Then for a time we remained silent. The day was intensely hot. The encroaching sun burned the yellow dog which had been lying in the yard, and he arose reluctantly and slouched over into the deeper shade by the foundation of the house—into a dusty hole which no doubt he had previously dug in a search for coolness. There, after gnawing his ribs, his black nose wrinkling oddly as he did so, he dropped his chin upon the ground and slowly closed his eyes. A rigor passed over the side where the uncaptured flea still lingered, then, with a sigh, the dog slept. A brown hen, wings outheld from her body and bill agape, strolled dazedly through the shimmering air, singing that dolorous, unmusical, droning song begotten by the temperature. I have never heard that song from a hen's throat with the thermometer under ninety. It must have been an effect of the heat. Beyond, the green vastitudes stretched endlessly—away to where the big wicked world throbbed and seethed and strove. All these externals passed before my vision in a twinkling, and then my gaze was back on the girl sitting quietly by me, looking with eyes which sent no message to her brain upon the curving lines which meant knowledge. Her hair was up again to-day—for bodily comfort, I judge—and damp, curled strands clung flat to her milk-white neck. Below these, tiny drops of moisture stood, like baby pearls upon porcelain. I could not grow accustomed to the dazzling effect produced by her piled-up tresses. I could see neither comb, barette, nor pins, but no doubt a number of the "invisible" variety of the last were tucked away somewhere in the intricacies of that matchless coronet.
I asked if there were pen and ink on the place. She thought there was, and directly returned with both. Then the need arose for something suitable to hold the copybook while she traced her first letters. I knew there must be a table in the dining room, but I much preferred to remain where we were.
How I ever thought of such a thing I cannot guess, but I suggested the ironing board, and in another minute it was across each of our knees, and I was twisting the pen-staff about in Celeste's warm fingers to the proper angle. Her forefinger persisted in bending in at the first joint, and I as diligently straightened the contrary digit, not minding the task at all, for some occult reason. Naturally a huge blot was the first result, and the Dryad was for licking it off, as she had seen Gran'fer do once upon a time. I told her that wasn't nice, and laid the ink in the sun to dry, no blotting paper being available. When she finally got a start the girl did remarkably well. It was quite plain she had talent in this direction. I permitted her to rewrite the model line half way down the page, then told her lessons were over for the day. Nor did I neglect to bestow some well deserved compliments upon her aptness.
Granny may have been gone three hours, but I was nevertheless amazed when I saw her toiling up the winding path a short time later. Surely I had not been there over thirty minutes, all told! Far off as she was when I first sighted her, there seemed to be something menacing in the very way she got over the ground. As she drew quickly nearer, I observed that her round, red face was set in lines of furious anger, and she opened and closed her mouth in gasps, as a fish does on land. In spite of the assurance the Dryad had given me, a subtle sense told me that I was the object of her rage. I turned to Celeste, to find wonder and astonishment depicted on her countenance.
"Whut on earth ails Granny?" she whispered.
"God knows!—and we will too, now"; for the old lady had halted a man's length away, a truly formidable spectacle.
Her emotion for the moment was actually so intense that she could not speak. Her throat rolled red and fat over the collar of her dress, and she was shaking visibly. I knew the storm would break presently, though I was totally in the dark as to what I had done to arouse such a tempest, so I gently lifted the ironing board from our laps, propped it carefully against a post, and got up, that I might take the blast standing. I gave no greeting, nor made any attempt at pacification. But the breath almost left my body when the first vial was uncorked.
"Yousneak'n' fur'ner! Mak'n' love to Father John's niece, then try'n' to fool 'n' ruin my Lessie!"
I fell back a step and threw up my hand, a deadly, numbing horror spreading through me. Before I could recover enough for speech Granny's needle-sharp tongue was going again.
