CHAPTER X.

UNTO THE HILLS.

A tap on the door aroused the sleeper, and she sprang up hastily to see the anxious face of old Prue. “Law, honey,” she exclaimed, “I sutt’nly was skeered. Huccome yuh ain’t sleep down in yo’ ma’s room? All higglety-pigglety up hyar. An’ yuh ain’t sleep on dat baid ’thout no kivers, is yuh?”

Persis tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt; the increasing pain which her brave heart felt had come with sharper force with the day. “I had so much to do,” she faltered. “I just threw myself down here when I had finished.”

Aunt Prue sniffed disapprovingly. “That ain’t no way o’ doin’,” she declared. “Yuh look lak yuh been drawed th’ough a knot-hole. Po’ chile! yuh sholy is plum wo’ out. Come down an’ git a good cup o’ coffee. I done fix yuh up a good breakfus’. Is yuh ready soon?”

Persis looked at her dishevelled attire. Her usually dainty habits asserted themselves, however miserable she might be. “I’ll take my bath first. I’ll not be long,” she replied. She felt feverish and thirsty, but breakfast was not a pleasing prospect, and to Aunt Prue’s dissatisfaction she only nibbled at the chicken and waffles.

“Yuh sholy is plum wo’ out,” repeated the old woman. “Yuh ain’t gwine ter do no trab’lin’ dis day, chile, not if I kin he’p hit. Yuh is white as a ghos’, an’ yo’ eyes is all holler in yo’ face. Yuh ain’t fittin’ fo’ no trab’lin.”

“I must go, I must. Oh, Prue!” For a moment the impulse came to confide in the old woman, who had so long been a faithful servitor in the family. No doubt she could tell her all she wanted to know, but a shrinking from discussing the subject at all forbade her to unburden her heart, and she sipped her coffee slowly, wishing that Aunt Prue would not be quite so solicitous. She was nervous and weary, but still was unshaken in her purpose.

The expressman came for her trunk, and the moment arrived when the break must come. She went from room to room, feeling strangely weak, but she did not falter in her decision. It seemed to her that Mrs. Estabrook’s room was the hardest to leave. A dozen little familiar objects reminded her so acutely of the dear old lady’s presence. The comfortable chair by the sunny window; the little work-table; the row of books on the shelf above; the footstool; the clock and the old-fashioned ornaments on the mantel, all seemed to bring the owner vividly before her. There had always been a peculiar bond between Persis and Mrs. Estabrook, which made them closer in their confidences and sympathies than is usual between persons of such a disparity of age. “How sorry she must always have been for me,” Persis thought, “for not even papa and mamma seemed to care so much for me. Lisa was always her mother’s favorite, and Mellicent her father’s. Of course, I could not be the same to them, but they tried, they did try to love me, yet how could they?” She sighed, and then two tears splashed on the chintz cover of grandma’s easy-chair, as the girl bent over and kissed it.

At the last moment she threw her arms around old Prue with a clinging touch, at which the old woman wondered. “Oh, dear old Prue,” she said, “don’t forget me.”

“Law, chile, you sutt’nly is quare. I ain’t gwine fo’get yuh in two or free weeks. I ain’t got such a terr’ble good remember; ‘taint so good as hit used to be, but it’ll las’ dat long, honey.” And she chuckled at the idea. Yet she felt very anxious about the girl. “She in fo’ a spell o’ sickness, dat I know,” said Prue, as she watched Persis go down the street.

It was not northward that Persis turned her face, however, for she took a train which bore her back over the ground she had but lately left. She showed almost the craftiness of one insane in the way she arranged her plans, for she had consulted maps and time-tables, and had selected as her destination a little town in an unfrequented part of Virginia. From thence she had determined to make her way to the village near which she and Basil had been overtaken by the storm. Her yearning was for the mountains. “If I can find peace anywhere, it will be there,” she said to herself, sighing wearily, as she laid her head back against the cushions of the car.

She was tired out mind and body, but the wearisome round of thought kept up its treadmill, and she could not rid herself of going over and over the same ground. To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow it would be the same. She could see no respite ahead.

She thought of all her wise philosophies, of how loftily she had maintained that an exterior cheerfulness was always possible for those who would but think so. “The Cheerful Three!” What a different being it was who had been one of them; and, yes, it was a very different being; that was Persis Holmes, this was Anne Maitland.

The place of her destination was not reached till about nine o’clock. Persis had not realized that it would be so late, and that she did not know whether or not she could find accommodations in the town; but she plucked up heart, and consulted the conductor.

“Can you tell me if there is a safe place to stop at the next station?” she asked him,—“for a lady, I mean.”

“Why, yes, I reckon there is. There’s the Mansion House. Ladies most always go there. It’s all right.”

“Can I find my way easily?”

The conductor reflected. “Well, I can’t tell you just how to get there; but there’ll be some one from the house down at the station, I reckon.”

