CHAPTER XIIIThe Passing of the Clouds
Onthe very top of the Blue Ridge, over against Mt. Mitchell itself, the highest peak of the Appalachian system, nestles the little village of Blowing Rock. The distinction of being a great summer resort and at the same time boasting the highest altitude of any town in the Appalachian system belongs to Blowing Rock. A town of some five hundred inhabitants, with six or seven summer hotels and long strings of summer cottages, its population is easily doubled twice over during the hot summer season, by the rich of the north and east, and the well-to-do from the south. The northerner and southerner meet here for a month’s rest, not forgetting (albeit they come for rest) to find time enough in which to exchange a few shares of cotton-mill stock of the South for a few shares of shoe-factory stock of the East.
The artist, too, is found in Blowing Rock. He comes and finds both rest and profit. He walks out upon the great rock—the Blowing Rock itself—which projects horizontally out into space at the very apex of the Blue Ridge, and looks out into the very countenance of the great Appalachian system of mountains. He sees just in front of him Mt. Mitchell itself, in all of its midsummer glory. To the right he beholds Grandfather Mountain, the old man reclining in silent sleep beneath sapphire skies—his aged head pillowed upon the everlasting piles of stone, and his couch draped in summer’s mantle of emerald green. Then thousandsof feet down he beholds the plains of the valleys below stretching away, beyond the vision of his eyes, on into the endless cotton-fields of the South.
He has beheld visions before. But this is sublime! From lofty crags and peaks he has many a time looked upon all nature, but here he is overcome by matchless beauty. He snatches up his brush, and under the inspiration the daubs of hard, cold paint begin to warm on the canvas, and resolve themselves into green valleys and peaks and shadows, a picture of the truth.
Into this same Blowing Rock—not the Blowing Rock on the page of a book—but the Blowing Rock of reality, the little picnic party from Blood Camp came bowling along, past the rows of summer cottages and drew up at the great rock itself.
“Oh, how beautiful!” cried Gena Filson. “Oh, how grand! And the great mountains, how dearly I love them!”
The wagon was stopped under the trees, and the mules were made comfortable. Then came reconnoitering, exploration and the gathering of flowers and ferns. Going to the wagon Paul Waffington returned with a package in his hand, that he had brought with him from the city. All were inquisitive to know its contents.
“Giant firecrackers,” he said. “Glorious Fourth! Let us throw a few over the rock and celebrate.” Suiting the action to the word, he tore open the package, touched a flame to the fuse of one of the giant crackers and threw it over the rock with all his might. It went down, down, down through space—then boom! came the terrific report, and all screamed with delight.
“Oh, do it again!” begged Gena Filson, clappingher hands. Suddenly she arose, ran to the wagon, drew from her basket a silk flag and came running back, waving it and exclaiming:
“The glorious Fourth and the Stars and Stripes! Hurrah, hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” came the thundering rejoinder from all.
During the exciting moments that followed, the giant crackers became scattered on the ground. Inadvertently the chaperon, Miss Emeline Hobbs, sat down among them. A match was struck and went to Fen Green’s pipe, then to the ground. In a wink it touched the protruding end of the fuse of a giant cracker on which sat Miss Emeline Hobbs. Before anyone could give warning—boom! went the report of the great explosion, and up into the air went Emeline Hobbs, then down again on to the ground with a thump. But, thanks to her lucky star, she was unharmed, save a faint through fright.
Cold water and persistent rubbing soon brought her again to normal conditions. With her head still pillowed on Paul Waffington’s coat, that he had shed in a twinkle and made into a pillow for the occasion she refused to get up until she had propounded the following question:
“Oh, where am I? Am I in the valley or still on the rock?”
“You’d better be a leetle more careful what you’re asettin’ down on nixt time, Emeline,” said Boaz. “Ef you’d abin jist a leetle closer to the edge of the rock whin thet thing busted, you’d a hit a farm ’bout a mile below here, I reckon.”
That was too much for her—and from Boaz Honeycutt. It fired her up. She jumped up and shook her fist at the boy. But when Waffington put out his hand in surprise she resumed her normal state andstood in her place with the rest and watched the giant crackers go down over the rock and explode.
