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A Maid of the Kentucky Hills

by Edwin Carlile Litsey · English · Gutenberg #35147 · 476,725 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Maid of the Kentucky Hills

Author: Edwin Carlile Litsey

Illustrator: John Harmon Cassel


        
Release date: February 2, 2011 [eBook #35147]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35147

Credits: Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MAID OF THE KENTUCKY HILLS ***




Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)









                     A MAID OF THE KENTUCKY HILLS

                       BY EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY

                Author of "The Man from Jericho," etc.


    _ILLUSTRATED BY
    JOHN CASSEL_

    CHICAGO
    BROWNE & HOWELL COMPANY
    1913

    COPYRIGHT, 1913
    BROWNE & HOWELL COMPANY

    _Copyright in England
    All rights reserved_

    PUBLISHED, NOVEMBER, 1913

    THE PLIMPTON PRESS
    NORWOOD, MASS, USA




           TO
          SARA
    OF THE SUNNY HAIR




[Illustration: _I knelt on the tree, bent down, and took her upheld hand
in mine._]




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE IN WHICH I GO TO 'CROMBIE

CHAPTER TWO IN WHICH I GO TO 'CROMBIE AGAIN

CHAPTER THREE IN WHICH I FIND A LODGE IN THE WILDERNESS

CHAPTER FOUR IN WHICH I MEET A DRYAD

CHAPTER FIVE IN WHICH I SAY WHAT I PLEASE

CHAPTER SIX IN WHICH I MEET A SATYR

CHAPTER SEVEN IN WHICH THE SATYR AND I SIT CHEEK BY JOWL

CHAPTER EIGHT IN WHICH I PITCH MY TENT TOWARD HEBRON FOR THE SPACE OF AN
AFTERNOON

CHAPTER NINE IN WHICH I SIT UPON A HILLTOP AND REFLECT TO NO ADVANTAGE

CHAPTER TEN IN WHICH I SPEND A PLEASANT HOUR AND HEAR SOME NEWS

CHAPTER ELEVEN IN WHICH OTHER CHARACTERS COME INTO OUR STORY

CHAPTER TWELVE IN WHICH I ATTEND AN ORATORIO

CHAPTER THIRTEEN IN WHICH I SUFFER FOUR SHOCKS, THREE OF THE EARTH AND
ONE FROM THE SKY, AND FIND ANOTHER MAID A-FISHING

CHAPTER FOURTEEN IN WHICH YET A FIFTH SHOCK ARRIVES, AND ROUNDS OUT THE
DAY

CHAPTER FIFTEEN IN WHICH THE HISTORIAN UNBLUSHINGLY SHOWS HIMSELF TO BE
A HUMAN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN IN WHICH MUCH ADDED LIGHT IS SHED UPON MISS BERYL DRANE,
BUT ONLY A GLIMMER UPON MY PROBLEM

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN SERIOUSLY A CHIVALROUS NOTION TO
MY GREAT DETRIMENT

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN IN WHICH I DESCEND INTO HELL

CHAPTER NINETEEN IN WHICH THE SATYR AND THE NARRATOR BECOME VERY DRUNK,
AND THE LATTER IS LIFTED TO EARTH AGAIN

CHAPTER TWENTY IN WHICH I VIEW AN EMPTY WORLD, ACT A HYPOCRITE, AND HEAR
A CONFESSION OF LOVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE IN WHICH, STRANGE TO SAY, TIME PASSES. ALSO I RECEIVE
THREE WARNINGS, AND WITNESS AN UNPARALLELED EPISODE IN THE SMITHY OF
BUCK STEELE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO IN WHICH I SPAR WITH DEATH

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE IN WHICH, THOUGH THE WORLD IS STILL A VOID, THERE
IS THE SHINING OF A GREAT LIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR IN WHICH I VANQUISH A DEMONIAC, AND ENTER INTO GLORY




A MAID OF THE KENTUCKY HILLS




CHAPTER ONE

IN WHICH I GO TO 'CROMBIE


When a man of thirty who has been sound and well since boyhood suddenly
realizes there is something radically wrong with him, it amounts almost
to a tragedy.

It was mid-March when I became convinced that I was "wrong." Near the
close of winter I had developed a hacking cough with occasional chest
pains, but with masculine mulishness had refused to recognize any
untoward symptoms. I was not a sissy, to let a common cold frighten me
and send me trembling to the doctor. I began to lose flesh and grow
pale, whereas I had been of fine frame, and decidedly athletic. Then I
discovered a fleck of crimson on my handkerchief one day after a hard
coughing spell. I got up from my desk with unsteady knees and a chilly
feeling down my spine, and went to 'Crombie. He was generally known as
Abercrombie Dane, M. D., but we grew up hand in hand, as it were, and
so--I went to 'Crombie. He was a fine, big animal; head of a Hercules
and strength of a jack and sense like Solon. A rare man.

I told him my tale shamefacedly, for I realized now I had acted a fool,
and that maybe my day of grace had passed. He knew I was scared, for he
was sensitive, in spite of his bulk and seeming brusqueness. There was
pity in his eyes before I finished, and I had to grapple with myself to
keep the moisture out of mine, his sympathy was so real.

Then I silently gave him the handkerchief, with the telltale stain.

He looked at it absently, and rubbed it gently with the tip of one big
finger.

"My son," he said--it was an affectionate form of address which he
nearly always employed--"you are starting a colony."

His deep voice was very steady.

"A _what_?" I demanded.

"Bugs," he replied, laconically, and looked me squarely in the eyes.

"_Bugs!_" I cried, feeling the cold hand of Fear at my heart.

He shut his lips tightly, and nodded three or four times.

For a few moments I was literally and positively paralyzed. I felt as if
he had pronounced sentence of death. 'Crombie had dropped his eyes, and
his broad, strong face was serious.

My nature is buoyant, and presently the reaction came.

"Are they crawlin' yet, Doc?" I asked, a smile struggling to my lips.

I cannot understand now why I asked that question. Perhaps it was a
foolish attempt at bravado in the presence of a serious fact just
discovered.

He did not answer. He recognized the query as flippant, and his nature
was deep. He sat looking at the floor a long time, and I did not intrude
again upon his thoughts. But I imagined I felt a tickling beneath my
ribs, as of many tiny feet at work. _Bugs!_ Ugh!

At last 'Crombie's shaggy head came up.

"There's a chance--a good chance," he said, and I felt courage spreading
through me like wine, for 'Crombie never spoke hastily, nor at random.

"Sea voyages and high altitudes wouldn't hurt," he resumed, "but you
haven't the money for them. Still you've got to hike from town, my son.
Change is all right, but pure air and coarse, good food is your cue. The
knob country is not far away. There you'll find all you'd find in New
Mexico or Colorado or Arizona, and be in praying distance of the
Almighty to boot. I know the spot for you, my son. It is a great knob
which stands in the midst of a vast range, and it is belted with pine
and cedar trees. Find or build you a shack on it half way up and stay
there for a year. That's your prescription, my son."

"It's a devilish hard one to take!" I protested, in my ignorance.

"Condemned men are not usually so particular as to their method of
escape," he admonished, with a half smile.

Then he fell to thinking again, with his finger on his eyebrow. It was a
peculiar attitude, which I had never seen in anyone else. I sat still,
hoping he was evolving some pleasanter plan for my redemption. He was
trying to change me into a hillbilly, a savage! I looked at my white
hands and carefully kept nails, at my neat business suit and shining
shoes, and a slow rebellion awoke within me. I had about decided to
ignore 'Crombie and seek more comforting advice, when his rumbling voice
came again.

"It's mighty good authority which says you can't kick against the
pricks. Don't try it, my son. Before we begin final arrangements I want
to ask you a question. Have you ever heard of the life-plant?"

I gazed at him keenly, for the query did not savor of sanity. I knew
that his researches in botany almost equalled his skill in medicine, but
in some vague way I suspected a trick. His expression disarmed me. It
not only was genuine, but yearning. I have never seen the same look in a
man's eyes before or since.

"No; I never heard of it," I replied. "What is it?"

His answer was spoken slowly and meditatively.

"From the same source we get our hint regarding the pricks, we read of a
tree whose leaves are for the healing of the nations. Nature is the
mother of medicine. There is nothing in pharmaceutics that has not a
direct origin from vegetable, animal, or mineral life. It is my belief
that there is a remedy for every human ill if we could only lay our
hands on it. This brings us to your case, and the life-plant."

"Are you giving me straight goods, 'Crombie'?" I demanded, my suspicions
rising again.

"It is half legend, my son, I'll admit, but I have strong reasons for
believing it does exist. It's an Indian tale."

"Probably bosh," I muttered, my common sense at bay.

"I think not," he answered, calmly and soberly.

"Have you ever seen it?" I challenged.

"No, but that doesn't disprove it. Listen to me. The life-plant is the
most peculiar growth in nature, and cannot be confounded with anything
else. The principal accessories to its full development are pure air and
sunshine, hence it is found only in the still places of the woods and
valleys. It is exceedingly rare. You might spend a year searching for it
under the most favorable conditions, and find only one specimen. Again,
you might find none. So far as science has gone, it grows from neither
seed, bulb, nor root. It seems to germinate from certain elemental
conjunctions, attains maturity, flowers and dies. It may appear in the
cleft of a rock, on the side of a mountain range, or in the rich mold of
a valley. It claims no special season for its own, but may come in
December as well as in June. It springs from snow as frequently as from
summer grass. This is how it looks. It is about twelve inches high. Its
stem is a most vivid green; its leaves are triangular, of a bright
golden color, and the flower, which comes just at the top, is a
collection of clear little globules, like the berries of the mistletoe.
They are clearer and purer than the mistletoe berry, however. In fact,
they are all but transparent, and might readily be mistaken for a
cluster of dewdrops. Therein lies the efficacy of this strange plant.
Gather the bloom carefully, immerse it in a glass of water for twelve
hours, then drink the decoction entire. It will rout your embryo colony,
and make you sound and strong as I."

He leaned back and slapped his chest with his open hand.

"You're dopey, 'Crombie," I said, doubting, but longing to believe him.

He wheeled around to his desk.

"All right, my son. You came to me for advice, and got it. I consider
that I've done my duty by you."

"Oh, come now!" I pleaded, ready to conciliate. "That's an awful
cock-and-bull story you've handed me, and you mustn't get huffy if it
doesn't go down without choking. I'll try to swallow it, 'Crombie. I do
appreciate your advice, and I'm going to try and take it;--but tell me
more about this infernal flower."

"Not infernal," he corrected, mollified; "but supernal. I don't think
there's any more to tell. Your stunt is to search till you find it, then
follow directions."

"You say it grows anywhere?" I continued, assuming interest.

"Where there's pure air and sunshine," he repeated.

"And grows out of _snow_, 'Crombie?"

"As well as out of warm soil," he averred, doggedly.

"It appears to me that you're looney, 'Crombie, but I hope you're not,
and I'll hunt for your bloomin' life-plant. But the question now is: who
is going with me into my hill of refuge?"

"Who's going with you? Nobody! Who would go with you? People nowadays
have neither time nor inclination to burrow in the wilderness for a
twelve-month!"

I groaned, for I knew that he was right. Martyrdom never has company.

"There's no other way?" I pleaded. "Couldn't I have a native look for
this healing flower for me?"

He shook his head. "It withers soon after it is plucked. You had better
carry a sealed jar of water with you on your tramps."

Resignation came to me with that speech. My own folly had brought me
where I was, and my spirit suddenly rose up to meet the emergency.

"I'll go, 'Crombie," I said. "Thank you for your prescription."




CHAPTER TWO

IN WHICH I GO TO 'CROMBIE AGAIN


'Crombie had said with chilling frankness that I hadn't the money for a
sea voyage, or for extended travel. The statement was distressingly
true. Just at the time he and I finished our college careers, my father
died. Contrary to general belief, and my own as well, he was almost a
bankrupt. It was the old story of the frenzy for gain, great risks, and
total loss. 'Crombie took up medicine, while I, lured by the promises of
a fickle Fate, embraced literature. 'Crombie was wise; I was foolish.
When people are sick they always want a doctor, but when they are idle
they do not always read. If there is one road to the poorhouse which is
freer from obstructions than all others, it is the road of the unknown
author. I had a natural bent toward letters, had been editor-in-chief of
the college magazine, and had sold two or three stories to middle-class
periodicals. So, with the roseate illusions of youth at their flood, I
pictured myself soon among the front rank of American writers, and
equipped myself for a speedy conquest.

In six months I had sold a half dozen stories, for something approaching
one hundred dollars, and had received enough rejection slips to paper
one room. To this use I applied them, taking a doleful sort of pleasure
in reading the punctilious printed messages with their eternal refrain
of "We regret, etc." I wondered if the editors were as sorry as they
pretended to be. And I thought, too, of the enormousness of their
stationery bills.

But I persevered. The ten years which followed my embarkation upon this
treacherous sea were not entirely barren of results. I managed to live
frugally, which was something, and established gratifying relations with
two or three magazines which bought my manuscripts with encouraging
regularity. At last I placed a book with a reputable publishing house.
The story fell flat from the press. The firm lost, and I did not receive
a penny. The experience was bitter. I had spent a solid year writing
that book, and I felt that if I could get a hearing my period of
probation would be over. I got the hearing, and I was still in
obscurity. That is the typical literary beginning, and he who finally
succeeds deserves all he gets, for he has a heart of oak. My inherent
optimism and stubborn will bore me safely through the mists and shallows
of defeat, and with the sunlight of hope once more flooding my soul, I
went on. Then 'Crombie handed me my commuted death sentence.

It is wonderful how news of this sort gets abroad. But it spreads like
uncorked ether. I had proof of this two days later when my minister, an
aged and good man, called on a mission of condolence.

"God did it, my boy," he said, as he left, "and you must bear it."

I didn't believe him. I believed that the devil did it, and that God
would help me get rid of it.

Since I had to go up into the wilderness, the sooner I went the sooner I
would return, and I found my anxiety to be off increasing day by day.
Spring was unusually early this year. March was a miracle month of plum
blooms, and swelling buds, and flower-sprinkled grass. Little spears of
bright green were beginning to show on the lilac bushes, and elusive
bird notes came fitfully from orchard and fence-row--blown bubbles of
sound bursting ere they were scarcely heard.

When I began to make my preparations, I realized how helpless I was.
What should I take with me in the way of food, clothing, bedding,
utensils, medicine? I had never camped out a night in my life. 'Crombie
would have to tell me. He knew, for every year he hiked off to Canada
and the Adirondacks for thirty days, and lived like a caveman every hour
he was gone. I went to his office. He was engaged, with six people in
the waiting-room. I went out and got him on the telephone. He promised
to see me that night at nine in his apartments. It was then three
o'clock in the afternoon, so I took a walk. I could do nothing more
until I had talked to him.

Lexington is really nothing more than a great big country town, but we
love it. I reached the suburbs in half an hour, then took the pike, and
walked briskly. The day had been like one huge bloom of some tropical
orchid. Contrasted with the biting winter only a few weeks back, it was
something to exult the heart and uplift the soul. Rain had fallen the
night before. Day came with a world-wide flare of yellow sunshine; her
dress a tempered breeze. By noon a coat was uncomfortable, and the air
was full of music; the droning, charming, ceaseless litany of the bees.
At three in the afternoon, when some strange freak drove me to the open
road, the miracle had not passed. Surely God's hands were spread over
the face of the earth, and His eyes looked down between. A few cumulus
clouds were piled in fantastic groups toward the west, as I stopped
about two miles out, and gazed slowly around me. Overhead was infinity,
and the presence of the Creator. Encompassing me were unnumbered acres
of that soil of which every child of the bluegrass is proud. On the
breast of the world the annual mystery was spread. Death had changed to
life. Where the snow's warm blanket had lately lain uprose millions and
millions of tiny spears; wheat which had been folded safely by nature's
cover against the blighting cold. Billowing fields of richest brown,
where the ploughshare had made ready a bed for the seed corn and the
hemp. Near me were two trees. Their roots were intertwined, for their
trunks were not over a foot apart, and their branches had overlapped and
interwoven. Almost as one growth they seemed. They were the dogwood and
the redbud, and each was in full bloom. At first the sight dazzled me.
The pure white flowers, yellow-hearted, gleaming against the mass of
crimson blooms which clung closely to twig and limb, produced a
remarkable effect. The hardier trees remained bleak, barren, apparently
lifeless. They required more embracing from the sun, more kissing from
the rain, more sighs of entreaty from the wind before the transmutation
of sap to leaf would be accomplished.

It chanced that I had halted at a spot where no homestead was visible,
and I was absolutely alone. None passed, and no cattle or stock of any
kind stood in the adjoining fields. It was a faint foretaste of the
immediate future, and a peculiar peace came over me as I stood on the
hard, oiled road, and felt myself becoming at one with the universal
light and life of the earth and sky. My breast thrilled, and I drew in
my breath quickly. Was it a message? An assurance from the mother-heart
of Nature that she would care for me tenderly in exile?

I turned and went slowly, thoughtfully, back to town, reaching it just
as the dusk began to be starred by the rayed arc lights.

"'Crombie," I said, lighting one of his choicest cigars and sitting
facing him; "you've steered me into an awful mess."

You know I could fuss at 'Crombie. He was too big to take offense.

"How so, my son?" he replied, easily, his large face gently humorous.

"Well, I started to pack for this--er--trip, or outing, and I had no
more idea how to go about it than a pig. What will I need, and what must
I take? You've got me into this, and you've got to see me through it."

"The first thing you'll need will be a roof with good, stout, tight
walls under it. Remember, you're not going there to bask in sunshine
alone, but you're going to spend next winter there!"

I looked at him, and I imagine my expression was something like that of
a dog when a youth badgers it, for 'Crombie laughed.

"I don't want to make it worse than it is," he apologized; "neither do I
want you to be deceived in any way regarding conditions. But by the time
winter comes, take my word for it, you can sleep in a snow-drift without
hurt."

I smoked in silence. The thought was not encouraging.

"I believe you will find things pretty much to your hand there," he went
on, in a ruminative voice. "You remember I came from that part of the
country, and the locality is entirely familiar. I have been all over
Bald Knob a dozen times. Eight years ago a shack stood just where you
would want yours. I think a fellow who had a natural love for the woods
built it some eighteen or nineteen years ago, lived there a while, and
later moved to another State. It is made entirely of undressed logs, and
has one room and a kitchen. It ought to be in good condition yet,
because it is protected by the bulk of the knob. I should guess the room
to be about sixteen feet square, and the kitchen is a box, but big
enough. There is a spring near, considerably impregnated with sulphur.
This water can have nothing but a good effect. If the shack still
stands, you should consider yourself very lucky."

As he drew this picture, I could not help but gaze at the sumptuous
furnishings of the room in which I sat.

"How close is the nearest town?" I asked.

"The nearest town is Cedarton, my old home, ten miles from Bald Knob,
but there is a hamlet within three miles. This consists of a few
cottages, a store, a blacksmith shop and a distillery. You will have
occasion to visit neither place often. If you should happen to run short
of provisions, go to the hamlet called Hebron."

"Then seclusion is as necessary as pure air and plain food?"

"It is to prevent you from forming the habit that I advise you not to
seek people. Man is naturally gregarious. If you began going to the
hamlet once a week you would soon be going every day, and you would
deteriorate into a cracker box philosopher or a nail keg politician,
spending your time in hump-shouldered inertia rather than in tramping
through the health-giving open in quest of the life-plant. You are going
forth with a purpose, my son; don't forget that."

I threw my head back against the cushioned leather, and in doing so my
eyes lighted on a magnificent moose head over the mantel.

"You killed that fellow?" I asked, swerving suddenly from the subject
without apology, as is permitted between old friends.

"Yes; in northern Maine. I trailed him ten days, went hungry for two,
broke through some thin lake ice in zero weather, tramped five miles
with my wet clothes frozen on me before I could get to a fire, and slept
two nights under snow a foot deep. Then I killed him."

I stared at him curiously.

"I confess," I said, "that I have thought you were giving me a
prescription you knew nothing about. I beg your pardon for my unbelief."

He smiled, and broke his cigar ash into the tray at his elbow.

"I wouldn't miss my annual trip into Eden for a year's income," he said.
"It is during those thirty days I store up life and energy for the
remaining three hundred and thirty-five."

