An exclamation formed of a trembling sigh was her first word, but she went on almost at once.
"He--he said _awful_ thin"s! He said he couldn"t _stan"_ to see me "n"
you together no more, "n" he said he"s goin"--he"s goin"--to _kill_ yo"
if--if--"
Here Lessie broke down and began to weep in little, spasmodic snuffles, as you have seen small children do.
I took her hand again and tried to a.s.suage her fears as we went on under the big forest trees through the shadowy, dimly luminous atmosphere. I told her that Buck had spoken in the heat of anger, and that he did not really mean what he said, and that his pa.s.sion had gotten away with his discretion, and had made him act very foolishly. I ended by laughing at the threats, and treating them in the nature of a joke, but my companion would not have it so.
"Yo" don"t know "im! Yo" don"t know "im!" she insisted, drawing the back of her free hand across her eyes. "He _did_ mean it, "n" he _will_ do it--I know he will!"
"Don"t you think I can take care of myself?" I asked.
"I don"t know; maybe--but Buck"s so strong!"
"I"m strong, too, Dryad."
She did not answer, and soon we came to the glade. Here Lessie stopped and faced me.
"Yo" _mustn"t_ come no fu"ther," she said, so emphatically that I almost blinked. ""N"--"n"--yo" mustn"t come to the P"int no more "n" I won"t come to Baldy no more "n"--"
"Why, Lessie!"
I dropped her hand, and put all the reproach I could summons into the words.
"Yo" know--w"y--"
"And give up all the things I am going to teach you just because--"
It was too much. She turned with a hurt, despairing cry which somehow cut me savagely, and ran swiftly from me across the open ground. I saw the misty fluttering of garments in the gloom, caught the dull glow from her flying hair, then knew that I was alone.
I have just written to "Crombie. I did not tell him of any of the people I have met. I wrote a chatty letter describing my daily life, my improved condition, and telling of my inability, so far, to locate the life-plant. But on this point I had hopes. I"m sure he will scratch his head when he reads my postscript, and wonder if I have developed brain trouble. Here is my postscript:
"Kindly forward me by mail to Hebron, at once, a primer and a copybook."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN WHICH OTHER CHARACTERS COME INTO OUR STORY
I went to Hebron to-day to mail my letter, and to lay in a supply of garden seed.
It was still early morning when I reached Lizard Point, and came upon the road leading to my destination. The sun had not yet topped the high k.n.o.b range; the air was cool, balmy, moist with dew, and clear. I stood for a moment after I had crossed the bridge, and looked intently up to where Lessie lived. Had I seen her I would have sent her a hail, and told her where I was going. Light blue wood smoke was coming from the kitchen chimney, and spiraling straight up to a great height before it dissipated--a sure sign of fair weather, I have been informed. Soon I descried Granf"er"s stooped form plodding across the back yard. He still wore his coffee-sack ap.r.o.n, and was carrying a dishpan of water. This he emptied into a chicken trough, and trudged back to the house. But Lessie did not appear, so I faced about and went on.
The road paralleled this branch of the creek for nearly a mile, running along the base of a steadily curving k.n.o.b. It was not a bad road, either, considering its location, and I found some pleasure in tramping through the yellow dust between the ruts which the wheels of pa.s.sing vehicles had made. On the creek side was a rod-wide strip of verdure; flowering weeds choked with long, tough gra.s.s, bushes of many kinds, and an occasional tree. On the k.n.o.b side the rise began at the very edge of the highway. Here was moss, dead leaves, many varieties of creepers, sumac, wild grapevine, and now and again eglantine, its flat, pink-white blossoms brightening the heavy shade. It was on this side the road my eyes dwelt oftener, for in my pocket was the jar of fresh water, and in my heart the hope of ultimate reward. It is true I had found nothing which resembled the life-plant in the least, and already I had traveled far. But I was prepared for disappointment, and schooled for patience.
