Yes, a tournament

Why all this should have thrown the Hon. Samuel Budd into such gloom I could not understand--except that the Wild Dog had been so loyal a henchman to him in politics, but later I learned a better reason, that threatened to cost the Hon. Sam much more than the fines that, as I later learned, he had been paying for his mountain friend.

Meanwhile, the Blight was coming from her Northern home through the green lowlands of Jersey, the fat pastures of Maryland, and, as the white dresses of schoolgirls and the shining faces of darkies thickened at the stations, she knew that she was getting southward.  All the way she was known and welcomed, and next morning she awoke with the keen air of the distant mountains in her nostrils and an expectant light in her happy eyes.  At least the light was there when she stepped daintily from the dusty train and it leaped a little, I fancied, when Marston, bronzed and flushed, held out his sunburnt hand.  Like a convent girl she babbled questions to the little sister as the dummy puffed along and she bubbled like wine over the midsummer glory of the hills.  And well she might, for the glory of the mountains, full-leafed, shrouded in evening shadows, blue-veiled in the distance, was unspeakable, and through the Gap the sun was sending his last rays as though he, too, meant to take a peep at her before he started around the world to welcome her next day.  And she must know everything at once.  The anniversary of the Great Day on which all men were pronounced free and equal was only ten days distant and preparations were going on.  There would be a big crowd of mountaineers and there would be sports of all kinds, and games, but the tournament was to be the feature of the day.

``A tournament?''  ``Yes, a tournament,'' repeated the little sister, and Marston was going to ride and the mean thing would not tell what mediaeval name he meant to take.  And the Hon. Sam Budd--did the Blight remember him?  (Indeed, she did) --had a ``dark horse,'' and he had bet heavily that his dark horse would win the tournament--whereat the little sister looked at Marston and at the Blight and smiled disdainfully.  And the Wild Dog-- DID she remember him?  I checked the sister here with a glance, for Marston looked uncomfortable and the Blight saw me do it, and on the point of saying something she checked herself, and her face, I thought, paled a little.

That night I learned why--when she came in from the porch after Marston was gone.  I saw she had wormed enough of the story out of him to worry her, for her face this time was distinctly pale.  I would tell her no more than she knew, however, and then she said she was sure she had seen the Wild Dog herself that afternoon, sitting on his horse in the bushes near a station in Wildcat Valley.  She was sure that he saw her, and his face had frightened her.  I knew her fright was for Marston and not for herself, so I laughed at her fears.  She was mistaken--Wild Dog was an outlaw now and he would not dare appear at the Gap, and there was no chance that he could harm her or Marston.  And yet I was uneasy.

V BACK TO THE HILLS

V

BACK TO THE HILLS

Winter drew a gray veil over the mountains, wove into it tiny jewels of frost and turned it many times into a mask of snow, before spring broke again among them and in Marston's impatient heart.  No spring had ever been like that to him.  The coming of young leaves and flowers and bird-song meant but one joy for the hills to him--the Blight was coming back to them.  All those weary waiting months he had clung grimly to his work.  He must have heard from her sometimes, else I think he would have gone to her; but I knew the Blight's pen was reluctant and casual for anybody, and, moreover, she was having a strenuous winter at home.  That he knew as well, for he took one paper, at least, that he might simply read her name.  He saw accounts of her many social doings as well, and ate his heart out as lovers have done for all time gone and will do for all time to come.

I, too, was away all winter, but I got back a month before the Blight, to learn much of interest that had come about. The Hon. Samuel Budd had ear-wagged himself into the legislature, had moved that Court-House, and was going to be State Senator.  The Wild Dog had confined his reckless career to his own hills through the winter, but when spring came, migratory-like, he began to take frequent wing to the Gap.  So far, he and Marston had never come into personal conflict, though Marston kept ever ready for him, and several times they had met in the road, eyed each other in passing and made no hipward gesture at all.  But then Marston had never met him when the Wild Dog was drunk--and when sober, I took it that the one act of kindness from the engineer always stayed his hand.  But the Police Guard at the Gap saw him quite often-- and to it he was a fearful and elusive nuisance.  He seemed to be staying somewhere within a radius of ten miles, for every night or two he would circle about the town, yelling and firing his pistol, and when we chased him, escaping through the Gap or up the valley or down in Lee.  Many plans were laid to catch him, but all failed, and finally he came in one day and gave himself up and paid his fines.  Afterward I recalled that the time of this gracious surrender to law and order was but little subsequent to one morning when a woman who brought butter and eggs to my little sister casually asked when that ``purty slim little gal with the snappin' black eyes was a-comin' back.''  And the little sister, pleased with the remembrance, had said cordially that she was coming soon.

