CHAPTER VIII

THE RESPONSE TO DUTY’S CALL

Another day had grown old and was peacefully dying in the west as our hero drew near unto the goal of his heart. In the early morning he had come forth rested, with an elastic step, bright and happy. But the torrid heat of the noon-day had steadily followed him, and evening had brought him hither with weary limbs. He emerges from the gorge and slowly mounts the little knoll that overlooks the village.

“At last!” he exclaimed with delight. The fatigue of the trying day overcoming him, he sinks down upon a stone to rest and study the village that now lay before him.

Bathed in the yellow sunlight of the dying day, there lay before him the goal that he had been so laboriously trying to reach for more than thirty-six hours. To his eye there were not many changes visible in Blood Camp. To his left he could plainly see the two little rooms in which dwelt alone Miss Emeline Hobbs, the Sunday-school superintendent. Since the death of her father and mother five years before she had lived there alone, yet but a stone’s throw from the cabin of Uncle Lazarus and Aunt Mina. The door of her house stood open, and Paul Waffington could make out the figure of a woman in the excuse of a garden at the side. For a moment he kept his eyes on the figure among the vines and vegetables, then the figure gave a limp, and he knew that it was no other than Emeline Hobbs herself. A little further to the left was the school-house, and just about it the chestnut grove and the grave-yard. To his right stood the blacksmith shop, the store, and Slade Pemberton’s home and the tavern. Then lifting his eyes he beheld the mighty Snake smiling down upon him in silence. Again his eyes swept the mountain, and half way down its side they rested on the cabin of old Jase Dillenburger. From the cabin’s rude chimney lazy rings of smoke pushed each other upward. He thought, no doubt, that the hands of Gena Filson had built the fire that made the smoke, and perhaps at this very moment she was busily engaged in making ready the supper for old Jase Dillenburger and his stout wife.

The sudden stop of the clinking ring of the anvil in the blacksmith shop reminded him that the day was nearly done. Then roaring cheers came up from the store, and men and boys began pushing out the door in bunches. Fen Green was recognized among the others, and there was among the number a new one, the old fiddler, hence the ringing cheers. Slade Pemberton is the last to emerge from the store. He closed and locked the door and walked away towards his home. But groups of lazy and idle men still linger about the platform of the store to hear “Jist one more tune before we go,” as Fen Green had said. Then another final cheer goes up, and every man turns about and goes towards his own place. Day’s glittering train glides down the mighty mountain, passes by and enters the gorges of twilight, and sends its messenger--a peaceful silence--over the hamlet.

“How sweet is life!” exclaimed Paul Waffington, as he arose, trudged down the knoll into the village and turned in at the tavern gate.

The Allisons who kept the tavern greeted him cordially. Supper was ready and he went into the dining-room with a gnawing appetite. Supper over, he concluded that he would pay a little visit to Miss Emeline Hobbs and Uncle Lazarus and Aunt Mina, in order that he might have some definite word as to the welfare of the Sunday-school.

“Oh, go ’way! Oh, oh, go ’way!! No, no, doan’ go ’way. Oh!!! De Lawd help my po’ black so’l! Is yo’ a gos’? Or is it Puolly yo’ you’self, Massa Waffington?” Aunt Mina stood in the middle of her one-room cabin, with both hands up and her big eyes dilating until all the whites were visible. Then recovering herself somewhat, she put back her glasses on her forehead, dropped her big fat hands to her hips, and gazed at the man in the door again. “I showly do believe dat it is Puolly yo’ yo’self. De good Lawd be praised. Come right in he’ar an’ let yo’ ole black mammy see yo’ face. It is Puolly yo’ yo’self. I--I--I sed yo’d come. I sed yo’d come back. Laz said yo’d come. De good Lawd be praised, it’s yo’ yo’self.” She turned to the rear door of the cabin and put out her head in the gathering darkness and called out:

“Laz, Laz! run he’ar dis minit--right now!” and then turning back into the room she continued, “Miss Emeline hed jis’ ’bout give yo’ out. Some said you’d come back an’ some said yo’ wouldn’t. Laz has kept de house clean an’ de fires goin’ in winter, an’ Miss Emeline has kept de school agoin’. Laws, I’se afeared dat she’ll break dat wooden peg whin she hears dat yo’se come.” She untied the red handkerchief and removed it from her head, readjusted her glasses on her nose, and stood off a little distance looking down at Paul Waffington, her old black face glowing with happiness.

“So glad ’use come, Massa,” was the greeting of the old colored man. “We all needs you’. De little gurl up dar on de mountainside needs you’ mos’, tho’.”

The two men walked out through the door into the garden together, Waffington and the black man. On up through the winding path the black man led the white, through the wicker gate and into the chestnut grove and the grave-yard.

“I wanted to come up hear with yo’ an’ sho’ yo’ somethin’, Massa Waffington,” said the old black man. They finally came up to a giant chestnut tree. At the trunk, the old black man pointed to a hard, slick barren spot at the base of the tree, that was just visible in the growing darkness.