Persis thanked him; and when the train drew up at her stopping-place she stepped out and looked around. A building bearing the name “City Hotel” stood across the street, but that Persis knew was not where she had been directed to go.

The train thundered on, and she was left almost alone on the platform, in the dim light of a kerosene lamp which hung by the door of the little waitingroom. A couple of men standing by looked at her curiously. One of them stepped up to her. “Were you expecting some one to meet you?” he asked, respectfully.

“No,” replied the traveller; “I want to go to the Mansion House. Is there any one from there meeting this train?”

“Why, there doesn’t happen to be for this train. They don’t always come. Bill!” raising his voice; “none of Clark’s folks around, are there?”

“No; John came down, but he didn’t stay.”

Persis looked distressed.

The man called Bill came forward.

“Mr. Haines will go up with you,” said the first speaker. “He’ll see you get there all right. He’s our policeman.”

So, under the escort of the village policeman Persis was piloted across the street, up a bit of road, and down a long lane, at the end of which an old-fashioned stuccoed house stood. Mr. Haines swung his lantern cheerfully and warned Persis of mud-puddles and rocks in the way. He ushered her into the house without ceremony, and went to hunt up the host, who presently appeared. The policeman evidently departed as soon as his business was finished, for Persis did not see him again.

“Can you give me a room?” asked the newly arrived guest.

“I reckon we can, if you all don’t mind the first floor.”

Persis did not mind anything of that kind. The hobgoblins which terrorized her were not such as a strange room in a strange house could furnish.

The man disappeared, and soon returned, bringing fresh towels hung over his arm and a slip of paper in his hand. “I ain’t got a register handy,” he remarked. “Just put your name here.”

Persis was startled for a moment. She had not thought of being obliged to decide so quickly as to which of her names she would bear; but she did not hesitate long, and “Anne Maitland” was written on the slip which the man left lying on the table, while he requested Persis to follow him.

She was shown into a lofty, old-fashioned room, which was furnished comfortably enough, but which seemed close and stuffy.

The man filled the pitcher, brought matches, and hung the towels on the rack, being evidently used to performing any office which came his way.

“Shall you all want breakfast?” he asked, pausing at the door.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“What time?”

“About eight o’clock.”

“All right; she’ll see that you have it. If I ain’t around just go hunt her up.”

Who this mysterious _she_ might be, Persis did not inquire, but she was given an opportunity to find out the next morning. She was too utterly exhausted not to sleep, despite the rather too hard bed and too soft pillows; and although she was early awakened by the tramp of feet overhead and by the running down the uncovered stairs of several persons, she did not get up till the sun was high.

She left her room, to find no one in sight, and she proceeded to examine her surroundings. The house was an old country mansion set in the midst of a garden. The mountains—once more the mountains—rose up on every side, but at this hour covered with the mist which obscured their peaks.

After standing on the porch a few minutes, Persis went to hunt up her hostess, whom she found in a back room.

“He said you’d be along about eight,” was her greeting, given with a smile. “I reckon you all are hungry as a hunter. Like corn-cakes? I’m just stirring up some. Just go in and set down,” opening a door leading to another room, “and I’ll have your breakfast right in. Si! Si! you Si! bring me in some wood.”

A little woolly-headed darky popped up from some dark corner and scuttled out. He was the only servant Persis saw while she was in the house. When the breakfast was ready,—fried fish, crisp bacon and fresh eggs, fried potatoes, butter, bread, and corn-cakes,—Persis was able to eat more than at first she thought possible, although her hostess protested that she didn’t eat more than a bird, and was evidently disappointed that her efforts were not more substantially appreciated.

Persis asked about the little village nestled in the mountains, where she had determined to go.

“Black Rock? Why, yes; it’s about eight or ten miles, I reckon,” the woman informed her.

“Can I get any one to take me over there, me and my trunks?”

“How many trunks?”

“Two.”

“Hm! I reckon you must be the new school-teacher,” thought the mistress of the Mansion House. “I heard they were going to have a strange teacher there this year,” she remarked, irrelevantly, as it seemed to Persis. “I reckon some of the folks in town can take you. Want to go to-day?”

“I think I should like to.”

“Si! Si!” called the woman; “you go tell Marster Torm to come in.”

The small darky departed, and Persis returned to her room.

Later in the day she was jogging along a country road towards the little village of Black Rock, her trunks piled up behind her in the wagon, and herself seated by the side of a lazy-looking, good-natured countryman, who drove a pair of dun mules, and only now and then, to his companion’s relief, made any remark.

Persis had clung persistently to the one idea of reaching this place. For some reason it seemed to offer her the surest haven. If she could only be received under the roof of the kind woman at whose gate she and Basil had stopped—was it less than two weeks ago? Was it not years? she thought.

“Do you know the house to which I want to go?” she said to the man who accompanied her. “It is the last house in the village before you reach the school-house.”

“T’other end?”

“Yes, I think so; on the road to—to the Natural Bridge.”

The man nodded. “I know,—Jim Temple’s.”

