Theconsternation at the Coyle cabin was great indeed when midway of the next afternoon Talitha appeared, after making the old schoolmaster as comfortable as possible. Although Sam Coyle had given but a grudging assent to his daughter’s return to Bentville, he now loudly bewailed the necessity which prevented her from “gittin’ more larnin’.”
His wrath cooled, however, when he learned that Si Quinn, who was highly esteemed by the dwellers around Red Mountain, had abdicated his place in the Goose Creek school in Talitha’s favour. It was an unprecedented honour, as “gal” teachers were not looked upon favourably among the mountaineers. It being the prevailing opinion that only a man could fill the position with the requisite dignity and severity.
Remembering the tradition, the beginning was an ordeal from which the girl inwardly shrank. She had never felt so helplessly ignorant in all her life, although she had so often smiled with her brother over Si Quinn’s incompetency.
It was soon rumoured that the old man had sent for Talitha Coyle to come home and finish the remaining school months. In the mountains, school begins the first of July and ends the last of December; when the heavy rains and snows make travel well-nigh impossible. For a week the little flock of pupils had been teacher-less, and Talitha was admonished to make all haste to pass the required examination and begin her duties. The county seat was twenty-five miles away, and she made preparations to start for it the very next morning, her father accompanying her. Fortunately, that night Dan Gooch brought word to the Coyle cabin that Mr. Breel, head of the board of examiners, was at the Settlement and would willingly give Talitha an examination if she could be on hand the next morning.
With fear and trembling she set forth at dawn the next day to return at night in triumph. It had not proved so terrible an ordeal as she had imagined. Mr. Breel had been very kind and wished her success in her undertaking.
Before Monday morning came, which should see Talitha installed as mistress of the little school, complications arose in the shape of Jake Simcox, a tall, fiery-headed, raw-boned youth. Noting the old schoolmaster’s growing infirmities the past year, he had resolved to secure the place. That it was about to be wrested from him by a “gal” proved too muchfor human endurance. Laboriously he travelled from one mountain home to another pleading his cause. But unfortunately for him, his first call on Dan Gooch made an implacable enemy, for he thoughtlessly mentioned the Bentville school in terms of derision, further adding that “Si Quinn, the smartest man in Goose Creek, didn’t need ter chase off ter git larnin’.”
But Jake departed, feeling that he had failed miserably in making the desired impression. He would have felt still more convinced that the fates were against him could he have known that Dan Gooch immediately mounted his horse and set out with all possible haste to thwart the new candidate’s efforts.
Dan secretly surmised the sacrifice Talitha had made that Gincy should have her chance, and his gratitude gave him a ready tongue in the former’s behalf. It was late that night when he and his jaded steed returned victorious, for every member of the board and a number of patrons of the school had been surprised at the Settlement store, and there Jake Simcox’s cause was lost, it being the opinion of the trustees that the old schoolmaster had a right to name a substitute for the remainder of the term.
Jake Simcox did not take his defeat kindly, and to be beaten by a “gal” was the bitterest drop in his cup. He had a brief pleasure in knowing that when Talitha began school anumber of children whose parents were his adherents would be absent.
The young teacher was gathering her courage to meet the conditions to which she had been accustomed all her life; suddenly they appalled her. How could she make that bare and desolate place cheerful and inviting to her pupils?
Early that Monday morning, long before the time for her scholars to arrive, she started for the schoolhouse. Halfway up the slope she paused to consider it—a small log cabin set in the midst of blackberry vines and tall, brown weeds which reached to the eaves. A narrow, worn path led through the tangle to the low, front door. Talitha hurried on breathlessly and opened it. The shutter over the one glassless window at the rear was also thrown back to let a draught of fresh air through the damp, musty place. In one corner was a rusty sheet-iron stove, near it a number of plank benches without backs; while on the opposite side a rude desk and a single chair completed the furnishings. There were no blackboards, no maps. The walls were as bare and uninteresting as when Si Quinn sat in the seat of authority and ruled his little flock—she the most timid and shrinking of them all—with a rod of iron.
She sat for a long time thinking until a certain project entered her mind. It was something to be carefully considered. She sprangup and filled a tin can with water for the flowers and reddening vines she had gathered on the way, and placed it on her desk. Next, a large picture calendar was pinned to the wall and several pictures from a newspaper supplement—a part of her possessions acquired at Bentville.
A stream of sunlight through the open window lighted the gay colours on walls and desk. The children hovered about the door in amazement until they were bidden to enter. They were all small but Billy Gooch, the eldest, who was short and stocky for his fourteen years and quite prepared to be his young teacher’s most zealous champion.
The feeling of timidity with which Talitha began her duties vanished before the morning was over; and in its place was a great anxiety to help her pupils and make more attractive the cheerless place which only a wide stretch of the imagination could call a schoolhouse. The latter seemed an impossibility, but when she reached the creek path that night on her way home, she found Dan Gooch waiting for her, eager for the earliest news of the day’s proceedings. To this sympathetic listener she told her needs and plans. He heard her to the end with a silent gravity which gave little sign of encouragement, but at dawn the next morning, Dan was in the saddle wending his way to the Settlement store. The flitch of bacon in his saddlebag had been secretly purloinedfrom the family’s scanty store to be bartered for a few lengths of sawed timber and a small quantity of black paint. Dan correctly surmising that the storekeeper, being a patron of the school, would add his own contribution in the way of generous measure beside the nails and loan of a hammer.
A few days later when Talitha entered the schoolroom, two large blackboards nailed securely to the rough walls met her astonished eyes. Si Quinn had never been able to evoke the interest which had so suddenly been aroused in the Goose Creek school.
The secret which the young teacher had so patiently guarded for weeks was at last revealed in the shape of maps and several much needed books. A bundle of papers and magazines from the Bentville school was a welcome addition to Talitha’s slender stock of material. A lump rose in Dan Gooch’s throat as he helped her unpack the box from the city publishing house and hang the maps where the best light from the window would fall upon them. No words were needed to tell him that a large part of the money, hoarded so carefully for Talitha’s expenses at Bentville, had been spent in their purchase, and three of his children would be benefited by them. Mentally he resolved that it should all be returned to her some day in good measure.