Then we fell to discussing my departure, and there followed an hour's
talk on ways and means. By eleven o'clock I had a list of everything I
could possibly need which would contribute to my comfort or well being.
But there was one thing more; one supreme thing. All that evening I had
been trying to speak it, and couldn't. Now we were sitting side by side
at the table where we had made my list, and suddenly courage came. I
clasped the ham-like hand lying close to mine, and looking steadily and
beseechingly into my friend's eyes, said:

"'Crombie, go with me! I don't mean go to stay. I'm not such a
miserable, snuffling coward as that. But companion me there--show me the
way--help me get established. Two days--not longer. That country is new
to me. Cedarton would take me for an escaped lunatic if I should apply
at a livery stable for a wagon to take me and my effects to a shack
which used to stand on the slope of Bald Knob. Don't you see? The people
know you, and a word from you would fix it all right. I'm your patient.
But more than that, 'Crombie, is having your good old self with me. Just
come to the shack with me, help me place my things, hearten me up by
your good man-talk, make me believe and _know_ that I am on the right
track. Just two days. Won't you do it, 'Crombie?"

I knew that I was asking a great deal, probably more than I should. It
would seem that it was enough for one man to show another where bodily
salvation lay, without taking him by the hand and leading him to it. And
forty-eight hours from town now meant a monetary loss to the man beside
me. But God made men like Abercrombie Dane for other purposes than money
getting.

Now he gave me the sweetest smile I have ever seen on any face except my
mother's, as he laid his other huge hand over mine.

"Yes, I'll go with you, my son," he said.




CHAPTER THREE

IN WHICH I FIND A LODGE IN THE WILDERNESS


I am here.

'Crombie came with me to Cedarton, engaged two light, serviceable wagons
to convey us and my effects, and then drove out here with me to help me
get settled. We reached Bald Knob just as the sun was setting yesterday
afternoon. The drive out from town was beautiful. Neither talked much on
the trip. I couldn't, and 'Crombie seemed to be thinking. The main
highway, which we traveled for a number of miles, was made of gravel,
brought from a considerable stream which, I learn, runs somewhere
nearabout. When we left the road, our way became quite rough. It was
merely a succession of knob paths, which had been broadened enough for
the passage of four-wheeled vehicles. As we went deeper and deeper into
the wood, the scenery became wilder and grander. We saw vast ravines,
where the earth shore straight down for many feet; tortuous channels
where the fierce rains had plowed a passage to lower ground; trees of
all description growing everywhere, while shrubs, creepers and vines
interlaced and fought silently for supremacy. Once we passed for nearly
half a mile along a broad, shallow stream with a slate bed, bordered on
one side by a gigantic, leaden, serrated slate cliff whereon some
patches of early moss gleamed greenly bright, fed by the moisture which
filtered through the overlapping strata. This cliff was somber; it was
almost like a shadow cast upon us. But when we had passed it the
sunshine came sweeping gloriously through a gap in the hills, and I felt
my spirit leap up gratefully to meet it.

We could see Bald Knob for miles before we reached it, and as we drove
along, each smoking, neither talking, I found that my eyes wandered time
and again to the bare, conical cap toward which we were creeping. I was
wondering with all the soul of me if I could meet the test, now that it
stared me in the face. It was one thing to sit in 'Crombie's leather
chair and decide comfortably upon this course, and another thing to see
myself approaching a hut in the midst of a primeval forest--and to think
that I was going to live alone there for a twelve-month! I know my face
would not have made a good model for a picture of Hope, as the two
wagons drew up in the ravine which partially circled the enormous hill
whereon 'Crombie had said a shack had at one time stood. At length we
found a sort of road--it was more an opening through the dense
undergrowth than anything else--and by dint of much urging from the
drivers, and frequent rests, we came at last to a little plateau,
perhaps a quarter of an acre in extent, not quite half way up the knob.
On the farther side of the plateau was a small building, resting at the
base of a sheer wall of stone and earth.

It was then 'Crombie shook off the quiet mood he had shared with me the
greater part of the journey, and became hilarious. He hallooed, laughed,
joked and capered about like a schoolboy on a frolic, and not to hurt
the dear fellow I pretended to fall in with his mood. I really felt as
if the world was rapidly drawing to an end.

Last night we could do nothing but make ourselves comfortable as
possible, and go to bed early. To-day we have worked hard, and obtained
results. I couldn't have got settled without 'Crombie. He has tact,
ingenuity, invention, and did most of the hard work. He said it would be
better for me not to exert myself too much, which sounds silly,
considering that my bodily measurements would have almost equaled his
own.

Now he and the drivers and the horses and the wagons are gone. A
half-hour ago I caught my last glimpse of him between a scrub oak and a
cedar. He was looking back, saw me, waved his arm prodigiously, sent up
a hearty hail, and disappeared. I stood for thirty minutes without
stirring from my tracks. Then from afar off, through the wonderfully
still twilight air, I heard a voice singing. The words were lost because
of the distance, but the tune was familiar. It was a rollicking, foolish
thing we had sung at college. 'Crombie was sending it to me as a last
message, to cheer me up. I inclined my ear desperately to the welcome
sound. I held my breath as it fell fainter and fainter, now broken, now
barely audible. At length, strain my ears as I would, it was lost.

But another sound had taken its place. The sun was down, and now, at
twilight, the Harpist of the Wood awoke and touched his multitudinous
strings. He was in gentle mood to-day; a mood of dreams and revery. The
melody was barely audible; just a stirring, a breath. But it stole upon
my ears as something wonderful, and sweet, and holy. I had never heard
anything at all similar. I stood entranced, listening to the ghostly
gamut lightly plucked from the bare limbs and twigs of the hardy trees
which had not yet responded to the season's call; from the slender green
needles of the pine and the denser plumes which clothed the cedar, and
offered to me. As I hearkened to the elfin harmony I became conscious of
a certain peace. The boundless solitudes which stretched unbroken in
every direction did not seem forbidding and oppressive as I had sensed
them when traveling. A subtle kinship with the wind, and the trees, and
the earth awoke in my mind, and in some vague way which brought a thrill
with it I felt that I had come home. All these things which I had feared
grew quite close at this twilight hour, and I imagined they came with
pleading, welcoming hands, as to a long lost son or brother who was much
beloved. Then as I raised my head a cool, soft breeze smote my face and
rushed up my nostrils, and I smelt the elusive, invigorating tang of the
evergreens. I smiled, and drew repeated draughts of the pure essence
deep into my lungs, filling every cranny and corner again and again.
When I finally turned and went back to the shack, I felt as if I had
taken wine.

I lit a lamp, made a fire in my kitchen stove, prepared a frugal meal
and ate it. Later I took a chair outside the door and sat for two hours,
thinking. One very important thought came to me during that time. My
book of fiction did not sell; perhaps a book of facts would. So I have
decided to write a history of my exile. To-night it promises to be very
prosy and uneventful. I cannot see how anything could possibly transpire
which would interest a reader. But the task will provide employment for
me, at least. So every night before I go to bed I shall make a record of
anything which happened that day. If nothing occurs, I shall wait for
the incident worth relating. To-night I shall tell of my new home, and
its surroundings.

I have named my place the Wilderness Lodge, thinking how the ill-starred
Byron would have joyed in just such a spot. We found it much as 'Crombie
said it would be: a substantial, square room built of oak logs, with a
floor of undressed planks. It is covered with clapboards, and the roof
is rain-proof. The front door is heavy, and may be secured on the inside
with a large beam which drops into iron brackets. There is a second door
in the rear which leads into the kitchen, a room highly meriting the
proverbial expression--"Not big enough to whip a cat in." There are two
opposing windows, which are small. Each is provided with a shutter,
hinged at the top. They are propped up with sticks slant-wise to admit
light and air, and to keep rain out. A nice arrangement, I think. Facing
the front door is the fireplace; a huge, rough stone affair, large
enough to sleep in if one were so inclined. It has a broad stone hearth,
and is fitted with black, squat andirons. Already I am planning the joy
I shall derive from this fireplace when next winter comes. To-night I
have built a brisk fire for cheer, company, and precaution, for the
place has been uninhabited for years, and last night's warming did not
drive out all the damp. It is wonderful how satisfying the dancing
flames are; they seem to impart their glow and warmth to me.

My furniture is very simple, but enough. I have a cot with plenty of
bedding; a table, several chairs, including a rocker; two trunks and
some grass rugs for the floor. Of course, there are hundreds of lesser
things which I could not get along without, but while they have their
places, they are not worth cataloguing. It is also needless to say that
one of the trunks is half full of books. Some of these have already
found their way to the table; Stevenson, Hearn, Rabelais, Villon, Borrow
and some others.

When I come to tell of my demesne I don't know where to draw the line,
for there are no boundary marks, and I can easily fancy "I am monarch of
all I survey." I suppose I have a yard, for I shall think of the plateau
in that way. Whoever built the Lodge cleared the level place in front,
and around, of all trees and bushes. It is dry and barren now, and
covered with dead leaves, but soon there will be a prying and a pushing
of little green heads and I shall be kept busy if I don't want to be
overrun and driven out. Beginning a short distance back of the Lodge,
and continuing upward for perhaps a hundred feet, a thick band of pines
and cedars belt the hill with a zone of perpetual green. Beyond this the
vegetation dwindles, becomes scarcer, and finally ceases, leaving the
apex of the knob absolutely bare. Below my plateau, and around,
everywhere, as far as I can see, are trees, trees, trees. Trees of every
size and every kind indigenous to the climate. Evergreens predominate.
There are millions of them, but there are also wide expanses of oak,
ash, beech, sycamore, elm, walnut, dogwood. Most of these have as yet
not put forth the tiniest shoot. But here and there in the dun, brown
stretches a dogwood has joyously flung out a thousand gleaming stars
which shine, white and radiant, a pledge and a promise of the general
resurrection nearhand.

A moment gone I laid down my pen and stepped outside. How vast! How
still! How illimitable! I had never felt my insignificance so keenly
before. I seemed a tiny atom of dust. But as I stood and heard again
those muffled chords from the mighty Harp, and saw the patient planets
overhead again on guard, I suddenly knew that I was truly part and
parcel of the Whole, and in my heart Hope gave birth to prayer.

Now to bed, tired, but at peace, with both windows flung wide--it is
'Crombie's orders.




CHAPTER FOUR

IN WHICH I MEET A DRYAD


A week has passed. Until to-day I had begun to fear that my proposed
plan of making a book would come to naught. One would not care to read
of a daily life consisting of getting up, eating, smoking, reading,
strolling about and going to bed. That is all I have done until to-day,
when something happened. But before I come to this, I must tell of the
labor I undergo in procuring water.

I have spoken elsewhere of a sulphur spring. It is located in another
ravine across the one lying at the foot of my knob. I have been drinking
the water dutifully, because 'Crombie told me to, although to my mind it
is vile stuff, and I can't see how anything with such a pronounced odor
can be beneficial. I don't suppose I know. But I must have cooking and
bath water as well, and this comes from the small stream which runs
through the center of the nearest ravine. The distance would not be so
great on a level, but to struggle up the steep slope with a bucket full
of water in each hand is no fun. I have had to make two trips every day,
much to my discomfort. This is a problem which I have to solve, or else
go unwashed. Then, too, when the summer comes the stream below will most
probably run dry, although 'Crombie assured me the sulphur water was
plentiful the year round.

I have been getting located the last seven days; exploring my hill of
refuge, and making little excursions into the neighboring fastnesses.
Almost the last thing 'Crombie told me was to remember the life-plant,
and the sooner I began the search the better it would be for me. I'm not
altogether satisfied about this life-plant, although I know 'Crombie
wouldn't joke with me about so serious a matter. I have at length
decided to take his word implicitly, and begin a systematic hunt for
this most peculiar growth. I am feeling suspiciously well. My cough has
nearly gone, and it seems almost absurd that a strapping man of six foot
two should be out chasing a chimera of this sort.

This morning I was up before the sun, an experience I have not known
since childhood. I breakfasted bountifully on ham, eggs, bread, and
coffee. Then, flushing foolishly, I filled a pint Mason jar with
water--sweet water--screwed the top down tightly, thrust the jar hastily
in my coat pocket, took my pipe and a stout staff I had cut several days
before, and started on my first tramp for this life-plant.

I swung down the road--I will call it such--up which the wagons had
come, crossed to the spring and drank of the cold, bad smelling water,
and as I stood puffing my pipe I wondered which way I should go. It did
not matter in the least, but it was human to consider, and I considered.
Before me loomed the prodigious bulk of my home hill. Back of me rose
another, not quite so imposing, but exceedingly steep. To right and left
swept the ravine, silent, shadowy in the newborn morning. It was from
the right we had come. I turned to the left, and presently the thick
soles of my heavy walking shoes were crunching and clattering the loose
shale as I skirted the shallow stream bed.

I went far that day, climbing ridge after ridge, traversing hollow after
hollow, always with my eyes open for my rare treasure. Again and again I
came upon farm land, small patches of tilled soil which the stubborn
strength of man had wrested from the wilderness to supply his needs.
These fields I went around. Once, from a high point, I saw a tiny
hamlet, caught the cackle of geese, and heard the low of kine.

Noon came and went before I was aware. I had brought no lunch with me.
It was past midafternoon when I again drew near home. There was never
any danger of my getting lost. Far as I might walk in a single day, that
towering peak would yet be visible, rearing itself in silent grandeur to
guide me back. The thought was comforting.

I approached in a different direction from any I had ever taken before,
coming almost from due west. I had swiftly descended a slight slope,
hunger giving me haste, and had burst into a glade at the edge of one of
the many creeks which threaded the country, when I stopped short.

A girl was standing on the further side of the glade. She had not heard
me, for the leaf-sodden mold gave back no sound from my careless feet.
She stood under a dogwood tree, and it chanced, the moment I beheld her,
that the declining sun fell all about and over her. She had plucked a
number of sprays from the tree, and as I stood with bated breath she
began to weave the white and yellow blooms into her hair, which shone in
my eyes like a reflection from burnished copper. She sang as she weaved,
or rather crooned, for I caught no words. It was just an elfin little
tune, with quavering minors strung on a listless monotone. She was
garbed very, very simply; a one piece dress of faded blue, belted at the
waist. A poke bonnet of the same color lay upon the ground near her
feet. Her position in relation to mine was a semi-profile, so I could
make little of her face, but her form was slim and straight, and her
bowed arms displayed a natural grace as she thrust her fingers in and
out of her shining hair, working the star-like blossoms into place.

As I stood wonder-struck, debating what to do, I saw a commotion in the
tree by which she stood, a scuttling form darted out on the branch
nearest the girl's head, then leaped to her shoulder, where it sat and
nibbled a nut, its tail a graceful gray plume. I think my mouth went
agape; if it didn't, it should have, for here was magic.

The girl--or dryad, for I was beginning to doubt if she was real--paid
no immediate heed to the squirrel, but went on droning her song and
toiling patiently at the flowers. I stood and watched her, leaning on my
staff, my erstwhile hunger forgotten. Would she vanish into air, or
would she disappear in the cleft of an oak? I determined to see.

In a few moments her crown was in place. She put her hands down, but
almost at once raised one of her arms, and gave a small, thin,
twittering call. She stood like a statue, apparently waiting, then
repeated the sound, varying it only by a quick rising inflection at the
end. Like an echo an answer filtered sweetly out from the forest to one
side, and I saw a streak of brown cleave the air of the glade, as a
small wood bird, of a species unknown to me, dipped to the outstretched
arm and perched upon the girl's wrist. There it sat, its pert little
tail at a sharp angle, and its head cocked to one side very knowingly.

"Good Lord!" I burst forth, involuntarily, then bit my lip for a fool.

The charm was rudely broken; I had spoiled the tableau.

With a whisk of his tail the squirrel dropped to the girl's hip, jumped
to the ground, and headed toward the thicker growth with frightened
leaps. The bird vanished as the ball does from between the conjuror's
fingers--it just went, but I did not see it go--and the girl turned with
a quiet movement to see who the idiot was.

"I--beg your pardon!" I said, advancing several steps and taking off my
cap. "That--er--I have never seen--you know--er--I'm really sorry I
scared them off!"

She stood perfectly calm, her weight resting rather awkwardly upon one
foot, her hands loosely clasped in front of her, as I made my stammering
speech. I don't know why I should have been so confused, unless it was
from her rare composure.

"They'll come back," she said, assuringly, and smiled.

I drew closer. I could not believe the evidence of my eyes. When I saw
her joined hands I marveled; they were white, slender, smooth, entirely
unmarked by toil. Now her face. It was fresh, sweet--not beautiful--and
lighted by gray eyes, which brought a sensation to my spine. It was not
a face I would have expected to meet in the Kentucky knob country. True,
there was a superficial expression which reflected her environments, her
associates, but this appeared to me even in that moment as a veil to be
taken off, that the true nature might shine forth. Her voice was low,
rich, and held a strangely haunting note which made for unrest in the
heart of a man. She was totally wild; that I could not doubt.
Illiterate, crude, a child of the locality, but when I first looked in
her face, when I first heard her voice, I knew that I stood before one
whom Fate had cheated. That she was not abashed, not even startled by
the sudden appearance of a total stranger, I attributed rightly to her
mode of life, which was untrammeled by convention, thoroughly natural,
and free from the restraints artificiality begets.

"You--live near?" I said, never once thinking of passing on now that my
apology was spoken.

"Uh-huh; at Lizard P'int. 'Tain't fur--up th' holler a bit."

The simple words struck me almost like a blow. The voice was sweet as a
flute in its lowest tones, the lips were red and curving, but the speech
was the uncouth vernacular of the hills. Fate had indeed cheated her.

As I nervously drew out my pipe, thinking what I should say next, she
discovered a rent on her shoulder where the careless claws of the scared
squirrel had torn the fabric of her dress. She gave a little exclamation
of annoyance, thrust one finger in the torn place, pouted as a child
might for an instant, then laughed and tossed her garlanded head.

"I don't keer! Granny'll fix it!"

It was my cue.

"Who is Granny?"

"Granny?... Oh! _my_ granny. We live together."

"On Lizard Point," I supplemented. "Doesn't anyone else live with you?"

She nodded her head brightly.

"Yes, Grandf'er does, but he don't count."

Her ingenuousness was bewitching, and I essayed to prolong the
interview.

"Aren't you afraid to wander around in the woods this way alone?"

"Me!... _Skeerd?_"

For a moment she looked at me with dropped chin and a tiny frown of
wonder, then a glad stream of laughter came pouring from her upheld
mouth, filling the forest with rippling, echoing cadences. I gazed on
the round, gleaming column of her young throat, milk-white and firm, and
a subtle, primal call stirred in my breast. When her boisterous
merriment had subsided, I could see her teeth, like young corn when the
husks are green, between the scarlet of her parted lips.

I came closer yet. I was bewildered, puzzled, but strangely attracted. I
scarcely knew how to answer her.

"You see," I tried to explain, "it--that is, where I came from young
women go nowhere without an escort, except in town."

"Oh!"

Her face was serious now, and she seemed trying to comprehend.

"Whur'd you come frum?" she demanded, with disconcerting abruptness.

"From Lexington."

"Whut's that?"

"A town--a little city."

"I don't like city people!"

The sentence sprang forth spontaneously, and she looked displeased.

"Why?"

I did not receive an answer. She was kicking a small bunch of moss with
the toe of her ugly, coarse shoe, which was rusty, and laced with a
string. But for all its shapelessness, the shoe was very small.

"Why don't you like city people?"

"'Cause Buck says they're mean an' stuck up!"

She flashed the sentence at me with a rapid glance of defiance.

"Who's Buck?"

Now the girl's face took fire, and dire confusion gripped her. Hair and
skin became indistinguishable. But she flung her head up bravely, and
with burning eyes looked straight into mine.

"Buck Steele. He's th' blacksmith over to Hebron, an' he's--my frien'."

She had grit. I honored her for that speech.

"You know I'm a stranger," I ran on, easily, making a pretense to fill
my pipe, and so help her over her embarrassment. "I came just about a
week ago. I'm in the house up on Bald Knob yonder. The city didn't agree
with me, and my doctor sent me out here to get well. I'm not mean and
stuck up, believe me. I've got the poorest sort of an opinion of myself,
although I've lived pretty clean. Now I want to be friends with you, and
all the folks about here. You'll help me, won't you?"

