Part 8

It certainly was a mystery where Talitha and Martin had so suddenly disappeared. Even Abner and Gincy looked puzzled, finally accepting Mr. Shackley’s offer—made with a knowing twinkle of the eye—of a “couple of cheers” in his wagon.

The company flocked out of the schoolhouse with their perforated tin lanterns like a swarm of fireflies dodging hither and thither among the trees. Saddle horses were mounted, and the patient oxen again yoked to the wagons filled with chairs.

Strange to say, many of the folks were taking the same road—following a short distance behind the Shackleys. The sound of their voices and the twinkling lights in the rear at any other time would have aroused Si Quinn’s curiosity, at least. Now he was too much occupied with the thought of his own failures and the future which loomed before him more dismal than ever. Lost in revery he failed to notice when the oxen stopped at the footpath leading up to his cabin, until the blacksmith’s voice roused him.

“Here you air, Si! Jest let me ketch a holt of you. Middlin’ dampish, ain’t hit? I ’low Abner better go ’long with the lantern. I’ll wait fer him.”

Had the two looked around as they slowly climbed the slope, they would have seen the shadowy company following at a little distance.

“I’ll stop and start a fire for you,” offered Abner, with a great feeling of pity for the old man who leaned heavily on his strong, young arm. “If you haven’t been home for a week it ain’t a fit place for you to go into.”

“Thar won’t be a live coal,” panted the schoolmaster.

“I’ve matches in my pocket, but it’ll take a considerable spell to drive out the cold and damp.” The boy eyed the dim outlines of the cabin with misgiving. It looked gloomy and unhomelike as possible.

Once at the door—guiltless of fastenings—Si Quinn drew a long, reluctant sigh.

His hand on the latch, Abner heard sounds of feet close by. He looked around; there were strange, moving shadows on the path. He was not slow-witted; it was Christmas Eve and a suspicion of something flashed across his mind. One glimpse of the already lighted room and he turned, helped the old man in, and hastily closed the door just as there came a tugging at his coat. A score of Goose Creek folks were behind him.

“Oh, what did he say?” whispered Talitha excitedly.

“He hadn’t got that far,” grinned Abner in sudden comprehension.

“Let’s give three cheers for the schoolmaster,” suggested Martin.

Such a demonstration was new to the mountain people who had not been to Bentville, but they listened with appreciation and joined in most lustily when it ended with: “A Merry Christmas! Wish You a Merry Christmas!” And then the company quietly dispersed.

“We made a power o’ racket,” said Dan Gooch as later he entered his own cabin. “But I’d like ter hev seen how the old man looked when he war fairly inside. We did a toler’ble job, chinkin’ up them crannies. You’d never hev suspected what the place war like,” he chuckled.

As more than one of the company around the little old cabin that night had surmised, the schoolmaster’s face, as he gazed about the room—only a few days ago as cheerless as it could well be—was worth seeing. The pine boughs in the fireplace crackled and snapped merrily as the flames leaped upward and sent a delightful glow through the place. A half-dozen candles twinkled out from bunches of holly and pine. The bed with its warm, new covering was like a gay flower plot; shelves and table bore unmistakable evidences of Christmas cheer.

The faded eyes grew misty as they caught sight of a card on the shelf above the fireplace. It bore, in large letters: “A Merry Christmas from the Goose Creek Folks.”

The old man’s knees suddenly weakened and he dropped into a chair. He heard the cheering and tried to rise and open the door, but he could not summon strength. As the last echo of “Merry Christmas” died away across the mountains with the sound of retreating footsteps, the tears trickled down his cheeks. It was the happiest hour of his whole life. His poor efforts had been appreciated after all; he was not to be forgotten in his old age.

Until a much later hour than usual lights shone from the little homes about Goose Creek. The young people had loitered along the way from the schoolhouse, there was so much to talk over. Miss Howard was to stay all night with Gincy. The Coyle and Gooch families were to spend Christmas at the home of the former. It was to be a great day for the two households, and Talitha’s head was awhirl with excitement. She had unselfishly worked hard to bring happiness to others, and the greatest surprise had come to her. She was going back to Bentville the day after Christmas, with Miss Howard, and Martin, and the rest. Gincy, hawk-eyed where her friend was concerned, had rushed to the dean when she discovered that two of the students were to leave, and engaged a place for Talitha. Piney Twilliger had been fortunate enough to secure the other.