Thereafter the Wild Dog was in town every day, and he behaved well until one Saturday he got drunk again, and this time, by a peculiar chance, it was Marston again who leaped on him, wrenched his pistol away, and put him in the calaboose.  Again he paid his fine, promptly visited a ``blind Tiger,'' came back to town, emptied another pistol at Marston on sight and fled for the hills.

The enraged guard chased him for two days and from that day the Wild Dog was a marked man.  The Guard wanted many men, but if they could have had their choice they would have picked out of the world of malefactors that same Wild Dog.

I don't know

So Mart--hard-working Mart--was the Wild Dog, and he was content to do the Blight all service without thanks, merely for the privilege of secretly seeing her face now and then; and yet he would not look upon that face when she was a guest under his roof and asleep.

Still, when we dropped behind the two girls I gave Marston the Hon. Sam's warning, and for a moment he looked rather grave.

``Well,'' he said, smiling, ``if I'm found in the road some day, you'll know who did it.''

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I shook my head.  ``Oh, no; he isn't that bad.''

``I don't know,'' said Marston.


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The smoke of the young engineer's coke ovens lay far below us and the Blight had never seen a coke-plant before.  It looked like Hades even in the early dusk--the snake-like coil of fiery ovens stretching up the long, deep ravine, and the smoke- streaked clouds of fire, trailing like a yellow mist over them, with a fierce white blast shooting up here and there when the lid of an oven was raised, as though to add fresh temperature to some particular male- factor in some particular chamber of torment.  Humanity about was joyous, however.  Laughter and banter and song came from the cabins that lined the big ravine and the little ravines opening into it.  A banjo tinkled at the entrance of ``Possum Trot,'' sacred to the darkies.  We moved toward it.  On the stoop sat an ecstatic picker and in the dust shuffled three pickaninnies--one boy and two girls--the youngest not five years old.  The crowd that was gathered about them gave way respectfully as we drew near; the little darkies showed their white teeth in jolly grins, and their feet shook the dust in happy competition.  I showered a few coins for the Blight and on we went--into the mouth of the many-peaked Gap.  The night train was coming in and everybody had a smile of welcome for the Blight-- post-office assistant, drug clerk, soda-water boy, telegraph operator, hostler, who came for the mules--and when tired, but happy, she slipped from her saddle to the ground, she then and there gave me what she usually reserves for Christmas morning, and that, too, while Marston was looking on.  Over her shoulder I smiled at him.


That night Marston and the Blight sat under the vines on the porch until the late moon rose over Wallens Ridge, and, when bedtime came, the Blight said impatiently that she did not want to go home.  She had to go, however, next day, but on the next Fourth of July she would surely come again; and, as the young engineer mounted his horse and set his face toward Black Mountain, I knew that until that day, for him, a blight would still be in the hills.

They are real ones all right

``Dear,'' she said, ``have our room- mates gone?''

Breakfast at dawn.  The mountain girls were ready to go to work.  All looked sorry to have us leave.  They asked us to come back again, and they meant it.  We said we would like to come back--and we meant it--to see them--the kind old mother, the pioneer-like old man, sturdy little Buck, shy little Cindy, the elusive, hard-working, unconsciously shivery Mart, and the two big sisters.  As we started back up the river the sisters started for the fields, and I thought of their stricken brother in the settlements, who must have been much like Mart.

Back up the Big Black Mountain we toiled, and late in the afternoon we were on the State line that runs the crest of the Big Black.  Right on top and bisected by that State line sat a dingy little shack, and there, with one leg thrown over the pommel of his saddle, sat Marston, drinking water from a gourd.

``I was coming over to meet you,'' he said, smiling at the Blight, who, greatly pleased, smiled back at him.  The shack was a ``blind Tiger'' where whiskey could be sold to Kentuckians on the Virginia side and to Virginians on the Kentucky side.  Hanging around were the slouching figures of several moonshiners and the villainous fellow who ran it.