"I know yo'! I've knowed yo' all 'long, but that daffy Jer-bome 'n' that pore fool gal 'lowed I's wrong 'n' too hard on yo', I tol' 'em way back yan whut yo' 's hang'n' 'bout fur—yo'scamp! W'en a w'ite-faced, slick-tongued city feller comes spark'n' a gal whut lives whur this 'n' does, yo' c'n put it down he 's a-doin' th' dev'l's work. I knowed it, I tell yo', 'n' yo' didn't pull no wool overmyeyes! I've had 'sper'ence 'ith sich, 'n' onct in a lifetime 's 'nough, heav'n knows! Now take yo' seff off, yo' hyp—hyp—yo' 'ceiv'n', 'ceptious vilyun, 'n' never so much as lay eyes on my gal—my precious lam'—ag'in, ur I'llscratch'em out o' yo' head!"
I paid little heed to this lurid denunciation. After the astounding revelation of her first speech, I strove to get my mind in working order, for it had suffered temporary paralysis. Before the voluble, bitter flow of words had ceased, I knew what had happened, and my face crimsoned with shame and anger. I dared not look at the girl at my feet yet, to see how this harsh accusation had affected her. Granny saw the red in my cheeks, and blazed out afresh.
"Yo' mought well blush, yo' blaggard; a-comin' 'ith yo' hellish notions to do hurt 'n' harm to this motherless chil'! Yo'—"
"Hush!" I cried, drawing nearer the angered old woman in my deep earnestness. "Don't say those things again in the presence of—her! They are lies! Everything you have said is a black, cowardly lie!"
"Do yo'dareto tell me that his rev'rence, that holy pries', lied to me? Yo'—yo'—"
She thrust her hands toward my throat with her fingers working convulsively.
I controlled myself, grasped her wrists and brought her arms down, then looked hard into her eyes as I answered:
"No, Father John did not lie, but Beryl Drane did. I have never spoken a word of love to her. I have seen her only twice. Once when I got her out of the river when her boat upset, and a second time when I went to see Father John. I believe I offended her, unintentionally, at that time, but I have never made love to her for the best of reasons—I have no feeling for her but that of pity. She told a dangerous, dastardly falsehood when she declared to her uncle that I had spoken of love to her. All of this I swear to be the truth; on the cross, on the Bible, on my mother's sacred honor! And I respect and honor Lessie as I would my own sister!"
Truth alone is a powerful weapon, and I could see that Granny was impressed, though not convinced. She still viewed me in truculence and disgust, but there was a subtle change in her demeanor. I could feel it more than I could see it. I waited, knowing that I must not be too eager in my disclaimers. Granny stood, plainly taken aback, and when she spoke her voice had sunk to its natural compass.
"I dunno. It don't 'pear right to me.... Whut cause has a gal to make up sich a yarn as this?—tell me that!"
She flung the question at me with a triumphant flare.
I hesitated. Should I tell the true reason? Should I tell how this girl had tried to flirt with me, and then, when I had refused, had concocted this devilish scheme which only a bad woman could have thought of? I owed her nothing, not even consideration now, and she had made a bold stroke to blacken me irretrievably in the eyes of Celeste. But something held my tongue. I could not betray her baseness except as a last resort. I stood with eyes down, thinking. The old beldam facing me deemed it was from shame, and my inability to answer her question. I remained silent.
"Yo' 've lied to me!" came her voice, shrill again, and carrying a victorious note. "Whut cause has she, I say? Yo' dunno. Cause 'nough, I 'low! 'N' yo' can't answer, git yo' gone frum these premises, 'n' never sot yo' foot on 'em ag'in!"
I lifted my head at this, and replied in low, even words.
"I know, but I cannot tell you. But believe me, I am innocent of this charge."
Mingled with Granny's vindictive scream of derision was a heart-broken moan from the door-step. I turned quickly, to see my Celeste, hands over her eyes, run weeping in the house.
I have descended into hell.