Sam Coyle made no objection, he was secretly bubbling over with pride at his daughter’s success. There could be no more school that winter; besides, he was beginning to feel that an education was something to be really desired.

By dawn on Christmas day two households at least were astir. The air was unusually mild with the fresh smell of a recent shower. The sun rose and beamed down with the warmth of May. By the time the Coyle family had breakfasted, Gincy and Abner were on hand to assist in the preparations. The loom, warping bars, spinning wheel, and a rude chest were turned out of doors to make place for the expected guests.

“We’re real lucky to have such weather,” said Talitha. “I don’t know how we would ever have managed with the table if we couldn’t have cleared things away. As it is there won’t be room enough for the children—”

“I’ll knock something together that’ll be nearer their size,” comforted Martin.

“Good boy,” smiled his sister, much relieved. “I was thinking of setting them in a row on the floor. That wouldn’t be very Christmas-y, would it? But a table of their own will pleasure them mightily.” Talitha hustled back into the cabin; there was an unusual amount of work for even her capable hands. Besides assisting in the preparation of so elaborate a meal, her belongings were to be made ready for her departure early on the morrow. It was too late in the season to risk further delay. Any day now, winter might rush upon the mountains with icy wind and sleet or a blinding snowstorm, making the rough roads altogether impassable.

“This air a weather breeder,” observed Sam Coyle pessimistically. “I’d feel a sight easier if you-uns hed a-started this mornin’.”

“An’ miss their Chris’mus turkey,” reproved his wife. “Jest be thankful hit air fine ’nough ter turn things out’n doors, ’though Tally ’lows now, hit would hev pleasured the comp’ny more ter hev set the table ’long of them pines.”

“Hit air not so much ’count whar hit’s set as what’s set on hit,” retorted Sam jovially. “Thet air the main thing; the scener-y hain’t needed ter give me an appetite. The smell o’ them turkeys air gone to my stummick a’ready, an’ I reckon I sh’ll hev ter take ter the crick ter git out’n reach of hit if the dinner’s later’n common.”

“Be keerful you don’t fall in,” warned Mrs. Coyle sarcastically. She paused in the midst of her egg beating to look about for Dock, her youngest, who was prone to get into mischief if unwatched.

By ten o’clock the company had arrived. It included the Bills family, as being next of kin, and Miss Howard who had waited to come with Mrs. Gooch and the younger children. Martin and Abner made themselves as useful as possible by taking the smaller members of the assembled families a short distance along the mountain-side in search of the hickory nuts which might have escaped their eyes at nutting time.

The company sat out of doors and visited with the host, while Talitha and her mother, with Gincy’s aid, completed the final preparations for the Christmas feast. The children’s table was laid beside a clump of laurel. When the youngsters appeared, they were immediately set down before well-filled plates while their elders gathered in the cabin. The family table had been lengthened by Martin’s skilful contriving and placed cornerwise across the room. Even then it took some managing to get the guests properly seated.

Mrs. Coyle surveyed the feast with pardonable pride; it would have done credit to more notable housewives. Not since the early days of her marriage had she had the opportunity to show such hospitality. Two of the largest, plumpest turkeys in her flock graced the centre of the board in company with a fat, wild goose, potatoes, turnips, beans, squash, dishes of pickle, a salad—Talitha had learned to make at Bentville—besides the usual Christmas pies, and a large black cake Gincy had trimmed with a wreath of holly. Both front and back doors were wide open, and a gentle breeze cooled the heated room where both the new stove and the fireplace had been doing extra duty.

Around the little cabin rose the great sheltering hills, their peaks a misty purple in the soft haze of a belated Indian summer. Below, Goose Creek, still little more than a rivulet, basked lazily in the sunshine.

At first the appetites were too keen to allow of much conversation, but at last Shad Bills laid down his knife and fork and looked around with a grin. “Has anybody heerd how the schoolmaster’s feelin’?” he suddenly inquired. “I ’lowed a-toppin’ off the Chris’mus doin’s with thet surprise war a leetle too much fer the old man.”

