CHAPTER IIIThe Gathering Clouds
Immediatelyafter the burial of Lucky Joe, Paul Waffington had seized the opportunity, when all Blood Camp was seriously reflecting upon the frailties of human life, and organized a Sunday-school in the little school-house. The superintendent, Miss Emeline Hobbs, had promised to faithfully stand by the little school and keep the spark of life going until the end of the year, when Paul Waffington had promised to return.
Miss Emeline Hobbs was rather large, with stringy red hair and possessed a deep bass voice. She had been born a cripple and walked on a wooden peg. But a kinder or better human heart never beat than her’s. During the long winter and throughout the hot summer she, with a few others, had kept the spark of life going in the little school. Each Sunday morning she went to the little school-house, arranged the three classes, balanced herself on the wooden peg and proceeded in a profound way to explain and “teach the Scriptures as I understand them” to the little band.
Aside from the Sunday-school, there had been but one other new thing that stirred Blood Camp during the year, and that was the coming of the old fiddler. Yes, he came. It was just about the middle of the summer, or “corn-hoeing time,” as Fen Green would say, that the old fiddler came. Nobody seemed to know whence he came nor did anybody care, so long as he would be sociable with the “boys” and play “Old Dan Tucker,” “Shortening in the Bread,” “Cripple Creek,” “ElizaJane,” “Shady Grove” and a half score of other similar tunes. He had told the people at the store that his name was Bull Jones, and that he was an old worn-out man—an old member of a marine band, and that he had once had a brown stone front in the greatest city of the world. But, ah, temptation had come, and nothing was left but his dear old fiddle. He said that his home was now wherever his hat was on his head. This was too much for the fathers of Blood Camp, and with no further investigation they took him in to their homes. He was the center of attraction at the store. Hours at a time he sat on a coffee bag in the store playing the tunes as called for by the boys.
“Greatest fiddler I ever saw, an’ I guess the greatest ’ne thet enybody else ever saw,” exclaimed Fen Green.
Sometimes the old fiddler went home with a farmer of the hills for the night. On the morning he would go with the others to the field, and pay for his keep with the hoe. Another night he went with the blacksmith and made himself “handy” with the milking and other chore work, as pay for his night’s lodging. He was always happy, lodged with all, made a good workman at whatever was needed to be done, and, best of all, he could always be depended upon to play the fiddle, and to play the very tune that each individual liked best.
Bull Jones looked to be a man of some fifty years. He wore a grey beard, a suit of well-worn clothes with patches, and chewed tobacco and “swapped” with the boys. Bull Jones, the fiddler, was soon in great demand in the settlement. The fact is, that he had not been in the neighborhood a fortnight until he had more invitations to “stay all night” than he was able to fill for months.
On rainy days the fiddler took his place on the bag of coffee in the store and played the whole day through.Those were great days for the folks of Blood Camp. Even old Jase Dillenburger would hang about and whittle on a pine stick and enjoy the music with the others. Then, too, perchance, Miss Emeline Hobbs would come into the store when some such tune as “Sourwood Mountain” had begun, and would fain have thumped her wooden peg against the floor a few times out of sheer delight, had not she recalled that she was the superintendent of the Sunday-school and thereby the leader and example of the community.
Winter had come again, and Emeline Hobbs longed for the day when Paul Waffington would return, that she might tell him that she had “held out” in the matter of the Sunday-school. The expected time of his visit was passing by, and hope gave way to fear and she gave it up.
“I’ve give him out,” she said as she sat down. “Don’t think he’s comin’ back. I’ve ’splained every Scripture over four times—every one that I can think of, an’ I jist don’t know no more (but mind that you don’t tell anybody that I said so, Aunt Mina). I was athinken’ that I’d begin on Jonah next Sunday, if he didn’t come. I need a new start, somehow. If I just had a new start! I could run fine for ’nother year, if I just had a new start!”
“Now, Miss Emeline, doan’t you pester yo’self ’bout ’im comin’ anymo’. He’s acomin’. He’s acomin’ whin he said he would. He’ll be he’ar an’ do’an you bothar ’bout it any mo’. Lordy bless yo’, honey, dat man is a plum po’re gentleman, he is. Yo’ jist go on holden’ dat Sunday-skule an’ akeepin’ it agoin’. An’ my o’le black man, Laz, he’ll keep yo’ fires agoin’ jes’ like he promi’se.”
It was the voice of good Aunt Mina, the old black woman of the village.
“But he ain’t acomin’, taint no use,” persisted Emeline.
“Now, honey, yo’ jes lis’en he’ar. Yo’ go right on an’ tell ’em Jonah next Sunday. Dat’s good. I like dat m’self. I tell yo’ he’s acomin’. Here, Laz, yo’ poke de fire an’ put on some mo’ bark. Jis’ fo’ mo’ sheets an’ three dresses, an’ I’ll git yo’ supper, Laz—best o’le negger man ebber lived! Yess’um I’ll have yo’ iron’on’ done by fo’ o’clock fo’ yo’, Miss Emeline, I’ll have it done by dat time sure. Now he’s acomin’, an’ do’an yo’ pester yo’self ’bout it no mo’.”
True to his promise to Emeline Hobbs and Gena Filson, Paul Waffington went back to Blood Camp. His first promise had been to Gena Filson—to visit her in her mountain home. It was late in the afternoon when he walked up in front of the little cabin that had been the home of Lucky Joe. He drew up by the gate and called out loudly, but no response. He called again and again, but heard only the echo of his own words in answer. Again and again he called, but all was silent.
“Poor Mrs. Filson, not at home. Poor woman! Perhaps she had gone to make her home with some distant relative,” he said sorrowfully. Then hailing a passing mountain youth, he asked:
“Where are the people who live here?”
“Nobody lives there,” replied the boy.
“Where are the people who did live here?” he again asked.
“Don’t know. They’re gone. Some dead—some gone off.”
He turned in at the little gate, and as he approached the house he noted that everything about it went to prove that it was fast crumbling back to mother dust. There was no inviting gateway, no fence now—in fact, nothing to keep out even the unwary intruder. The wild flowers and vines that had voluntarily entwinedtheir tendrils about the doorway in the budding springtime had drooped their feeble, thirsty heads and died, and in this late November afternoon there remained of them little more than a memory.
The house looked as if it had been transformed into a conference hall of spooks and ghosts. But, taking courage, he managed to push open its decaying door and walk through its empty chambers with stealthy steps. Within all was still and deathlike, save the ringing echoes of his own footsteps upon the floor. He looked upon the walls, and they were barren. He turned to the little open window, through which, no doubt, the eyes of hope had longingly gazed upon the world; there, too, was the fireplace, with its broken hearthstone, where mountain love had often gathered in the evening. But, lo! their taper had burned low and gone out!
As Paul Waffington came out and sat upon the doorstep of this deserted mountain home, thoughts came to him that hitherto were foreign, and a feeling stole over him that he will not soon forget. He recalled the face in the casket. He heard again the cries of the sweet little Gena. He again sees the mother as she sobbed and moaned that day over the casket:
“O Joe, dear Joe, dear Joe, I forgive you all—I forgive you all.”
As the terribleness of it all comes up before him, and remembering that God does not look upon sin with the least degree of allowance, his heart bleeds within him, and he would give worlds were they his to give if it were not so.
He got up from his place and circled the house, but no new discoveries were made. He took another look through the door, shook his head and walked slowly away.
“A deserted home!” he said, as he took a last look at the house from the gate. A friendly bird called out one note from a tree above. “The very birds of the air seem to say it—a deserted home,” he said, as he turned to go into the village, with his hat pulled well down over his eyes.