“What made the hard worn spot, Uncle Lazarus?” inquired Paul Waffington.

“Dese ole knees, Massa Waffington, dese ole knees,” he said, standing with his head bowed down to the ground. Then he lifted his eyes and looked into the face of the white man as he continued: “Eber evenin’ after my chores is done, for mo’n a year, Massa Waffington, I’se come up hear an’ dropped dese ole knees down hear an’ prayed fo’ yo’, Massa. I’se prayed dat yo’ would come back. I’se prayed dat yo’ would be spaired an’ come back to Blood Camp an’ help us. Miss Emeline needs yo’, and I need yo’, an’ we all need yo’ so bad. Den, Massa, dat leetle gurl up yandar on de mountainside needs yo’ help worse dan all de res’.”

Together they walked back towards the gate. Paul Waffington had spoken in reply not a word. He was turning in his mind problems for solution.

“I thank you for your prayers, Uncle Lazarus. I appreciate them, I thank you for them, and you are a good man.”

“An’ now ’fore we part, i’se anoder thing dat I want to ax yo’, Massa, while we is out he’ar together, ef yo’ will bear with this ’ole black man,” he ventured, as they neared the gate.

“Why, certainly, Uncle, certainly. Why, I would be willing to have you ask me questions all the night through, if only I could answer them.”

“I’se done knowed dat dis ’ole black man aint gwine ter be he’ar many mo’ summers at mo’s. I’m gettin’ mighty feeble, Massa. My jints is growin’ stif’, an’ i’se all weighted down wid years. Here lately i’se bin wantin’ to kno’ mo’ ’bout dat odder worl’ away off up yander som’ers. Atter I gits da school-house swept out Sunday mornin’s, I’se bin stayin’ an’ a hearin’ Miss Emeline a tellin’ ’bout it to da chil’ens. I’se bin longin’ to ax yo’ ’bout it, den I’ll be satisfied. Is dar any good place fo’ an ole black man like me away off in dat country?” The feeble old man lifted his thin eyes and looked into Paul Waffington’s face for an answer with all the yearning of his soul.

“Yes, there is, Uncle Lazarus,” came the answer, in low, gentle tones.

“De good Lawd be praised. I’se ready to die,” he shouted, turning his black face to the starry heavens in humble thanksgiving.

It was dark now, and the stars came out and looked as bright as gold. Paul Waffington looked up at the peaks of the mighty Snake and at the myriad of stars beyond, and was grateful for all. Near by the gate he stopped and reverently removed his hat as he looked upon a grave whose turf was now growing old. For a full minute he stood, when the silence was broken by the black man.

“Under dat moun’, Massa Waffington, res’ de body of de bes’ woman, de bes’ mudder, dat eber lived in dis worl’. Many is de time dat dis ole nigger man has waded thro’ de snow deeper den my knees an’ gone an’ fixed firewood fo’ her an’ dat little angel Genie to keep warm by, when Joe wa’ wild an’ bad. Hundreds ob dark winter nights I’se rocked an’ sung to dat little baby Genie, sung to her ’bout bettar times whin she’d be a woman.” Then he went on half aloud: “But dem bettar times fo’ dat little body aint nebbar come yit. Aye, Massa, bes’ heart dat ebber beat lays der asleep under dem daisies.”

They walked out through the wicker gate together. Each was engaged with his thoughts.

“If I can do anything to make life easier for Gena Filson, I am going to do it, Uncle Lazarus. I know that Jason Dillenburger is mistreating his adopted daughter. I know, too, that to cross Jase Dillenburger’s path means death perhaps. But both Gena and Jase invited me to come to see them when I returned to Blood Camp, therefore, I have decided to go up tonight and pay my respects to Jason Dillenburger and his adopted daughter. Jase has naught against me, and I believe that he will truly be glad to see me. Good-night, Uncle Lazarus,” he called, as he turned from the gate.

“Jus’ one mo’ question from dis ole black man fo’ yo’ go, Massa, jus’ one mo’.”

“Why, Uncle, two of them if you wish,” came the good-natured reply.

“My mind has been pesterin’ me a heap o’ late ’bout a question. I--I want to ax yo’. Where is de modder ob dat little Genie tonight? Is she at res’?”

For a moment Paul Waffington stood in the night with his eyes penetrating the darkness that filled the valley below. Then, beckoning with his hand for the black man to draw near, he showed him the mighty Snake with its domes and peaks that stood up in the starry night. Then he pointed out the tall pines that waved on the mountaintop, then the stars that twinkled and shimmered beyond.

“Yes, Uncle Lazarus,” he finished, “far, far beyond where the stars come forth at evening time in their cars of gold, there lies a land of perennial bliss. A country where thinly clad mountain mothers never suffer from hunger and cold; where little children of the poor and lowly never cry for bread; where hard toiling men of the world, if they be faithful, shall find rest under the shade of the tree. And methinks, tonight, in the border of that congenial clime, the mother of Gena Filson dwells budding and blooming--a flower more beautiful than the rose.”

He let loose the black man’s arm, closed the wicker gate, and went his way through the starry night.