Her self-possession had returned while I was talking. When I stopped, I
smiled, and looked at her as frankly and honestly as I could.

"You don' 'pear puny!" was her startling rejoinder.

I took another tack.

"Pray tell me how it is the birds and the beasts obey you?"

"I love 'em!" she answered, promptly, and with warmth. "I know 'em, an'
they know me."

She turned without warning, and walking to the bank of the creek, which
at this point was raised several feet above the water, leaned over and
peered down into the pool below. Could Eve have been more artless? She
was looking at her reflection in the mirror of the stream!

I picked up her bonnet by one of the strings, then went and stood beside
her. A compliment arose unbidden to my lips, but I stifled it. It would
not have been fair.

"I mus' go," she said, straightening up, and twisting a hanging curl
near her forehead back beneath her hair.

"Aren't you--"

I started to ask if she wasn't afraid, and if I mightn't go with her,
but remembered in time.

"--and your granny very lonely?" I finished, lamely, but she did not
appear to notice it.

"La! No! Th' Tollerses 's jis' t'other side o' th' ridge, 'n' they've
got a pas'l o' kids. No time to git lonesome!"

My spirit writhed. Such language as this--from her!

She held out a hand for the bonnet.

I brought it forward slowly, still holding it by the string. Her hand
rested against mine for an instant as she took it. At this juncture I
made a--to me--significant discovery. _Her nails were pared and clean!_
It seemed paradoxical, but it was true. I did not attempt to account for
the phenomenon then, but I did later, with no results whatever.

"Where is Lizard Point--exactly?" I asked, my voice more serious than it
had been during our talk.

She pointed her finger down the creek, as it flowed gently murmuring to
the south.

"Th' crick 'll lead yo'. Nigh onto half mile frum here."

"I'm coming to see you and your granny some day soon. May I? You know
it's lonesome for me out here. I'm not used to it. May I come?"

She gazed at me with steady gray eyes for a few moments.

"Ye-e-es; I s'pose so," she answered, reluctantly; "if yo' git
lonesome.... Whut yo' keer'n' that jar fur?"

Her glance had just espied it, and now it was my turn to blush.

"I'll tell you--when I see you again," I compromised, laughing.

She started off, but stopped and turned.

"Live on Baldy, yo' say?"

"Yes; in the old log house there."

"I go thur sometimes. Maybe I'll come 'n' see you!"

"All right. You'll be mighty welcome."

"Good-by."

"Good-by."

She did not look back, and I stood with a distinct sensation enveloping
me until her copper-gold head, crowned with the star-like dogwood, had
passed from view.




CHAPTER FIVE

IN WHICH I SAY WHAT I PLEASE


A prodigious miracle has happened.

It is not yet mid-April, but the Spirit of Life has stirred in every
bole and bough; every twig and tendril. The awakening has been so
gradual, so stealthy, so silent, that not until this afternoon did I
notice that the far reaching brown world over which I daily looked, had
changed.

I had been doing some rough carpentering--building a bench on either
side of my doorway outside, using a broad plank I had found in the
kitchen for the purpose. It is true I had chairs, and chairs are more
comfortable, but it has struck me that the Lodge would look better with
these benches in front; would have a more finished appearance. So I
knocked them up quickly. Now on the further rim of my plateau grows a
single pine; a tall, many-limbed, graceful tree. Somehow the thought was
born that a bench under this pine would not be placed amiss, so I walked
toward it to investigate the idea at close range. Its lowest branches
shot out more than two feet over my head, and as I passed under them I
obtained a fresh and unobstructed view of a tremendous reach of
landscape. Instantly my mind received the impression that something had
happened. The entire perspective was subtly transformed.

Before me was nothing but trees--a vast valley full; slopes clothed with
them and peaks capped with them. And each tree was touched with mystery;
the familiar, never to be understood transmutation of sap to bud and
leaf. The effect from where I stood was not beautiful only; it awoke a
positive awe in my heart. The immense area comprehended by my gaze was
undergoing resurrection. Painless, soundless, without effort, the
ancient forest was coming back to life; to green, vigorous, waving and
dancing life. The process was as yet scarcely begun, but already it was
a veracious promise of perfect fulfillment. A tenuous, lacey veil of
pale, elusive green seemed stretched over all growth within the scope of
my vision. A misty, unreal something it appeared; a gossamer covering
which would vanish before the first breath of wind, or touch of sun. But
well I knew the truth! It was the sun, and the wind, and the rain which
had compassed the wonder. Beneath their united power the sluggish sap
had first stirred in the hidden roots, and when the insistent summons
became more and more powerful, had mysteriously arisen through
successive cells of fiber, up and up, into every branch, into every
limb, into the smallest and most insignificant twig, where Nature's
final marvelous alchemy was performed, and moisture turned to bud, and
bud turned to leaf. A leaf perfectly shaped and veined, each to its own
tree.

Dusk came upon me as I gazed, enraptured. Softly the light stole away,
and the shadows came. Now the horizon range was a wall of gloom, and
then, like billows which made no sound, velvety waves of darkness
overflowed all before me, blotting it out. But I know that to-morrow the
lacey veil would have a deeper shade, and that soon, with millions upon
millions of leaves astir, the Harpist of the Wood, when he touched his
responsive strings, would draw yet a grander measure.

No bench went under the pine tree that night, but the next day I builded
it well. It is a fine spot to sit and dream--a pastime I love.




CHAPTER SIX

IN WHICH I MEET A SATYR


Two weeks have passed since I talked with the dryad in the glade.

I am getting along splendidly. That is, my appetite is good, I sleep the
night through, and my trouble remains at a standstill. I'm not expecting
this to leave me at once. I read some every night. The days I force
myself to spend outdoors. If I do not go on a tramp, I prowl around my
hill of refuge. Yesterday I found a creditable cave some score of rods
from the Lodge, in about the same latitude. There is an irregular,
outjutting ledge of rock here, and it was beneath a moss-splotched
bowlder I found a hole leading into the knob, its entrance large enough
for me to stand erect in. I am not averse to a mild adventure, so I
began a tentative exploration. I had proceeded but a few steps, however,
when I stopped. I heard something. I had my revolver with me--I make a
habit of taking it with me wherever I go--so I drew this and advanced a
little further. The sound was repeated, louder and more menacing. I
would have thought it the hiss of a serpent, but for its remarkable
volume. I looked, but could see nothing. The passage ended in darkness.
The floor was littered with small stones, and pebbles mixed with fine
sand. I picked up one of the stones and tossed it sharply into the
darkness ahead. The response was instantaneous. The hissing was renewed,
but now it was accompanied by a scuffling sound, and I became aware that
some formless thing was approaching me. I could see the bulk of it
making for me--but that was enough! I turned and ran, ignominiously,
forgetting my weapon in my fright. As I made my exit from the cave at
full speed I grasped a near-by sapling desperately, described an erratic
and ungraceful arc, thus saving myself from tumbling down the steep
declivity which faced me, and finally brought up some score of feet
away. I turned to see if I was pursued, but there was only an anxious
and solicitous mother buzzard in the cave-mouth, her ugly neck
outstretched toward me, and her broad wings bowed in anger. I laughed.
It was a little late for their nesting season, but this one doubtless
had a pair of miserable little yellow goslings back in that hole.

I give this incident to show how quiet my life was up to this time, and
how such a trifling occurrence really caused me much excitement.

I began my chronicle to-night by saying it had been two weeks since I
talked with the dryad in the glade. Why should I reckon time from that?
I wrote the sentence unconsciously. Now, when I come to think about it,
I realize that the dryad has been in my mind a very great deal during
the last fortnight. You must know there is to be no concealment in this
narrative. It is to be a record of absolute truth. Not only what I do,
but what I think and feel, shall be faithfully set down. She--I don't
even know her name! I can't see why I should have parted from her
without asking her name, since I shall in all likelihood see her many
times during the coming year. Perhaps it was her eyes which made me
forget such an important question. I have never seen eyes like
hers--never. They are the Irish gray. That's a different gray from all
others, as I suppose you know. Don't ask me how they are different, for
I don't propose to attempt an explanation. But they are, and especially
is this true in women's eyes. A woman with Irish gray eyes can be
dangerous if she wants to. In addition to their remarkable color, the
dryad's eyes have very white lids which droop the least bit, perpetually
shading the iris. She is something of a paradox. She has small feet,
smooth hands and carefully kept nails, but her language, while spoken in
a peculiarly pleasing voice, is so ungrammatical and colloquial that it
makes rigors creep over me. I told her that I was coming to see her and
her granny, but I haven't gone. Why haven't I? I told her I was coming
to see her because I got lonely. Have I been lonely? Yes; very. Three
days ago I bravely started for the glade where I had found her,
intending to follow the guiding creek on to Lizard Point. I turned off
before I reached the creek and went ten miles in another direction. Why
did I do that? I want to see the dryad again. She interests me; I feel
that we shall be good friends. She has a bright and ready mind, and is
absolutely natural. She says what she wants to, laughs when she wants
to, does what she wants to. I verily think she would be incapable of
deception or guile, but I may be wrong in this. I suspect I am. Such
things are not conditions resultant from culture and refinement; they
belong to the human organism, and so, by virtue of her being, the dryad
must possess them.

To-morrow I am going to Lizard Point.

This afternoon I came in before sunset from a very leisurely tramp of
about four hours. Whenever I stir abroad my pint Mason jar full of fresh
water goes with me, for I have banished all doubt, and believe
steadfastly in the life-plant. You may be sure I am always looking,
always watching. That is my sole object in life just now. I feel that I
will find the thing if it grows in this part of the world, for my search
is to be most thorough. Thus far I have discovered nothing whatever to
arouse hope or anticipation.

I came home early to-day because I am to have a garden. I decided upon
this last night after I was abed. Just before I toppled over into sleep
I remembered that the ground to the left of the Lodge was loamy, with
few rocks, and not many stumps. So to-day I despatched an early supper,
took a rake and began to clear the ground. It was nice, easy work, and I
soon discovered that my garden would run sixty feet one way by
forty-five or fifty the other. There was a heavy layer of decaying
leaves to scrape away, a number of loose stones, and quantities of
sticks fallen or blown from trees. I stopped in about fifteen minutes to
refill my pipe, found that I had left my tobacco on one of the benches,
and went and helped myself. As I touched match to bowl I heard a high,
harsh voice singing in the most dolorous key imaginable the following
doggerel couplet:

    "Rabbit in th' log.
    Ain't got no rabbit dog."

I stopped drawing on the stem, and turned my head in the direction of
the sound. The burning splinter of pine nipped my fingers, and I dropped
it. The crazy tune came from down the road, which curved not a great
distance away. Again, louder, and in a more positive tone, some one
declared:

    "Rabbit in th' log,
    Ain't got no rabbit dog.
    Chick'n on my back,
    Houn' on my track,
    I'm a-makin' fur my shanty--
                          God knows!"

The last word was carried through fluctuations which would almost have
stood for a cadenza in a music score, and as it trailed off into silence
the singer appeared from around the bend.

In the half light he presented a strange, almost a grotesque figure, as
he toiled up the road repeating over and over his peculiar lines. I
stood perfectly quiet, and watched his approach. There was a certain
limp to his gait, coupled with a decided unsteadiness, which made his
seeming yet more uncouth as he drew nearer and nearer through the
gloaming. His head was bent, and he was unaware of my presence until he
reached the plateau, and advanced some distance across it. Then he
looked up, saw me, and came to a standstill with a jerky motion. He was
perhaps twenty feet from me, as we stood and exchanged stares.

An exceedingly tall, loose-jointed individual faced me. His clothing was
nondescript, mostly rags and tatters. His trousers, frayed at the ends,
came to an abrupt stop several inches above the tops of his run-down,
rusty shoes, and the spaces between showed a dust-begrimed skin. He wore
a coat of the Prince Albert pattern, much too small. Beneath this was
some sort of shirt which would not admit of description. His face was
gaunt and hairy. I will not say he wore a beard; the term would be
incorrect. The hair grew in patches; sickly, stringy strands, with an
extra tuft on the chin which curved sideways. I was forcibly reminded of
a goat when I saw this chin-tuft. He wore a colorless, conical felt hat,
broad-brimmed and bandless. The brim continued the slope of the crown in
an unbroken line, producing a startling effect. There came to my mind
the headgear of Hendrik Hudson's crew as depicted in the play of Rip Van
Winkle. This specter-like apparition might well have been a ghost, but
for the recent evidence of a strong pair of lungs. Beneath one arm,
hugged to his side, the figure carried a bundle covered with oilcloth.

For the length of a half-dozen breaths we stood motionless and
speechless. Then the figure began to nod its head at me, slowly,
soberly, up and down, up and down, and with each movement the curved
chin-tuft would shake. This senseless action irritated me. I don't know
why, for it might just as well have caused amusement. But for some
reason I felt anger rising within me; not violent, but enough to barb my
tongue.

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

My words were sharp, but that they did not cut I knew from the sprightly
reply.

"I'm a fiddler, 'n' I don't want nothin'!"

Still the head bobbed, and the goat-tuft shook.

"You're nothing of the sort," I retorted; "you're a satyr, and you want
a drink of whiskey!"




CHAPTER SEVEN

IN WHICH THE SATYR AND I SIT CHEEK BY JOWL


He looked the first, and from his antic disposition I was convinced he
was already more than half drunk. But I was entirely unprepared for the
result which my statement brought about.

The angular figure became convulsed with immoderate laughter on the
instant. He shouted and screamed with mirth, bending forward, thrusting
backward, holding his ribs with one hand--the other was busy with the
oilcloth bundle, which he never forgot--turning that repellent chin to
the sky, and yelling his insane, cackling, demoniac merriment to the
first stars. I thought he would surely have some sort of fit before my
eyes, so overcome was he with glee. I stood erect and dignified, waiting
for his stormy risibles to allay. After a full two minutes of noisy
rapture, he calmed down somewhat, drew forth a bottle of remarkable size
and tilted it with the neck between his lips. Making a smacking sound of
satisfaction as he finished the draught, he half lurched, half walked
toward me, extending the bottle as he came.

"Good fur rheumatiz," he said, stopping at arm's length, and
good-naturedly leering his invitation for me to partake.

I shook my head.

"No.... Thank you."

There was an expression on his countenance which disarmed me of my
wrath. At close range I searched his features. They were irregular,
undecided. His nose was pug--another satyr touch--and his neck long,
thin and ridged. I could not see his eyes. But something about him came
out to me as an appeasing and soothing agent. Worse than useless for me
to speculate as to what it was. A nameless something, probably, which
acted upon my spirit, or nature, and charmed it in a way. I knew this
thing before me was a fragment, a waif, a bit of flotsam on Life's sea.
He could be nothing else. And yet--and yet, as he stood patiently with
that enormous bottle stuck under my nose, and the genial, whole-hearted
leer of invitation on his pagan face, I knew a sudden kinship; a quick,
sympathetic rush of feeling, and as I waved the bottle aside with my
left hand I thrust out my right and grasped his as it hung limply in
front of the bundle he still pressed to his side with his elbow.

"I don't want your liquor, Satyr," I said; "but you may sit down and
talk to me if you want to."

"Don't want good liquor?" he repeated, batting his lids, and lowering
the bottle as though puzzled beyond understanding.

"Not now; not often. Sometimes I do. But what sort of stuff is that?"

I had just noticed the contents of the bottle was clear.

"White lightnin'," he replied, carefully stowing it away in a pocket I
could not see.

I knew then. It was moonshine whiskey.

Suddenly his cadaverousness struck me afresh.

"Have you had supper--or dinner--or breakfast?" I demanded, with such
vim that he answered hurriedly:

"Naw; neither; nothin'."

The grammar was bad, but the meaning was good.

"Then let's eat--you and I--and become acquainted."

I did not tell him my supper was over, though this bit of tact was
doubtless unnecessary. Neither did I invite him indoors. While it is
true I had really warmed to his outcast condition, the sentiment did not
embrace the hospitality of my roof. I felt a desire to cultivate him,
but the acquaintance must grow in the open.

He grinned appreciatively at my suggestion, and I saw him lick his lips
surreptitiously, after the manner of a starved animal which smells food.

"Get busy about a fire, and I'll find the grub," I continued, not
waiting for the assent which I knew he would give.

With that I went in the house, took from my larder some bacon, eggs,
bread and coffee, all of which, with a skillet, I carried out. Quickly
as I had moved, I found the Satyr's fire ablaze when I returned. This he
had made from dry leaves and sticks which I had already scraped into a
pile from off my garden plot.

As host, I prepared the meal. While it was cooking, my strange guest sat
just across from me in a most uncouth attitude. His shoulders and a
portion of his back rested against a stump; the small of his back he sat
upon. His long, spider legs were flexed in such a manner that his sharp
knees shot up into the air above his head. He had placed his dust
colored hat upon the ground, and I could see pale, lifeless strands of
hair waving in the early night breeze on top of his partly bald head.
The oilcloth bundle lay across his stomach. Neither spoke during the few
minutes in which the eggs, meat and coffee were being prepared. One of
his claw-like hands lay upon the bundle. Once I saw his other hand stray
rather aimlessly under his coat, but it brought nothing out when
withdrawn.

"Go to it!" I said, cheerily, when all was done, shoving the skillet
toward him, and rising to find a cup for his coffee.

When I came back it was to see him with the skillet between his knees,
devouring its contents with the voracity of a starved wolf. He was using
a stick and his fingers to convey the hot food to his mouth, as I had
forgotten to provide either knife or spoon. I watched him in amazement,
for he bolted the bacon and eggs as a dog might. It was very plain he
was badly in need of nourishment.

"Good, Satyr?" I asked, squatting down and pouring out a running-over
cupful of steaming coffee.

He tried to reply, but the words were unintelligible because of the
fullness of his mouth. So I wisely made no further effort at
conversation until the skillet was clean--literally clean--for the
hungry man took chunks of bread and sopped and swabbed until the black
iron glowed spotless. Three cups of strong coffee he drank, three big
cups; then, because, I suppose, there was nothing left, he drew his
ragged sleeve across his mouth, sighed and voiced his thanks.

"Hell 'n' blazes!"

It meant more, from him, than the most polished bit of rhetoric from a
scholar.

"Glad you liked it," I said. "Do you smoke?"

For reply, he began to search his garments silently, and directly
produced a cob pipe, as remarkable in appearance as its owner. To begin
with, it was made from a mammoth corncob. I verily believe it was two
inches in diameter. Around its middle was a dark band, where the
nicotine had soaked through. The reed stem was so short that it brought
the pipe almost against the smoker's lips. He helped himself to the
twist of tobacco I offered him, dexterously flipped out a red coal from
the edge of the fire with a stick, then deliberately picked the live
coal up between finger and thumb and laid it on top of the pipe. I had
heard of this feat, but had never believed it true.

Now my guest sat Turk fashion, contentedly puffing away, so I followed
his example on my side the fire, after tossing on a few more sticks to
keep the blaze going. The red embers would have sufficed for heat, the
night being warm, but I wanted to see more of this queer being. Above
all, I wanted to see his eyes. This I could not do, because the
firelight flickered, smoke arose from the burning sticks, and the man
had bushy brows.

For several minutes there was no sound but the gentle crackling of
wood-fiber, or the occasional sizzling of a little jet of steam escaping
from its tiny prison. Then I heard a question which almost startled me.

"Whut mought a satyr be, no-how?"

I laughed low, and pressed the spewed-up ashes down into my pipe.

"A satyr?" I repeated, thinking swiftly, for really I did not want to
cause affront. "Oh! A satyr is a fellow who runs loose in the woods.
That's you, isn't it?"

He was looking in the fire, and presently he began to nod.

"I reck'n it air; yes, I reck'n it air."

"But you've another name," I went on; "what is that?"

"Jeff Angel."

"That doesn't suit," I made bold to answer. "Satyr is much nicer than
Angel. Where do you live, pray?"

"Anywhur; nowhur. Jis' use 'roun' th' country, eat'n' 'n' sleep'n' fust
one place 'n' 'nother."

Feeling cramped, I now reclined upon my elbow with my head away from the
fire. In this position my companion was invisible.