Dinner time! By a rustic seat and under a bower of rhododendrons the dexterous hands of Gena Filson led the other ladies of the party in spreading the dinner. It was indeed a feast, a feast on the mountaintop. There were pickles and slaw; chicken salad and cold ham; stuffed eggs and many, many sweets. Fen Green and Boaz Honeycutt tried a little of all and pronounced it all good. When dinner was over, the baskets went back to their places under the seats in the wagon. The mules had just been given their corn and hay when the wheels of an approaching carriage was heard. The carriage rolled up and stopped a few yards distant from the party.
“Ah, how do you do, ah, Miss Filson. Ah, may I speak with you a moment, ah?” It was no other than “Mr. L. Texas” himself, and Paul Waffington ground his teeth.
“Why, how do you do, Mr. Texas,” said Gena Filson, going over to the carriage and offering her hand.
Waffington was dazed. His heart nearly failed him. What did it all mean? What did he mean by thrusting himself into the happiness of this little picnic party? Did she know that he was coming? Why, as a matter of course, she must have known. Why, then, had she not told him?
She came back. Walking slowly she finally stopped within a few feet of the party and said:
“I beg that you, Mr. Waffington, and the others will excuse me for a few minutes.”
“Why, certainly, certainly, Miss Filson,” he replied, almost against his will.
She returned to the carriage and was assisted in by Mr. Texas and disappeared.
Forty-five minutes had elapsed when the carriage again appeared, and Gena Filson alighted and bade Mr. Texas good-bye.
“Well, by giggers! Who is thet jug-headed dude, Genie?” demanded Boaz, as she came up.
“Boaz!” intervened Waffington. “You should always speak politely of gentlemen—of strangers.”
Then the party separated for a time. Boaz and Fen Green went off in the direction of one of the big hotels, while the three Allisons and Emeline Hobbs chose another direction. Paul Waffington was left in the company of Gena Filson. He sat away out on the projecting rock with his feet hanging over the edge, looking out on the matchless scene before him.
“Oh, is it not grand!” ventured Gena Filson.
“Indeed it is a grand sight to behold,” calmly replied Waffington.
He broke off a bit of stick and threw it over the rock. At first it poised in the strong breeze that came up from the valley below, but finally tilted on end and began slipping away thousands of feet downward, towards the valley. He mechanically threw out another stick in the air and raised his head to speak.
“Doesn’t the wind bear it up beautifully?” she intercepted him.
“Yes, rather,” came the quiet reply. “But I must confess that it reminds me of insincere friendship. There are those in this big world who are treacherous, like the wind with the stick. They bear us up beautifully at first, then upon their strength we begin to build; but in the end, they betray the trust and dash us to pieces on the rocks below.”
“But are my friends like that, Mr. Waffington?” she painfully asked.
“Well, I’m not a judge. I don’t know who are your best friends.”
“Well, may I ask, is your friendship like the stick and the wind, Mr. Waffington?”
“No, Gena,” he said quietly. Then after a long silence he threw the remaining stick that he held in his hand far back on the grass and finished, “Once a friend, always a friend with me—at least nothing less.” Then his heart cried out and begged him to tell her all, but his voice failed to do his bidding.
“Well, I wisht I may die, ef I didn’t think I’d slip upon on you all an’ ketch you atalkin’ courtin’ talk, but I didn’t, I reckon,” piped Boaz Honeycutt, as he bounded out from behind a clump of rhododendrons.
They both blushed, and she smiled as her eyes met Waffington’s and said:
“Why, Boaz!”
“All aboard!” bawled out Emeline Hobbs; “all aboard for Boone an’ Blood Camp—all aboard!”
The wagon was made ready for the homeward trip. Once more Waffington led the little company out upon the Blowing Rock, and Gena Filson waved the silk flag as Waffington commanded:
“Three cheers for the glorious Fourth.”
The cheers went ringing out into space with a roar that all but awoke the aged grandfather from his long sleep on his green-mantled couch in the distance.
The sun was still an hour high when the party in high spirits returned to Blood Camp. At the store they rose up in the wagon, gave three last cheers for the glorious Fourth, and disbanded.