The prize was too valuable to be come at easily. I had already learned that great truth--the things worth while are the things you give your heart"s blood in getting. Nothing you can grasp by merely stretching out your hand is worth even that slight effort. It is a law of nature and a law of life that hard work is the price of true success; that attainment means sacrifice; that the natural inclinations and desires of the flesh must be fettered and chained before we can reach any eminence whatsoever, or achieve any n.o.ble task. That unalterable decree of life applied to this case as well, and I bowed to it. I would wait and search; I would go on until the last day of my twelve months" exile had sped, believing that sooner or later my reward would come.
Now my mountain road debouched upon a county highway, made of gravel, well packed and smooth. For a moment I was surprised, wondering where all this gravel came from. Then I remembered that a river ran near, and the mystery was plain.
The sun came out as I started on again, pouring its quickening light in a wondrous cascade of shimmering beauty over the dark green sea of foliage. The leaves rustled a welcome, and a breeze which was like a sigh of grat.i.tude from the Earth"s big heart, arose. This greeting of nature unto nature that still morning stirred me deeply in some way; I could feel the answering thrill in my breast, and I stopped in my tracks, took my cap from my head, and faced the great golden ball with what I imagine was almost the ardor of a sun-worshiper. I was alone with my ancient mother; the mother from whence I came and unto whom I would return, and clearer than ever in my life before I felt the kinship of the st.u.r.dy trees, and knew that the sap and fiber of every growing thing about me was part and parcel of my being. Tiny waves of emotion began to tingle along my nerves as I stood bareheaded, at one with the universe, and then slowly the waves grew in magnitude until every vein and artery was inundated with a mighty surge of joy.
A puff of wind blew a spray of blackberry bush across my cheek, scratching it with a thorn. I started and looked, to find that I had unknowingly come to the edge of the road.
At a turn a quarter of a mile further on I saw the hamlet. Five or six houses, a railway station, the superstructure of an iron bridge, and to one side a formidable building of brick, which I correctly surmised to be the distillery. Between me and the hamlet lay a stretch of cleared bottom land, fenced off into fields. I saw an expanse of wheat, green and full eared; another of oats, not so tall, and having a peculiar bluish shade. Other fields were simply bare, brown reaches of freshly turned earth, prepared for corn or tobacco.
Now to my ears came a sound which has been heard since the world was young; the musical ring of iron against iron; the song of the forge.
Across the lowland it drifted to me, losing all harshness in its coming, and falling in pleasing cadences upon the air. I knew it was no uncertain hand which held the hammer, for the strokes were vigorous and in time, interrupted now and again by the drum-like roll as the hammer danced upon the anvil. I went forward leisurely, crossed a stream on a suspension foot-bridge of native manufacture, then up a slight rise till I stood in the broad doorway of the smithy. The worker, intent upon his task, had neither seen nor heard my approach. I stood and looked at him silently.
He was a young man, near my own age. He was quite as tall as myself, and maybe a trifle heavier. He wore a short brown beard. His flannel shirt was open at the neck for two or three b.u.t.tons, revealing his thick throat and corded chest. His sleeves were rolled above his elbows, and his fore-arms were knotted and ridged with muscles. His face was rather heavy, and not intelligent. He was welding an iron tire, and I watched his deft manipulations admiringly. Certainly he was no bungler. After a while he thrust the cooling irons back into the fire, and as he grasped the handle of his bellows with one grimy hand, I spoke.
"Good morning, Buck Steele."
He wheeled with the quick movement you have seen a cat display when surprised, his brown eyes widening perceptibly. He knew me. I saw his mouth set, and the outer corners of his eyes contract. In that first long look which he gave me he did not say a word, neither did he move. I could not help thinking what a splendid looking fellow he was, his posture one of natural grace and dignity, at the same time feeling and recognizing the antagonism which radiated from his entire person. I met his gaze unflinchingly, and with a straightforward look. I could see his eyes traveling from my head to my feet, and knew that he was taking stock of me. Then his uncompromising stare settled on my face, and instantly a bitterly hostile expression gathered on his own. For a few moments we stood thus, then his big chest rose over a deep long breath, his mouth went tighter still, his s.m.u.tty fingers closed on the handle of the bellows and began a downward pull, then he calmly turned his back upon me and resumed his work. My greeting had remained unanswered.