"Why did you come here to-night?" I resumed, pulling leisurely on my
briar-root, and noting idly that the stars had become much thicker.

"I's goin' to sleep in th' shack," was the prompt reply. "Lots 'n' lots
o' times I've slep' thur."

"And now I've rooted you out. I'm sorry."

"'Tain't wuth worryin' 'bout. I'll go on to th' P'int d'reckly."

I twisted my head in his direction with a swift movement.

"The Point?... Lizard Point?"

"Lizard P'int."

He evinced no surprise that I knew the name.

"Who do you know there?" I demanded.

"All on 'em. Granny, Granf'er, Lessie. They's my folks."

So her name was Lessie.

"Your folks! What do you mean?"

"Granny's my aunt."

That would make the Dryad and the Satyr cousins! Heavens! Could this be
true? I sank back on my elbow, and slowly dragged the pipe stem over my
lower lip into my mouth. Somehow I did not relish this news.

"Then you are some sort of cousin to Lessie," I murmured, confusedly,
and I doubt if he heard. At least, he did not reply, and I lay and
looked at the sky and the somber bulk of the forest below, pondering
this strange news which I could not comprehend. Was it possible that
bright creature's blood could flow in the veins of this derelict? The
idea did not suit me, and yet I had no reason to doubt it. My interest
flagged; I no longer felt the inclination to question, and a long
silence fell. I could not order my guest away, especially after he had
broken my bread, but I would not be sorry when he went. The minutes
passed; the fire sank low. My pipe burned out: I could feel it cooling
under my hand. A drowsiness stole over me. I must have been on the
borderland of sleep when I became dreamily conscious of a strange,
pervading harmony. Ethereal echoes seemed to wake within my brain, and
the hushed night was suddenly tuned for a fairies' dance.

In stupefied amazement I swung my head around, and my mouth fell ajar
and my brows knit when I saw from whence these heavenly strains
proceeded. Jeff Angel was back against the stump. His knees were
sticking up like the broken frame of a bicycle, and he had a violin
under his chin. The goat-tuft was spread thinly out over the tail of the
instrument. His peaked slouch hat was a dirt-colored cone on the ground
at his side, and by it lay a crumpled piece of oilcloth. His eyes were
closed, and there was an expression of deep peace upon his homely
countenance. His long, big-knuckled, claw-like fingers moved over the
strings with the apparent aimlessness of a daddy-long-legs in its
perambulations, and they thrilled to the caress of his frayed bow as the
lips of a chaste lover to the lips of his beloved. I did not speak, nor
move, for I was dumfounded, and the night had been transformed into an
elfin carnival of dulcet sounds. My imagination was aroused, and I could
almost see nymphs and naiads uprising from the dense growth all around,
crooning as they came of woodland delights, and chanting the stories the
low wind told them when the world was asleep. The quiet ravine was
peopled with a ghostly company which made sad, eerie, but entrancingly
sweet music, such as might have been heard in heaven when the morning
stars sang together. The notes were liquid, living, colorful. Sometimes
there were brief silences between them, which were filled with
palpitating echoes. Suddenly a trembling flood of impassioned sound
rushed forth on swallow wings into the star-filled night, and I sat up
with a gasp.

"_Jeff Angel!_"

A downward crash of the bow which set all the strings to jangling
horribly; then silence.

The man was abashed, confused, for he hastily reached for the cloth bag
and thrust both violin and bow therein. He spoke as he fumbled nervously
at the drawstring.

"I didn't know you'd keer!" he said, contritely.

He had misinterpreted my exclamation.

"Care? Care!" I burst forth, leaning forward with my palms on the
ground. "I never heard such music in all my life, and I have heard men
play who receive a thousand dollars a night! Where did you get it?...
How do you do it?"

The satyr secured his worn coat across his chest with one button, then
bent toward me and replied earnestly.

"I guess it's bornd with me. I've never ben no 'count frum a kid. Wuzn't
wuth shucks--never. Jis' wouldn't work--I couldn't. They's no work in
me. When they tried to make me I'd run off. I'd run fur off in th' woods
'n' lay 'roun' all day, a-lis'n'n'. I heerd thin's." He stretched out
one gaunt arm and waved it with an uncertain, twisty motion. "I heerd
thin's. More 'n' th' birds a-cheepin' 'n' a-twitt'r'n' 'n' th' squir'ls
a-barkin' 'n' a-yappin' 'n' th' bees a-junin' in th' flowers. They's
other thin's--lots o' thin's I heerd. Th' crick's got a song--it's
_sich_ a song--'bout th' purties' 't is' I reck'n, 'cus it's
changeabler. 'N' they ain't no en' to th' chune th' win' sings.
Sometimes it's lazy 'n' sleepy, 'n' yo' wan' to duck yo' head 'n'
snooze, 'n' ag'n it's pow'ful strong 'n' loud 'n' almos' skeers yo' with
its shoutin'. 'N' they's other thin's--thin's I can't tell yo' 'bout
'cus I don't know whut they air--but I hears 'em. I c'n jis' shet my
eyes any day out in th' deep woods whur they ain't nothin' but woods,
'n' fus' thin' I know I'm a-floatin' on a cloud with music ever-whurs.
When I's a kid I went hongry fur some 'n' to play on, so one day I foun'
me a big reed, 'n' I made me a w'is'le with holes in it. I jes' mus'
play."

He rose to his feet, put his pipe away without knocking the ashes out,
and carefully tucked his oilcloth bundle under his arm.

"Pow'ful good supper, 'n' I wuz hongry _right_! 'Blige' to yo', sho.
Good-by!"

He swung around and started across the plateau.

I leaped up quickly.

"Come back again soon, Satyr!" I called. "A supper any time for ten
minutes fiddling!"

He waved his hand, but made no reply.

A few moments later, from down the road, growing fainter and fainter, I
again heard that fantastic rhyme:

    "Rabbit in th' log,
    Ain't got no rabbit dog."




CHAPTER EIGHT

IN WHICH I PITCH MY TENT TOWARD HEBRON FOR THE SPACE OF AN AFTERNOON


I have been to Lizard Point.

Before sunrise this morning I was up, and out. I sleep with both windows
open and the shutters up, so the first daybeams rouse me. Thereafter I
do not attempt to sleep, but rise at once. This is another of 'Crombie's
commands. He said the air was fresher and sweeter, and the distillations
from the earth and vegetation purer and more efficacious. He said all
this would do me good, and I am trying to follow out his wishes to the
letter, because life is sweet to me, and I want to get well. (I must say
that I never felt more vigorous than I do to-night.) It went hard with
me at first--this rising with the lark--for, in common with most bookish
folk, it had been my custom to sit up into the small hours, and sleep
late the next morning. Now I am growing used to it, and I love it. I
find that I feel better; stronger, more active and alert. There must be
some tonic properties in the early morning air to affect me in this way.

The world is never so lovely as when she wakes from sleep. Not even when
her old tirewoman, the sun, flings her golden coverlet over her just
before nightfall, does she appear so bewitchingly beautiful. This
morning, for instance, when I stepped without my door, I felt as if I
had been transported by magic into some new and mystical land. Like a
maiden whose virginal slumbers have been filled with peaceful dreams of
her beloved, the earth was waking. Gently--so gently--she pushed the
fleecy fog-billows from her breast. Afar the folds of night seemed yet
to cling about her, as though loath to leave her form. Nearer, but way
up the valley, grayish, shifting mists writhed slowly, uncoiling
vaporous lengths before the ever increasing light. Nearhand, trees,
bushes and stones showed dew-sweet and clean. And when, at length, the
day had triumphed, and I beheld the rim of a gold ball topping the far
eastern range, my breast throbbed with a quick elation, and a song burst
from my lips.

I spent the morning working on my garden. It is my peculiarity that when
I begin a thing I find no rest until it is finished. By ten o'clock I
had cleared the surface of all the available area, and felt much pleased
with my efforts. I had worked hard, for there were loose rocks to be got
rid of, some of them large and difficult to handle, in addition to the
leaves and sticks. But prospects seemed excellent for a fine crop. There
was no doubt that this was virgin soil, and as it lay in sun for several
hours each day, there was no valid reason why it should not produce
abundantly. I must now let it dry out for a few days, then spade it up
and plant my seed. Seed! Why, I hadn't so much as a pea or a bean on the
place, except in cans! I had several sacks of potatoes, but I wanted a
diversified garden. Almost immediately the solution came. I would go to
Hebron and buy all the seed I wanted. Comforted by this thought, I set
about an early dinner. I hummed contentedly as I bustled around in my
small kitchen. It was not until I sat down to eat that I realized the
song I had been persistently repeating was the absurd tune which had
heralded Jeff Angel's coming and farewelled his departure.

Later, with the sun swinging exactly at meridian, I took my staff and
headed down the road, intending for the Dryad's Glade. Ever since my
brief talk with the girl there had been a slow, steady pulling within me
toward that creek which flowed south. It didn't worry me especially; in
fact, it didn't worry me at all--why should it? But it was there. When I
was employed I was not aware of it, but whenever my mind rested there
flowed into it, like the resurgence of a low, moon-touched wave, the
picture of one standing on the brook's bank, with copper-red curls
crowned with white stars. It was a pleasant picture, and I did not try
to banish it.

Now, fairly started on my way, I wondered that I had not gone before. I
moved with restive eagerness, and presently reached the spot where I had
encountered the girl--Lessie. I did not like the name. It was empty,
vapid, meaningless, ugly; just a sound by which one was known. She could
not help it, of course. It might have been Mandy, or Seliny. Lessie did
not seem so terrible when I thought of others much worse, but it did not
fit her.

I tarried for a moment under the dogwood tree. Its blossoms were fading
now. I saw the jagged ends of several low branches where she had broken
off her coronal. But there was no sign of squirrel or bird. Passing on,
I plunged into the undergrowth which lined the creek bank as far as I
could see, and made my way along. There was something of a valley here,
and it would have been easier going nearer the base of the knob several
rods away, but the stream's course was erratic, so I clung to the bank
and fought my way forward. It was a toilsome journey, and the half-mile
was beginning to seem interminable when all at once I burst, perspiring,
into an open, and found I had arrived.

Just before me the creek split on a tongue or wedge of land, which came
sweeping gradually down from a vast spur in the background. Shaping
itself to a sharp point represented by an enormous, deeply imbedded
bowlder, the formation broadened backward rapidly and generously, widely
deflecting the halved stream. A quarter of a mile away I could see a
house--or cabin--surrounded by a dilapidated rail fence, with sundry
pens and outbuildings in miniature clustered in the rear. In the
foreground, to the left, was an acre or two of tilled soil. Paralleling
the left fork of the cloven creek, looping the point and fording the
right fork, was a mountain road. In front of me, spanning the left fork,
was the trunk of a huge beech tree, lopped of its branches, and that
this was a bridge which some far-gone storm had placed I knew at once,
for a crude ladder led up to its root-wadded butt.

For several minutes I stood, panting from my exertions, and conscious of
a slight pain in my right side. This did not alarm me, for I was
convinced it was nothing but what old people call a "stitch," caused by
my recent strenuous walk. I had reached Lizard Point--a most
insignificant name for such an impressive portion of country. There was
but one dwelling visible; therefore there could be but one place for me
to seek for Lessie. I came to the ladder, and had placed my foot upon
the bottom-most cross-piece when I halted, and in secret manner,
although there was no need of secrecy, drew the jar from my pocket and
hid it under the tree's lowest roots. I had promised Lessie I would tell
her why I carried it with me the next time I saw her, and this I did not
want to do, for she would fail to understand, and I would only appear
ridiculous. Queer how a man shuns being made ridiculous, but after all
it is only natural, especially if one is inclined to sensitiveness.

I mounted to the tree, and saw that the bark along its top surface had
been completely worn away. The tree had evidently been in use as a means
of passage for a long time. I walked across, sure-footed and steady, and
found a slight path winding up the easy ascent toward the house. This I
followed, keeping my eyes on the log dwelling ahead. As I drew nearer, I
made out a small porch, or stoop, and on this some one was sitting.
There was no other sign of life, if I expect a bony, yellow dog which
came slowly into sight from around the corner, and a string of white
ducks filing sedately down to the creek. I passed through a gap in the
crazy fence and traversed the yard. I now saw that it was an old woman
who sat on the porch. She was very fat, and she sat in a low
rocking-chair with her knees apart. A ball of yarn lay in her lap, and
she was knitting and rocking, knitting and rocking. Her great bulk
completely hid her support, but I knew it was a rocking-chair from her
motions.

As I stopped at the edge of the stoop and respectfully took my cap off,
the dog gave a low growl, then lay down, keeping one topaz eye fastened
upon me suspiciously. The fat old lady paid no more attention to me than
if I had been a hen or a duck, but sent her needles flying the faster. I
regarded her in silent wonder for a moment. Her dress was a plain
one-piece garment of some dark, cheap stuff, utterly unrelieved from
somberness except for a row of shiny white horn buttons down the front.
Her feet were large and flat, and were encased in carpet slippers with a
gaudy pattern of alternate crimson and green. She wore iron rimmed
spectacles which rested so near the tip of her pudgy nose I wondered
they didn't fall off. Her gray hair was parted very precisely in the
middle and slicked back close to her head. Her mouth was thin and hard,
and her face acrid looking.

"Uh-h-h--good morning," I said, hitching at my trousers; an
unconsciously nervous action.

"_Marnin'!_"

I jumped--really I did--for it was as though she had let a gun off in my
face. I had never heard such a voice. Vinegary? Well!

I curled my fingers around my chin and looked at the dog. His fiery eye
had not wavered. Then I looked at the cat--for in that moment I was
firmly convinced this old beldam _was_ a cat. Her mouth had squared into
yet firmer lines, and her brow had grown portentous. Still her needles
fussed about the half-made sock in her yellowish hands, and her gaze was
down, as before.

"Do the--"

I started to ask if people by their name lived here, but when I came to
the name I could not supply it; I had never heard it. I stammered,
coughed, then knew that a pair of fierce little green eyes were flashing
at me.

"Air yo' a plum' fule? Whur air yo' wits 'n' yo' tongue 'n' yo' commin
sinse? Can't yo' tell a body whut yo' want wi'out stam'rin' 'n'
stutt'rin' 'n' takin' all th' day? Folks as has got work to do ain't got
no time to waste on tramps 'n' sich! _Talk!_"

Like a cyclone this tirade enveloped me, bursting upon my ears in a
high, rasping voice which dragged on my nerves after the manner of a
file.

I became desperate. This old virago should not oust me. I thrust my body
forward, and, chin out, replied with some heat:

"Is this where Granny, and Granf'er, and Lessie live? That's what I want
to know?"

"Land sakes! Jony 'n' th' w'ale!... Air _you_ him?"

Her hands dropped in her lap; she cocked her head and viewed me afresh.

During the momentary silence which followed I heard shuffling footsteps
within, and an old man appeared in the open doorway in front of me. He
wore a shirt made of bed ticking; his trousers were not visible, because
of the coffee-sack which wrapped him from his waist to his shoes. He was
bald, his white beard was a fringe about his face, his upper lip shaven.
He was drying a white dinner plate of thick ironstone china with a
cloth.

"S'firy!" he said, in a squeaky, timorous voice; "S'firy!"

He got no further.

Granny turned her head sideways, at right angle to the speaker, and
promptly exploded.

"Jer'bome! Git right back to yo' work! Git! 'N' don't let me see nur
hear yo' till them dishes is washed 'n' put away!"

Granf'er (it could be no one else) retreated obediently, without a word.
Granny's face swung around to me again.

"If all men wuz as triflin' 'n' ornery as that air'n o' mine, Lord knows
whut th' worl' 'd come to. _E_-tern'l perdition, I reck'n! He jes' lays
'roun' 'n' chaws terbacker, pertendin' he carries a ketch in 'is back.
Plum' laziness, I tell yo'! But I don't 'low no vagrints 'roun' me.
Jer'bome's got to work 's long 's he b'longs to me.... Now! I said, air
you _him_?"

"I'm the stranger who lives in the shack on Bald Knob."

Granny resumed her knitting at this point. I noticed that her shining
needles seemed to be fighting each other as she continued:

"Look whut I'm a-doin' fur 'im now! Slavin' to git somethin' to keep 'is
feet warm 'gin winter comes. He's not wuth it! Lak as not he'll crack
one o' them dishes 'fo' he gits 'em done. He's that keerless. Most
do-less man I _ever_ seen.... Yes, I've heerd 'bout yo'--twict."

"I hope you received a pleasant report?" I ventured.

"Jes' las' night he lef' th' dish tow'ls a-hangin' on th' lot fence 'n'
th' calf et 'em up. 'N' th' day befo' he fed a gang o' day old chick'ns
meal 'n' wadder 'n' they swelled up 'n' died. 'N' chick'ns wuth fifteen
cents a poun' at th' store!... Lessie come home a fo'tn't ago with a
tale o' meetin' some feller. I tol' 'er gels 'd better leave all tramps
be."

"But I'm not a tramp!" I protested. "I'm usually considered a
gentleman."

"That's whut Jeffy 'lowed. He's here last night--pore feller!--'n' tol'
us 'bout eat'n' a snack with you on Baldy--whut in th' name o' the sevin
plagues does a man in 'is right min' wan' to live thur fur?--tell me
that!"

"I find it very pleasant--"

Then the light went out, soft hands were pressing hard over my closed
lids, and a cool, ferny perfume drifted to my nostrils. I was conscious
of warm wrists alongside my head, and a stifled giggle just behind me.

"Lessie!" I cried, remembering the childhood prank.

The blinding hands were at once withdrawn, and as she leaped back new
vials of wrath were opened.

"Of all outlandish doin's!"

Granny had raised her head only at my exclamation, but she saw enough.

"Whut on airth air gels comin' to this day 'n' time?--tell me that!
Never seen 'im but onct--mought be a redhanded 'sass'n--ur a
thief--ur--ur--ur _any_thin'! 'N' all my teach'n' all these years. W'en
I've _tol'_ yo' that all men were 'ceptious, 'n' _tol'_ yo' to b'lieve
nothin' they say, 'n' _tol'_ yo' to have no talk with 'em but 'Howdy'
'n' 'Good-by,' 'n' here yo' air a-huggin' a stranger--teetot'l
stranger--'fo' my eyes!"

Granny's jelly-like body really trembled with rage, and I began to have
fears for the outcome of the incident. Of course, it amounted to nothing
at all so far as right or wrong was concerned. It was simply a natural
expression of the primeval simplicity which marked all the Dryad's
movements. She was a child, and she had played a child's trick.

She now stood a few feet to one side, looking at me in unfeigned
amazement, apparently indifferent to the old woman's outburst. She was
dressed nicer than when I saw her before. Her garment was pale green,
with little wavy stripes of darker color. Her shoes, too, were a grade
better, but still clumsy, and she had a ribbon on her hair, which hung,
as before, down her shoulders. She seemed averse to wearing anything on
her head, for she held her bonnet--a poke bonnet, like the one I had
handed her in the glade--in her left hand.

As she looked fully and squarely at me with her peculiar Irish gray
eyes, I felt the same sensation come as when I had first beheld her. It
was a feeling I cannot adequately describe, because no definite word I
can think of would do. If the word existed, and if I knew it, I would
set it down. I should be just as glad to know what that feeling meant as
you. Perhaps each of us shall find out later.

She gazed at me and I gazed at her, and Granny gazed at us both. Our
eyes met for a full breath, and then somehow mine fell to her throat.
When a woman's throat is beautiful it is altogether as attractive as a
lovely face. The Dryad's throat was a poem. If John Keats could have
seen it, another golden ode would have come down along with the famous
seven. It was simply a perfect column of warm, white, vigorous young
life. Not too slender, and swelling on to the shoulders in the gentlest,
most marvelous contour. It was while I was engaged in fascinated
contemplation of her throat she spoke.

"Land sakes!... How'd yo' know my name?"

"The Sa--Jeff Angel told me."

"Oh!"

Her face underwent a rapid change, and the next moment she had leaped
lightly upon the porch, flung her arms around Granny's neck and snuggled
her head against the old woman's bosom.

"Don't you bother 'bout me, Granny!" she said, in soothing tones, and
again that indefinable haunting cadence smote my ears and caused me to
stir uneasily as I stood watching the scene. What a creature of moods
this girl was!

