CHAPTER XIVLove Seeks Its Own
Butfew, indeed, ever learned the truth of what it cost Gena Filson to withstand the persistent and irritating attentions of her would-be friend and admirer, Mr. L. Texas, during her second college year. He had approached her heart, traversing every conceivable avenue; yes, he had tried her very spirit as well and her heart.
He was rich, the girls had told her. He had diamonds. What feminine hand had not longed and wished for a diamond? But through all the consuming fire the heart of Gena Filson never failed her, and at the end of the second college year she went back to her native hills carrying her certificate from the department of music with dignity, to make good the day of her promise.
It was a certain bright afternoon in October that Slade Pemberton gave away the little bride in the cabin to Paul Waffington. Slade Pemberton had been her guardian during these latter years, and he had done his part by her, much better than had been expected of him. And as he stood up in the cabin and gave the sweet little bride away, he could not but believe that she was passing into the hands of the noblest man that ever lived.
Then came the going away. Aye, the tears that were shed on that October afternoon! Not tears alone from the eyes, but tears from human heartsas well, were those that Blood Camp shed, as the bride slipped away with the man she loved.
Into the great and mighty city with its whir and clank of machinery, and its passing throngs, Paul Waffington took his bride. Up marble steps and into reception rooms of friends he led her, presenting his beautiful young wife without the shadow of a fear of reproach from anyone.
A half dozen years of happy married life passed quickly by with Paul Waffington and his beautiful young wife. Throughout the changing years, the young wife stood firmly by the side of the man she loved and helped him to earn the money that was to build their home-nest, and now the funds were all in hand, and their happiness was full.
“Oh, it will be so sweet to dwell in our own dear home, Paul, and with you! You have toiled so long and so hard,” she finishing stroking his hair.
“Yes, Gena, dear, it shall be the sweetest nest in all the world,” came the reassuring reply.
“Now, I think we can afford to see the Exposition, Paul, dear. And this is the initial Exposition, too,” she excitedly exclaims.
Under the arch of the great Appalachian exposition he led her. It was now in all of its glory—running at its best—was this great exposition in his home city. Under the glare of millions of electric lights and in the din and thunderous roars of rival performing shows they were happy. There were assembled the stupendous and gorgeous pyrotechnical displays of the world, the exhibits from the most wonderful mountain country in America. There were the airships and the races by day. There was the moonshinestill! Gena had seen a moonshine still before, but she saw it all again and was happy.
Long before the wheels of the great exposition had run down and stopped, Paul Waffington and his bride were established in their own little home in a quiet corner of the city, there to dwell in mutual love.
But each succeeding summer the thoughtful Waffington carried his bride back to the village of the hills, and they spent their vacations in the cabin on the side of the mighty Snake. A piano and new furnishings found their way into the little cabin. A porch was added to the front and a dexterous hand had planted jessamine and wisteria vines at the corners. When each succeeding vacation period was over, Uncle Lazarus was appointed caretaker of the house during the long winters, and the following summer made ready for the coming of the master and mistress.
And now, kind reader, let us together turn over the leaf and take a look at the last picture in this humble narrative.
Six years have now rolled their cycles into the past since Gena Filson became a bride and went away to her city home. And with the passing of the years, many a change have been wrought in the village of the hills—Blood Camp. Fen Green long since offered his heart and farm to Emeline Hobbs, and that individual promptly accepted. Notwithstanding, the new duties of wife that devolved upon her, she still continues to hold on to the helm of the Sunday-school with a firmer grasp than before. Over near Slade Pemberton’s store stands a little church now. It stands with its steeple pointing into the blue above, a monument to Paul Waffington and the faithful Emeline Hobbs. On Sunday mornings its bell ringsout from the steeple, proclaiming that the days of moonshining are over in Blood Camp, and calling the people down from the hills to worship God.
The mark of Father Time is beginning to tell upon some of the fathers of Blood Camp now. And the children of but a few years ago are now young men and young women. The strokes of the blacksmith’s sledge upon his anvil in the shop are growing fainter now and farther between. And like the aged sledge its master has swung for years, the blacksmith, too, is growing old.
Summer is now over again. The first day of September is come, and Paul Waffington and his little family are making ready to return to their city home.
In the heat of the summer they had journeyed hither, from the grime and smoke of the torrid city, and in many a jaunt among the hills they have been refreshed in body and soul. Now they would return thither, with a more elastic step and a double portion of sweetness that will not fail to permeate the succeeding years.
The carriage moves slowly away from the store.
“Good-bye Emeline, Fen, Daddy Slade, Aunt Mina and all,” called Gena. “Good-bye, Boaz, and remember, that you are to come to live with us in the city at Christmas. Good-bye.”
The human hearts of all Blood Camp again welled up with sadness and they found it hard to say “good-bye” in cheerful tones.
When the chestnut grove on the hill was reached, the carriage stopped. Uncle Lazarus stood at the wicket gate. Paul Waffington led the way through the gate and stopped before two well-kept mounds that lay side by side. He removed his hat and looked upon the mounds with reverence. Then taking awreath from the hand of little C—— aged four, he placed it upon the mound to his right. A second wreath he took from the tender hands of little H——, aged two, and silently laid it upon the mound to his left.
“Whose graves are these, papa?” inquired little C——, aged four.
“They are the graves of your grandfather and your grandmother, my son,” he replied breaking the long silence.
He took the youngest child in his arms as he led the way over to a neglected corner of the grave-yard. Before a grave of large dimensions that showed much neglect they paused. The little family stood together and looked upon the mound a long time. Then the wife and mother went forward, plucked away some weeds and laid upon the mound the wreath she carried. Paul Waffington stooped and parted the weeds and glanced at the marble slab that bore the simple name:
JASON DILLENBURGER.
As the little company went out the black man put out his bony hand and said good-bye. He closed the wicket gate and the carriage moved away. The others at the store had looked upon the scene with aching hearts. For the seventh time Boaz Honeycutt sat in his rags on the store platform and saw the idol of his heart disappear over the hill. The muscles in his face twitched as he sat in his rags and strained his eyes at the last sight of the carriage. Then suddenly a lady’s hand was thrust out of the carriage waving a handkerchief. Again the boy’s face twitched with deep emotion, for he knew that the hand was the hand of Gena of the Appalachians.
(The End)