The Breath of Slander or Virtue Triumphs by Ida Reade Allen

Originally published: May 3, 1910

Genres: Romance

Dime Novel Bibliography: https://dimenovels.org/Item/1158/Show

Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/239030160-the-breath-of-slander

Gutenberg link: https://gutenberg.org/ebooks/76289

Chapters: 32

CHAPTER I

A MOUNTAIN STORM

It was a warm spring day—an oppressively warm day—although the stormy month of March was not half gone, and the snow still lingered in the hollows and around the roots of the scrub oaks where the warm rays of the sun could not reach it.

March had come in like a lamb, and here it was the fourteenth day of that usually boisterous month, and there had not been a stormy or disagreeable day yet.

It was a wonderfully early spring—quite unprecedented. Even those chronic liars, “the oldest inhabitants,” could not remember a warmer one. So they sat around the village store, while they droned about the hot summers and cold winters they had seen, being content to let the present season alone as being beyond even their fertile imaginations.

The scene opens at a little wayside village among the mountains of Pennsylvania. A very little village it was, with the usual blacksmith shop sending forth the musical jingle and clang of hammer and anvil, and the usual general store, keeping for sale or exchange the usual stock of everything from medicine to hardware, and from books to boots and shoes, not to mention such little matters as stoves and farm tools. In front of this establishment was the usual oaken railing, supported by stout oaken posts, and used for the double purpose of hitching horses and furnishing a comfortable seat for the village loafers.

A little farther down the road, and on the opposite side, there stood the usual village tavern, with its ample stoop or veranda, littered with the usual number of stools and chairs in the usual state of dilapidation.

This was about all there was of the little village, and one might have sat on the tavern stoop, where the fat, sleepy-looking host was sitting now, and look in vain for more.

He, however, did not appear to be looking for more, or, in fact, for anything: for he sat and smoked, and stared placidly around him, where everything was flooded with the yellow sunshine, and where a few flies and other insects—adventurous fellows, who had ventured out of their winter’s nap rather earlier than usual—now buzzed languidly around him, as if they were hardly decided if it was worth their while to remain awake.

Beyond this there was nothing to see but the mountain road that wound in and out and around all obstructions, and stretched out in the distance like a very dirty ribbon—only this, and the low-lying mountain in front of him, and a hazy view of higher ones beyond.

It was all calm and slumberous, and mine host had sat placidly smoking his after-dinner pipe for some time without interruption—not that the interruption appeared to disturb him any when it did come, for he had been spoken to several times from the interior of the house without deigning a reply—when he was joined by a tall, fine-appearing young man, whom he addressed briefly with “Mornin’.”

“Good morning,” replied the young man civilly, though it was afternoon. “How far do you call it to the nearest town, landlord?”

“Well, sir. I calls thet diffrunt ’cordin’ to ther way you goes. Ef you goes round by th’ road, it’s a good, fair twenty-eight miles; but ef you goes over th’ mounting, it’s a mighty scant fifteen miles.”

The fat, lazy landlord looked on placidly while his guest made the necessary preparations for departure. He was a fat, not over-cleanly man, was the village landlord; not much given to talking, and—probably for that reason—bearing the reputation among his village cronies of being a powerful thinker; very slow in his movements, and still slower, if possible, with his thoughts, so, by the time he appeared to realize his misfortune in losing the only guest his house had entertained for some days, the traveler had made all snug, and was filling his short brier pipe ready for the road.

“Now, landlord,” he said briskly, after taking one or two preparatory whiffs, “if you will just show me the road, I’ll make a start.”

Somewhat discomfited by his guest’s promptness, the landlord, after closely examining the interior of his pipe, as if for inspiration, and shaking his head profoundly after, as if he failed in finding any—probably because the pipe was empty—pointed his fat index finger down the road.

“I know that,” said the young man, testily; “but where is this mountain road?”

“Ain’t none—leastwise no road. There’s er kind er path fer th’ first few miles, en then yer get to ther top, an’ kin see yer way down.”

“Where is this path?” demanded the young man, impatiently.

Now, instead of answering this simple question, the landlord sauntered heavily to the door, and after staring for some moments at the horizon, sauntered as heavily back to the bar, and proceeded slowly and carefully to fill his pipe, a proceeding that seemed to tax the good nature of the traveler severely.

“Guess you didn’t hear my question, did you?” he inquired sarcastically.

The landlord nodded his head slowly, and lighted his pipe.

“Then why don’t you answer it?” demanded the young man, with increased impatience. “Where is that confounded path?”

“Stranger, ye’ll hev ter take th’ road,” replied the host, puffing calmly. “Yer can’t go over th’ mounting terday.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause, stranger, hit’s a-goin’ ter storm,” replied the landlord, with an air of having definitely settled the whole matter.

The stranger saw the flood of sunshine covering everything with its golden gleam, glanced rapidly at the cloudless sky overhead, and burst into a hearty laugh at the transparent ruse. Who but a tavern-keeper could think of a storm on such a day?

“Now landlord,” he said, after exhausting his mirth, “I’m really sorry that I am obliged to leave you today; but I’m going, and I’m going by way of the mountain; so the sooner you point out the beginning of that confounded path, the sooner I can get on my way. Now, where does it start from?”

Without a word in reply, the host marched heavily to the door, and pointed to an opening in the scrubby timber directly in front of the house, and only separated therefrom by the road and a stretch of field devoted apparently to the cultivation of stones; and that was all it seemed capable of bearing.