Si Quinn was not ignorant of his former pupil’s successes. As often as his healthpermitted he hobbled up the winding path and sat contentedly, like a happy child, listening to the young teacher explaining things of which he had never heard. At times he would shake his head in bewilderment, but he never disputed her word, even when his most cherished theory—that the earth was square—was disproved. His dulled brain failed to grasp the explanation, but the bigoted faith in his own meagre stock of knowledge died pitifully away.
Jake Simcox also was not unmindful of his rival’s success as a teacher. With increasing anger he heard her praises sounded. Already his friends had yielded to their children’s entreaties and sent them to school. Jake kept aloof from the place until one day, wandering idly across the foothills, he came suddenly in full view of the schoolhouse perched on the side of Red Mountain. Its worn, weather-beaten logs looked ancient enough against the autumn-tinted foliage. As he looked, the scowl on his face deepened. He hesitated a moment, then took the trail toward it. The place would be deserted for it was long past school time; there was not a house in sight, still he approached it cautiously with sly, furtive glances around.
Before he reached the building he could see that the weeds and blackberry bushes had been exterminated, and in their places were broad-leaved ferns planted close to the rough sides,and a healthy ivy that in another year would give both grace and beauty to the walls. Jake eyed these changes with a sneer. He tried the door; it was locked, an unheard-of thing which he also resented. After much effort he unfastened the shutter, threw it back, and sprang into the room.
The light of the setting sun streamed in broad shafts over the crest of the mountain straight into the schoolhouse and illumined it to the farthest corner. The autumn flowers and vines on the desk glowed crimson. The blackboards, maps, and pictures had transformed the place; it was bare no longer. A pail of water on a box, with a basin, towel, and soap, was another innovation.
Secretly, Jake Simcox felt himself dwindle and grow small before such superior knowledge, yet it only served to rouse him to greater indignation that a “gal” should be better qualified to teach than he. Striding to the desk he turned the leaves of the text-books Talitha cherished so carefully, with a rough hand, shaking his head over the bewildering pages. Naturally impetuous, his fiery temper once thoroughly aroused swept him away in unreasoning wrath. At last he dropped upon a bench, moodily taking note of every object around him until they seemed seared into his memory.
The sun sank behind the mountain’s crestand the long shadows deepened down the slopes. They crept silently in at the open window and filled the room with gloom, and still he huddled there frowning until only a faint, grey light struggled at the square opening. Then Jake moved slightly. Two forces were wrestling within him—one very feebly, now worn out with the unequal conflict. He sprang up, and, listening at every step, closed the shutter cautiously and struck a match. There was a basket of pine cones and crisp leaves behind the stove. He lifted the lid and thrust them in. Another match and the mass was ablaze. Recklessly the wood from a generous box full was thrown upon it, and then in the midst of this furnace of flame hastily, as though his conscience would smite him in the act, he caught the books from the desk and threw them upon the pile. The pictures from the walls followed, the maps—what he could tear off in great clinging shreds—were also added to the holocaust.
The stove was red hot by this time and roaring like a young volcano. The miscreant burned his fingers putting on the cover, and then it glowered at him like a red monster as he watched it. Already his rage was somewhat cooled; the provocation which had led to such a deed began to look miserably small. He looked around at the bared walls and wished he could put everything back as he found it.
But instead of dying down the fire seemed to wax hotter; there was a snapping and crackling in the short length of pipe. A strange smell suddenly pervaded the place which the frightened Jake knew was the mud and stick chimney. It was afire, and while he stared in consternation, he heard it crumble and fall.
For a moment the young fellow stood rooted to the spot. In his thirst for revenge he had committed a most serious offence, for which the mountaineers—a law unto themselves—would not hesitate to mete out a swift punishment. The cabin was doomed. The flames had leaped to the roof; the stovepipe reeled and hung tipsily, ready to drop in a moment.
Terror stricken, Jake Simcox flung back the shutter and leaped out into the darkness. Like some wild thing of the mountains he fled down the slope, on and on, only looking back once to see forked tongues of light against the sky reaching higher and higher, until a swift, illumining flash told that the great pine behind the little schoolhouse had caught fire, and like a signal torch was blazing his shameful deed to all the mountains. Where could he go to escape the consequences?
He turned toward a thicket of young trees to aid his escape, but as he reached it a lumbering body emerged and proceeded leisurely toward the creek, the measured jingle of a bell marking every step.
Supperwas late at the Gooch cabin. Brindled Bess, who daily supplied a large portion of the evening meal, had strayed farther away than usual. For more than an hour Billy and his sister had been searching the mountain-side.
From his doorstep Dan looked gloomily forth into the fast gathering night. If the animal, suddenly startled at the brink of a ledge, had leaped over, it would be a sore calamity to the family. Dan listened to the clatter of dishes inside the cabin until hunger and suspense overcame him. He started up and with rapid strides disappeared across the mountain in a haste entirely foreign to his habits.
Both eye and ear were keenly alert. There was a strange, coppery glow on the eastern horizon. It reached far above the treetops, lurid and threatening against the soft blue of the evening sky.
“Some foolish feller’s let his bresh fire git away from him, I reckon,” commented Dan. But he went on without hearing a sound save those of the night.
Suddenly, there was a crackling of bushes above the creek path, the thud of hurried, stumbling steps. They came nearer until he could hear panting breaths, and Sudie was flying past him white-faced, wild-eyed, her hair streaming out like a frightened dryad of the mountains.
Dan caught roughly at her arm, and but for his grip she would have fallen in terror. “What’s the matter? Whar’s thet cow critter?” he demanded.
Sudie struggled with her sobs. “Oh, pappy, the schoolhouse is afire! Hit’s all-burnin’-up!” she gasped.
“What!” ejaculated her father in amazement.
“Hit shore is,” asseverated Billy, coming up red-faced and panting. “We war a-headin’ the cow critter this way when we seen the fire a-bustin’ out’n the roof. Hit’s—” But Dan had not waited to hear more. He was sprinting in the direction of the schoolhouse like a boy. His children watched him for a moment in open-mouthed astonishment at such unheard-of alacrity on their father’s part, then followed.
A good quarter of a mile brought him in plain sight of the burning building, where he could plainly see the futility of further effort. The little schoolhouse was a mass of flame, but the old, well-seasoned logs would burn for hours yet. Fortunately the heavy shower of the morning prevented the flames fromspreading, the weeds and bushes had been so thoroughly cleared away. Only the sentinel pine at the back of the cabin was doomed.