I had no idea of the intensity of my own nature until the deeps were stirred. Few of us ever come to a full realization of what we are, or may become. I have always thought with some degree of pride that my acquaintance with myself was perfect. More than that, I was positive that my ego was entirely subservient to my will. So it always has been until now. But the reason for this is that I have lived upon the crust of life, have walked calmly and confidently upon the tops of things. It is indeed a poor sort of fool who does not know himself in his relations to the superficialities of his daily existence. How satisfied I was! How willing to meet emergencies and demands, in the full faith that I could cope with all such. I do not think I am an exception to my fellow creatures in this. All men whose natures are well rounded and adjusted have this same idea. It is essential to their progress. We must perforce believe in our own abilities before we can perform any achievements. So I am not ashamed to write these words. I have never been conceited, nor puffed up. I have had no cause to be, but I don't believe I would have been had I reasons—or what silly people give as reasons, for really there is never any justification for such a mental attitude.
Neither am I ashamed to say that I have descended into hell. At first sight it may seem weakness, but upon investigation it will be found the reverse is true. I did not take the plunge voluntarily, although my perhaps foolish adherence to a Quixotic theory undoubtedly had a deal to do with precipitating me downward. From the fact that my feet have strayed along the gloomy, thorn-set paths of hell for the past week, I have awakened to a newer and truer knowledge of myself. Had my feelings been on the surface only, the past seven days would have found me philosophically plodding through the forest recesses in search of my mystical life-plant, or busily engaged in my garden, or curled up in an easy chair reading one of my favorites. Not one of these natural things have I done, for the simple reason that I have been a dweller in hell instead, and in this grim demesne there is neither life-plant, garden nor books. But there is torture, in exquisite variety. The world-worn and cynical may sniff and declare that a man beyond thirty should have passed this sentimental, simpering age. I don't know how that may be. I cannot answer. I can only set down that which befell me, and I choose to regard as strength, rather than weakness, that quality which has enabled me to suffer like unto a damned soul. Surely if any doubt ever flickered on the horizon of my conscience, that doubt has been swept away and annihilated utterly. I am possessed by a legion of devils which escort me hourly on my way; grinning, fiendish, sleepless devils which leap about my feet with gibe and curse, and dance upon my pillow in a fiery saraband when I fain would forget in sleep. Sleep! When did I sleep? Sunday night? No, God's mercy! Sunday night I wandered bareheaded, coatless, for miles and miles, hour after hour. I did not choose my way. I did not even take the road leading down from the plateau. I think I must have eaten something mechanically, then came out of the Lodge whose walls were shutting off my breath, and made straight for the closest point of descent. It was near the lone pine, between cedar bushes which ruthlessly scratched my unheeding face. Here the declivity was steep and rough. Had I been moving in the world I never would have taken it, but in hell one cannot choose his path. I went down. I fell. I collided roughly with the trunks of trees. I tripped, I stumbled, I cursed, and went on. I came to a cliff. It sank sheer, and below was darkness. I lay down, rolled my body over, hung by my hands, and dropped. I knew not, neither cared, where I might alight. I splashed into a shallow pool not over six feet beneath. Then came leagues after leagues of tireless walking. I noted neither distance nor time. At last I burst out upon a huge, flat rock, overhanging a valley of majestic length and breadth. A gibbous moon brightened the sky and silvered the slopes about me. Then for a few moments I was on earth again, brought back by the magical beauty of the scene. But my respite was indeed brief. The black gulf of perdition closed over me again as the merciless hand of Fate twisted anew the iron in my soul, and I turned away from that glimpse of the earth with my teeth chattering. How far had I strayed? Heaven knows. But it was past midday when I again sighted that sentinel-like peak beneath which I shelter.
The next night I sat face to face with the devil through the long, lonely, hideous hours. Ah! but he is a specious rogue! There never was a tongue on earth like unto his. But I met his arguments with a sort of bulldog, mean combativeness. So we talked back and forth, out there, in front of the Lodge. I occupied one bench, he the other, and our meeting was gruesome. How full he was of guile, sleek insinuation, plausible persuasion. At first his method was violent—but I shall tell first of how the encounter happened.