He had concluded that Persis was the new teacher, and began to make a few remarks about the school, which were not interrupted. Indeed, Persis was scarcely listening to what he said. She was looking closely at the little village through which they were passing. Suppose this Mrs. Temple should absolutely refuse to take her in. What then? “She must! She must!” The girl had so persistently decided this, that now that the possibility of a refusal met her she was anxious and worried.

The same little child came shyly out. “Hallo, sissy, anybody about?” asked the man, who pulled up his mules before the gate.

And again, as before, the kind-looking woman appeared. Persis had been helped down from her high seat, and stood eagerly waiting. She held out her two hands as the child’s mother approached.

“Oh, Mrs. Temple,” she said, “can you take me in? Oh, please!”

The woman looked at her in surprise. Then her face cleared. “Oh, you’re the new teacher. Why, yes, of course. The teacher most always boards here, if she doesn’t happen to live near. Come right in.”

Persis hesitated; she could live under no more false pretences, she thought. “I’m not the new teacher,” she replied; “but if you have room for me, let me stay at least a little while.” Then, seeing hesitation visible on Mrs. Temple’s face, she added, “Please do. I do not know where else to go.”

“Poor child!” from the motherliness of her nature Mrs. Temple spoke out. “I don’t reckon he’ll mind. You all can leave the trunks, John.”

The big man was lifting down the luggage, which he set on the porch; and after accepting what Persis considered a very modest trifle for his services, he drove off and left a lonely girl to take up a strange new life.

“I made sure you all were the teacher,” Mrs. Temple began as they went inside. “She sent word to the trustees that she was sick, and mightn’t be able to begin next Monday.” The thought that here was a possible opening came like an inspiration to Persis.

“Oh, then, if she doesn’t come, do you think they would take me till she is well? I have been to college. I could take an examination if necessary.”

“Well, now, perhaps you could, then. I know the trustees were mighty put out. They were talking it over day before yesterday. The one who had it last year got married this summer, and they thought some one who didn’t live in the neighborhood could discipline the scholars better. She knew everybody, and they thought she was partial, and I reckon maybe she was. She certainly had her own kin to teach, and she wasn’t going to get into hot water with their fathers and mothers, her own cousins. Where have I seen you before? Your face certainly does look mighty familiar.”

Persis flushed up. She was too truthful to evade the question. “I stopped here on horseback one day, and you gave me and my companion some biscuits and honey.”

“Why, to be sure; I remember. I wondered if you got caught in that storm. Did you get cold? You look like you had been sick.”

“We found shelter under the school-house porch, and did not get very wet. I know, Mrs. Temple,” she went on, “that my coming seems strange to you, and I cannot tell you a great deal about myself. I have had a great sorrow since I was here. My name is Anne Maitland. I have been well educated, and am able and willing to support myself. I had a little money, but I gave it up, because I found out I was not the person for whom it was intended. Is that enough for you to know? I wish I could tell you more. I don’t want you to think I am an adventuress.”

“Bless your heart, child, no one would ever think such a thing. I can see you look pale, as if you had been ill. That’s why I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“No, I’m not ill, only tired, very tired; and oh, trouble that comes so suddenly is very hard to bear.”

“Poor dear, poor dear; there, never mind, you’re safe. I’m not going to turn out a homeless girl while I’ve a place for her. Now, miss, come up and take off your hat, and get the dust off. Here, Mattie, take this lady, Miss Maitland, up to the spare room, and tell Columbus to get some fresh water for her.”

With a sudden impulse Persis turned and held out her hands, her eyes dim with tears. “Thank you! how good you are!” she murmured. “I knew you were the one to whom I could come. I have felt it all along.”

“Indeed, did you? I declare. You remembered me? I didn’t know you came a-purpose. I thought it was because they told you the teacher boarded here always, and you thought we took regular boarders.”

“No, no; it was because I remembered you.”

A pleased smile gave Mrs. Temple’s face a kindlier expression than even before. “I declare,” she repeated. “I’m sure I’m glad you feel so. Hurry up, Mattie. Did you find Columbus?”

The aforesaid Columbus, a very black, lank, barefooted darky boy, appeared. As soon as his eyes fell on Persis an eager and pleased look came into them. His mistress laughed softly, as he whispered something to her. “Go ’long Columbus, you’re clean daft. Hurry now, and get the young lady some fresh water.” And Persis, preceded by the little Mattie, and followed by the eager-eyed boy, was ushered into a big upper room, the dormer windows of which showed deep recesses in the walls which sloped in a long slant from the peaked roof.

As the door closed behind her, Persis gave a sigh of relief. A sure refuge, this she believed it to be. These were good, kind people, plain and homely, but full of generous hospitality and a sweet charity, and she sank on her knees at the window where the last sunbeams were shining. Before her rose, peak after peak, the steadfast mountains, in all their solemn, tranquil majesty, and there came to the weary girl in her sorrow a verse which she had often heard her grandmother repeat,—“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”

[Illustration: '[Fleuron]’]