Now one hand patted Granny's fat cheek, and another smoothed the
lusterless gray hair. The expression which stole over the truculent face
made me think of the sunlight falling suddenly upon some forbidding
cliff, and that moment I knew how deep and wonderful must be the love
which beat in that old heart for Lessie.

"La! Now, chil'," said Granny, "have yo' way if yo' mus', but be
keerful--always be keerful. 'Specially o' men folks, 'cus they's so full
o' Sat'n 'n' mischief."

With that she sniffed resignedly, uplifted her brows, carefully freed
herself from the caressing arms and picked up the sock and the ball of
yarn, both of which had fallen to the floor under Lessie's onslaught.

As the girl arose to her feet Granf'er appeared a second time. He had
not removed the badge of domestic toil which had enveloped his nether
half when I first saw him, and he was dragging a low, shuck-bottomed
chair behind him. It came down the step leading from the porch into the
house with a bump and a clatter, and Granny blazed out again.

"Jer'_bome_. Look at yo'! Tryin' to break that cheer to splinters! Ain't
yo' got stren'th to carry ev'n a _cheer_? 'N' is thim dishes washed 'n'
put in th' pantry, whur they should orter be?"

Granf'er dumbly lifted the chair, conveyed it stiffly to the furthest
front corner of the porch, and quietly placed it. Then he turned to me,
and with a show of dignity said, in his thin voice--

"Set down!"

I at once stepped upon the porch, advanced and shook hands with the old
man, then took the proffered seat with a word of thanks.

He turned and hurried indoors, returning immediately bearing two other
chairs identical with the first. One of these he handed the Dryad, just
across the porch entrance, and the other he brought around and gingerly
lowered to the floor about a foot from mine. When we were all seated
Granf'er stretched one leg out to its fullest length, in order to gain
freer access to his pocket, and after some tugging produced a half twist
of tobacco. This he silently extended to me with a comical facial
contortion which plainly meant that I should take all I wanted. I shook
my head, and smiled.

"Light Burley!" he explained. "Skace 's hen's teeth. Don't yo' chaw?"

"S'pec' ever' man yo' meet to _live_ on terbacker?" snapped Granny,
without looking up.

"No," I replied; "I smoke."

"Then smoke. Yo' come too later fur dinner, so now we'll hev to mix
terbacker instid."

It dawned upon me that it was a sort of guest rite he was offering me,
so I crumbled some of the light yellow leaf into my pipe and fired it.
Then he gnawed off a satisfactory chew, and stowed the remainder away.

He crossed his legs--by this time I had discovered that he wore boots
with his trousers legs stuck down in the tops--in that comfortable,
sagging way all old men have, and with one hand in his lap holding his
elbow, he plucked gently at the front of his fringe of whiskers while
his jaw worked erratically as he slowly adjusted the savory particles in
his mouth.

No one spoke now for two or three minutes. It certainly was a new
experience for me. A swift glance showed me that the Dryad had weighed
the situation and was amused. Imps of fun danced in her eyes, and there
was a tightening about her mouth which told me that she was holding
herself in check with much effort. She was speechless from choice; the
other two from nature.

Without warning Granf'er twisted his neck and ejected a curving stream
of amber. It came down with a splash on the back of a half-grown chicken
loitering near. There was a squawk of alarm, a flutter, a scurry from
danger.

"That's right!" shrilled the bundle of fat. "Ef yo' can't kill 'em no
other way, drownd 'em with terbacker juice!"

"Granf'er didn't see it!" championed Lessie. "It's under th' aidge o'
the po'ch, 'n' 'tain't hurt no-how."

Once more I saw her teeth, like two rows of young corn when the husks
are green.

Granf'er paid no more heed to his helpmeet's words than if it had been
the wind blowing down the chimney. Even his expression did not change.
Already a real pity was creeping into my heart for Granf'er. It took
neither seer nor mindreader to discern that he belonged to that most to
be pitied class of all who live and breathe--a man who has become simply
a woman's creature. A man who, for one or more of a hundred reasons, had
abdicated his kingship in the home, suffering a reversal of rule
contrary alike to all divine decrees and natural laws. Such a man
deserves what he gets, it is true, live he in a mansion or a hovel. Man
was created to rule, and woman knows it. It is by ruling only that he
retains her love. When his reign ceases, then not only does her love
cease, but her respect also. Look about you!

Granf'er drew the palm of his hand across his lips, mechanically--and
with what seemed like a very natural motion--smoothed out some puckers
in his coffee sack apron, and spoke. He was looking out upon the quiet
majesty of the encircling hills, but I knew that he was addressing me.

"Y' see, Jeffy's S'firy's nevvy. He come wrong, we-all 'pine. Leas'ways,
they's some'n' in 'is head that's somehow onbalanced 'im. No nat'r'l man
'd go tromp'n' thoo th' woods frum morn'n' till night 'ith nothin but a
fiddle fur comp'ny. S'firy's special'y sot ag'in a fiddle, holdin' 'ith
lots o' folks that th' dev'l's in it--"

"I'd jes' love to smash it to smithereens over a stump!" interpolated
Granny.

"--but ez fur me 'n' Lessie, we kind o' en_j'y_ Jeffy's scrapin' 'n'
sawin'. Lessie's re'ly plum' cracked 'bout it, 'n' 'd foller Jeffy over
th' hull durn county if we didn't p'suade 'er pow'ful."

"Seems to me, Jer'bome, yo' c'n tell it 'ithout cussin'. Only las'
Sunday I had to speak to Father John 'bout yo' increasin' wickedness!"

"The hull durn county!" repeated Granf'er, quietly and reflectively, his
gaze still fixed on the high hills. "They has big times--thim
two--though Jeffy's mos' unsartain in 'is visits. Sometimes it's a month
w'en we don't ketch sight o' 'im, 'n' ag'in he lingers with us a day or
so at a spell. We sets lots o' store by Jeffy, 'cus th' Lord in 'is
wisdom has saw fit to 'flict 'im. Th' wus' thin' 'bout 'im is th'
liquor--"

"I'd hev _some_ pride, Jer'bome!"

"--n' w'en he gits holt o' that he goes plum' lunatic crazy sometimes.
Y' see, it's th' shiners 's whur he gits th' mos.' Th' ryavines over yan
air full o' the'r still-houses, 'n' Jeffy fiddles fur 'em fur 'is bottle
full o' liquor. Puss'nly, I hol' that a little liquor is pow'ful
he'pful, but S'firy 'lows it's no good fur nothin' 'cep' to make
dev'lment 'twixt people--"

"Ef I had my way not another drap'd go into a bottle!"

"--'n' I 'gree they's some sinse in her argyment, though it's my b'lief
that a w'ite man 's got to drink some'n', 'n' 't' 's well be pyore
whiskey as anythin'."

He stopped to relieve his overcrowded mouth, uncrossed his legs and
recrossed them the other way, "to keep 'em frum goin' to sleep," and
continued:

"'Pears to me Lessie said yo' come frum Lets'nt'n--uh-huh--some little
ways off. 'S never thur. Walked over to Ced'rt'n onct, but home 'n'
Hebrin's good 'nough for weuns. We ain't th' wanderin' kin', yo' mought
say, but live peaceful 'n' work our--"

"_Work!_"

"--work our lan', whut little we've got that's fit'n'. You's good to our
Jeffy--to S'firy's Jeffy, that is, fur he ain't no kin to me (not that
I'd be 'shamed o' Jeffy, onderstan', on 'count o' his not bein' jes'
right in th' head)--so I says to yo' here 'n' now 'ith S'firy 'n' Lessie
to witness, as head o' this house I says yo're welcome here to-day 'n'
any day!"

Then, quite unexpectedly, he clamped his hand across my leg above the
knee, and gave me a squeeze which hurt.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon on that small front porch.
Granf'er entertained me in the manner I have outlined; a mixture of
opinion, native philosophy, and local news, with occasional caustic
interruptions from Granny's two-edged tongue. Lessie said very
little--what chance had she in the face of Granf'er's garrulity?--and
once she went in the house and stayed for half an hour. When she came
back she had on yet another dress, pure white this time. There were some
frills and tucks and a touch of imitation lace here and there. I'm sure
it must have been her Sunday frock. She was showing off her wardrobe,
after the manner of a tot of eight or ten.

The sun had halted for a moment in its downward course on the crest of a
range as I arose to go.

Granf'er was voluminous in his invitation to "Come ag'in 'n' set a
w'ile"; Granny tendered me a defiant nod in response to my polite
good-by, and lo! as I turned to bid Lessie farewell last, she had
already moved into the yard, and was waiting for me! Side by side we
started down the narrow, hard-beaten path. That is, she took the path
and I walked in the new grass which bordered it.

"I'll go to th' crick with yo'," she said, demurely; then, with
characteristic irrelevance--"Ain't Granny tur'ble?"

"Granny's jealous of you, and I suppose she has nagged at Granf'er so
long it has become a fixed habit. I'm really sorry for the old fellow,
Dryad."

"Whut?"

She turned a quizzical, puzzled face.

I laughed, gently, and made known to her the meaning of the word.

"There are lots of things I'm going to tell you when I get a chance," I
added. "Wouldn't you like to know about this big world, and about the
many kinds of people who live in it? About the great cities, and about
what people have done and are doing? Wouldn't you like to learn how the
trees grow, and what makes the wind, the lightning, and the thunder?
About all the birds and animals; streams, rocks and hills? Wouldn't you
like to learn all these things, and lots more?"

Her eyes had widened as I talked, and now on her fresh, unlined face a
wonder and a hunger grew. It seemed as if her fallow mind was struggling
to emerge from some dark, concealing mist--to leap up and meet the
knowledge I had promised. A look almost of distress, born of futile
longing. We were moving very slowly. She spoke.

"I've--sometimes--w'en by myse'f--mos' often in the deep woods--I've
felt some'n _crawlin'_ in here"--she put her hand to her head--"some'n'
that 'peared to be want'n' to say some'n'. 'N' I's diff'ernt then. I
didn't wan' to go home to Granny 'n' Granf'er. I wanted to go some'r's
else--way off, maybe, 'n' I'd be mis'ble 'cause I couldn't
tell--couldn't make out whut 'twuz, yo' know. 'N' after w'ile it'd go
'way 'n' leave me, 'n' I wouldn't git right fur a day or so. I ast
Father John 'bout it one day 'n' it looked lak it hurt 'im, 'n' he tol'
me not to have them spells if I c'd he'p it. Said they wuzn't good fur
me. 'N' jes' now, w'en yo' tol' me 'bout all them things you's goin' to
learn me--it come back--come back lak th' crick comes down w'en it rains
in th' hills--with a rush 'n' pour, 'n'--'n'--oh! I wan' to know!--I
_do_ wan' to know!"

She clasped her hands with something like a tragic gesture, and stared
hard at the ground in front with forehead a-frown.

I did not answer her at once. How could I? A new facet of her many-sided
nature had flashed upon me, and I was a little dazed. We reached the
tree-bridge before I attempted a reply.

"I shall be here a year. Come to see me on Baldy. Or come to the place
where I first found you, and I will meet you there. I'm going to give
you the things for which you long. I can do it, but not with Granny or
Granf'er. They would object; they would not understand."

She looked up at me--for I had climbed to the tree--dumbly, yearningly.

"I'll come," she said. It was scarcely more than a half-whisper.

I did not like to leave her in that mood.

"All right, Dryad!" I returned, cheerily. "Now tell me where that road
goes."

My aim was to bring her mind back to its accustomed channel for the
present. She brightened at my query.

"T' 'Ebron," she said.

"Oh! Yes! Some day soon I'm going there. I have a garden at home and I'm
going there to buy seed."

She laughed at this, and I felt relieved.

"Good-by, Dryad."

I knelt on the tree, bent down and took her upheld hand in mine. It was
warm, soft, and, that moment, clinging. Forerunners of dusk had come,
and the gray pools of her clear eyes made me release her hand and get on
my feet.

She moved away, and as I turned to set my face in the opposite
direction, something halted me in the very act.

On the Hebron road, two hundred yards or more distant, I saw the figure
of a man. A young, tall, bareheaded, roughly clad man, standing very
straight and still. He saw me; he was looking at me. Of that I was sure.
His position was by a great stone, which cast him in deeper shadow.
There was something portentous in his attitude, natural though it was. I
stopped and returned his inspection of me, but he made no sign, no
gesture. He might have been a tree of the forest, for all of his
immobility. A feeling, not of fear, but of premonition, swept over me as
I went on across the tree.

I knew it was Buck Steele, the smith of Hebron.




CHAPTER NINE

IN WHICH I SIT UPON A HILLTOP AND REFLECT TO NO ADVANTAGE


I did something to-day which I have had vaguely in mind ever since I
took up my abode in the wilderness. I climbed to the very top of my hill
of refuge.

The principal reason why I have never attempted it before was that I
feared it would prove too much for me; would require too much exertion.
And 'Crombie, while advising and insisting upon continuous exercise, had
also warned me not to overdo it.

This morning I felt mighty as Tubal Cain. My walks, my regular hours, my
wholesome diet, are having effect. I am beginning to brown. At seven
o'clock, when I shaved, the path of my razor showed a firm, tanned skin.
My eyes are clear, and I can feel life coming into me. Oh, what a
glorious thing it is! Just simple, primitive, animal life! I don't know
when I have coughed. I can inflate my lungs, and imagine the
consternation of that "colony" at the inrushing flood of this ozone
laden air. I am not deluding myself that I am sound. 'Crombie said it
would take time, and 'Crombie knows. But I am better. My recent walks
have not caused me to pant and blow. That is why, this morning, I felt
the assurance within me that I could surmount old Baldy's peak, and feel
no bad results.

Rain fell last night. It began just as I went to bed, and I lay and
listened to it. There is something most fascinating about rain on the
roof after you have gone to bed. Last night it dropped gently, a steady
murmur. It came to my ears as a cradle song of Nature. I could hear it
outside the window near which I sleep. The patter, patter, and after a
while the gurgling of little streams over the clapboard eaves. I
remember of thinking what a good soaking my garden spot would get, and
of the consequent delay waiting for it to dry out before I could spade
it up, then I went to sleep.

This morning I was awakened by the orchestra of the birds. I had heard
stray notes before about daybreak. Snatches of song, broken trills,
single cries, and challenging calls. But this morning it was different.
I don't know how to account for it. Whether the rain had something to do
with it; whether they met by accident or appointment. The solution of
that question is a minor thing, however. I received the full benefit of
the gathering. I have never heard an exhibition which equaled that
forest symphony. There must have been nearly a dozen varieties of birds.
And each little fellow was singing with all the heart of him. I tell you
they made music. Each had a different tune, and among humans this would
have represented bedlam. But among the feathered kind--take my word for
it if you have never heard it--the effect was wonderful. It was one
great alleluia chorus, and the air throbbed with the sweetest music I
ever heard. I recognized many of the vocalists by their songs. I knew
that about my plateau were gathered the cardinal, the thrush, the
oriole, the catbird, the jay and the mockingbird. And when I mention the
jay, let no one rise up and point the finger of scorn, exclaiming on
that blue-coated fellow's harsh and grating scream. Mr. Caviler, your
voice is harsh and grating too when you get very angry, isn't it? But
have you never heard the love-note of the jay? Have you never, in the
dappled shade, when their half-fledged nestlings are flapping and
hopping about and stretching cavernous yellow jaws for worms and
moths--have you never heard the parent birds, watchful in the overhead
branches, make love? There was never a sweeter, mellower, richer tone
drawn from flute or harp than the love-note of the jay.

Many others were there that were strange to me, but the effect of the
whole was so sweet that I had to drag myself from bed, so charmed was I
by that chorus in the early dawn.

The sky was clear when I came out; a deep, rich, fathomless blue. Night
had taken the rain-clouds with it when it left. A woodsy, wet, earthy
odor, than which there was no perfume rarer, delighted my nostrils.
Everything was washed clean. The leaves, the trunks of the trees, the
very stones. It was then, as I stood and felt the might of the
everlasting hills entering into me, that I decided on my task for the
day. As yet it was too early. The ground was soft. It would be wet and
slippery on the slope above, and perhaps muddy. I determined to wait an
hour or two, so went down to my favorite seat under the pine tree,
taking with me Spencer's "First Principles," which is a book calculated
to make one use his mind, at least.

It was eleven o'clock before I looked at my watch--too late for mountain
climbing that morning. Upon reflection, I saw that this was just as
well. In fact, the afternoon would be a much better time to make the
ascent. The sun had been shining generously for several hours, drying
both the vegetation and the surface of the ground. So Mr. Spencer had
really done me a good turn in carrying me through the forenoon. I left
the book on the bench and went back to the Lodge, thinking to resume my
reading after I returned from the peak. I did not expect to be gone over
an hour and a half, allowing for plenty of time to rest.

After a leisurely dinner, I took my alpenstock, and imagining myself at
the base of the Matterhorn to lend zest, bravely fronted the upward
climb.

It was rather stiff work from the beginning. I flanked the Lodge for a
score of yards, and started up where the ascent was comparatively
gradual. This did not last long. Before I reached the encircling band of
evergreens I had to force my way through bushes which insisted on
rapping my nose, and vines which were equally determined to tie
themselves into knots over my toes, and trip me. At length I came to the
dark line of pines and cedars, where I stopped to investigate my
condition. My breath was coming pretty heavy, but I was not really
tired. So after a few moments' rest I went on. My going was tolerably
easy now while the trees lasted. Beneath their shade the earth was
barren. Some half dead moss and a plentiful sprinkling of pine cones was
all. As I walked over the latter they yielded softly to my feet, and
sent up a pungent odor. I heard no bird notes here, but once a
brown-winged shape flitted soundlessly by in front of me, low to the
ground. Everything was very still. There was no wind astir. The belt
proved to be a somber spot, and I was not sorry when I had passed it.
The dense shade had a depressing effect.

Then I came to open ground; open and bare. Two hundred and fifty feet
above me rose old Baldy's head. For perhaps half the distance a scrub
growth strove for existence in the rocky soil; beyond that the surface
was absolutely denuded. The incline had grown much sharper, but the
earth was knotty and uneven, in many places indented with excoriations,
and I found I could go forward with much greater ease than I had
anticipated. A quarter of an hour later found me facing the last ascent,
which was all but perilous in its sheer rise. My staff was of no avail
here; hands and feet must win. So I laid my alpenstock down, drew a deep
breath and started up. Just how I got to the top I cannot say. But there
is a big element of tenacity in my nature, and I fought on with squared
jaws and set teeth, slipping, scrambling, sprawling, until I had won. I
crawled over the crest on my hands and knees, and for quite ten minutes
I lay prostrate, recovering my wind and my spent strength. Then I got
onto my feet and looked about me.

It was a glorious prospect; even solemn and majestic. A prodigious sweep
of country was laid bare before me. I hesitate to say how many miles I
could see, for distance is most deceptive at great altitudes. But it was
the topography, more than the far reaching view, which impressed me. I
was standing in the midst of a world newly created, the only living
creature. Leagues upon leagues of virgin forest flowed back from my
point of vantage till the perspective ended in a misty blur. East and
west stretched the mighty ranges, with constantly diverging spurs, each
clothed with its own garment of green and glistening glory. Anon the
ancient hills valleyed into troughs whose length had no visible limit,
and it did not require the imagination of a poet to behold beneath me
the effect of an immense sea which had suddenly been frozen into
permanent form. How illimitable! How overpowering! Slowly I turned to
the different points of the compass. Far to the north a smudge of smoke
fouled the tender bosom of the sky, and I quickly looked another way.
Cedarton lay in that direction.

For a half-hour I stood and gazed, and wondered, and thought. Here was
incentive for rumination, and when I at length withdrew my eyes from the
bewildering panorama I felt infinitesimally puny, and weak, and small.
What was I? A mote in a sunbeam; an atom of matter; no more.

The point upon which I stood was an irregular circle, approximating
thirty feet in diameter. An imperfect stone formation marked its outer
boundaries; the effect of some Titanic convulsion in forgotten time. In
one place--toward the southwest--the rim of rock broke, and here the
earth had sloughed away before the ages-long war of the elements, the
result being a broad, flume-like chute leading downward. Instinctively I
drew back from this place, for it suggested unknown terrors. A sort of
sandy, granular deposit covered the top of the knob; the grinding caused
by years upon years of wind and rain.

