Part 26

It was well she did blow again, for the old miller was not at home and old Hon, down at the cabin, dropped her iron when she heard the horn and walked to the door, dazed and listening. Even when it came again she could hardly believe her ears, and but for her rheumatism, she would herself have started at once for Lonesome Cove. As it was, she ironed no more, but sat in the doorway almost beside herself with anxiety and bewilderment, looking down the road for the old miller to come home.

Back the two went into the kitchen and Hale sat at the door watching June as she fixed the table and made the coffee and corn bread. Once only he disappeared and that was when suddenly a hen cackled, and with a shout of laughter he ran out to come back with a fresh egg.

“Now, my lord!” said June, her hair falling over her eyes and her face flushed from the heat.

“No,” said Hale. “I'm going to wait on you.”

“For the last time,” she pleaded, and to please her he did sit down, and every time she came to his side with something he bent to kiss the hand that served him.

“You're nothing but a big, nice boy,” she said. Hale held out a lock of his hair near the temples and with one finger silently followed the track of wrinkles in his face.

“It's premature,” she said, “and I love every one of them.” And she stooped to kiss him on the hair. “And those are nothing but troubles. I'm going to smooth every one of _them_ away.”

“If they're troubles, they'll go--now,” said Hale.

All the time they talked of what they would do with Lonesome Cove.

“Even if we do go away, we'll come back once a year,” said Hale.

“Yes,” nodded June, “once a year.”

“I'll tear down those mining shacks, float them down the river and sell them as lumber.”

“Yes.”

“And I'll stock the river with bass again.”

“Yes.”

“And I'll plant young poplars to cover the sight of every bit of uptorn earth along the mountain there. I'll bury every bottle and tin can in the Cove. I'll take away every sign of civilization, every sign of the outside world.”

“And leave old Mother Nature to cover up the scars,” said June.

“So that Lonesome Cove will be just as it was.”

“Just as it was in the beginning,” echoed June.

“And shall be to the end,” said Hale.

“And there will never be anybody here but you.”

“And you,” said June.

While she cleared the table and washed the dishes Hale fed the horses and cut more wood, and it was dusk when he came to the porch. Through the door he saw that she had made his bed in one corner. And through her door he saw one of the white things, that had lain untouched in her drawer, now stretched out on her bed.

The stars were peeping through the blue spaces of a white-clouded sky and the moon would be coming by and by. In the garden the flowers were dim, quiet and restful. A kingfisher screamed from the river. An owl hooted in the woods and crickets chirped about them, but every passing sound seemed only to accentuate the stillness in which they were engulfed. Close together they sat on the old porch and she made him tell of everything that had happened since she left the mountains, and she told him of her flight from the mountains and her life in the West--of her father's death and the homesickness of the ones who still were there.

[Illustration: She made him tell of everything, 0444]

“Bub is a cowboy and wouldn't come back for the world, but I could never have been happy there,” she said, “even if it hadn't been for you--here.”

“I'm just a plain civil engineer, now,” said Hale, “an engineer without even a job and--” his face darkened.

“It's a shame, sweetheart, for you--” She put one hand over his lips and with the other turned his face so that she could look into his eyes. In the mood of bitterness, they did show worn, hollow and sad, and around them the wrinkles were deep.

“Silly,” she said, tracing them gently with her finger tips, “I love every one of them, too,” and she leaned over and kissed them.

“We're going to be happy each and every day, and all day long! We'll live at the Gap in winter and I'll teach.”

“No, you won't.”

“Then I'll teach _you_ to be patient and how little I care for anything else in the world while I've got you, and I'll teach you to care for nothing else while you've got me. And you'll have me, dear, forever and ever----”

“Amen,” said Hale.

Something rang out in the darkness, far down the river, and both sprang to their feet. “It's Uncle Billy!” cried June, and she lifted the old horn to her lips. With the first blare of it, a cheery halloo answered, and a moment later they could see a gray horse coming up the road--coming at a gallop, and they went down to the gate and waited.

“Hello, Uncle Billy” cried June. The old man answered with a fox-hunting yell and Hale stepped behind a bush.