I turned away. I was sorry, but there was nothing I could do. To have forced myself upon his notice would have resulted in violence, I was sure, with probable disaster to myself. I went on past a house or two until I reached the store, a low, narrow building beside a railroad track. A man, bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves, sat on a cracker-box on the small porch, his back against the wall, his hands folded peacefully in his lap.
"Got any garden seed?" I asked, stopping in front of him.
He lazily raised his bleary, red-rimmed eyes, and regarded me stolidly.
Absolute vacancy sat upon his countenance. He batted his lids, and stared at me, his lower lip slightly pendulous. His silence became so protracted that I smiled, and repeated my query. A sort of grunt came from him, presently followed by--
"Whut kind o" gyard"n seed?"
I named the varieties I wanted.
Again he grunted--a louder grunt than the first, because now he was preparing to get up. This he presently accomplished, and went into the store, sliding his feet along over the planks of the porch. In process of time I got my seed.
"What"s up there?" I asked, as we came out together, pointing to a hill across the railroad up which the pike wound sinuously.
The storekeeper dropped upon the cracker-box and resumed the same position he had when I accosted him, before replying.
"Chu"ch "n" pa"s"nage; s"p"intend"nt"s house. "Stillery yonder; river under th" bridge."
Whereupon he immediately relapsed into his former inertia, and I forebore further questions.
I decided I would take a look at the river. Hebron lay beneath my gaze: small, ill-kept houses; small yards with some dismal attempts at floriculture; dirty children and work-worn women. These latter I glimpsed as I walked on to the railroad, at windows and on porches, staring apathetically at the stranger. I soon reached the bridge, which I found spanned a river of considerable size. It had a gravel bed, and its banks were heavily lined with trees. Its western sweep was particularly attractive from where I stood, and I at once determined upon a closer acquaintance, for the day was but begun, and there was no need for me to hasten home. After a brief search I found a path which conducted me to the side of the stream. The channel here was rather narrow and the water seemed deep, its flow being gentle and placid.
Somewhat to my surprise, the path continued, running worm-like between the thick growth of willow and sycamore. I went forward, with no purpose whatsoever, merely yielding to an idling spirit, and the charm of an unfamiliar track through the woods by a river. I may have gone half a mile, never more than a dozen feet from the brink, when I espied a boat snugly beached, and tied to a scrubby oak whose roots were partly submerged. Why not take a ride? The thought was born instantaneously, and quickly took the shape of resolve. Here was a delightful diversion ready to my hand. I loved to pull an oar, and the gleaming, dark-green surface before me seemed to invite. I placed my bundle of seed on the ground, slipped off my coat and flung it across a limb, then laid hold of the painter. It was not locked, as I half feared it would be. The boat was a delicate, shapely affair, painted white, and I marveled that such a dainty craft should be moored here in the wilds about Hebron. The painter was loose, and one of my feet was in the boat as I prepared to shove off, when--
"I beg your pardon," I heard; "but may I have my boat a little while?"
I arose, holding the painter in my hand.
A young woman faced me. Low and slight, dressed in tan from her jaunty straw hat to her russet shoes; short walking skirt tailored to perfection; a laced bodice very low in the neck; a tin fish bucket in one hand. She had evidently taken me for one of the rustics in the neighborhood, for I could see that she was as much surprised as I. A glance sufficed to tell me her story. A jaded society woman, old and _blase_ at twenty, having nothing but a sniff for the world and all there was in it. She was pitifully young to wear those marks of experience upon her face. Her features were inclined to be peaked; her chin sharp, her blue eyes so weary, in spite of the momentary light which flashed up in them now. There were faint lines about her unstable mouth, and well defined crowsfeet at her eyes. She must have lived hard and furiously from her early teens to have acquired that indescribable expression which needs no interpreter. Whoever she was and whatever she was--and I was convinced she could boast the blood of gentle folks--she had seen some life in her score of years.
"I guess if there is any pardon to ask,--I should ask it," I replied, dragging my cap off as I spoke. "I didn"t know it was yours. I"m a stranger. I was out walking, and ran up on the boat, and couldn"t see any harm in using it for a half-hour. Shall--that is, may I a.s.sist you to get afloat?"