Sudie clung to her father, sobbing wildly. “What’ll Tally say? We can’t never go to school no more,” she wailed.
“Hesh, honey, hit don’t do no good ter take on thet a-way,” urged Dan. “Somebody must hev been mighty keerless with matches or the like ter hev fired hit. I reckoned Tally’d hed more sense.”
“Hit warn’t her,” Billy burst out, anxious to vindicate his teacher. “Hit war thet Jake Simcox, I’ll be boun’. Jest as we hove in sight of the place I seen him a-scootin’ fer the pines like a painter war after him.”
“The low-down, sneakin’ varmint! Thet’s jest who did hit, and he ’lowed not ter git ketched in the night time. He’ll git larned better. The dark’ll kiver a heap o’ things, but no sech deed as this.” All the fierceness that lies smouldering in the nature of the average mountain man leaped into as fierce a flame as that consuming the little schoolhouse. His younger children’s opportunities had been snatched from them by this miscreant. He should not escape—a swift, deserved punishment should be meted out to this offender as only mountain men could measure it.
“Run home, Sudie, and tell your mammy she’ll hev ter tend ter the cow critter ter-night,me and Billy won’t be back fer a spell. Thar’s a heap ter be done before mornin’.”
His father’s ominous tone startled Billy. It brought to memory stories he had heard of the Twilliger and Amyx feuds—his mother was a Twilliger. He trembled.
“Son,” said Dan as Sudie disappeared, “do you ’low you can make the Coyle place ter-night?”
“I reckon so,” answered Billy, bravely trying to forget that it was long past his supper time. Mountain justice never waited on hunger.
“Clip up thar and back as soon as you kin, and tell Sam Coyle fer me, thet we shall expect ter see him at the Forks ter-morrow mornin’ by light, ter hunt varmints. They may hev left the kentry, but we’ll smoke ’em out if they’re ter be found. Kin you remember?”
“Yes, Pappy”
“Well, I’m goin’ ter the Twilligers. I kin git the boys ter push on to the Settlemint, and then the news’ll carry fast enough, I reckon,” and father and son parted.
At daybreak the Forks was the scene of an assembling of the clans. Old scores were forgotten. They were meeting in a common cause which had suddenly endeared itself to all. Not one of the older men but had children among Tally’s flock, and they had begun to realize what the school had meant to them.
Nearly all of the company were horseback, but every member carried a “shooting iron,” a fact which had its own significance.
“If we could hev took after thet varmint last night, I reckon we could hev treed him,” said Eli Twilliger. “But he’d be a plumb fool if he warn’t out of the kentry by this time. Hit’s a mighty good thing he hasn’t any kin in these parts.”
“Them long legs of his’n could take him cornsiderable fur, but he hasn’t any hoss critter ter save his strength. I reckon he ain’t out of reach yit. He never war no great hand ter exert hisself, Jake warn’t,” drawled the blacksmith.
“Well, he’s gittin’ further off while we’re argefyin’,” objected Dan Gooch testily. “I ’low hit’s time we war gittin’ down ter bizness. Some of you fellers take the trails ’tween you, and Sam and I’ll go ’long the creek. We’ll meet whar the old schoolhouse war, and if you’ve run down any game you kin bring hit along.”
At nine o’clock the party straggled in from different directions empty-handed. Eli Twilliger was the last one. His had been a hard, rough climb. Thin and wiry, sure of foot as a wild cat, and as ready to pounce upon the object of his search, not a man knew so well the hiding places those mighty hills afforded. His shirt was torn, his hands and face bore scratches received in a careful search throughthe narrow subterranean passages which honeycombed the cliffs. Tired and hungry, he was in an ugly mood as with long strides he made toward the group gathered at the edge of the pine thicket.
Dan Gooch turned toward him with a warning finger which he resented. “What’s do-in’?” he growled. “Hev you caged the varmint and air makin’ a show of him?” He peered curiously over the intervening shoulders and was suddenly silenced.
In sight of the charred, smouldering ruins from which still issued little puffs of smoke, Talitha, nothing daunted by her ill fortune, had gathered her little flock. Smiles had begun to cover their tear-stained faces. It was a delightful novelty to sit on that mossy, sun-flecked bank and prepare the day’s lessons. Billy Gooch shared his large slate with the youngest of the Twilligers, and two small girls bent industriously over the same book.
The eyes of the rough mountaineers moistened, their hands tightened upon their rifles ominously. There was a stir among the foremost, and Si Quinn faced them. His face was like a thunder cloud. One crutch waved so threateningly that those nearest shrank back. “What air you goin’ ter do ’bout hit? Thet’s what I want ter ask. You might hev knowed you couldn’t ketch that feller; he wan’t brung up in the mountings fer nothin’. Hit was as big a piece of devilment as I everheerd of, but mebbe hit won’t be the worst thing could hev happened, except fer the leetle gal losin’ the money she put inter hit. Let’s go ter work and put up somethin’ thet won’t shame us. You-all know thet old shack warn’t no way fitten fer a schoolhouse. I can’t help you ter cut a stick of timber much as I’d give fer the strength ter do hit, but I’ll give ’nough ter make up fer all Tally lost—”
“Sho now, Si, we ain’t goin’ ter let you do hit,” interrupted the blacksmith. “We’ll jest count your advice wuth thet much, and I reckon hit air. If we ain’t robustious ’nough ter put up another schoolhouse and git what Tally needs for our young-uns, I ’low we’re a sorry lot—”
“How you do go on, Enoch,” jibed Eli Twilliger, pushing his way to the front. “Air you intendin’ ter take the stump fer the next ’lection? Let’s git down ter bizness. Thar ain’t nothin’ I can see ter hinder us from startin’ ter-morrow mornin’, and if the weather is fair Tally shall hev her schoolhouse in two weeks. Ain’t thet so, boys?”
For answer, a shout went up that started the echoes from their hiding-places in the hills. Talitha and her flock looked up at them wonderingly. She was too far away to comprehend what good fortune was to be hers, but she could rejoice that something had restored the men to good humour. Greater than sorrow at the frustrating of her plans and theloss in which her small savings had been invested, was her horror at the revival of the old feud spirit. She had learned at the Bentville school the terribleness of it. In agony she had watched her father the previous night as he cleaned and loaded his rifle. Jake Simcox had done a despicable, cowardly thing, but she could not wish him dealt with according to the code of mountain justice.