After a pretense at supper I clutched my cold pipe for company and crept out to the seat. I did not light up. Burning tobacco makes for solace at most times, but I knew my erstwhile cherished weed would be an affront to my taste and a stench in my nostrils that night. And as I sat, humped over and almost a-shiver because of the powerful emotions which had been racking me for forty-eight hours, and more, thinking of all I had lost, the Prince of Demons leaped full armed upon me, all unexpectedly, and his assault was fierce. At first I crouched under it sinisterly, as a man will when an evil takes him unawares. But another moment my heart and mind and soul had arisen simultaneously to my rescue, and together we fought a good fight. I doubt me if many unwritten battles were harder contested. Thus, beneath the stubborn resistance of my staunch and faithful allies, the Enemy's violence abated. But presently I knew that he had changed his tactics only, and had not withdrawn. For there he crouched on the bench just across from me, apparently unhurt, while I realized with much sadness and shame that each of my champions bore marks of the conflict. I remained silent, hoping my unwelcome visitor would depart, but instead he began now to leer and smirk at me ingratiatingly.
"What do you want?" I asked, surlily enough, for my spirit was sore within me, and this presence was most distasteful.
Said the Devil: "What doyouwant?"
Thereat he grinned ghastily, and wagged his head, while I felt my heart turn sick, and my bowels tremble. But I answered:
"I want that which is as far removed from you and your accursed power as God and his angels—a real woman's love!"
Now he laughed in raucous glee.
"And that's what you have lost—by playing the fool! Is it not so?"
"That's what I have lost—perhaps by playing the fool," I replied.
Said the Devil to me:
"And that very day you went back about sunset, driven by the barbs of your passion, to tell the old woman the truth. You could not gain admittance to the house. You saw no one. You have been back twice. You have laid in wait. But you have failed to get speech with any in the house. Is it not so?"
I nodded assent.
"Then what?" continued the Devil.
"Hell—and you!" I retorted, in desperation.
Then the Devil edged closer to me along the plank; he seemed to writhe across it like something with a hurt back. It made my flesh creep to see him. He leaned toward me through the intervening space, and stretching out his ugly, snake-like neck, hissed:
"Honor and virtue are lies! Pleasure is truth. Take her—"
Up I sprang, fist at shoulder, and lunged at that fiendish visage with all the power of my body. I hit nothing, the impetus of the stroke wheeled me entirely around, and there stood mine Enemy, hands on hips, shaking with silent laughter.
I stood and glared at him in angry helplessness.
"Easy—easy!" he chuckled. "You are not the first to shrink at giving up a cherished chimera. You see I am much older than you, and know all of humanity's foibles and make-believes. I am your friend. In your mind you have created an angel out of a piece of ignoble clay. Listen, while I prove to you that I am your friend, and show you a way to success."
Thereupon his vileness became so bold and horrible that I will not soil this white paper with a transscript of it, and I sank upon a bench, elbows on knees and face in hands, listening to the damnable rigmarole because I could not help it. My visitor was beyond personal violence—witness my recent fruitless attempt to strike him—or time and again I would have closed with him and slain him, or been slain. Shudders of shame and rage swept me from head to foot, and my cheeks grew so hot they burned my palms. Hours passed. At times the Devil relaxed, and a sort of armistice prevailed, then he would renew his merciless planning for my destruction, and how smooth and easy the road appeared under the magic of his voice! Throughout the entire night I remained humped over, shaking at intervals as some especially diabolical sentence fell upon my unwilling but helpless ears; holding my tongue, because I knew that no words of mine would avail to move the monster at my elbow.
Hast ever sat up o' night with the Devil, my brothers? It comes to me that every one who lives, or has lived must have had this experience. 'Tis a blood chilling one, forsooth; at least when resistance is offered. Only when daylight stole ghost-wise through the still aisles of the immemorial wood did mine Enemy depart, and I got to my feet, trembling as one risen from a bed of grievous sickness, groped my way within, and fell with a groan across my cot.