“I seen him this mornin’,” said Dan Gooch. “He war as peart as a Juny bug. The Twilligers give him an invite to eat turkey with them. Yes, sir,” he smiled reminiscently, “I reckon Goose Creek never see no sech doin’s as we had last night. I don’t rightly know as we’d ought ter let Tally slip off this-a-way without writin’ out a promise thet she’ll come back and teach the school next year.”

Sam Coyle grinned appreciatively. Not one of the men in the company could read or write. “I reckon her word of mouth’ll do. Tally’s boun’ ter come back all right,” her father declared.

“She can’t always be comin’ back to teach,” put in Gincy. “If you go to Commencement next spring maybe you’ll want Tally to have a diploma, too.”

Sam Coyle wisely refrained from a reply. That he had not looked with favour upon his daughter’s ambition to get an education was well known, and now that he had been proved in the wrong he did not propose to lay himself open to further criticism. However, he inwardly determined that Talitha should keep the Goose Creek school. The money was a great help to the family, and Dan Gooch would like nothing better than to have a chance to secure it for Gincy, he reasoned selfishly. Miss Howard shrewdly read the man’s thoughts, but she said nothing, although she inwardly resolved that Talitha should have her chance with the rest.

After the dinner was over and the dishes cleared away, the young people went to the schoolhouse. The maps and pictures were to be brought home for safekeeping, although there was no probable danger of their being molested. Besides, the young teacher wanted to see the place again before leaving for Bentville.

There was a strong odour of pine as Martin flung open the door. The despoiled tree still stood on the platform. Miss Howard had put the tinsel trimmings carefully away for future Christmases.

“It certainly looks as though we had had a good time last night,” said Talitha, glancing around. “Billy, I think I’ll let you and Sudie sweep out when you have a chance. You may keep the greens up as long as you choose; they’ll last some time. Good-bye until next summer,” she said to herself as she reluctantly turned away.

They stopped a moment at the little heap of ashes and charred logs below the new structure. “It’s a fitting monument for the old shack we used to call a schoolhouse,” said Martin reflectively. “When I remember the days we spent in it, I—”

“Don’t,” said Talitha gently. “The schoolmaster did the best he knew. He can see his mistakes as well as anybody now.” Miss Howard was silent, but she thought of the many such places scattered over the mountains, some of them presided over by just such teachers as Si Quinn had been.

Early that evening Martin and Talitha slipped away to the old schoolmaster’s cabin to say good-bye, for they would start by light the next morning.

“I ’lowed you’d be ’long,” he said, beaming down at them. “I came home early so’s not ter miss you.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t have gone away without coming to see you,” Talitha assured him, drawing up a stool before the bright blaze in the fireplace. Martin seated himself upon an old chest in the corner and looked around. He had been curious to see how Talitha had managed to rehabilitate the dingy place of which he had such disagreeable recollections.

“You wouldn’t know my old shack now, would you?” Si Quinn noticed the young fellow’s survey of the room. “You kin lay the hull thing ter Tally, I’ll be boun’—”

“Oh, no, no,” protested the girl, blushing. “I just—”

“Don’t I know your sly tricks? You started hit an’ did a heap besides. Not that Goose Creek folks ain’t the frien’liest, best-hearted critters in the hull mountings.”

“Just think what you’ve done for me!” cried Talitha in a low tone. “Those books and maps—I couldn’t have replaced them this fall—and that box was such a godsend! Billy’s going to see that all the children have a chance to read the books this winter. They’ll be learning a lot and the days won’t seem so long. I’ll send them a package of papers and magazines in the spring.”

“Law me, Tally, hit war little ’nough I did. I’d hev done a heap more, but I couldn’t. Hit’ll seem mighty lonesome with you-uns gone, but I’ll git some comfort thinkin’ of the chanct you’re havin’.”

The call must necessarily be a brief one. Talitha was very tired and there was a long ride before them on the morrow. But as the two rose to go the old man caught at the girl’s sleeve. “Martin, you jest g’long and bide fer Tally by the big tree. I’ve somethin’ special ter say ter her.”

Martin looked surprised, but he obeyed.