At noon she sent the children home and walked slowly beside the schoolmaster. There were many questions she wished to ask him, but she kept silent, knowing that he would speak of his own accord or not at all.
“Hit war jest as I ’lowed,” he said at last. “Jake took time by the forelock and mighty well he did.”
“Oh, I’m so glad they didn’t find him!” exclaimed Talitha in a tone that struck the schoolmaster oddly.
“What’s thet, leetle gal! Mighty queer talk fer the gran’darter of a Bills.” The faded eyes twinkled.
“I can’t help it, it isn’t right; and it’s a terrible thing for folks to remember all their lives!”
“Pore leetle gal,” the old man nodded understandingly. “You warn’t bigger’n Sudie, I reckon, time o’ the Amyx shootin’. ’Twar a shame ter saddle you with sech mem’ries. I never did hev much use fer sech doin’s, and I said so, but hit warn’t a grain o’ use. Youmight jest as well talk ter a passel of hounds arter a Bushy tail. But chirk up, you won’t see Jake in these parts agin. What we’re most consarned ’bout now is whar you’re goin’ ter keep school when the ugly weather comes on.”
They had come to the parting of the ways, and here Talitha left the old man hobbling painfully toward his cabin.
Si Quinn’s progress homeward was slow. He stopped now and then to regain his breath and chuckle feebly to himself. “I reckon she thinks I’ve a heart of stun ter take hit so ca’m, but I ’low Jake Simcox didn’t do sech a bad thing. Hit war worse fer hisself than fer Goose Creek. Law, what’ll the gal say when she hears of hit! I reckon I’d better be sendin’ fer them school fixin’s ter-morrow.” He had reached the cabin door, and now he shuffled inside, closing it carefully. Shadowed by pines, the place was always gloomy enough even at mid-day with the shutters thrown wide. Now he uncovered the coals on the hearth, laid on a few small sticks, and swung the battered old tea kettle over the blaze. Then he drew up his chair cosily before it, and thrusting his hand into his trousers’ pocket brought forth a small leather bag. From it he counted a number of bills, smoothing each one tenderly across his knee.
“She shall hev ’em,” he said aloud. “I’ll do without somehow, and hit won’t be ferlong. The old man’s nearin’ the end of the trail—” He glanced around uneasily, with a vague consciousness of something—he knew not what. In the far corner of the cabin a pair of eyes, bloodshot and wild, glared at him from under a thatch of red hair.
The old man grasped the money. It disappeared in his shirt as he staggered to his feet and faced the intruder.
“You needn’t be afeard, I ain’t goin’ ter tech hit.” The figure issued from the corner lamely. In the light it was still more forbidding. A bruise on the forehead made a disfiguring, parti-coloured lump on his otherwise pale, drawn face. “I ain’t teched a thing, not even a crumb, tho’ I’m ’most famished,” he growled.
“Hush, you crazy loon!” Si Quinn raised a warning finger.
“Aw, yes, I know,” sneered the young fellow recklessly. “The dogs air arter the wolf and they kin hev him.” He threw up his arms wildly.
“Set down in thet cheer and be still,” commanded the old man.
Jake dropped obediently into a seat.
“I ’lowed you war out’n the kentry. Why didn’t you make tracks when you had a chanct?”
“I did aim ter,” answered Jake Simcox, “but I fell, crawlin’ over thet ledge by the Gulch, and I didn’t know nothin’ till thismornin’. I could hear the men thrashin’ the bushes all ’round me, but I was jest out of sight of ’em. I wish fer the land they’d tuk me then and thar and done with hit.”
“The way of a transgressor is shorely hard,” exclaimed the old man pityingly.
“I didn’t go fer ter fire the place, Si, I shore didn’t. I jest thought ter burn the books and sech. Oh, I don’t know what made me do hit, ’less I was plumb crazy!” Jake bowed his head in his hands and groaned in agony.
The schoolmaster set the coffee pot upon the coals, where it simmered gently. “Sho now, Jake,” he said kindly, “you’re all beat out. Draw up and hev a bite; hit ain’t much but hit’ll put some heart in you. I don’t cornsider thet jest burnin’ thet old shack war sech a turrible sin; hit war the sperit you done hit in. You did ’low to burn all thet pore gal spent most of her savin’s on, and thet was the meanest part of the hull bizness. I allers said thet temper of yours would bring you ter grief. Hit’s like a skeery hoss critter; when hit gits loose you never can cal’late on all the didos hit’s goin’ ter cut up. Do you think thet if you hed another chanct you hev got grit ’nough ter turn ’round in your tracks?”
Jake reached a hand over the table and grasped the hard, shrivelled one. “Oh, I shore would if I could only hev hit,” heanswered humbly. “I shore would, but hit’s too late.”
“Hit ain’t,” contradicted the old man cheerfully. “So long as you see the error of your ways, I’ll see thet you git out of this bizness hopin’ hit’s a lesson you won’t forgit.”
Until Jake Simcox was able both mentally and physically to make the journey, he remained in the schoolmaster’s cabin, hiding away in the little loft at the least sign of danger.
Late the third night after a hearty supper, Si Quinn filled his knapsack with provisions and slung it across the young shoulders. “Hike over the Ohiar line as quick as you kin,” he admonished, “and then find a job near a school whar you kin git some larnin’. I’m goin’ ter give you this,” putting a bill in the young fellow’s hand. “Hit’ll help you out till you git work, if you’re savin’. I’d make hit more, but most of the rest is goin’ fer books and maps fer Tally’s new schoolhouse they’re buildin’ fer her.”
Jake looked up shamefacedly; the money seemed to burn his hand, but to what straits might he be brought if he refused it. “I’ll pay hit all back—every cent,” he faltered, “and I shan’t ever fergit what you’ve done fer me.” Then he was swallowed up by the darkness.
Thetiny, blue calcimined room with one window looking southward seemed almost palatial in comparison with Gincy’s humble home quarters. Instead of the overhanging mountains were the foothills and the college gardens.
She tried to picture the scene back home without her at this early hour. Her mother milking Brindled Bet, Billy feeding the pigs, and her father—she couldn’t be thankful enough he wasn’t like Sam Coyle—getting ready to gather the “crap” in the south cove.
There was a slight stirring in the lower berth of the double-decker. “Talitha,” she called out softly. “Air you awake?” But the voice which answered was not Talitha’s.