Throughout that day I slept, and arose in the late afternoon feeling refreshed. My trouble was mental, and this long rest for my brain was most beneficial. I put as firm a check upon my thoughts as I could bring to bear, and methodically set about preparing my supper. Looking back as I write to-night, I know that my movements were erratic and strained. I built my fire in the kitchen stove calmly, but soon thereafter memory made a breach in the flimsy wall of reserve which I had upreared, and havoc began afresh. I burned my food. I broke two dishes. I blistered my fingers on the hot oven. Then I ate voraciously, almost viciously, and leaving the things unwashed, tore out to the companionship of my vast host of faithful trees. Read? I could no more have held my eyes to printed lines that night than I could measure the sun's diameter. The Book says there is a time for everything. This week has been my time to visit the nether world, while yet alive; to become almost insane, while retaining a degree of sense. It may be I shall omit this chapter entire when the end of my story is reached. I am writing it to-night, because in doing so I open a safety valve. I have been fearfully surcharged with the intensest sort of feelings, and I find that it gives me some relief to pour them out upon the pages of my journal. When I grow again to be the reasoning man I was last Sunday—if I ever do—I shall read these lines again. If they seem perfervid, unnatural, overdrawn, I shall wipe them out, in deference to the gentle critic who never saw a red-haired Dryad, and consequently cannot have the least understanding of what I have been driving at in this night's record. I know I have already penned thoughts and emotions which will cause the phlegmatic cynic to damn my story as unreal and banal. In like manner I know there are others—scarcely will they be found in the critic class, I fear—whose hearts will warm to me in kindest sympathy. These, mayhap, will be those of like excessive temperaments, who have looked on Beauty to their cost. Yea, like Priam, and Menelaus, and that old war-dog, Ulysses himself, and the hosts of others whose eyes beheld the ruinous loveliness of Argive Helen. On her pylon tower she sang, and men died, demented and hopeless, struggling for a single smile! Why were all famous beauties in history and mythology red-haired? Who can answer? From echoless time it seems to have stood as a type of perfection. I know what it has meant to me—dear Christ!—since that spring day when I saw it intertwined with dogwood blossoms. To-night—I am writing in desperation, that I may perchance get some sleep when I have worn myself out at the table by which I sit—I say to-night that I would rather live here on Baldy's lap forever with Celeste for my wife; here, in the Lodge, alone with her, than to be the consort of the mightiest queen of earth!
I rushed out to the sheltering arms of my faithful trees, and stood among them. I had nothing on my head. The moon was larger, and in its light I seemed in some enchanted place. Then the craze to move—to walk, drove me down to the ravine. Unthinkingly I turned toward the Dryad's Glade. After a while I halted, overcome all at once by the supernatural radiance which permeated every cranny of that spreading wilderness. Just where I stood the trees were not so dense. Twenty and thirty feet apart some of them grew, and though many lateral branches thrust far out to intermingle, the myriad moon rays found numerous paths and peepholes to the earth below. It also chanced that I had stopped in a spot where the spiring trunks rose naked of boughs to a considerable height. This peculiarity was a great aid to the diffusion of the blue-white, misty atmosphere which was all about me. I seemed to stand in a ghost land; everything was shadowy; even the rough boles appeared tenuous, ready to dissolve and disappear at a breath of wind. But there was no wind. I stared all about me, marveling at this common mystery of moonshine which was yet so unfathomable; feeling it sink into my soul in peace giving waves, comforting my tired breast. So I folded my arms and leaned against a near-by oak, determining to stay just there. It was the first moment of waking calm I had known since—How blissful it was! How peaceful! How past all poor words of mine to describe! Picture primeval creation. No hewn-down