My inspection of the peak occupied scarcely a minute. Then I sat down in
its exact center, lit my briar-root, hugged my knees, and allowed myself
for the first time that day to think of yesterday's experience. You
could never guess my first thought. It was that material would quickly
accumulate now for my book. I sensed the approach of things--of many
things, and not all of them were pleasant. In fact, some wore grisly
aspects. I believe in premonitions. I don't know what they are, or what
causes them, or anything about them except they exist. But one came to
me as I sat on the tiptop of old Baldy this afternoon, smoking my pipe
and hugging my knees, and feeling very much like a bird in its eyrie. I
was troubled and elated in turn; a queer experience, but common to all.
There was no reason in the world why I should have been either depressed
or uplifted. But somehow the near future looked to me to be vibrant with
incidents waiting their chance to happen, and in some unformed way I
felt that, innocently enough, I had set in motion a train of events
which would quickly envelope me in their workings. I say it was a
premonition--a prescience--and I believe I am right.

I can make nothing yet of Lessie or her household. Granf'er and Granny
have their prototypes among those who call themselves ultra refined.
Each is interesting to me, in his and her way. Granny has a suspicious
nature. I cannot think she is as down-right mean and crusty as she
pretends to be. Maybe Granf'er is trifling, and trying, and Granny might
have to lash him with her tongue to keep him in the traces. I am sure
the old lady's dislike for me is real, though why this should be I
cannot fathom just now. I have a strong suspicion that deep down in her
heart Granny has a feeling of worship for the Dryad, and in everything
which presents itself in masculine shape she sees a possible cause for
Lessie leaving her. That seems the most plausible reason for her
dislike. Lessie has plunged me into a quandary where I can see no light
at all. Her personality is the most complex I have ever encountered. She
is absolutely baffling. I can't understand the way she talked to me as
we came down the path from the house scarcely twenty-four hours ago.
What was it within her that suggested the things of which she spoke? If
she had delivered an oration in Latin I could not have been more
surprised. She--the product of many generations of hill dwellers, whose
intelligence always remained at a minimum, among whom the stirrings of
ambition were never felt and where knowledge had never gained the
slightest foothold--she to suffer the travail of a fettered mind
striving for light; of a shackled soul struggling for expression! What
could it mean? And to make the enshrouding darkness yet more dense, _she
was cousin to the Satyr_! The Satyr! That whimsical, hapless
ne'er-do-well who strolled the woods day after day, drinking white
whiskey, and bringing strains from his old fiddle which made one's flesh
creep with their weird sweetness. Is it a wonder I was puzzled? I
promised to help her, and I am going to do it. I know the task will be
pleasant. I will escape monotony, and she will be improved, and in this
way it will work good to both of us. I shall begin--but at this point in
my cogitations there floated suddenly across the field of memory that
tall, dark shadow standing on the Hebron road, still and stern.

I took the pipe from my mouth and stood up. The sun had more than half
completed its journey from zenith to horizon. I made another detour,
looking for the best place to descend. I found it a short distance from
where I had come up; almost a path, surprisingly easy to traverse. I
carefully noted its location with reference to the points of the
compass, and went down with practically no labor. Already I knew I
should come back, for the spot held a strong attraction for me. Not
alone for the view, which in itself was sufficient compensation for the
climb, but there was also a sense of such complete aloneness--and I have
that peculiarity. At times I want to be where no one can see me, or talk
to me. I want to be utterly alone, without the possibility of
interruption. Such a place I knew I had found on the peak of Bald Knob.

When I reached the evergreens I realized that it must be almost twilight
on the plateau. At least a cooling, grateful shade was there, and the
philosophy of Spencer.

A few moments later I crashed through the bush in the rear of the Lodge,
came around and flung my cap boy-like on one of the benches alongside
the door, then hurried toward the lone pine. When I had taken a
half-dozen steps I looked up, and halted abruptly.

Lessie was standing under the tree, holding "First Principles" open in
her hands.




CHAPTER TEN

IN WHICH I SPEND A PLEASANT HOUR AND HEAR SOME NEWS


She saw me the same instant, and her eyes brightened with what seemed to
me pleasure, while slow waves of color came into her cheeks. She smiled,
and stood motionless, waiting for me to approach.

I lost no time in bidding her welcome. When I took her hand in greeting
the contact was electrical--it may have been my imagination, I
grant--but I'm sure I felt as if a charge of some kind had been
projected into me.

"Whut's this book?" she asked, closing the volume but still holding it
with a clinging touch. It was to me as if she wanted to make it a part
of her, her hands and fingers were so enveloping in their grasp.

"That's heresy--rank heresy!" I laughed. "If Father John saw me reading
that he would tell you to run from me as fast as you could."

She glanced up with a most attractive blending of alarm and amusement on
her face.

"Then whut yo' read it fur?" she demanded.

"It was written by one of the smartest men the world has ever known, and
I want to find out what he thinks. We don't have to believe all we read,
you know. We can read for various reasons."

I saw she did not understand.

"Sit down," I continued. "Here, the bench is big enough for two. I'm so
glad you have come to see me to-day. You almost missed me; I've been up
on Baldy."

We sat side by side. There was barely room enough; as it was our hips
came in contact. Then I told her of my little trip toward the clouds.
I'm sure she was not at all interested. In fact, after the first
brightening of her face at the moment of my appearance, a sort of shadow
had come upon it, as though cast from a mind not at rest. I watched her
as I talked, and I know she was paying no heed to my recital. She toyed
with the book, pressing the pages together, bending them in her fingers,
and allowing them to slip under her thumb with a rustle. Now I saw her
hair at close range for the first time, and it was truly a crown of
glory. Solomon's wisdom was not at fault. A woman's hair holds some
mysterious power for a man fully as potent as any of her other charms.
There is sorcery in it--and sometimes love-dreams--and sometimes
oblivion--and sometimes madness! As I gazed at the Dryad's hair my voice
unconsciously dropped to a lifeless monotone. Quickly I noted a fact
which formed a fitting supplement to my former discoveries regarding the
care of her person. By all legitimate courses of reasoning her hair
should have been stringy, sleek, unkempt, and--dirty! But I beheld it
the reverse in every particular. No boudoir bred Miss of any city could
have produced better cared for tresses. Each silken strand lay separate
from its fellows. The whole mass was shining clean, and fresh, and
fluffy; the well-shaped ears were transparently spotless, and her neck,
where the yet finer hair grew upward and where tiny rings of cobwebby
gold fluttered, was immaculate. Fellowman, do you marvel that my tale of
climbing the peak came to an end almost in drivel?

As I stopped, rather sheepishly, she lost her hold on the book, and it
slipped from her knees to the ground. Each bent to recover it. I was the
quicker, but in the forward and downward movement which she made the
Dryad's hair tumbled over her shoulders onto my neck, head and face, in
a subtly scented, smooth, tickly mesh. It lasted but a moment; I think
the shortest moment of my life. We came up laughing, both our faces red.
But as for that, one's face is always red when one bends to pick up
something.

I opened the book at the front, found a big capital A, and pointing to
it, asked Lessie what it was.

She shook her head.

"I don' know."

The pity of it! I could scarcely credit her reply.

"Would you like to know? Would you like to know all the letters in this
book, big and little, so that you could read them at a glance?" I asked.

Again that hungry, helpless look came to her.

"Oh!... Yes!"

The first word was spoken with a sharply indrawn breath of eagerness.
The last one fell softly a moment later.

"You shall, Dryad. It's a shame you can't do it now. Is there no school
here--in the neighborhood--at Hebron? Why have you never been to
school?"

"They wuz a school in Hebron. Granny wouldn't let me go."

She was fingering a ruffle on her dress just above her knees in an
embarrassed way.

"Wouldn't let you go!" I exclaimed, indignantly ... "Why?"

"A man had it--a young man--'n' Granny hates men, 'specially young men."

"Why does she hate young men?"

"I don' know--you heard whut she said 'bout 'em. She's always preachin'
that to me."

I thought my former reading of Granny's attitude correct now, but I did
not speak of this to Lessie.

"Granny has done you a great injustice," I said, gravely; "however
honest her intentions. I'm going to see that you have a chance, Dryad.
But if I'm to help you, I must speak of things exactly as they are, and
there shall have to be many corrections. You won't mind this, will you?
I mean you will understand why it is done--that it is absolutely
necessary for you to get along. You won't take offense--won't get mad,
will you?"

She turned her eyes full into mine, her mobile face for the moment
serious and calm.

"I'll do _anythin'_ to learn--to know! Oh! I git so lonesome fur--fur
_knowin'_! I'm all shet up, 'n' they's things in my head 'n' in here
that's jes' bustin' to git out!"

She placed her hand on her breast. Her brows had drawn together and I
knew each word was the exact truth.

"All right; it's a bargain," I answered. "We'll begin this very minute.
Have you noticed that I talk differently from you, and Granf'er, and
Granny'?"

Her mouth was set firmly as her chin moved up and down. I think she was
a little scared at the beginning of her lessons.

"I talk correctly, and you talk incorrectly. That's hard to say, but we
can't build without solid truth for a foundation. You should learn to
speak correctly in a very short time, if you will be very careful, and
try. It will take longer to learn to read, and write, but even that will
not prove such a great task. Now, answer me--why did you come here
to-day?"

"I come 'cause I wanted to!"

Quick as a flash her reply was out, and I could see she was watching me
in a fascinated, apprehensive manner. I smiled to reassure her.

"You should say--'I _came be-cause_ I wanted to.' Say it that way."

"I--came--_be_-cause I wanted to!"

There was something almost pitiful in her fearful earnestness. This was
the beginning of the opening of a sealed door before which she had stood
so long, with no one to break the fastenings for her. She had put one
hand against the dark trunk of the tree, and now her finger tips were
white around the nails from the pressure she had unconsciously brought
to bear, and she was trembling the least bit. Poor little Dryad in her
windowless house! It must have been an ordeal for her.

How queerly that simple sentence broke upon my ears. It was the first
perfect one she had ever spoken, and she enunciated it with painful
precision, breathing each word forth in trepidation.

"Good!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands, whereat her tenseness vanished,
and her bearing became like one who is somewhat confused, but happy.
"Don't forget that, now. Always say 'I came.' Many of your words are not
words at all, but fearful corruptions which long use and carelessness
have made worse. Then you drop your 'gs' outrageously, but that is a
fault you'll overcome by practice."

Thus for an hour we sat on the narrow bench under the tall pine, while I
made her answer question after question in her own way, then had her say
them again the right way. Her aptness was amazing. Her mind seemed to
seize and absorb the elemental instruction I gave her as a parched plant
does moisture. She remained constantly intent, alert, ready; and when at
length the slowly deepening shadows warned me that she should be going,
and I told her the lesson for the day was over, I saw that she was
agitated, excited, and her eyes shone as if brightened by wine.

"Oh, you're a capital pupil!" I complimented, warmly, as we arose and
stood for a moment side by side. "Now how would you answer me, Dryad?"

She cast me a sidewise glance; partly mischievous, partly shy, partly
earnest.

"I'm glad!" she said, quickly.

I knew that she had evaded my trap cleverly, and I did not lay another
for her.

"Now you must go."

I spoke reluctantly, for the hour had been an unusually charming one for
me. I had always maintained that I had rather be a roadmender than a
school teacher, and generally speaking, I hold to the idea still. But I
can think of no more delightfully pleasant experience that has ever come
my way than when I gave Lessie her first instruction under the pine on
the edge of the plateau.

At my words the shadow sprang to her face again, more noticeable than
before. It was almost a look of distress now.

"What is it, Dryad?" I asked, suddenly; "what worries you?"

She did not answer, but stood meditatively with the tips of her fingers
resting upon her lower lip, and her eyes intently focussed downward.

"Come," I added; "I must get some water from the creek, and I'll go that
far with you--farther, if you will let me, because it will be late
before you get home."

"Oh, no!" she burst out, with what looked like unnecessary vehemence.
Then her agile mind took a turn, and she added--"But why don't yo' git
yo' water out o' the well?"

I forebore to correct her. The lesson was over, and I must not worry
her.

"Well?" I repeated, open mouthed. "What well?"

"The well over yonder--the well the man dug!"

She pointed to a distant corner of the yard, overrun with a
heterogeneous mass of greenery.

I almost gasped. A well had been here under my nose all these weeks, a
well of cool, good water, and I had been slaving rebelliously to supply
my needs from the creek below, which had lately become infested with
tadpoles!

"Show it to me!" I cried.

With a hearty "All right!" she started running, and I followed at a
smart walk. It was just like her to run. She was a creature of impulse.
I watched her skimming over the ground, lightly leaping little
obstacles, her wheat-gold hair all a-tremble. When I came up she had a
stick, and was diligently prodding about in the weeds, vines and
brambles.

"It's here," she muttered, intent on her business. "I've saw it, 'n'
drunk out o' it. It's jes' as cold as the spring at home whur granny
keeps 'er milk 'n' butter. W'en I--"

My eyes had been fastened on her face, and now she evidently remembered
and checked herself purposely, for I saw her teeth clamp her lip for an
instant. Then she went on, softer and more slowly, never looking up.

"When--I--came--las'--time--it's--_here_!"

With the last word she jabbed her stick down, and straightened up
triumphantly.

I pressed forward to her side, and peered into the bush. The end of her
stick rested upon a piece of wood. With a word to Lessie to wait a
moment I hurried back to the lodge and procured a scythe from the store
of miscellaneous things which had accompanied me when I came out to make
friends with the wilderness. Directly I had uncovered the well's top, a
surface of oaken planks four feet square. In the center of this lay a
large, smooth stone, covering the hole which gave access to the water
below.

"By Jove! Girl, how can I thank you?" I cried, elated at the discovery.
"I've been drinking sulphur water and bathing with tadpoles, never
dreaming this was here!"

"It'll be a big savin'," she agreed. "Tot'n' water's pow'ful hard work."

She turned to go. I dropped my scythe and said:

"You must let me go part of the way. I know you're not afraid, but won't
you? I'd feel better."

She clasped her hands, wrung them once, and took two or three forward
steps silently. Something was wrong with Lessie, but nothing like a true
solution entered my thick masculine head until she stopped, halfway
turned, and flung from tight lips--

"It's 'bout Buck!"

Buck! The ominous figure I had seen watching me in the deep twilight the
day before. Buck! Of course, Buck! He had seen me part from Lessie; he
had come to her immediately afterward, and had doubtless told her some
things which were not good for her peace of mind. Is man really a
savage, at rock bottom? In the moment following Lessie's intense
announcement of the cause of her distress, what were my feelings? Simply
these. There came to my mind the realization that I, too, was a man of
physical might; that I, too, had immense muscles of thigh, and chest,
and arm; that the trouble which had sent me here was surely checked as I
felt my vigor growing day by day, and that if somebody wanted to fight I
would give him his fill, rather than be hectored into forsaking Lessie's
company--for I felt assured already that this was the burden of Buck
Steele's demands.

Something of all this must have showed in my face as I stepped
deliberately to Lessie's side and took one of her hands, for I saw
traces of terror in the gray eyes.

"Yo'--yo' mustn't git together!" she exclaimed, tempestuously, her
fingers closing around mine in a grip which caused me to wonder. "Oh!
Yo' mustn't!--Yo' mustn't! Yo' don't know Buck; he c'n ben' a
horse-shoe!"

"Lessie," I said, returning her grasp and looking at her determinedly;
"I'm not afraid of any man that lives and moves. I don't believe in
violence, but there are times when it becomes necessary. And when the
necessity arises in my life, I'm going to face it. You have said that
you wanted me to help you, and if you still feel this way, nothing and
no one is going to prevent me from carrying out my part of the
agreement. I've a notion I know pretty much what took place last night,
but you must tell me now, as we walk along. We must talk it over--come."

I kept her hand until I had faced her about and we had gone a short
distance. Then I let it go.

"Yo' see," began Lessie, in a perplexed little voice, and without
waiting for further urging, "Buck's ben comin' to see me fur mos' a
year, off 'n' on. He's the only young feller Granny'll 'low on the
place. He's ben pow'ful good to me, 'n'--'n' well, he's ast me to marry
'im. But I don't love Buck. I can't he'p lak'n' 'im, 'cause he's so good
'n' kin' 'n' 'd do anythin' on earth I'd ask 'im to. He don't pester me
'bout comin', neither, 'n' w'en I don't feel lak seein' 'im he'll go on
'way, meek lak 'n' not complainin'. 'N' after w'ile here he'll be back
ag'in, tryin' to tell me thin's I don't wan' to lis'n' to. I jes' can't
hurt 'is feelin's. Somehow 'r 'nother he heerd that you'd come out here
'n' had seen me by the dogwood tree that day--I s'pec' Granny tol' 'im
'bout it, 'cause I didn't tell nobody but the home folks. 'N' so las'
night he come--he _came_ out home to 'quire 'bout it, 'n' he saw you
tell me good-by at the bridge. 'N' after you'd gone he came on--'n' I'd
never seen 'im look lak he looked then. His eyes wuz black 'n' had fire
in 'em 'n' his face wuz lak a piece o' gray rock 'n' his voice wuz
diff'unt 'n' ever' now 'n' then he shuk all over."

Her words had gradually increased in velocity until, when she stopped,
she was speaking so rapidly I could hardly understand what she said.

"Yes," I replied, but nothing more until we had come to the foot of the
knob. Here, as we turned westward toward the creek leading to Lizard
Point, I spoke again.

"He talked to you, Dryad, of course. Now you must tell me everything,
and keep nothing back--nothing. Even though he said very ugly
things--things which may have frightened you, you must tell me them,
too."

She stooped to pluck a cluster of little wild flowers growing on a
single stem, giving a low exclamation of pleasure as she did so. Then,
as she twined the flowers in her hair over the ear away from me, she
answered.

"Yes, he talked to me. I tried to make 'im hush, but he wouldn't. 'Twuz
'bout you, mos'ly. He said he knew city fellers 'n' they's all wicked
'n' dang'rous, 'n' that you's jes' tryin' to run with me to pass the
time 'n' make a fool o' me--but I didn't b'lieve 'im!"

With the last words she turned toward me a frank and honest countenance.

"No, Dryad; you mustn't believe him when he talks that way. I'm sure
that Buck is a good man naturally, but he was excited when he told you
that. There are some bad men in the cities, and there are some bad men
in the country. There are more bad men in the city because there are
more people in the city. But he was wholly wrong when he spoke of my
motive in going with you--go on."

"He said he wasn't goin' to have yo' comin' to see me, 'n' that I mus'
promise 'im not to see you agin. I tol' 'im I couldn't do that, 'cause
you's goin' to learn me. Then he went plum daffy crazy, 'n' cussed 'n'
damned, 'n' bruk a great thick stick he had in 'is han's--bruk it 'n'
kep' a-breakin' it till it wuz all in little pieces in 'is fis'--'n'
then he flung 'em all on the groun' 'n' stood lookin' at me lak he's
goin' to hit me, but he didn't. We's down at the en' o' the path nex' to
the road, fur we hadn't gone up to the house. I's skeered fur a w'ile,
he looked so big 'n' he's so mad. I didn't know a feller c'd git so
crazy 'bout--'bout a girl;--did you?"

Her candor never ceased to amaze me. She seemed to be utterly unaware of
anything existing within herself which might lead a man up the dangerous
heights of Love, whither this brawny one had plainly gone.

"Ye-e-s," I answered, slowly. "When a man loves a girl, Dryad, he will
do anything when the circumstance which calls for that thing exists."
Then, realizing that I was talking riddles to her, I added: "I mean,
that when a man's in love, especially if he be a strong man, he won't
allow any one or anything to come in the way, if he can help it. And
that's Buck's position, exactly. He thinks he can't live without you,
and he's a big, husky animal whose feelings largely control him. When
another man approaches you, he grows jealous, and jealousy is about the
hardest headed, most unreasonable, meanest passion the human family
has.... What else did Buck say?"

It was too dark now for me to see her expression, but when she replied
her voice shook with apprehension, and that haunting note--like a rare
minor chord in music--which so moved me when we first met had crept
strangely into it, dominating the natural, lighter quality of her
speech.

"Oh!"