“It’s Urilla,” it said hesitatingly.
Gincy leaned over and her eyes sought the occupant of the cot below. Propped up on the pillow was the pale face of the girl who had arrived yesterday. The solemn brown eyes looked straight up into hers inquiringly as though not at all sure of a welcome. “I reckon you’re some surprised,” she said.“You were asleep when I came in last night and I aimed to keep pretty still.”
“Yes,” answered Gincy rather dazed. “But whar’s Talitha?”
Urilla shook her head. “Mrs. Donnelly sent me here—I had this room last term. I reckon Talitha’s on this floor, though. The first and second year girls are mostly together.”
Gincy swung down and began dressing without another word. She would interview Talitha at breakfast; perhaps they could arrange to room together after all. Urilla looked too sober for a roommate. “Whar you from?” Gincy asked finally, rolling up her hair.
“Jackson County,” Urilla answered promptly. “I rode twenty miles yesterday and the road was might rocky. Where’d you come from?”
“Over in Clay,” Gincy smiled into the tired face as she answered. “I should think you’d be plumb tickled to be back. Seems like you couldn’t stay away from here nohow, but I heerd you say your mammy war sick,” she added, anxious not to appear lacking in friendly interest.
“Not bed sick, or I couldn’t have come. She’s up, but I keep studying about her and wondering if Sallie—that’s my next sister—will keep her from working. Mother’s had a spell of fever and don’t seem to get strong.”
Apparently, Urilla was fumbling in the little trunk on the floor for some article of wearing apparel, but Gincy saw the teardrops, and instantly her tender heart warmed. She stooped over and took the pale face between her two hard little palms. “You mustn’t fret, honey, mammy had the fever a couple of years back, and she’s robustious as kin be now.”
Urilla looked the thanks her lips were unable to speak. In a minute she had regained her composure, and by the time the breakfast bell sounded, her few belongings were carefully hung in her half of the little closet, the bedclothes airing, and the tiny dresser in perfect order.
Together they went down the long flights of stairs, but not to the same dining-room. Gincy had been assigned to a table in the Annex where Martin and Talitha ate, but the latter had not arrived. Silently she waited for the blessing, and then catching Martin’s eye, “Whar’s Talitha?” she inquired.
“I don’t know—exactly,” he answered with hesitation and truthfully, he thought. She might be anywhere between Clover Bottom and Lost Creek by this time.
Gincy ate her oatmeal without suspicion. Why should Martin know after all, when he roomed halfway across the campus? Another thought came to her. Perhaps Talitha had volunteered to go to one of the cottages thatshe might stay in the hall. It was just like her to be so unselfish.
This was the morning for registering, and Gincy felt very new indeed. In the absence of Talitha, Urilla and Kizzie Tipton offered to act as escorts. It seemed hours before her end of the line reached the desk and she was assigned to an examination in the Industrial Building a block away. Her sunny face was quite woe-begone as they started.
“Don’t you fret,” admonished Urilla. “I know just how you feel, but you needn’t be afraid.”
“I’m plumb ’shamed of my ignorance. I won’t be nowhar ’side of you-all,” Gincy answered disconsolately.
“You’ll be just where I was last year,” consoled Kizzie.
“Do you reckon so? Well, I’m bound ter work every minnit now I’ve got started.” Gincy’s mouth showed an even line of determination. She looked around curiously as they entered the big, brick building. On either side of the wide stairway were the rooms for cooking and sewing. Students were passing in and out.
“I’ve had cooking,” said Urilla, “and I’ve taught Sallie to make good bread.”
“I’d rather take sewing; it’s easier.” Kizzie’s black eyes twinkled.
“If I had my ruthers it would be cookin’,”declared Gincy. “I could help mammy a heap; hit’s better to move ’round some, too.”
A crowd was constantly passing up and down the stairs leading to the second floor. Some of the boys and girls had yellow slips in their hands; a few looked worried. In the large, upstairs classrooms there was a sprinkling of parents. Many had come a score of miles with ox teams and stood around anxiously awaiting the result of the examination.
All new pupils were assigned to Room 2, and here Gincy discovered Abner, his yellow head bent over a sheet of paper covered with figures. Gincy regarded him with confidence. Abner was strong in arithmetic—the one study the mountain teachers had impressed upon their pupils. For herself she was not so sure. Her knowledge of geography was hazy. In grammar the parts of speech had been carefully reviewed, but she was in doubt about parsing, and diagramming looked to her like a jumble of words tumbling over a precarious footing of loose boards. She dropped into a vacant seat near the door while Urilla looked for a teacher who was not too busy to interview her. Presently, she returned, and Gincy found herself shaking hands with an attractive young woman whose near-sighted brown eyes held the friendliest look in the world.
“I’m so glad to meet you, Miss Gooch; you’re from Clay County? You’ll find a goodmany boys and girls from there. Urilla told me all about you at breakfast time and we’re going to help you get acquainted. You’ll be one of my specials on the third floor, I can tell that by looking at you.”
Gincy’s heart took sudden courage. If all the teachers were going to be like Miss Howard she certainly would be a “special” if she had to study all night to accomplish it. Miss Howard sat close and questioned her softly, not seeming to mind when she stumbled or failed entirely. Gincy had a musical voice and read the easy selections in a way which pleased the teacher, for she recommended elocution and sub-normal arithmetic on the little slip which Gincy bore away an hour later. The other studies were not wholly settled, but it seemed like a good beginning.
“Be sure to come to the Jam Social to-night,” had been Miss Howard’s parting words, and Gincy had promised readily, although not feeling at all sure what a “Jam Social” really was.
She wandered around from one building to another, nowhere encountering Talitha or any one who had seen her. Once inside the Hall again she went straight to the office to question Mrs. Donnelly.
From behind a desk piled high with mail, the dean answered, “She’s gone home, Miss Gooch.”
“Gone home! When?” Gincy’s voice sounded strange to her own ears.
“About two o’clock this morning. She slept with me last night and Martin saw her off.”
“But why? Was any one sick—or?” The dean shook her head and began to open her mail. Suddenly Gincy knew it all. Talitha had gone that she might stay. After working so hard, too. What would Sam Coyle say to her? Not willing to make any sacrifices himself—for his children’s good—he would be angry to have them generous with others. Gincy turned and went up to her room. How could she accept such a sacrifice? She wrestled with the problem for hours, then in despair thought of Miss Howard. The little teacher listened patiently with one soft hand covering the girl’s work-roughened one. When Gincy had ended with a sob in her voice, Miss Howard’s arm stole around her and held her close.
