She Made Him Tell of Everything, 0444
“Bub is a cowboy and wouldn't come back for the world, but I could never have been happy there,” she said, “even if it hadn't been for you—here.”
“I'm just a plain civil engineer, now,” said Hale, “an engineer without even a job and—” his face darkened.
“It's a shame, sweetheart, for you—” She put one hand over his lips and with the other turned his face so that she could look into his eyes. In the mood of bitterness, they did show worn, hollow and sad, and around them the wrinkles were deep.
“Silly,” she said, tracing them gently with her finger tips, “I love every one of them, too,” and she leaned over and kissed them.
“We're going to be happy each and every day, and all day long! We'll live at the Gap in winter and I'll teach.”
“No, you won't.”
“Then I'll teachyouto be patient and how little I care for anything else in the world while I've got you, and I'll teach you to care for nothing else while you've got me. And you'll have me, dear, forever and ever——”
“Amen,” said Hale.
Something rang out in the darkness, far down the river, and both sprang to their feet. “It's Uncle Billy!” cried June, and she lifted the old horn to her lips. With the first blare of it, a cheery halloo answered, and a moment later they could see a gray horse coming up the road—coming at a gallop, and they went down to the gate and waited.
“Hello, Uncle Billy” cried June. The old man answered with a fox-hunting yell and Hale stepped behind a bush.
“Jumping Jehosophat—is that you, June? Air ye all right?”
“Yes, Uncle Billy.” The old man climbed off his horse with a groan.
“Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, but I was skeered!” He had his hands on June's shoulders and was looking at her with a bewildered face.
“What air ye doin' here alone, baby?”
June's eyes shone: “Nothing Uncle Billy.” Hale stepped into sight.
“Oh, ho! I see! You back an' he ain't gone! Well, bless my soul, if this ain't the beatenest—” he looked from the one to the other and his kind old face beamed with a joy that was but little less than their own.
“You come back to stay?”
“My—where's that horn? I want it right now, Ole Hon down thar is a-thinkin' she's gone crazy and I thought she shorely was when she said she heard you blow that horn. An' she tol' me the minute I got here, if hit was you—to blow three times.” And straightway three blasts rang down the river.
“Now she's all right, if she don't die o' curiosity afore I git back and tell her why you come. Why did you come back, baby? Gimme a drink o' water, son. I reckon me an' that ole hoss hain't travelled sech a gait in five year.”
June was whispering something to the old man when Hale came back, and what it was the old man's face told plainly.
“Yes, Uncle Billy—right away,” said Hale.
“Just as soon as you can git yo' license?” Hale nodded.
“An' June says I'm goin' to do it.”
“Yes,” said Hale, “right away.”
Again June had to tell the story to Uncle Billy that she had told to Hale and to answer his questions, and it was an hour before the old miller rose to go. Hale called him then into June's room and showed him a piece of paper.
“Is it good now?” he asked.
The old man put on his spectacles, looked at it and chuckled:
“Just as good as the day you got hit.”
“Well, can't you——”
“Right now! Does June know?”
“Not yet. I'm going to tell her now. June!” he called.
“Yes, dear.” Uncle Billy moved hurriedly to the door.
“You just wait till I git out o' here.” He met June in the outer room.
“Where are you going, Uncle Billy?”
“Go on, baby,” he said, hurrying by her, “I'll be back in a minute.”
She stopped in the doorway—her eyes wide again with sudden anxiety, but Hale was smiling.
“You remember what you said at the Pine, dear?” The girl nodded and she was smiling now, when with sweet seriousness she said again: “Your least wish is now law to me, my lord.”
“Well, I'm going to test it now. I've laid a trap for you.” She shook her head.
“And you've walked right into it”
“I'm glad.” She noticed now the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and she thought it was some matter of business.
“Oh,” she said, reproachfully. “You aren't going to bother with anything of that kindnow?”
“Yes,” he said. “I want you to look over this.”
“Very well,” she said resignedly. He was holding the paper out to her and she took it and held it to the light of the candle. Her face flamed and she turned remorseful eyes upon him.
“And you've kept that, too, you had it when I——”
“When you were wiser maybe than you are now.”
“God save me from ever being such a fool again.” Tears started in her eyes.
“You haven't forgiven me!” she cried.
“Uncle Billy says it's as good now as it was then.”
He was looking at her queerly now and his smile was gone. Slowly his meaning came to her like the flush that spread over her face and throat. She drew in one long quivering breath and, with parted lips and her great shining eyes wide, she looked at him.
“Now?” she whispered.
“Now!” he said.
Her eyes dropped to the coarse gown, she lifted both hands for a moment to her hair and unconsciously she began to roll one crimson sleeve down her round, white arm.
“No,” said Hale, “just as you are.”
She went to him then, put her arms about his neck, and with head thrown back she looked at him long with steady eyes.
“Yes,” she breathed out—“just as you are—and now.”
Uncle Billy was waiting for them on the porch and when they came out, he rose to his feet and they faced him, hand in hand. The moon had risen. The big Pine stood guard on high against the outer world. Nature was their church and stars were their candles. And as if to give them even a better light, the moon had sent a luminous sheen down the dark mountainside to the very garden in which the flowers whispered like waiting happy friends. Uncle Billy lifted his hand and a hush of expectancy seemed to come even from the farthest star.