“I war told ter keep hit a secret, Tally,” said Si Quinn as the door closed behind her brother. “But I couldn’t let you go ’way a-thinkin’ I sent you thet box, fer I didn’t. I’ll trust you never ter speak of hit long as I live if I tell you. Hit war Jake Simcox—”

“Jake—!” Talitha stopped short in amazement.

“Yes, he’s repented of his folly and is turnin’ over a new leaf. He air a good piece from Goose Creek and he’s got a chanct ter work an’ go ter school. What’s more, he ’lows ter make up—some time—fer all the mischief he done. But he war sech a pore ignorunt feller—I reckon you’ve fergiven him, Tally, hit worked out a sight o’ good fer you and fer Goose Creek.”

“Yes, yes, indeed!” cried the girl, the tears in her eyes, “and I’m so glad he’s having a chance. I wish you’d tell him so.”

“’Tain’t likely I’ll ever see him agin, but he’s goin’ ter make a man of himself yit, I reckon.” The schoolmaster looked down at his favourite pupil and there was a smile on his face that softened the plain, rugged features like sunshine from within shining outwardly. Standing in the glow of the firelight with the Christmas holly and pine on shelf and wall, the twinkling candles—he had lighted in honour of his guests—the white-haired, white-bearded man seemed like the memory of an old-time Christmas that had slipped back to its mountain home for a brief renewal of past pleasures.

Talitha carried the picture away with her as she went thoughtfully down the path toward the big pine where Martin waited.

XIII THE “STILL” CAVE

BY dawn the next morning, the little party set forth for the return trip across the mountains. The four had come the distance to Goose Creek on horses and mules hired from the school farm. Talitha was mounted on Dan Gooch’s sorrel he had unselfishly lent her, her father firmly refusing to allow his one mule to be taken from the place.

“I ’low they’ll find room on the farm fer the beastie, a spell,” said Dan, anxious to show Talitha a favour. “I’m reckonin’ on gettin’ down ter Bentville myself, come spring, ter see what the school air like and what you’re doin’ thar.”

“I wish you would make us a visit, Mr. Gooch,” urged Miss Howard, “and then come back and tell the Goose Creek folks all about it and bring them to Commencement.”

“You’d never know whar ter stow ’em all,” Dan smiled broadly.

“We’ll put up some tents on the campus,” put in Gincy. “You ought to see what a splendid, big place it is with such lovely trees—”

“It’s time we were starting,” called Martin in front, and the little cavalcade moved away. The sorrel was in the rear, but the faithful old beast did his best, and Talitha resolved that on reaching Bentville he should have a well-earned rest until his master came after him.

There was a wintry chill in the air, which was not surprising at that early hour. If the sun came out it would be delightful travelling. Martin watched the sky a little anxiously while the others laughed and chatted on unheeding. At last, over the bald peak of the mountain, the sun looked down at them through a veil of mist which gradually disappeared. A cool wind was all that prevented the day from being as delightful as the previous one had been. But their progress would necessarily be slow, for the sorrel proved to have little endurance. Talitha favoured him as much as possible by keeping behind the others and slipping down occasionally to walk beside him with encouraging pats.

“We can easily get as far as Joe Bradshaw’s,” said Martin. “They’ll be looking for us about sundown.”

The gorgeous colouring of autumn had gone from the mountains, but there was still the holly with its scarlet berries, the green of the laurel, the fir, and pine, and here and there, on hickory and oak, a patch of colour where the leaves still clung.

At noon the party stopped for dinner in a hollow shielded from the wind. They spread out the eatables which they had brought in their saddlebags, on the thick, green grass. The horses and mules were tethered to graze, after being watered at a trickling rill which filtered out of the rocks close beside them.

After lingering longer than usual to give the sorrel a chance to rest, the company started on. Miss Howard looked at her watch; it was half-past one. “We’ll just about make it and that’s all,” she commented to herself cheerfully.

For some time after leaving the hollow they followed the dry bed of a stream. The rocky bottom was covered with loose stones, and now and then a small boulder jutted out from the bank. They were in shadow, for hedging them in on either side, rose the mountains thickly covered with pine. At last they left the stream bed and turned into a trail leading over the mountain. Rising above it was the ridge of still another which they must cross before the Bradshaw home could be sighted.