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 assuage 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 passion 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
knob 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 apron, 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 knob. 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 passing
vehicles had made. On the creek side was a rod-wide strip of verdure;
flowering weeds choked with long, tough grass, bushes of many kinds, and
an occasional tree. On the knob 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 noble 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 gratitude 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 sturdy 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 buttons, 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 smutty 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 assist you
to get afloat?"

She had gotten rid of all tokens of surprise as I was speaking. Now,
with the ready action of a woman of the world, she came forward and held
out the bucket.

"You may stow that away.... I'm going to visit my lines."

"Lines?" I repeated, blankly.

"Trot lines," she explained, adjusting a pin in her hat when I was
absolutely sure such a thing was unnecessary. "I set them yesterday
afternoon."

"Oh! You're a fisherman!" I exclaimed. "Well, I hope you've had luck."

She stepped into the boat before I could offer assistance, got down and
took the oars--then stopped. She appeared to be thinking. I stood ready
to shove off at her word. Suddenly she looked up with a half smile.

"Would you like to go?"

I was not surprised. Poor little world-worn creature. How many men had
she molded with that half smile! I answered without hesitation.

"Certainly!"

There could be no harm to either of us. It was unconventional, but
conventionality is a terrible bugbear. She was lonely, I knew, and the
echo from a civilized world which I would get in her company would be
most welcome to me.

"Come on, then. Day before yesterday I caught a bass which almost wore
me out before I could get him aboard. You see you could be of help on an
occasion of that kind."

I offered to take the oars, but she declined, and subsequently displayed
a degree of skill in rowing that surprised me. She took the middle of
the stream and went with the sluggish current. From my position in the
stern I faced her, and feeling that conversation was almost imperative,
I said:

"Surely you don't live at Hebron?"

She smiled--a bright, winsome smile which somehow awakened a deeper pity
in me. Her true nature seemed revealed in that expression. She was not
wicked; not inherently bad, but was weak-willed, easily swayed,
susceptible to association and environment. One who loved the smooth
road of pleasure more than the stony highway of rectitude; one who had
given gratis and unthinkingly the perfume of the fresh flower of her
girlhood. Kind of heart, warm of sympathy, impulsive of temperament,
irresponsible.

"Yes," she said, with a cheery nod; "I live at Hebron."

"But you don't _belong_ there?" I insisted.

She laughed in a high, not unmusical key, and suddenly dipping her oars,
began to propel the boat swiftly through the water. Rowing shows a
graceful girl off to advantage, and my companion was richly endowed in
this particular. Her little russet shoes were firmly braced, the short
skirt revealing a few inches of tapering, tan-stockinged legs; her brown
hands gripped the oars firmly, and as she swayed forward and backward
with the rhythmic strokes I was conscious of a feeling of admiration for
her prowess. In a few moments we had rounded a bend, and here I saw a
line stretched across the river, with smaller lines depending from it
into the stream. The girl glanced back over her shoulder, dipped one oar
and adroitly piloted the boat toward a certain hook, before she spoke.

"I belong up yonder--for the summer," she said.

I followed her short gesture, and discovered upon a hill to my right
what I took to be a brick church, with a brick dwelling near it.

As I turned to make reply I saw that something was happening. The girl
was doing her best to haul in one of the sunken lines, but the hidden
force beneath the surface was combatting her strength fiercely. Before I
could offer assistance she had loosed her hold, and instantly the line
shot out and tightened, swaying this way and that, cutting the water
silently.

"I believe I have a whale!" she declared, in big-eyed seriousness,
shifting her position and kneeling before taking up her task afresh.
"No, don't help me yet"--as I made a forward movement--"it's lots more
fun to land one's own fish!"

She bent again to the vibrating line, while I held the boat steady and
eagerly awaited developments.

"I'm from Kansas City," she flung over her shoulder all at once, "and
I'm spending the summer with my uncle, the Rev. Jean Dupre--Father
John, the villagers call him. I am Beryl Drane."

The catastrophe cannot be told in detail. It may have been partly my
fault, for my guard was lax at the moment. Before I realized what had
happened Miss Drane was gone and I was in the water clinging to the
upturned boat. A sucking, gurgling whirlpool was moving down the stream,
and the cable line had disappeared. For a moment a cold horror crept to
my vitals and chilled me so that I could not move. Then my duty swept
over me with a swift rush, and, letting go the boat, I dived
desperately. Madly I swept my arms to left, right, everywhere, grasping
blindly for the touch of flesh or clothing. Dimly I seemed to realize
that I was in a measure responsible for the accident, and that I must
find the lost girl. Back and forth I fought through the water savagely,
my lungs hurting, my head throbbing. I could not give up. I had to find
her. She was there, somewhere in that silent, treacherous element. Into
my chaotic mind leaped the thought that perhaps she had risen to the
surface. Instantly I ceased my efforts and rose. Dashing the streaming
drops from my eyes and mouth I gulped in a deep breath, and glared
around despairingly. Silence; solitude; a shining, disc-like spot where
the reflection of the sun lay, and a dozen feet off the glistening
bottom of the boat. That was all. A man's length to the south I saw some
bubbles rise and burst. There can be no bubbles without air. Maybe--

Resurgent hope filled my breast as I plunged downward again, striking
out with all my might. I grasped a sodden something. I opened my eyes.
The water was clear and the sunlight filtered dimly through it. A
confused shadowy shape confronted me. I could get no outlines. An
instant later I touched a hand, and knew it was Beryl Drane. A
conception of the truth came then. When the fish, or whatever it was,
had dragged her overboard, she had become entangled in the lines, and
the thing which had power to pull her from the boat likewise had power
to hold her below the surface while it struggled to escape. I clasped
her in my arms, gave a tug, and together we shot upward. I looked at her
as we reached light and air. She was limp, and to all appearance
perfectly lifeless. Her lips had a bluish tinge, and were parted the
least bit. Her eyes were half closed; she did not breathe.

Filled with foreboding which trembled on the verge of certainty, I swam
for the shore. The distance was short, and presently I was struggling up
the slippery mud bank with the senseless form of the girl. My mind had
been busy while I was swimming. Should I stop on shore and attempt
resuscitation, or should I hurry on to the priest's house, just up the
hill? I decided on the latter course as the most expedient, as the delay
would be practically nothing, and proper restoratives could be had at
the house. There probably was a road. Straight up the wooded slope I
dashed. My exertions in the water had tired me, and now as I made my way
through the dense undergrowth up the steep hill I was conscious of
intense physical fatigue. But I pressed grimly on, with a dread in my
heart which far outweighed any physical weakness.

At length I reached a rail fence. How I surmounted it with my burden, I
do not know. Beyond the fence was a pasture lot with only a gentle
incline, and across this I raced. Another fence, the back yard of the
parsonage, wherein squalling chickens fled precipitately as I tore by,
around the house to the front porch, where sat a little old man in a
swinging chair, clad in a priest's robe. I knew it was Father John. He
was quietly reading, and smoking a meerschaum pipe with a stem as long
as my arm, but the sound of my feet aroused him, and he raised his head.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, jumping up, dropping his book, but holding
to his pipe, which he waved wildly. "In ze name of heaven, m'sieu! What
was it zat has happen?"

The front door stood open, and I rushed into the house without replying.
A couch was in the hall, and on this I laid the form of the girl. Father
John, his wrinkled face stamped with terror and anguish, was beside me
in an instant.

"Madonna! Jesu!" he wailed. "My blessed Bereel!"

I began the treatment for the drowned, explaining hurriedly how the
accident had occurred.

"Call your housekeeper!" I added. "Her clothes must be loosened. Quick!
If no doctor is near there is no use sending. I know what should be
done. Bring brandy, or whiskey--hurry!"

Father John ran from the hall crying at every step:

"Marie! Marie! Marie!"

His tremulous voice receded in the rear.

I unfastened the girl's belt, tore open her clothing at the waist, and
as I worked feverishly, was conscious of a gaunt, austere woman of
fifty-five or sixty suddenly falling on her knees at my side, and
unhooking the tight corset which my rude haste had exposed. Thereafter
we worked together, in silence, moving the arms up and down and striving
for artificial respiration. Father John hovered just out of reach, an
uncorked flask in one shaking hand; the long stemmed pipe, which he had
never abandoned, in the other. In the stark silence which accompanied
our efforts I could hear him whispering incoherent but fervent prayers
in his native tongue.

Closely I watched the pallid face--the poor, peaked face which had
looked upon so much that a woman ought not to know exists--but no signal
flare came to the waxen cheeks. I took the flask and carefully poured
some brandy between the parted lips--poor lips, which I knew had taken
kisses not given by love. The fiery liquid trickled down her throat, but
there was no movement, no attempt to swallow. I gave more, for this was
the sovereign test for life. There came a rigor, so slight that I was
not altogether sure of it. More brandy. A shiver passed over the limp
form; a choking, gasping sound issued from her throat, followed by a
moan of pain. I stood erect, looking down at her intently. Almost
imperceptibly the faintest glow showed in the marble pallor of her skin.
She was reviving. The danger was past. The gaunt woman crouched at my
feet looked up at me mutely, interrogatively.

"Continue to rub her hands and feet," I said. "Keep all her clothing
loose. Give her very small quantities of liquor from time to time. She
had better not see me immediately on awaking."

Then I took the priest by the hand and silently led him out on the
porch. A wooden settee was placed against the railing at one end. I
conducted him here, and we sat down. My clothes were still wet, but I
gave this no thought.

I proceeded first to assure Father John that his niece was practically
out of danger, then recounted everything in detail pertaining to the
accident in the river. He listened in eager silence, his expression
still one of amazement and distress. I looked at him as I talked. He was
a very small man. His skin was yellowish brown, like parchment. His
brows projected; his eyes were black and keen; his nose was straight and
thin, but quite large. His chin protruded into rather a sharp point, and
his mouth was the most sensitive I have ever seen on a man. His lips
were beautifully bowed, and had retained their color. They were never in
perfect repose, but were constantly beset by what I am tempted to
describe as "invisible" twitchings. As I spoke on, he gradually became
calmer, after a while relighting his pipe. This seemed to act magically
upon him, for soon after he began to smoke the wild expression vanished
from his face.

"So you are ze stranger on ze Bal' Knob?" he queried, when I had
finished my recital.

"Yes; I am out after health."

"Health?" he repeated, sweeping his keen eyes over my stalwart form in
open astonishment.

"I don't appear to be an invalid, I'll admit," I hastened to add. "But
something started up in here"--I touched my chest--"and the doctor sent
me to the woods."

"Ah! Ze--ze--ze lungs.... You never struck me to have ze consumption.
You are ze stron' man."

"It was just a beginning--a fear, rather than an actuality. I have been
there a month, and I am already much better."

The housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

"Miss Bereel ees awake, and has asked for you both," she said.

When we again stood beside the couch, the girl made an effort to take my
hand, but was too weak. Seeing her purpose, I grasped hers instead.

"Thank you," she said, in a thin, ghostly little voice. "It was not his
fault, uncle; he saved me. Come to see me sometime, and we'll go--rowing
again!"

She tried to smile, but was too exhausted.

"I shall certainly come to inquire about you," I replied, gently laying
her hand down. "I fear I was somewhat to blame, and I hope you will be
all right very soon."

She looked at me with a wan light of gratitude in her eyes, and a few
moments later I was bidding Father John adieu on the porch step.

"Come again, m'sieu," he said, squeezing my hand warmly. "You shall have
ze welcome!"

I thanked him, again expressed my hope and belief that his niece would
be quite all right in a day or two, and struck out for Hebron.




CHAPTER TWELVE

IN WHICH I ATTEND AN ORATORIO


It is one o'clock in the morning--and I have been going to bed at nine!

You will wonder what has happened to so outrageously disturb the
rigorous routine governing my night hours, and I shall tell you, for
that is the purpose of this chronicle.

It is now three days since I went to Hebron. After leaving the priest's
house I came on down the hill, trudged back to the river to get my coat
and garden seed, then turned homeward. The sun was hot by this time, my
clothes quickly dried on me, and I have felt no bad effects since.
Another sign, it seems to me, of my increasing physical sturdiness.
These three days have passed without sight or sound of a soul. I have
pottered about my yard, mowing down the insistent heterogeneous growth
which daily now threatens to take me; clearing a broad space about my
precious well--whose water, by the way, is sparkling, clear and
cold--and this morning spading in my garden for two hours or more.

I cannot explain that which follows, but a little before nine, as I was
preparing to light my bedtime pipe and sit down for a chuckle with that
old pagan monk, Rabelais, I felt the call to go up. As I said, I can
offer no explanation. But all of us have been subject, many times in our
lives, to sudden, inexplicable yearnings; silent longings as powerful
and real as though a voice had spoken them. There is no need to
specialize. You, if you have a spark of temperament, will understand,
because you will have experienced something of the sort. You have felt
that mysterious tugging toward a certain thing, when there was nothing
on earth to incite it. What was it? I felt it to-night as I held my pipe
in one hand and a lighted match in the other; felt it growing and
expanding until it became a fierce desire. I tossed my half-burned match
among the logs in the fireplace, put my filled pipe in my pocket, and
with something akin to awe sobering my face, drew my cap on my head and
walked softly outdoors.

It was a perfect moonless May night. I had never seen the stars brighter
or nearer. I felt that by tiptoeing I might almost reach them. And their
number amazed me. The sky was looking down at me with a million eyes,
and each eye was a voice which said "Come up! Come up!" I went, not
stopping to question, analyze, or combat. Something irresistible urged
me to surmount the peak, and I bent to the climb. As I came out of the
Stygian gloom of the belt of evergreens I knew that some subtle change
had taken place. The atmosphere had a different feel; a different smell.
There was no wind, but when I swept my gaze around I saw many horizon
clouds; jagged, mountainous looking outlines, with floating fragments
everywhere. Some of the cloud fragments would touch and merge even as I
watched them. I did not know the significance, if there was any. I
turned to the slope again. Before the last steep stretch I halted the
second time. Far as I could see the perspective was bounded by a black,
towering wall, which seemed to grow taller every moment. This wall was
topped by fantastic turrets and towers which swayed, lengthened,
expanded, or disappeared at will. Still there was no wind, even at the
great height to which I had already come. The day had been suffering
hot, and the perspiration was streaming from me. I breathed softly, and
listened. No sound but the monotonous call of the night insects, except
from a point far below, like the muffled cry of a lost soul pleading for
grace, the ineffably sad tones of a whip-poor-will pulsed dimly through
the dark. I turned my face upward. The calm stars still called, and I
answered.

Presently I could go no further. I stood on the apex of my high hill, a
jubilation of spirit making my breast to heave in deeper breaths than my
exertion had caused. Then, ere I knew what I was about I had flung my
arms out and up, toward the vast deeps from which had come the still
summons I had felt in the quiet peace of the Lodge. I felt unreal; I was
trembling. I knew not what impended, but the air was charged with an
electrical tenseness, and the pall of utter silence which hung over the
world was pregnant with import. My arms dropped, and a sweet calm stole
over me. Slowly I turned my gaze in every direction. That mammoth wall
of blackness encircled the earth in an unbroken line, and was now
quickly mounting to the zenith. How grand the sight! I bared my head
before the majesty of it. How like battlements and ramparts the grim
expanses appeared, crowned with their changing towers! And to make the
comparison still more true, I now saw the flash of cannon through the
jagged embrasures, and caught the distant thunder of their detonations.
Quickly the conflict grew. North, south, east and west, and all between,
the batteries of the sky unveiled. Not loud, as yet, but perpetual, and
furious in the very absence of thunderous sound. There were constant
growlings and incessant flashings, as back and forth over the aerial
battleground the challenges were sent and answered. Now, a girdle of
glory, the lightning zoned the middle sky, and ever upward, as though
propelled by forces set in the earth beneath, the walls arose, blotting
out stars by the thousands, and steadily converging toward a common
meeting point directly overhead. Then, for the first time, I knew that
the Harpist of the Wood had awakened.

The unnatural stillness was disturbed by motion which became a breath of
music. I leaned forward involuntarily, my lips apart, my hands
out-thrust from me in the attitude one unconsciously assumes when
listening intently. From the thick darkness hundreds of feet below I
caught the first faint pianissimo notes from a million strings, all
attuned by the unerring touch of Nature. In gentle waftures of sound the
vast prelude arose, filling my soul with an eerie delight, and causing
me to draw a deep, shuddering breath. Then I crept to the rim of the
peak and sat down, both humbled and exalted. Faintly now I sensed the
reason of that imperious call to come up. Each succeeding measure struck
by the invisible Harpist became louder, sweeter, and more stupendous. It
seemed as if all creation was one mighty instrument, and a
myriad-fingered master was sweeping the throbbing strings. The clouds
were now a canopy without a rent. From a dozen points at once the
lightning flashed and staggered and reeled in dazzling splendor across
the sable field. There were no terrific thunder crashes. But, like the
pedal bass of a pipe organ, there was the ever present subdued
reverberation like far-off guns fired in unison. Then the strength and
skill of the Harpist increased simultaneously, and waves of barbaric
melody rushed upward. There was shriek and groan; there were living
voices awfully mingled in one wild chorus, and in brief lulls trembling
tones as sweet as a mother's good-night song to her babe. Flute-like and
full of delicate color a cadenza breathing of sylvan joys rippled forth,
and as its last bubbling notes yet fluttered like apple-blossoms of
sound against my ravished ears, they were drowned and whelmed by a
crashing diapason of majestic harmony which rushed on wide wings over
leagues and leagues of forest; a thundering gamut fearfully blended into
an oratorio inexpressibly sublime! Wild and shrill came a fife-like call
from the west, whistling out of the gloom in a quivering cadence of
victorious escape. Then it was blended with a multitudinous legion of
loosened chords, and dashed over me as a surging, resplendent sea of
mind-numbing melody.

So the oratorio advanced, and I sat enthralled.

The lightning increased. Not for the space of a single breath was
darkness absolute. In the vivid flashes I could see the bending
tree-tops far below, and the tossing, swaying, writhing branches. And
ever in my ears was the awful roll of that supernatural music; so full,
so deep, so filling all the universe with its changing rhythm! There was
something of the ocean's voice in it all, when the wind whips it to
fury. I sat dazed, imperfectly comprehending what was passing, but aware
all the time of a physical sensation of exquisite pleasure. Music had
always wrought upon me thus, but before the presence of this new and
strange manifestation my sensibilities were quickened twentyfold. I did
not know till later that I was on the peak three hours. I would have
said it was only a few minutes.

When all was over, and the strings of the Harp were still again, or
vibrating only as an echo, I got on my feet, dizzy and weak. All was
dark. The lightning, too, had ceased. But as I turned my eyes upward, a
rent showed in the cloud canopy, and through this a blood-red meteor
fell burning toward the earth. So I knew that the Maestro was pleased
with the performance, and from the blooming fields above had cast down a
flower in token of His favor.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IN WHICH I SUFFER FOUR SHOCKS, THREE OF THE EARTH AND ONE FROM THE SKY,
AND FIND ANOTHER MAID A-FISHING


Now that has come to pass of which I had a premonition the first time I
sat on the top of old Baldy and hugged my knees. In consequence thereof
I write to-night with my left wrist rudely bandaged, from a hurt I took
this morning. The day has been full of adventure and surprise, and I
find it difficult to harness my leaping brain as I start about my record
of events. Truly I have encountered enough to set my mind buzzing, and
two long, full pipes since supper have failed to tranquilize and soothe.
But the happenings of the day must be transcribed before I go to bed.

I went to the post-office soon after breakfast, to see if a reply had
come from 'Crombie. A package and a letter awaited me. The thought came
to me to run on up the hill and inquire about Beryl Drane, but I didn't.
I can't say why I didn't. But I merely asked the sloth-like storekeeper
about her instead, and learned from him that she was "putty peart," and
was up and about the house. When I passed the blacksmith shop I saw the
door was open, but there was no one within. I started to ask the
storekeeper where Buck was, but refrained on second thought, and betook
myself up the railroad instead, intending to reach home by a circuitous
route. By this time I was fairly familiar with the lay of the country,
and I had a natural longing for exploration anyway. Then, too, deep in
the bottom of my mind, I had laid a plan to come down the huge spur back
of Lessie's house, and surprise her with a short visit.