Without a word, the traveler slung his bag over his shoulder, and started out.

“Say, stranger!” called the landlord.

The young man stopped.

“Hit’s a-goin’ ter rain.”

“Let it rain,” replied the stranger cheerfully, at the same time starting away.

“An’ hit’s a-goin’ to blow.”

If the stranger heard him this time, he paid no attention, but continued his way through the gate and into the field.

“Ah, stranger, hit’s er goin’ ter sto-r-r-r-m!” called the landlord, with both hands to his mouth, trumpet-like.

But the stranger only looked back and laughed mockingly, and when he reached the opening in the woods he again turned. The landlord was standing in the same place, apparently making further dismal predictions as to the weather.

With a wave of his hand, the traveler turned and entered the woods; a step more carried him out of sight, as he was already out of hearing; and turning his face resolutely to the path, he started sturdily on his journey.

Not a very resolute face, this man’s, but a good-natured face framed by dark hair, with a shrewd, good-natured pair of dark eyes—a pair of eyes that could laugh, though perhaps with something more of scorn than merriment. But for all their merry twinkle, they looked changeable. In fact, viewing him as he trudged along, one would have noticed an unstable look on every feature.

There was nothing wicked in the face, though it betrayed some traces of passion; nothing even mean about it—a face, taken altogether, that was likely to create a good impression at first sight; better at first sight, perhaps, than after a more extended acquaintance.

There was a restless energy in his stride that spoke well for his physical training, and his long, swinging step had carried him through the patch of scrub oak and to the base of the mountain before he had done laughing at the stupid landlord.

“Storm! ha, ha!” he laughed, as he emerged into the bright spring sunshine, and inhaled deep breaths of the bracing mountain air. “A storm today, the stupid!” and he laughed contemptuously.

Not so stupid after all, if he had but known, for the storm was nearer than he thought, but he trudged on, content to be in the sunshine on his side of the mountain, and neither knowing nor caring for the thick bank of clouds that were rapidly nearing him, and that were darkening all the face of nature with their gloom.

They were on the other side of the mountain as yet, so he laughed at the landlord’s stupidity and trudged merrily along.

Somewhat rougher was the road now, and harder climbing, and the rougher and harder it became the higher he ascended. Still he trudged on, stopping now at times to rest on some wayside stone, and muttering a curse over the roughness of the road.

He was well up the mountain before he realized the truth of the landlord’s prediction.

“The old rascal told the truth after all,” he muttered discontentedly; “and I suppose I am in for a wetting unless I can find some shelter.”

But there was very little time to look for shelter now, for the mountain storm was on him, and over him, and all around him, before he fairly realized his danger—with a roaring and thundering as if all of heaven’s artillery had been drawn into action at once, with lightning and rain and wind all hustling and bustling around him, as if the gods had doomed his insect life to extermination, and had called out all their forces to execute the order.

Insect; ay, so he felt himself to be. What but an insect when compared with the awful majesty of this storm? Still, insect-like, and with all the insect tenacity of life, he labored on, clutching at every root and shrub in his path, sometimes lying flat on his face and clinging to the very earth; sometimes thrown down and whirled over and over by the violence of the wind, only to crawl painfully upward again as soon as he could obtain a foothold.

So he climbed on, stopping for shelter wherever he could find a bush or projecting rock, only to struggle on again after he had got his breath. And so the day passed and the darkness came to increase his misery and danger—not slowly, or with any faint premonitions of a change, but suddenly and completely, as if all the light of the universe had been extinguished at once.

There seemed to be no twilight on this gloomy mountainside, and the darkness of midnight came down and enfolded him as completely as if he were buried in a cloud, and then came fright and despair.

He had long since lost the path, and could only struggle on a foot at a time, as he could feel his way ahead of him. Still he struggled upward.

At last in his despair he stopped, and turning his back to a stone, tried to rest. He was numb and cold, and so completely exhausted that it seemed impossible to struggle longer. Would this black night never pass, or this storm cease, he wondered?

As yet the storm had abated nothing of its violence, but roared and thundered and tore at him, as if it raged at his daring to maintain his feeble life, and was determined to wrest it from him.

He was going down now, but whether he had crossed the ridge of the mountain, or was going down the path he came, he did not know. He only knew that the storm was at his back, and that it required a greater effort to keep his footing.

He hardly realized that he was wounded and bleeding; but weak and wounded as he was, he fully realized the necessity of continued exertion; and so he struggled on, fighting hard and stubbornly for his life, as only brave men fight in the face of danger that seems impossible to surmount, and when they regard death as inevitable.

Morning at last, thank God: and ah, how fervent and heartfelt were those thanks, for with the early dawn there came a break in the black clouds overhead; and as suddenly as the storm had overtaken him, it passed away, rumbling and growling sullenly, as if angry that his life had lasted in spite of its awful rage.

He was down the mountain now and in a patch of scrubby timber; but whether the same he had gone through on the preceding day or not he could not tell.

As the morning light became stronger and clearer, he discovered a small hut or cabin—deserted and partly ruined. To this he wearily made his way, and sunk exhausted and senseless on the floor.

And the sun came out bright and warm, and all nature gloried in its rays. Birds sung, insects hummed and chirped, and all things animate and inanimate seemed to rejoice in the coming of spring—as if storms were not.