In the effort of guiding their animals into the trail, they did not at first notice the change in the sky until suddenly Martin, ahead, looked up. The sun had disappeared, and a grey mist clung to the tall peaks. The air had grown cold—a sudden drop of the temperature—which was an unmistakable sign of the approaching storm. He did not call out to startle those in the rear, but on reaching a small cove he turned the mule he was riding into it, and beckoned to the others. They were coming up Indian file, and one by one halted beside him—all but Talitha. Martin could see her some distance below them. Something had happened to the sorrel, for his sister had dismounted and was leading it with difficulty.

“There’s a storm coming up.” Miss Howard shivered and looked around anxiously. “It’s growing colder every minute, I do believe; I never knew such a sudden change.”

“It must have been coming on since noon only we were so sheltered we didn’t notice it,” returned Martin. “Just hold Jack and I’ll go back and help Talitha,” slipping the mule’s rein into Abner’s hand.

The sorrel clung to the trail with three feet; the fourth was evidently disabled. The animal’s ears were laid back and there was a despairing look in his eyes. Vainly Talitha tugged at the rein while she gently urged him on.

“What’s the matter?” Martin inquired.

“Well, he’s all tuckered out for one thing, then he’s got something in his foot—a sharp stone, I reckon, for he’s limped ever since he left the creek bed. Poor thing, I might have known he couldn’t stand such a jaunt.”

With difficulty Martin got down and examined the injured member. It did not take him long, with the aid of his jack-knife, to extract the offending stone, which had cut an ugly gash. “There, that feels better, doesn’t it, old fellow? Just see if you can’t step along now.” He stroked the animal’s nose coaxingly. “You’d better go ahead, Tally, and we’ll follow.” The tired sorrel plucked up courage and limped after.

When they reached the cove Abner silently pointed to the peaks on the opposite range, and Martin saw with dismay that they were nearly buried in a storm of flying snowflakes which was gradually drawing nearer. The boys’ faces whitened as their eyes met. If they had been alone it would be serious enough with the prospect of a heavy snowfall to wipe out the trail, but with Miss Howard and the girls to look after—Martin felt a shiver, which was not from the cold wind, creep over him. It was Miss Howard herself who finally spoke with a calm decision.

“Boys, have you plenty of matches?”

“Yes,” they both answered.

“And we have enough left from our lunch to make quite a respectable supper. Well, it’s perfectly useless to think of going on to-night, I can see that; the sorrel can’t endure it for one thing and the storm would overtake us before we were halfway down the mountain. We’ve got to camp out for the night—”

“But where?” inquired Talitha, looking around in bewilderment. How bleak and lonely the mountains looked, how shadowy they were growing already!

“There, there, girls, we’re not going to worry,” Miss Howard said cheerfully, noticing the troubled faces. “I’ve discovered that this is the very place where we were caught in a heavy rain storm when I was out on extension work with Professor and Mrs. Denny, and we found such a nice place to spend the night. If I’m not mistaken I can go right to it—” A snowflake struck Miss Howard’s cheek, another and another. “We haven’t any time to spare. Come on and don’t lose sight of me for a minute.”

“Wait, please, Miss Howard,” called Martin. “Tally must ride Jack and I’ll lead the sorrel.” He helped his sister mount, and then the teacher turned her horse toward the farthest side of the cove, the others following. Martin saw one rider after another disappear, for the moment, over the edge of the slope as though they had mysteriously slipped from sight. He went on with a shamefaced feeling that he was not the one to find shelter for the little company—he was older than Abner. But as well as he knew the caves and passages around Goose Creek, these were strange to him; he had never once thought of the possibility of some time needing shelter among them. Although there was no way to help himself he felt very uncomfortable. He pulled his hat brim low to shade his eyes—the snow was coming faster—and watched the last of the straggling line that in spite of his efforts was getting farther and farther away, winding down around huge boulders and clusters of laurel and pine. Miss Howard had been the first to vanish, now Talitha on the submissive Jack was also out of sight. He urged his reluctant beast forward, several times nearly missing his footing.