“Don’t worry, dear, Talitha will come back to us some time. She’s determined to have an education. She has chosen to give you your chance now; make the very best of it. It would be foolish for you to start home and disappoint her—it would be useless, too. She’s going to write you in a day or so.”
Somewhat comforted, Gincy went back to her room. On every side doors were ajar and girls unpacking. There was the merrychatter of friends long separated, and those newly found, which sent a delightful glow through the heart of the mountain girl. Few and far between were the opportunities for sociability back in the hills, and as she realized what she was gaining, a keen sense of Talitha’s loss smote her.
“You’d better get ready for the Social before dinner,” a voice called out from behind, and Kizzie overtook Gincy. “I’ll call for you and Urilla promptly at seven.”
“I’d forgotten hit, sure enough,” answered Gincy, quickening her steps.
Early in the evening the large chapel blazed forth a welcome to the returning students from its many windows. From every direction they came—in groups or singly. Above, was a starlit sky, and the air was full of a soft, sweet melody unlike anything Gincy had ever heard before. Her ears, used only to the thrum of the banjo, or a crude performance on a small reed organ, were thrilled with delight as the college band finished the overture from “William Tell.”
She glanced shyly at Urilla to see if her emotion was shared, but the quiet face betrayed nothing more than deep satisfaction at being once more among her beloved schoolmates.
The great auditorium was filling rapidly. Happy faces peered down from the galleries, girls and boys elbowed their way past, callingout hearty greetings to those they recognized. There was a short lull when the president made his welcoming speech; after that, it seemed to Gincy a thousand hives had swarmed. Abner and Martin caught the spirit at once and moved constantly from one group to another shaking hands, exchanging jokes, and growing merrier each moment. Gincy watched them astonished. Abner’s light hair was tossed back like a mane, his cheeks were rosy, his eyes alight with fun. Martin took it more quietly, but never had she seen such a look of pleasure in his face.
Gincy forgot her plain dress—plain even in comparison with the simple clothes around her—and the fact that she was surrounded by hundreds of strange faces. The spirit of youth—so often quenched in these young mountain people before it fairly shows itself—was clamouring for expression. She drew a long breath and decided to be one of the gay company.
An hour later as the three girls emerged from the building which the bell in the tower had suddenly hushed, Gincy felt that she had come into her own. Her timidity had vanished, and a pleasant presage of popularity made her innocently merry and once more her own natural self.
Itwas nearly time for the rising bell, and Gincy propped herself up on one elbow to watch the light creeping above the foothills and the ox teams crawling along Big Hill pike.
Suddenly, she remembered her new duties as monitor of the third floor. It was so hard lately to keep order during study hours and after the last bell at night. Gincy could not help connecting it in some way with Nancy Jane Ping and Mallie Green, the two recent arrivals from her own county. They had been reproved time and again for an untidy room, but it seemed to do no good.
“They’re always studyin’ up some foolishness to keep things upset,” she declared disgustedly. Gincy had been feeling particularly lonely now that Urilla had gone home for a whole week; things had been happening, too. Miss Howard was at her wit’s end to discover the offenders, so sly were they, but Kizzie Tipton and Lalla Ponder were always the victims.
Sometimes the bedding was piled in a heapin the middle of the floor, or Lalla’s school hat was filled with water and her best dress missing only to be found later folded under the mattress. The vandals covered their tracks very neatly, and Miss Howard, knowing the excitable temperaments around her, kept the matter as quiet as possible.
Gincy thought it over carefully until breakfast time, then decided to do some special detective work for the reputation of the Hall. “Some fracas between their kin, I reckon.” Gincy was used to the mountain feuds, which, like a slumbering fire, always broke out in unexpected places. “Mallie’s been left to run till she’s no ’count; why don’t she study to get some learnin’ stid o’ hatchin’ up deviltry? Nancy Jane and she make a team; looks like they don’t show good sense.” Gincy shook her head sadly, thinking how hard she had worked for the privilege which others esteemed so lightly. School had meant for her sacrifice, and long hours of toil.
Saturday was a busy day in the Hall. Its many corridors were thoroughly swept and mopped, the rooms carefully cleaned. Gincy was here and there and everywhere on the third floor. By lunch time there was a sharp twinge in her left ear which sent the blood throbbing to her temples. Her own room was spotless. Urilla’s family photographs were tucked in the wire rack where they would show to the best advantage, the ugly ink spoton the chenille table spread was turned to the wall, and the small stove was shining. But the occupant was not tempted by odours of fresh gingerbread or turnip salad coming from below. Her work for the day was done. She had counted on going to Lee’s Knob with a walking party for a picnic supper. Suddenly, all ambition had left her. When she awoke from her long nap her earache was gone, but there lingered in her memory a curious dream. The room key had been stolen and Miss Howard was in trouble.
Another bell rang. This time it was for dinner, but Gincy still felt little inclination to move, and a curious absence of hunger. There were loitering feet, then hurrying, then the distant clatter from the Annex announced that the meal was in progress. Gincy surveyed the tired face in the glass as she brushed her hair and resolutely choked back the homesick hunger which the free life of the mountains had fostered.
“I might jest as well walk down that way and see if things air all right.” How loud her steps sounded on the bare corridor floor. Gincy paused before trying the door of Number 16. She did hope that Lalla and Kizzie had left it locked. But no, here was the key, and on the outside, too. “I call thet plumb shiftlessness,” she told herself disgustedly. The girls certainly needed a lesson. Gincy stuck her head in, carefully surveyed theroom, and then locked the door, slipping the key into her pocket. Let them go to Miss Howard when they wanted to get in. She came back to her own room and sat down by the window. In a few minutes the evening song, in one harmonious chorus, was wafted to her ears, then snatches of it floated up the stairs as the girls returned to their rooms. Some one tapped lightly, then turned the knob, and peered in. It was Mallie Green, and Gincy fancied she looked surprised to see her.
“Howdy! I was passing and I thought—I’d see—why—you wan’t at dinner.” Mallie blurted it out in her usual explosive fashion, her gaze shifting evasively.