“Fust Foth of July I ever seed, an’ I wisht I maydie, ef we aint agoin’ to have one next year again,” declared Boaz Honeycutt as he went off in the direction of his home, to tell his sisters and brothers of the pleasures of the day.
Paul Waffington led Gena Filson up the mountainside to her cabin home and was saying good-bye. He was going back to his city home on the morrow. He had experienced, after all he thought, the best day of his life. But at the thoughts of going away his heart grew heavy.
“But won’t you sit down, Mr. Waffington? It is early yet,” Gena Filson gently said. “We can sit here in the fresh evening air, here on these boards,” she finished.
“Thank you, I will sit down,” and seated himself by her side.
He looked upon the lovely face of Gena Filson in the bright evening sun, and reasoned with his heart again. Tut! tut! she belonged to another. But how did he know so much? He had failed to learn the truth while at Blowing Rock. Why had he not the speech to say the things that were in his heart now? Why, Paul Waffington could recall the time when, in college debate, he had stood upon the floor and fearlessly battled against the best. Scores of times he had stood before public audiences and juggled with words and themes without embarrassment. Yes, he had stood in the very face of death, so far as he knew—not a rod distant from where he now sat—and shot out his fist into the face of old Jase Dillenburger, expecting nothing but death in the end—and had done it all without a tremor. But how was it now, that a woman, a daughter of the simple hills could without a single command hold him dumb?
He turned his head and looked away off down the mountainside as he turned it all over in his mind again. Suppose that Gena Filson was the daughter of Lucky Joe. She was now his equal. She had already proven that she had a wonderful brain capacity; that she could succeed, he had said so to her himself at the college. Suppose that her father had been a bandit—a moonshiner. Many another have yielded to the same temptation. But still there remained with her the memories and the sweet benediction of a kind and gentle mother. A mother who, when her heart was young, came into the hills with good blood in her veins, of sterling character, polished and refined.
But after all, he thought that he could have been, perhaps, long since mated to his mother’s choice, Imogene. She was of his station in life, he had been told. Culture, education, refinement, jewels and money were hers. But beyond the reach of the jewels and moneys Paul Waffington’s heart reached out and yearned for the true love of his heart, and he finds it in Gena Filson by his side.
He looked upon the face of the woman at his side again, and it was fair. She was born and bred in that congenial southern clime, among the beautiful green hills, where crystal streams purl and ripple on forever; where sweet song-birds dwell; where acres of wild flowers come forth in summer time, only for bees to plunder and birds to swing and sway in tuneful song. “I must know all,” he cried to himself, and his voice yielded to his heart’s desire.
“It’s been seven years since I first saw you there in the snow, Gena. You were thirteen then. And—then—old Jase managed to get you, and shifted thehard burdens from his own shoulders to yours. And then I came and saw you burning up there on the bunk with fever. Then I took you away, and, well, I thought I was doing right!” He paused and looked away to the west, and saw the sun sinking down into fathomless seas of purple and gray. Then he busied himself pushing the stem of a daisy into the worm-holes in the board on which they sat, as he went on, “And then Jase went to prison.”
“Yes, and it saved us both, Paul.” Her hands flew to her lips and held them, as if they had allowed something that was terrible to pass them. “Oh, forgive me, forgive me,” she cried. “I didn’t——”
“That’s it, that’s it, Gena. For seven years I have yearned for you to simply say Paul. I go away tomorrow, Gena, and I just as well have it out and be done with it. The first time that I ever saw you, it was there in the snow and the storm; I loved you, and I love you still. Tonight I want to know all. Tell me, Gena, will you be my wife?”
He lifted his eyes to hers as he finished. In the short interval of time his heart seemed to be dropping, dropping, dropping down through fathomless depths of space. The sun was gone now. But the big blue eyes at his side looked out over the mountains and watched the purple clouds with their rims of gold. Then they turned their vision upon him, and welled up with tears as she whispered:
“Yes.”
Under the starry dome of night he gently drew her within his arms, and there, together, they finished the bridge of love that spanned the present and reached into the future, that thitherland.