m going now,” she said, “going till Jim White comes back.”
“Wait—my—”
But the girl had slipped from his grasp; she was gone into the misty, threatening grayness that had closed in about them while love had carried them beyond their depths. Then the rain began to fall—heavy, warning drops. The wind, too, was rising sullenly like a monster roused from its sleep and slowly gathering power to vent its rage.
Into this darkening storm Nella-Rose fled unheedingly. She was not herself—not the girl of the woods, wise in mountain lore; she was bewitched and half mad with the bewildering emotions that, at one moment frightened her—the next, carried her closer to the spiritual than she had ever been.