“I didn’t feel to want any; my ear aches,” answered Gincy with a sudden accession of coolness toward the small, shrinking figure. She had been a target for Nancy Ping’s ready wit many a time, but to-day Mallie seemed far less likable. Every minute her suspicions grew stronger. Why was Mallie poking into people’s rooms and pretending—Gincy felt it to be mere pretending—to be friends? It was more than mere prankishness to put wet towels on a pile of freshly-ironed clothes, it was malicious, especially as the girls were all trying to economize as much as possible.
A few minutes later Gincy presented the key of Number 16 to Miss Howard. “They haven’t asked for the master key,” said the latter, “so they must be downstairs in theparlour. Sometimes they don’t come up until the study bell rings.”
“Let’s go back and see if there is any one hanging around the door,” suggested Gincy.
To their astonishment they found Lalla and Kizzie entertaining callers. Gincy stood for a moment dumfounded, then dragged Miss Howard to a quiet corner of the hall. “I know,” she whispered, “some one left that key in the door. They heard me coming and didn’t have time to get it out. We’ll keep hit, then I’d like to see them get in.”
“Do you really think it’s Mallie?” asked Miss Howard soberly. “I can’t see any reason for her doing it.”
“Nor I, only the Greens and Ponders never did get on back yonder, and Lalla’s always ahead of Mallie—she’s a year younger, too.”
Miss Howard stopped suddenly, she had started back to her room. “No, Gincy, it wasn’t Mallie; she went into the dining-room ahead of me this evening and gave out a notice for the basket ball team. I remember now. Besides, she and Nancy Jane both wipe dishes and are never upstairs until a half-hour after meal time.”
For almost a week after that the upper corridors were peaceful. No one but Gincy doubted that they would remain so. Saturday evening, when Miss Howard was making her tour of inspection, she met Lalla and Kizzie going to choir practice. “I’ll look into yourroom just the same, girls,” she said. “You don’t know how good it seems, though, to get over dreading it.”
Kizzie sighed. “I couldn’t have stood it another day. It was getting positively ghost-y, having such things goin’ on.”
Miss Howard sighed too as she fitted the master key into the door of Number 16. Had she a real traitor in the house, or was it some prankish girl who had gone too far and was now thoroughly frightened? The room was in perfect order. How well the two had learned their lesson of neatness. It rested the tired little teacher just to look at the clean floor, the fresh curtains, and orderly books. She went over to the window and looked out. Beyond the roof of the new dining-room was a long, regular pile of wood, then the tennis court framed by huge oaks, and still beyond, the mountains.
Miss Howard stood lost in thought for a moment. Each day brought its problems. She was roused by a light footstep, there was a quick click of the lock, and the master key was pulled out from the other side. She was surely a prisoner. Thoroughly impatient at her own stupidity, Miss Howard tried the window. She could only pull it down a few inches from the top. This was the cleverest, most daring piece of lawlessness which had ever occurred in the Hall. With the master key gone all kinds of vandalism were possiblein that room and every other. She dropped into a chair irresolute.
A party of seniors had the east parlour until 7:30, which almost emptied the corridor. One might call incessantly and not be heard, unless by the wrong girls—the very ones from whom she wished to keep the matter a secret.
The chapel bell rang for chorus practice. The outer world began to grow dusky, still Miss Howard sat perfectly quiet, apparently reading. She was thinking of a mystery story which led through a labyrinth of baffling events to a most simple solution. She grew more and more doubtful of her ability as a detective.
Presently, two people stopped outside the door for a little chat. It was Martha Spellman—on her way to the linen closet—and Lalla. Miss Howard waited patiently now that immediate release was certain, until the door opened.
Lalla’s face was the picture of astonishment as she noticed the occupant of her room. “You’d better not speak of it, Lalla,” cautioned her teacher after describing the manner of her incarceration. “The girls know enough already; they’ll be going home next thing. No one likes to feel that she’s at the mercy of some lawless person.”
However, Miss Howard made an exception of Gincy, who seemed a link between herselfand the mountain people. Besides Gincy’s position as monitor demanded greater confidence. “Whoever it was, knew I was there,” she concluded.
“They were after the key, they didn’t care who was in there,” said Gincy grimly. “Hit ain’t likely they’ll come again very soon, though, after this.”
But the very next evening Number 16 was again invaded. This time Lalla’s little silver pin was missing, and her school books hidden in the woodbox.
“Shall we search Mallie’s and Nancy Jane’s room?” asked Miss Howard as Lalla stood before her after making her final complaint. “This matter is growing serious.”
Lalla hesitated. “You wouldn’t be likely to find anything. They’re both too smart for that. We might watch them a spell longer.”
“Besides,” continued Miss Howard, “Mallie and Nancy Jane are nearly always busy when things happen in your room.”
Lalla shook her head as though unconvinced. “I reckon hit’s jest one person. I ain’t sayin’ who.”
“Lalla,” interrogated Gincy shrewdly, “who do you reckon’s so plumb foolish as to sneak into your room whenever you go out for dinner?”
“Mebbe you can tell me,” answered Lalla with a flash of temper. “I’m goin’ home next week if hit keeps on.”
“Wait a while,” encouraged Gincy, ignoring the insinuation. Personally, she was not fond of Lalla, whose keen wit never spared any one, but of all the mountain pupils she was the most talented—so the teachers had said—and Gincy was working for the good of the school.
“I’ve got hit to work out and I’m goin’ to do hit,” she said to herself that night. “I reckon Lalla’s plumb out of patience or she wouldn’t be so touchy.”
She took a firmer grip on the baffling mental problem, her detective instinct now fully aroused. Things happened at dinner time. Mallie and Nancy Jane were nearly always at meals—and yet—Gincy thought over every other girl in the Hall; not one seemed to have either the disposition or the ability to carry on, undetected, such a warfare.
At six o’clock that evening, she was behind the door of Number 16, the new master key showing temptingly in the lock. She had figured it all out; the room must be watched from the inside. This time both window and door were to be reckoned with. She raised the former to further her scheme, and told no one except Miss Howard, who promised to bring Gincy’s dinner to her own room that she might eat it later.
It was a weary vigil, but Gincy worked out some problems and waited patiently. The hour was almost gone when a slight tap cameat the door. She crowded behind a dress in the corner and listened eagerly. The door swung slightly and Nancy Jane Ping looked in. Her small, inquisitive eyes seemed to pierce every corner, and Gincy had a breathless moment of expectancy. Kizzie’s yellow muslin was a feeble barrier for the gimlet glances to penetrate.
