A Maid of the Kentucky Hills Part 2

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 G.o.d 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 k.n.o.b 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 k.n.o.b paths, which had been broadened enough for the pa.s.sage 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 sh.o.r.e straight down for many feet; tortuous channels where the fierce rains had plowed a pa.s.sage to lower ground; trees of all description growing everywhere, while shrubs, creepers and vines interlaced and fought silently for supremacy. Once we pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed it the suns.h.i.+ne came sweeping gloriously through a gap in the hills, and I felt my spirit leap up gratefully to meet it.

We could see Bald k.n.o.b 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 k.n.o.b.

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 mult.i.tudinous 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 kins.h.i.+p 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 gra.s.s 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 k.n.o.b 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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 m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.sed. 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 k.n.o.b. 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 a.s.sured 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, flus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 c.o.c.ked 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, a.s.suringly, 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 k.n.o.b country. True, there was a superficial expression which reflected her environments, her a.s.sociates, but this appeared to me even in that moment as a veil to be taken off, that the true nature might s.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sing on now that my apology was spoken.

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