The Hills of Refuge Part 21

"Oh yes! They are inseparable," he answered. He felt that he was admitting too much, and he turned the subject to that of the lessening sunlight on a cliff to their left. He thought the dense clouds ma.s.sing behind them indicated a high wind and a heavy downpour of rain.

But his companion was not thinking of the state of the weather. "You will go back to them some day, of course," she persisted.

Charles shuddered; she was probing a subject that he felt honor bound not to touch upon. She repeated her words, steadily fixing his eyes with her own.

"No," he repeated, firmly, "I shall never go back, Miss Rowland--never in the world. My future home is here, anywhere, but never there again."

"And you do not like to speak of your family? Is that it?" Mary went on, softly, sympathetically.

"I can't--I haven't the moral right to speak of them now. That is all I can say. I'm dead to my past, Miss Rowland. I am blotting it out.

Serving you in any capacity helps kill memories that ought to be dead.

There are memories that reproach and torture one. I have my share of them."

CHAPTER X

For perhaps a mile they trudged along in silence. Presently Mary stopped and turned on him.

"A drop of rain fell in my face," she said, looking up at the sky.

His eyes followed hers. Along the brow of a mountain to the west clouds as black and thick as the smoke of pitch were ma.s.sing. The tops of the trees in the near distance were swaying violently and the breeze had become cooler and was full of swift and contending currents. Little whirlwinds lifted the leaves at their feet and sent them sky-ward in shafts and spiral columns. More drops of rain fell. The brighter spot in the west was becoming cloud-veiled, and it was growing dark on all sides.

"We are sure to get caught," Mary said, in alarm. "It is an awful storm, both wind and rain. They are terrible here in the mountains when they rise suddenly like that. See, it is coming fast. What shall we do?"

He could offer no helpful suggestion. There was no sort of shelter in sight. Still they hurried on breathlessly, Mary leading the way. At times, in her haste, she plunged as aimlessly into tangled undergrowth as a pursued animal, and had to be extricated by his calm, firm hands.

"Running like this won't do any good," he advised her, gravely. "I'm afraid of one thing, very much afraid, and that is that we may lose our way. You see, up to now we had the light in the west to guide us, but it is all gone now. Those s.h.i.+fting clouds are very misleading."

"Oh, I'm sure we are right as to the direction," Mary said, "but I am afraid of the storm. See the lightning over there, and hear the thunder.

The storm is getting nearer, and it is dangerous among trees like these at such times. They are shattered and torn up by the roots very often."

It was raining sharply now, and the darkness had thickened so much that it was impossible to discern the landmarks which Charles had made note of as they pa.s.sed the spot before.

"Ah, we are right!" the girl suddenly cried. "I know that flat-faced boulder there, but it is miles and miles from home. I know the way now, but we can't possibly make it in time to escape the storm."

In a veritable sheet the rain beat down now. The thunder roared and the lightning flashed about them. The black clouds hurtled along the mountainside and drooped down from the threatening sky. The water was running in streams from Mary's bonnet. Charles jerked off his coat and was putting it about her when she protested.

"No, don't!" she cried. "You'll need it." She tried to resist, but, as if she had been an unruly child, he drew the garment about her forcibly and b.u.t.toned it at the neck.

"You must," he said, simply; "you must!"

"Must!" she repeated, sharply. "How dare you speak to me like that?"

"Pardon me, Miss Rowland," he said. "I don't want to offend you, but you must keep it on. You are not well. I have noticed your tendency to faintness. Your trouble, loss of sleep, and worry have weakened you.

Your feet are wet, and--"

"Thank you; I was wrong," she answered, as the wind bore his words away and the rain dashed into her face.

For a little while they forged their way through the wet bushes, wild vines, and mountain heather. Suddenly she paused again.

"We are in for it," she sighed. "There used to be an old hut of logs near the flat boulder. It is somewhere here. If we could find it we would be sheltered for a while."

"A hut?" he echoed. "Then we must find it if possible. The storm is just beginning. To be exposed to it might cost you your life."

"I think it is over that way," she replied, and they turned sharply in the direction she indicated. It was now so dark that they could scarcely see where they were walking. Streams newly made from the acc.u.mulating water on the heights above flooded their feet to the depths of their shoes, and the rain fell upon them as if by the pailful. Once Mary slipped and fell, and he lifted her as tenderly as if she had been a sick child.

"Too bad! too bad!" she heard him saying, and then: "Excuse me, but I must hold you." With that he put his arm around her waist. She shrank back for a moment, but she made no protest, and side to side, like a pair of lovers, they struggled along. Sometimes she stumbled, sometimes he, but the footing of one or the other always held.

"The hut must be here somewhere," Mary said. There was a vivid flash of lightning, and in it Mary saw a giant oak which she remembered. "We are right," she exulted, aloud. "It is just beyond that oak."

But other difficulties were to be met. A torrent of water coming down from the mountain ran between them and the goal. Again he lifted her in his arms, this time without protest on her part, and bore her across.

The rain, broken into a mist by the wind, filled their mouths, nostrils, and eyes. They could scarcely breathe, or see. Once he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it, and without apology wiped her face.

"You treat me as if I was a baby," she said, but the act had not displeased her. It was significant that he called her "Miss Rowland" the next moment, and that he wore the same air of humility as when she had "hired" him in the village store.

Another flash of lightning revealed the dark, low roof of the hut, and with his arm around her waist they hastened to it. Its door was closed, but not locked, and he easily pushed it open. Drawing her inside, he stood facing her. Neither spoke; both were panting from the loss of breath.

"This will never do," he said. "You will take cold in those wet things.

I must make a fire."

"A fire?" she said. "How could you?"

"I have matches in a water-proof box," he explained. "But I'll have to be careful in opening it. My hands are dripping wet."

"Shake them out on the floor," Mary suggested, "and you can then pick them out separately."

"Good! I shouldn't have thought of it," he laughed. He took the box from the pocket of his coat and carefully emptied the matches on the floor a little away from where they were standing. "Now," he said, picking one up. "Here goes."

It failed, owing to the water dripping from his hands. He tried again.

This time he was successful and he raised the burning match above his head. The tiny flame lit up the room. Bare walls of logs from which the dry bark was falling, a floor of planks, a roof of split-oak boards, a chimney of logs plastered over with clay, and a broad stone hearth were all they saw, save a heap of fire-wood and small pieces of pitch-pine in one corner.

"Fine!" he cried. "That wood will burn like tinder. It looks to be very old." A gust of damp wind from the door blew the light out. Again they were in the dark. "Wait," he advised. "I'll gather up some of that dry bark, and then we'll set it on fire."

"Yes; it will burn easily," she agreed.

He noted that she spoke as if she were s.h.i.+vering with cold, and he made haste to get the bark. With his hands full, he groped to the chimney and bent down over the ashes in the fireplace. She picked up a match and succeeded in striking it. She held it against the heap of bark. The bark ignited. He hastened for more, and then, as the flame was now sufficient, he added small pieces of wood, and then larger sticks. Soon a fine fire was crackling and blazing in the crude stone fireplace.

"You must get dry," he said, taking his coat from her shoulders.

"Everything depends on it."

She laughed almost merrily, as they stood side by side in the rising steam from their drying clothing.

"You must sit down, and put out your feet to the fire," he declared.

"I'll make a seat for you." He brought some logs from the corner and made two heaps of them about five feet apart, and then raised one of the loose floor boards, and laid it across, thus forming a sort of bench.

She smiled gratefully; sat down and put out her feet to the flames.