For a moment, the intruder stood keenly surveying the room, then withdrew and walked slowly down the hall. Gincy waited, but she did not return. After all, the evidence was very incomplete. Anybody might have looked into a room whose door was slightly ajar. It didn’t matter how much inward conviction one had if she lacked tangible proof. The whole baffling pursuit had to be begun again, and Gincy united her Scotch persistency and Irish wit afresh.
For a week she was absent from the dining-room at the dinner hour, the most sociable time of the day. It had not been necessary to tell Kizzie or Lalla, or, in fact, anybody, as she sat in the Annex dining-room, and they rarely saw each other.
Still nothing happened, and Gincy went on studying her arithmetic and planning her work for rhetoricals. She did not forget to keep the window open, however, and the shining new master key in the door as a bait. “Whoever hit is won’t resk coming in at thewindow, they’d be suspicioned sure if any one should open the door.”
She reasoned it all out as she sat motionless on the fifth night of her vigil. Almost at that moment the event which she had been anticipating happened. The key clicked in the lock and she was shut in. For one instant she listened to hear in which direction the retreating footsteps were going—there was a telltale squeak which betrayed it—then Gincy bounded across the room and slipped out of the window. She ran noiselessly to where the halls crossed and a door led to a back stair landing. Gincy knew that she could see from there any one who came down the main hall, while the dark corner was a safe hiding-place for herself.
She had barely gained the desired spot, when some one vaulted past and out upon the roof. It was Lalla Ponder who stole cautiously along and deposited a small, shining object in a convenient niche near the cornice. Gincy could hardly believe her eyes, but when Lalla turned her back, she looked into the main hall and saw that it was entirely empty. She knew that Lalla would not attempt to gain her room by the window, but would come back into the hall and either go down the back stairs or come up boldly and unlock her door. Gincy pounded on a nearby door vigorously, knowing that its occupant was probably taking care of the lamps in thelower hall, then she walked noisily to meet Lalla, who had regained the hall when her back was turned.
“May I borrow your dictionary?” she asked in the grip of a sudden courage. “Mary must be out; she doesn’t answer when I knock.”
“Of course you may,” Lalla answered, but Gincy noticed how her hand trembled as she unlocked the door with her own key which hung on a narrow plaid ribbon at her belt. She hesitated before stepping in, and gave a little start of surprise when she saw an empty room. “I’m losing my nerve, I reckon, with all the queer doin’s ’round here lately.”
Gincy’s face hardened. Could Lalla be crazy? She watched the girl narrowly as she searched the closet, peered behind the door with every sign of anxiety, and gave a sigh of relief when she found nothing out of order.
Once in possession of the dictionary, Gincy hurried to Miss Howard with her story.
“Have you been dreaming, child?” the latter asked in astonishment. But Gincy shook her head.
“I’ve been studyin’ ’bout hit since I found her out. Hit’s that feud business and she’s trying to fasten hit onto Mallie. The girls will believe hit too, Mallie’s so ill.”
Miss Howard from her own conviction felt that they would. She followed Gincy to the end of the hall; they slipped out upon the roof and found both keys securely hiddenfrom any casual observer just where Lalla had concealed them five minutes before. Silently the two filed back to Miss Howard’s room. Gincy felt the little teacher’s inward struggle to readjust her point of view. Mallie was not a favourite, while Lalla had quite a following and was counted unusually bright.
“Hit’s this way,” Gincy explained to the bewildered teacher. “The Greens and Ponders have warred hit for years back there in the hills, and they aim never to forget hit. Most of the young folks see how foolish hit is, but they’re a sorry lot.”
Miss Howard sighed. “I must have time to think it over. I’m rather upset this evening, Gincy. Thank you for helping me. Please don’t say anything about it until I see you again. I can’t see why Lalla should want to injure her own clothes to get Mallie sent home, though.”
After Gincy had left, Miss Howard sat for a long time, her hands toying idly with the two keys. If the dean knew of the trouble, Lalla would be suspended at once as she richly deserved. She would go back to the poorest of mountain homes and the bright, keen mind, undirected and bent on mischief, would soon bring the girl to grief.
The next day, at her first opportunity, she called Gincy into her room. Carefully she approached the subject. “What kind of a home did you say Lalla had, Gincy?”
“Mighty pore,” was the answer. “They’re the illest kind of people.”
Miss Howard pondered a moment over the next question. “What do you suppose will become of her when she gets back in the mountains?”
Gincy shook her head gloomily.
“Don’t you suppose it will be worth while for us to try reforming her?” Then Miss Howard explained the probation plan. “Only you and I know that she is the mischief maker. If nothing more happens the pupils will soon forget it. Of course everything depends on how she acts. She must contradict the report about Mallie and promise better behaviour in the future.”
Gincy’s face showed an inward struggle; this was so unlike the code of the mountains. “I’m afraid I couldn’t trust her,” she said at last, “but I’m willing to do anything you say.”
“I’m going to have a long talk with her this afternoon,” Miss Howard continued, “and find out the reason for her conduct.”
There was a light tap at the door, then it was pushed open and Lalla walked in. Her eyes had a sleepless look, her face was colourless. Instantly the two knew her errand. She talked very rapidly, as if fearful of losing her courage. “I started at first to fool Kizzie—she said no one could do it—then I remembered something pretty mean Mallie did to me back home and it seemed like my time had cometo get even. When you wanted to search her room I got to studying about it. I was taking away her chance for learning, and she needing it mighty bad—as bad as any one could. I was letting you think her a thief—” Here Lalla broke down completely. “I reckon you’ll have—to—send me h—ome, I’m plumb bad, and—”
Gincy waited for no more. She flung her arms around the weeping girl with sudden tenderness.
“I am glad you were brave enough to confess your wrongdoing, Lalla,” said Miss Howard, much relieved. “I think you deserve another chance, and Gincy and I are going to see that you have it, too. We don’t propose to tell anybody about this, so you’ll have nothing to live down. Just show us a clean record from now on.”
“You don’t mean—” and here the magnitude of Miss Howard’s generosity seemed to transform Lalla’s whole being. She stood up tall and straight before the two. “You’ll never be sorry for trusting me,” she said. “And I reckon if you can forgive me for worrying you so, I ought to forgive Mallie and help her to be a better girl, too.”