trees, no unsightly stumps, no chips from the relentless ax. Merely a mighty forest which had been such always. Solitude, silence. An all-enveloping, blue-white night, and one lone man striving for ease of mind and soul in the midst of these eternal realities. How good it was to feel my tight breast loosen; to feel that awful clamp dropping away from my temples, where it had been pressing and fretting me almost to madness. I breathed deep of that clear, sweet air; huge, delightful respirations which made me feel light-headed. And even as a smile of appreciation crept to my lips, and my eyes half closed under the weird spell of the place, I knew that I was not alone. Down a winding vista, far off, something was moving. The distance was too great and the light too poor for me to tell what it was. A gray shape was disturbing the nebulous perspective; a shape which at moments almost assumed proportions, to become at once as something almost of the imagination. I did not change my attitude, for as yet only a mild curiosity was present. It might be anything from a stray cow to a moonshiner on his way to work. Be it what it might, I hoped it would not disturb me, but wend its way. It was coming toward me; I could not doubt it directly. It would pass me at a right angle, perhaps thirty feet off. I did not care to be seen if it was human; I was in no mood to sacrifice a portion of this wonder-night to rustic inanities. I slipped quietly around into the shadow of my oak. There came a sound, like a silvery laugh wedded to a harsh cackle, and this was followed by the swift patter of running feet, tapping in a muffled tread the moss- and leaf-strewn ground. I thrust out my head to see what these strange sounds meant. God above! The Dryad and the Satyr, hand in hand, dashed by my hiding-place like a hurricane. She was next to me. What she wore I cannot say. It was something all white, girded at the waist with a vine, for I saw leaves and tendrils hanging from it. She had shaken her hair down. The Satyr was without his hat, and his ragged coat streamed out as he tore along. I glimpsed his face, and it reflected honest merriment only. Just opposite me they laughed again, without apparent reason, as children do in a frolic, and how incongruous it sounded; Celeste's musical bell tones, and Jeff Angel's cracked and jarring voice. So, hand in hand, in perfect understanding and good-fellowship, these two Children of Nature romped through the moonlit lanes of their beloved woods, happy in their very wildness and unrestraint.
Before I could recover from my profound astonishment they had disappeared down a misty aisle hung with trembling, diaphanous, luminous shadows; had merged with the pearl-gray gloom of the middle distance, and a wild, eerie strain of something which might well have been borrowed from a barbaric chant drifted back to my stunned sensibilities. I caught the notes only, but they drove through to my brain like fire-barbed arrows, and stung it into action. She had passed almost within reach of my arm! She! The one because of whom this awful abyss had opened up for me. She had passed, and I had stood like a dolt and let her go! "Lessie! Lessie!" I sprang forward, goaded by love and despair, and ran after them with all the swiftness I could command. "Dryad! Dryad!" I called, at the top of my voice, but no answer came. I stopped, and with hand against a tree held my breath to listen. Not a sound but my own blood hammering in my ears. Then as a full realization came to me of the opportunity which had been offered, and which I had stupidly missed, a feeling of mad recklessness seized me, and I bounded forward again, blindly, knowing only that somewhere ahead of me was Celeste. Once I saw something white, and rushed toward it with outheld arms and a strangled cry of gladness. It was a portion of a projecting earth-bank, covered with a growth bearing tiny white blossoms. The moon struck it full, and had worked the cruel deception. I fell upon the pure little flowers and tore them savagely; flung them down and ground my feet upon them, then took up my search once more. Rage filled my breast. Rage at myself, at Fate, at Granny, at Beryl Drane, and this animal emotion must have blinded my eyes, for in my headlong, methodless pursuit I at length ran full force into a huge beech, and dropped senseless at its feet.