I followed the railroad for perhaps a mile, made some calculations as to
distance and location, then descended into a heavily wooded ravine and
continued my way in a northeasterly course. I had never been in this
part of the knobs before, and I found the country more rugged, if
possible, than that to which I was accustomed. As I proceeded, I closely
scanned the ground before me and on either side as far as my eyes would
go. I had scant hope of finding the life-plant here, because one of its
requisites was sunshine, and the shade was so dense that I walked in a
sort of cool, green gloom, wonderfully attractive to the senses. Now and
again a sun-shaft would come trembling and swaying down, brightening the
brown forest floor with shining, shaking spots of pale yellow. But no
green stemmed plant with golden leaves rose up from the mold to confront
me. I have begun to think my quest is almost as elusive as that for the
Holy Grail, but, like Sir Launfal, I shall persevere.

I became engrossed in the natural beauty of the hollow I was traversing,
and forgot my secret determination to go by Granny's house. After a time
the ravine opened and broadened into a little amphitheater, grass-set,
jungle-like in its wildness. But few tall trees were here. Dozens of
smaller ones grew on every side, and many of these were covered with the
odorous green mantle of the wild grapevine. The birds had likewise
sought out this spot, and the air was musical with chirp, and twitter,
and song. I stopped to regale myself with Nature's prodigal loveliness,
and as I drew a deep breath of satisfaction and appreciation I heard
something which had come to my ears once before. A long-drawn bird note,
shrill but sweet, and ending with a quick upward inflection. I started
guiltily, and knew that my whole body was a-tingle. Then I stared about,
trying to locate the sound. Again I heard it, and again I thrilled.
Straight ahead, beyond that bosky wall of herbage. Eagerly I started
forward, my pulse bounding. I reached the screening leaves and thrust
out one hand to make a way, but a vagrant gust of wind at that moment
formed a lane for my eyes, and the next instant I was staggering back,
choking, muttering crazily, my face afire, my chest tight as though
bound by constricting bands of steel. God above! Suppose I had crashed
through, as I would have done a second later! With gritted teeth and set
eyes I tiptoed away--away--anywhere, so that spot was left to Nature and
to her!

She was there, bathing in a sheltered pool in the secluded heart of the
everlasting hills. My one swift glance had showed me the Dryad in her
haunts. The curling mass of her copper-gold hair she had piled
regardlessly on top of her small, shapely head; she was almost entirely
immersed; her back was toward me, and I saw only her head with its
bewildering crown, one ivory shoulder upthrust from the water, gleaming
like wet marble in the sunlight, and a naked, outheld arm whereon sat
the tiny bird she had summoned. Small cause for wonder that I reeled,
grew dizzy with the hard-pumped, hot blood which deluged my brain, and
crept like a thief from that hidden pool--crept crouching, with rigid
face and bated breath. Dear Christ! How thankful I was that the
protecting water had covered her! Had it been otherwise; had my
unwilling gaze dwelt upon her revealed beauty from head to foot, I think
I could have taken my own life from shame. Certain it is I never again
could have looked into those honest Irish gray eyes. It was what might
have been, rather than what was, which planted the volcano in my breast,
and sent me trembling and quaking through the bird-sung silence of that
secret, sacred glen. As I went, I heard a bubbling laugh, and the tinkle
of falling water drops.

Now I was speedily destined to another shock, almost as great. How far I
had gone I cannot say, but all at once I knew that I was looking down
upon a plant about a foot in height, with green stem and yellow leaves.
I halted as though turned to stone, but I did not think. I couldn't
think. My mind refused its office, and in the face of what I took to be
a momentous discovery, stood still. Almost simultaneously with my
finding this significant growth the third shock came, as important in
its way as either of the other two, and far more ominous.

"Whut 'n' hell yo' doin' prowlin' 'roun' here?"

The voice was harsh and deep; indignation and rage ran through it.

The savage tones brought me to myself; they acted on my senses as a
battery might on my flesh. I stood erect and threw my head up. The smith
was not a dozen steps away. Where he had come from, how he had got
there, and why he was there I could not guess. He was dressed as I had
seen him at the forge on the occasion of my first visit to Hebron;
plainly he had not come courting in that garb. One hand held a large
club, in a position almost of menace. I brought a serious, determined
expression to my face, and looked him squarely in the eyes. In that
moment as we stood in silence, a darkness spread over the glen, and a
cool breath as from a summer storm cloud blew upon us; I saw it lift and
drop the brown hair on the forehead of the man facing me. He had me at a
disadvantage. He had doubtless seen me coming from the direction of the
pool, and weaker circumstantial evidence than this has condemned many a
man. If he supposed for a moment that I had been spying upon the privacy
of the girl he loved--and that this idea was in full possession of his
mind I did not doubt--then mischief was brewing, and from his
standpoint, justly so. Had our positions been reversed, had I seen him
skulking away from that fringe of greenery, I doubt if I would have
given him the chance he offered me. All this raced swiftly through my
brain in that short period following his hard question, and though my
first feeling, a very human one, was of cold and haughty resentment, I
quelled this immediately as both dangerous and unjust, and decided to
speak him fairly and honestly. So I said:

"I might ask the same of you, Buck Steele."

I purposely pitched my voice low. Not that I feared she would hear it,
for I realized the pool must be out of earshot from where we stood, but
there is a certain low tone which permits of modulation and inflection
carrying greater convincing power than when spoken in a higher key. I
paused only long enough to take breath after my first sentence, then
resumed.

"It's none of your business what I am doing here, but I am going to tell
you, because, in a way, you have a right to know."

There flashed upon me the thought that I must play for time. If Lessie
had not left the pool she would leave soon, for a storm impended. In
what direction she would go to reach home I had no notion. She might
come straight down the glen where we were. In any event, if blows were
to be struck, and in my heart I believed they would come before we
parted, it would be better if the girl was not in the neighborhood. This
train of reasoning came and passed without interrupting my flow of
speech.

"It's not my fault we're not friends. I came to these knobs a total
stranger, intending to treat everybody right. But when I spoke to you in
Hebron, you turned your back on me. Why did you do that? I know why, and
in a measure I forgive it. But it was not a manly thing to do. I'm going
to talk plainly to you, Buck. I'm glad of this chance to have it out
right here in the woods. But before we go any further tell me
this--what's that thing?"

I pointed at the plant before me.

My audacity stupefied him. He blinked at me with scowling forehead--at
me and at the plant--probably deeming me crazy.

"I mean it," I insisted; "I'm not fooling with you. Tell me what that
thing is, if you know, and then I'll tell you what I'm doing out here in
the wilderness."

"That's a May apple," he said, suddenly and reluctantly.

"May apple!" I gasped, my high hopes shattered and gone. "I didn't know;
I'm obliged to you."

Then I told him the object of my stay in the hills, not sparing words to
prolong my story, and ended by asking him if he had ever seen the
life-plant, ever heard of it, or ever heard of anybody that had heard of
it. He shook his head to each question, then said, emphatically:

"They ain't no sich thing!"

I knew that the Dryad was safe and away by this time, so now I came back
to the topic of the moment. Indeed, the smith had listened to my speech
with ever increasing restlessness. I think he suspected I was trying to
delay my explanation, but I doubt if he guessed the true reason for it.

"You asked me at the beginning what I was doing here, and I'm going to
tell you, and tell you the _truth_; mind you that--the _truth_. I've
never told a lie since I was old enough to know how base a thing it
was." I took two steps toward him. "You suspect me, Buck Steele, of the
lowest, most contemptible, hell-born, dastardly trick one who calls
himself a man could commit. I'm not going to put it into words, because
it's too damnably vile!"

The smith began to move forward as I spoke; short, hurried steps, like
one takes when about to spring. But whatever his impulse he checked
himself, and waited, his broad chest heaving in troubled breaths, his
face contorted, his eyes veined and bulging. I knew that I fronted a
deadly peril. I knew the man was surely insane that moment; that reason,
argument or logic could find no place in his perceptions. He had grasped
the idea that I had knowingly and willingly violated the sanctity of
this secret place, and nothing that I could say would sweep that
illusion from his disordered brain. He saw red. The blood-lust was on
him in all its primal force; in every lineament of his twisted
countenance was written the word--"kill."

A strong gust of wind tore down the glen, shuddering among the murmuring
leaves, and with its coming the gloom deepened. The shape before me
assumed a more formidable aspect in the lessened light, but I felt no
fear. I thought of my revolver--and was ashamed. Still it might serve a
purpose. It might help bring this madman to his senses. I drew it
quickly from my pocket, and holding it out in the palm of my hand, said:

"I could kill you, man; I could shoot you down, and no one would ever
guess I did it. You're bent on trouble; you're prepared not to believe
anything I say. But for this revolver I am unarmed. I am not going to
take an unfair advantage of you. See?" I broke the weapon, emptied its
chambers, then put the cartridges and revolver in separate pockets.

The act had no apparent effect. It may be the look of ferocity deepened;
certainly there was no recognition of my attempt to place our relations
upon an equal basis. Now I knew that nothing short of physical violence
would bring about a reaction to sanity, and for an instant I hesitated.
The temptation to evade the whole truth assailed me wickedly. Something
within told me that I could not cope with this giant in a personal
encounter; that death or disablement awaited the revelation I was
contemplating. The something which gave this warning also suggested the
remedy--the lie whereby I might pass Buck Steele with a whole skin and
an outraged conscience. I believe I wavered. I believe that for the
shortest time I came near to yielding, then my manhood asserted itself
in a swift rush, before Buck's words stung my blood hot.

"Go on, yo' damn sneak'n' fox!--Whur'd yo' ben w'en I seen
yo'?--Whur?--Whur?"

I stripped off my coat as I answered, for I knew there was work ahead.
And Buck laughed as I cast the garment aside; a hoarse, growling laugh
in which dwelt no note of mirth. It was simply an indication that he was
pleased with the meaning of the act; that the pagan desire to give and
take blows which possessed him would be satisfied.

"I'm going to tell you. I went to Hebron this morning, and started home
by the railroad. I don't know this country as well as you, and as I was
making my way back toward Lessie's house--for I wanted to have a word
with her--I stumbled into this place."

A malevolent grin of disbelief greeted this speech. The fellow's
insolence nettled me, but I went on.

"I heard a bird-call which I knew--which I had heard her give before. I
went to look for her. I came to the line of bushes which fringe the
pool; I was preparing to pass through them in my search for her, when
the wind blew the leaves aside and I saw----"

With a roar like a wounded bull he was on me. He had been holding
himself back for this confession. Too late I realized that I had
blundered. I might have approached the denouement more circumspectly; I
might have prepared him for things as they actually had been, instead of
allowing him, by my extreme candor, to suppose that matters were worse
than they really were. He swung his club as he rushed, and it hissed
above me. I crouched and leaped aside, striking up blindly with all my
might. I had flung my left arm out to balance myself, and the descending
club caught my wrist a slanting blow. I am sure now it scarcely more
than touched it, but an arrow of acute pain shot through my entire arm.
The bludgeon hit the earth with a force which splintered it into a dozen
pieces, and Buck wheeled more than half around, for my fist had found
his ribs. Even as he turned with a harsh, bellowing, wordless oath, I
was at him. I thrust deliberately, coolly, but with all my concentrated
power, aiming over his shoulder at his neck. He saw the stroke coming,
but, in the attitude where my former blow had forced him he could parry
but ineffectually. His shoulder went up, off and over it my fist slid
and with all the weight of my body behind it caught him on the ear. Then
back he staggered, his windmill arms waving hugely, aimlessly, his knees
wobbling, his feet slithering uncertainly over the short grass. Back and
back he went, seeming to try to stop, but couldn't, till fifteen paces
must have separated us. I did not follow him, though I suppose I should
have done so. I think I was a trifle dazed at my success, and the
spectacle of the great body of the smith moving crazily backward with
wide arms threshing the air over his head, must have unconsciously
served as a check for any further assault.

When nearly a score of yards lay between us Buck came to himself. His
arms dropped, he shook his shoulders, felt his damaged ear, now covered
with blood,--and saw me. Instantly he made ready to rush me. He
possessed to the full that instinct held by all fighting animals which
does not allow them to give up. As long as he could stand on his feet he
would do battle. I squared myself and awaited his onslaught. My
temporary advantage had not deceived me. I knew too well that chance had
a hand in the operations just concluded, and that if I ultimately
succeeded in whipping Buck Steele it would be a miraculous happening. I
saw him bend his body to advance, then earth and sky and air became
blended in one burning, blinding, deafening, fiery chaos. My eardrums
vibrated under a volume of sound such as I would not have deemed
possible; a white sword of dazzling brightness was laid across my eyes,
searing the balls and scattering a myriad colored sparks dancing and
ricocheting through my brain. Vaguely I seemed to see an oak tree back
of Buck slough its bark as a snake does its skin--shake it out and away
from its white trunk; saw it rip off its own limbs and cast them down;
saw it take its leaves by vast bunches, strip them from their hold, and
scatter them abroad like feathers. Accompanying this phenomenon I saw my
enemy sink down in his tracks. It all happened within the fractional
part of a second, for on the heels of the crash and the awful light, a
great blackness and silence settled over me.

I awoke with a quivering, indrawn breath, and knew that the little fists
of a heavy rain were pounding me in the face. Slowly my mind grasped the
situation. Struggling to my hands and knees, my arms trembling under my
weight, I looked at Buck. He lay perfectly still. He had been much
nearer the tree which had received the bolt than I, and the fear that he
was dead took hold of me. Painfully I dragged myself toward him over the
wet grass, my head buzzing and swimming, and throbbing with queer,
unnatural pains. I reached his side and grasped his wrist, sliding the
tips of my fingers back of the small bone where the pulse manifests
itself. I held my breath in fear, at once conscious of no perceptible
movement. A few moments longer I waited, but the signal of life failed
to come. Then I firmly seized the shirt where it opened at the neck, and
ripped off the remaining buttons with a quick jerk. A big, deep chest,
covered with black hair, was revealed. I know a moan came from me as I
drew my body over his, and fell across him with my ear pressed to his
heart. As I lay the pounding rain revived me more and more, the
thrumming in my head ceased, and then, muffled, weak, but real, I heard
the feeble beating of the engine of life. There was nothing I could do
for him, but I sat there and waited his return to consciousness, knowing
that it would be wrong to leave him absolutely helpless. My strength
came back momentarily, and when Buck began to stir I was capable of
standing erect. So presently I went away, realizing that his iron
constitution would quickly right him.

I did not have the heart to get dinner, but ate what cold stuff I could
find, then went to the seat under the tall pine, and thought. I was not
scared. Fright did not enter into my feelings in the smallest way,
although, when I reviewed the incident, I was confident Buck would have
worsted me had it not been for the unexpected and startling
intervention. He was unquestionably the stronger man, and had I defeated
him, it would have been due to my skill in fisticuffs. I was not a
stranger to the science of the ring, while abhorring prize-fighting. I
believe it every man's duty to himself and those he loves to equip
himself physically for life's battles. So I had trained, and kept myself
in training. But the smith had been transformed into a raging demon of a
man; his great natural power had been doubled, quadrupled, and had his
clutching hands once found me I would have fared as Carver Doone fared
at the hands of John Ridd.

I was sick at heart because of what these things which had just
transpired foretold. Would Buck voice his hellish belief in my
poltroonery to Lessie? A shiver shook me at the thought; it seemed as if
a thousand-legged worm with feet of ice was laid along my spine. Then my
neck and face burned, and my throat grew tight, so that my breath came
hard. What ailed me? Never before had such a sensation possessed me. Why
did it matter so very greatly what Buck told? I knew that I was entirely
innocent of any wrong--what else mattered? I know the good opinion of
our fellow creatures is worth striving for and maintaining, but why
should I be so concerned as to what these hill people thought of me? A
few months more and I would be gone, would never see them again in all
my life. Why--then suddenly, in the midst of my reflections the Dryad's
face swam before my mind, and I saw it as it would look when Buck,
crudely but earnestly, told her what he believed to be true. I saw the
expression on her face when she heard the hateful words; the swift,
responsive blood bathing her cheeks into red peonies--the terror and
shame in her eyes--the anguish of betrayed faith--and in that moment I
knew that I cared more for what Buck should say to Lessie than for
anything else in all the world. I got up, breathing fast, and looked out
over the great valley of billowing trees. In former days this sight had
a magical effect; it brought a sweet calm and content. This afternoon I
did not feel the response to which I was accustomed. Instead, I knew
that war was in my breast, and that every passing moment loosened a
lurking devil with a shape of fear. Peace cannot come from without when
there is strife within. Had Buck already told her? I found myself
wondering. Had he gone direct to her after he recovered, and poured out
the poisoned tale? He would do it, I felt assured. His passion had
reached a stage which not only suggested, but declared this course, and
he, rough, untrained, with no restraining leash of civilization and
refinement to hold him back, would make instant capital of his supposed
discovery to further his wooing. If I could see her first--

Down my hill of refuge I tore, bareheaded, coatless. Along the familiar
route I ran, to Dyrad's Glade, to the creek which flowed south, to the
tree spanning the creek. Midway across the tree sat the object of my
quest, fishing. A pool of some depth spread out beneath her, and here
her hook was cast. Her rod was a slender hickory pole, while a rusty tin
can at her side held her bait--the fishing-worms of our boyhood. As I
appeared she drew up and at once became engaged in impaling a fat bait
on the hook. With the greatest nonchalance she drew the wriggling thing
over the barb, and sighted me just as the operation was concluded. She
smiled, and the relief wave which swept over me threatened to inundate
me root and branch. By this I knew I had reached her first. Then, as I
climbed eagerly up, she deliberately pursed her lips and spat on that
worm!

"Hello!" she said, and cast her line.

I did not say hello, nor anything else for a time--for an appreciable
time. I felt foolish; light-headed, light-footed, light all over.
Something inside my breast seemed spreading and spreading, and I wanted
to sing--to shout insanely. This most candid confession will probably
arouse grave suspicions in the mind of the reader, but that is so much
in favor of a narrative which always sticks closely to the truth. Had I
intended to practice any deception, just here is where I would have
begun, for I realize, after writing the above, that I am laying myself
liable to almost any charge one would care to bring along the line of
general idiocy. Just why the ordinary sight of a girl on a log
fishing--a back country girl at that--should make a man of the world who
has long since left the adolescent stage behind feel like singing and
dancing and yelling, is beyond my ability to explain. Let him who reads
draw his own conclusions.

"You did that for luck, didn't you?" I asked, when I was seated tailor
fashion beside her. It had been a boyhood belief of mine; I had simply
outgrown it. She was still primitive.

She nodded, and put a finger on her lips, turning to me wide eyes of
warning. She evidently harbored the other belief that fish won't bite if
you talk. I turned to her cork--an old bottle stopper--and saw that it
was bobbing; short little ducks sideways which suggested a minnow to me.
But the Dryad was all engrossed with the prospects, and watched the
stopper's movements intently. Presently it went under in a slanting
sweep, and the pole came up promptly and vigorously. A sun perch the
size of a small leaf glinted and leaped at the end of the line.
Dexterously the girl swung her prize within reach, skilfully removed the
hook from its hold in a gill, and dropped her catch in a tin milk bucket
at her other side.

"I tol' you!" she said, triumphantly, referring to her treatment of the
worm before committing it to the stream.

At once her tapering fingers began burrowing in the dirt which half
filled the can, in search of more bait.

"Hold on, Dryad!" I whispered. "Let up on fishing a few minutes, unless
you'll allow me to talk, too. I've something to tell you. Don't you know
it seems an age since I saw you last?"

"I tol' you not to come no more," she said, eyeing me closely to see the
effect of her words.

"But you didn't believe I would stay away!" I retorted, and her face
instantly lighted with laughter. "You rogue!" I went on; "I have stayed
longer than I should as it is."

One of the quick transitions which marked her now took place, and in a
twinkling she was serious, and her eyes grew darker, as still water
changes when a cloud hides the sun.

"If Buck sees you here there'll be trouble; you'd better 'a' kep' to
Baldy."

"Buck saw me to-day, and there was trouble," I answered. "Now let me
tell you all about it."

How frightened she was, although I endeavored to speak in a
matter-of-fact way. She regarded me as though she found it difficult to
believe that I really existed after "trouble" with Buck, and her face
turned white, leaving her freckles oddly prominent. Her pole dipped,
too, so that its further end w

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