``They are real ones all right,'' said Marston.  ``One of them killed a revenue officer at that front door last week, and was killed by the posse as he was trying to escape out of the back window.  That house will be in ashes soon,'' he added.  And it was.

As we rode down the mountain we told him about our trip and the people with whom we had spent the night--and all the time he was smiling curiously.

``Buck,'' he said.  ``Oh, yes, I know that little chap.  Mart had him posted down there on the river to toll you to his house--to toll YOU,'' he added to the Blight.  He pulled in his horse suddenly, turned and looked up toward the top of the mountain.

``Ah, I thought so.''  We all looked back.  On the edge of the cliff, far upward, on which the ``blind Tiger'' sat was a gray horse, and on it was a man who, motionless, was looking down at us.

``He's been following you all the way,'' said the engineer.

``Who's been following us?'' I asked.

``That's Mart up there--my friend and yours,'' said Marston to the Blight.  ``I'm rather glad I didn't meet you on the other side of the mountain--that's `the Wild Dog.' ''  The Blight looked incredulous, but Marston knew the man and knew the horse.

That was Mart at last

``Mart!'' she said coaxingly; ``git up thar now an' climb over inter bed with that ar stranger.''

That was Mart at last, over in the corner.  Mart turned, grumbled, and, to my great pleasure, swore that he wouldn't.  The old woman waited a moment.

``Mart,'' she said again with gentle imperiousness, `` git up thar now, I tell ye --you've got to sleep with that thar stranger.''

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She closed the door and with a snort Mart piled into bed with me.  I gave him plenty of room and did not introduce myself.  A little more dark silence--the shaking of the bed under the hilarity of those astonished, bethrilled, but thoroughly unfrightened young women in the dark corner on my left ceased, and again the door opened.  This time it was the hired man, and I saw that the trouble was either that neither Mart nor Buck wanted to sleep with the hired man or that neither wanted to sleep with me.  A long silence and then the boy Buck slipped in.  The hired man delivered himself with the intonation somewhat of a circuit rider.

``I've been a-watchin' that star thar, through the winder.  Sometimes hit moves, then hit stands plum' still, an' ag'in hit gits to pitchin'.''  The hired man must have been touching up mean whiskey himself.  Meanwhile, Mart seemed to be having spells of troubled slumber.  He would snore gently, accentuate said snore with a sudden quiver of his body and then wake up with a climacteric snort and start that would shake the bed.  This was repeated several times, and I began to think of the unfortunate Tom who was ``fitified.''  Mart seemed on the verge of a fit himself, and I waited apprehensively for each snorting climax to see if fits were a family failing.  They were not.  Peace overcame Mart and he slept deeply, but not I.  The hired man began to show symptoms.  He would roll and groan, dreaming of feuds, _quorum pars magna fuit_, it seemed, and of religious conversion, in which he feared he was not so great.  Twice he said aloud:

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``An' I tell you thar wouldn't a one of 'em have said a word if I'd been killed stone-dead.''  Twice he said it almost weepingly, and now and then he would groan appealingly:

``O Lawd, have mercy on my pore soul!''

Fortunately those two tired girls slept-- I could hear their breathing--but sleep there was little for me.  Once the troubled soul with the hoe got up and stumbled out to the water-bucket on the porch to soothe the fever or whatever it was that was burning him, and after that he was quiet.  I awoke before day.  The dim light at the window showed an empty bed--Buck and the hired man were gone.  Mart was slipping out of the side of my bed, but the girls still slept on.  I watched Mart, for I guessed I might now see what, perhaps, is the distinguishing trait of American civilization down to its bed-rock, as you find it through the West and in the Southern hills--a chivalrous respect for women.  Mart thought I was asleep.  Over in the corner were two creatures the like of which I supposed he had never seen and would not see, since he came in too late the night before, and was going away too early now --and two angels straight from heaven could not have stirred my curiosity any more than they already must have stirred his.  But not once did Mart turn his eyes, much less his face, toward the corner where they were--not once, for I watched him closely.  And when he went out he sent his little sister back for his shoes, which the night-walking hired man had accidentally kicked toward the foot of the strangers' bed.  In a minute I was out after him, but he was gone.  Behind me the two girls opened their eyes on a room that was empty save for them.  Then the Blight spoke (this I was told later).