“Jumping Jehosophat--is that you, June? Air ye all right?”

“Yes, Uncle Billy.” The old man climbed off his horse with a groan.

“Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, but I was skeered!” He had his hands on June's shoulders and was looking at her with a bewildered face.

“What air ye doin' here alone, baby?”

June's eyes shone: “Nothing Uncle Billy.” Hale stepped into sight.

“Oh, ho! I see! You back an' he ain't gone! Well, bless my soul, if this ain't the beatenest--” he looked from the one to the other and his kind old face beamed with a joy that was but little less than their own.

“You come back to stay?”

“My--where's that horn? I want it right now, Ole Hon down thar is a-thinkin' she's gone crazy and I thought she shorely was when she said she heard you blow that horn. An' she tol' me the minute I got here, if hit was you--to blow three times.” And straightway three blasts rang down the river.

“Now she's all right, if she don't die o' curiosity afore I git back and tell her why you come. Why did you come back, baby? Gimme a drink o' water, son. I reckon me an' that ole hoss hain't travelled sech a gait in five year.”

June was whispering something to the old man when Hale came back, and what it was the old man's face told plainly.

“Yes, Uncle Billy--right away,” said Hale.

“Just as soon as you can git yo' license?” Hale nodded.

“An' June says I'm goin' to do it.”

“Yes,” said Hale, “right away.”

Again June had to tell the story to Uncle Billy that she had told to Hale and to answer his questions, and it was an hour before the old miller rose to go. Hale called him then into June's room and showed him a piece of paper.

“Is it good now?” he asked.

The old man put on his spectacles, looked at it and chuckled:

“Just as good as the day you got hit.”

“Well, can't you----”

“Right now! Does June know?”

“Not yet. I'm going to tell her now. June!” he called.

“Yes, dear.” Uncle Billy moved hurriedly to the door.

“You just wait till I git out o' here.” He met June in the outer room.

“Where are you going, Uncle Billy?”

“Go on, baby,” he said, hurrying by her, “I'll be back in a minute.”

She stopped in the doorway--her eyes wide again with sudden anxiety, but Hale was smiling.

“You remember what you said at the Pine, dear?” The girl nodded and she was smiling now, when with sweet seriousness she said again: “Your least wish is now law to me, my lord.”

“Well, I'm going to test it now. I've laid a trap for you.” She shook her head.

“And you've walked right into it”

“I'm glad.” She noticed now the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and she thought it was some matter of business.

“Oh,” she said, reproachfully. “You aren't going to bother with anything of that kind _now?_”

“Yes,” he said. “I want you to look over this.”

“Very well,” she said resignedly. He was holding the paper out to her and she took it and held it to the light of the candle. Her face flamed and she turned remorseful eyes upon him.

“And you've kept that, too, you had it when I----”

“When you were wiser maybe than you are now.”

“God save me from ever being such a fool again.” Tears started in her eyes.

“You haven't forgiven me!” she cried.

“Uncle Billy says it's as good now as it was then.”

He was looking at her queerly now and his smile was gone. Slowly his meaning came to her like the flush that spread over her face and throat. She drew in one long quivering breath and, with parted lips and her great shining eyes wide, she looked at him.

“Now?” she whispered.

“Now!” he said.

Her eyes dropped to the coarse gown, she lifted both hands for a moment to her hair and unconsciously she began to roll one crimson sleeve down her round, white arm.

“No,” said Hale, “just as you are.”

She went to him then, put her arms about his neck, and with head thrown back she looked at him long with steady eyes.

“Yes,” she breathed out--“just as you are--and now.”

Uncle Billy was waiting for them on the porch and when they came out, he rose to his feet and they faced him, hand in hand. The moon had risen. The big Pine stood guard on high against the outer world. Nature was their church and stars were their candles. And as if to give them even a better light, the moon had sent a luminous sheen down the dark mountainside to the very garden in which the flowers whispered like waiting happy friends. Uncle Billy lifted his hand and a hush of expectancy seemed to come even from the farthest star.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, by John Fox, Jr.