When Ellinor was somewhere about fourteen

He liked, too, to see what was doing in art, or in literature; and as he gave pretty extensive orders for anything he admired, he was almost sure to be followed down to Hamley by one or two packages or parcels, the arrival and opening of which began soon to form the pleasant epochs in Ellinor's grave though happy life.

The only person of his own standing with whom Mr. Wilkins kept up any intercourse in Hamley was the new clergyman, a bachelor, about his own age, a learned man, a fellow of his college, whose first claim on Mr. Wilkins's attention was the fact that he had been travelling- bachelor for his university, and had consequently been on the Continent about the very same two years that Mr. Wilkins had been there; and although they had never met, yet they had many common acquaintances and common recollections to talk over of this period, which, after all, had been about the most bright and hopeful of Mr. Wilkins's life.

Mr. Ness had an occasional pupil; that is to say, he never put himself out of the way to obtain pupils, but did not refuse the entreaties sometimes made to him that he would prepare a young man for college, by allowing the said young man to reside and read with him.  "Ness's men" took rather high honours, for the tutor, too indolent to find out work for himself, had a certain pride in doing well the work that was found for him.

When Ellinor was somewhere about fourteen, a young Mr. Corbet came to be pupil to Mr. Ness.  Her father always called on the young men reading with the clergyman, and asked them to his house.  His hospitality had in course of time lost its recherche and elegant character, but was always generous, and often profuse.  Besides, it was in his character to like the joyous, thoughtless company of the young better than that of the old--given the same amount of refinement and education in both.

Mr. Corbet was a young man of very good family, from a distant county.  If his character had not been so grave and deliberate, his years would only have entitled him to be called a boy, for he was but eighteen at the time when he came to read with Mr. Ness.  But many men of five-and-twenty have not reflected so deeply as this young Mr. Corbet already had.  He had considered and almost matured his plan for life; had ascertained what objects he desired most to accomplish in the dim future, which is to many at his age only a shapeless mist; and had resolved on certain steady courses of action by which such objects were most likely to be secured.  A younger son, his family connections and family interest pre-arranged a legal career for him; and it was in accordance with his own tastes and talents.  All, however, which his father hoped for him was, that he might be able to make an income sufficient for a gentleman to live on.  Old Mr. Corbet was hardly to be called ambitious, or, if he were, his ambition was limited to views for the eldest son.

as he expressed himself.

Mr. Wilkins liked to feel his child dependent on him for all her pleasures.  He was even a little jealous of anyone who devised a treat or conferred a present, the first news of which did not come from or through him.

At last it was necessary that Ellinor should have some more instruction than her good old nurse could give.  Her father did not care to take upon himself the office of teacher, which he thought he foresaw would necessitate occasional blame, an occasional exercise of authority, which might possibly render him less idolized by his little girl; so he commissioned Lady Holster to choose out one among her many protegees for a governess to his daughter.  Now, Lady Holster, who kept a sort of amateur county register-office, was only too glad to be made of use in this way; but when she inquired a little further as to the sort of person required, all she could extract from Mr. Wilkins was:

"You know the kind of education a lady should have, and will, I am sure, choose a governess for Ellinor better than I could direct you. Only, please, choose some one who will not marry me, and who will let Ellinor go on making my tea, and doing pretty much what she likes, for she is so good they need not try to make her better, only to teach her what a lady should know."

Miss Monro was selected--a plain, intelligent, quiet woman of forty-- and it was difficult to decide whether she or Mr. Wilkins took the most pains to avoid each other, acting with regard to Ellinor, pretty much like the famous Adam and Eve in the weather-glass:  when the one came out the other went in.  Miss Monro had been tossed about and overworked quite enough in her life not to value the privilege and indulgence of her evenings to herself, her comfortable schoolroom, her quiet cozy teas, her book, or her letter-writing afterwards.  By mutual agreement she did not interfere with Ellinor and her ways and occupations on the evenings when the girl had not her father for companion; and these occasions became more and more frequent as years passed on, and the deep shadow was lightened which the sudden death that had visited his household had cast over him.  As I have said before, he was always a popular man at dinner-parties.  His amount of intelligence and accomplishment was rare in --shire, and if it required more wine than formerly to bring his conversation up to the desired point of range and brilliancy, wine was not an article spared or grudged at the county dinner-tables.  Occasionally his business took him up to London.  Hurried as these journeys might be, he never returned without a new game, a new toy of some kind, to "make home pleasant to his little maid," as he expressed himself.