I don't think it could have been long before I roused, for there was no lessening of the brilliant light, such as happens when the moon declines. It was well for me that I was unconscious but a short time, I suspect, for as my eyes came open I at once became aware of another pair above me. A pair which seemed made of sulphur, marked with alternate red and green rings, glowing wickedly. Then I made out the contour of a dim body perhaps three feet in length stretched upon a low limb just over me. It was a gigantic wild-cat, and he was stalking me. I doubt not he would have dropped within another five minutes, for even as I watched, his back began to arch and the claws of his hind feet to rustle along the bark. With that suggestive motion his head also drooped below the limb, and it came to me he was gauging the distance for his spring. I was no hunter, but 'Crombie was, and from him I had learned that wild-cats will not attack a man unless driven by hunger, or brought to bay in a corner. So I sat up incontinently; threw out my arms and shouted. With the agility of his tribe he turned promptly, and another second was scuttling up the tree.
I found I had a painful welt across the top of my forehead, but no other injury was apparent. My heart turned sick as recollection came back on swallow wings. There was nothing left but to go home. I had myself to thank for my predicament. But where was home? Whither my flight had led me I possessed no idea. I had tried to follow the elusive wake of two night-roamers, and they had proven will-o'-the-wisps. Why had not the Dryad stopped at my call? I wondered, as I moved doggedly away from the spot. Surely she had heard. Surely she knew who it was, for no one else called her by that name. Could it be that Granny had perverted her mind? Or was it that she did not care? That I was only an incident, and had been cast from her life as quickly and suddenly as I had entered it? I would not believe this; I could not believe it. The blow which I had so recently sustained wrought a radical change in my mental condition, and while my breast still burned with implacable resentment toward the nameless something which had caused me to miss catching Celeste, I found that my thoughts were freer, and comparatively lucid. I could not believe that she had thrust me below her life's horizon, and gone singing through the woods as though nothing had happened. The idea was monstrous, appalling, revolting. It was wholly unacceptable. That my two visits to her home bore no fruit I laid at Granny's door. The old beldam had managed it in some way. Had kept the girl hidden, and had prevented anyone within the house from answering my summons. Why had the Dryad burst out weeping and run indoors when Granny thought she had convicted me of duplicity, and ordered me from the place? Ah! my soul! there was comfort in that! Celeste did not cry from fright; she was used to Granny's tantrums. She cried because for the moment she saw things in the same light and from the same angle as that old termagant—may her bones lie unburied! She did care for me—shedidcare for me—sheDIDcare for me, and I knew it. I could not solve her frolicking in the forest with her half crazy cousin. I could not unriddle her laughing and singing. Such things do not go with a heavy heart in the world I know, but it may be she sought relief in following her beloved habit of running, untamed and free, wherever her hoyden steps led her. I will see her yet, and I will find out. I will make her see the truth, and outwit that old she-devil who has cast me into torment with her meddling.
Moonset found me laboring up the road to the Lodge. I had stumbled upon my hill. Sleep came at once, and how doubly sweet was that deep, soundless, shoreless sea when I slipped out upon it in my Barque o' Dreams!
Next day was Wednesday. All the bulldog in my nature unleashed—and a major part of my nature is represented by the hybrid breed of bulldog and mule—I went to Lizard Point, with the determination to have speech with some one before I came away. I was no schoolboy, or callow youth, to be trifled with in this manner. I had certain rights as a gentleman, and these rights I intended to demand. But alas for human hopes—and determinations! I could not demand aught of an empty porch, or a closed and locked door, or blind-drawn, nailed down windows. I suppose they were nailed down, for my peculiar nature caused me to try and raise two of them, when repeated calls and much banging on the door did not bring any results. The sashes did not even tremble under my hands. I saw a broken rail lying near one corner of the house. I looked at it, and at the blank window. That would get me in, or get somebody out. Either would serve. I was so wrought up that I actually started toward that piece of wood before I realized what I intended doing. It would be house-breaking; malicious destruction of property—both of which were jail offenses. I must forego the execution of this project, much as it appealed to me at the moment. Nothing would suit Granny better. She would have the law on me in a trice, and be rid of me for good and all.
I went home.
It is not my purpose to recount in detail my wanderings the remainder of this week. Some of it would prove a repetition, and other of it uninteresting. If my sojourn in the Inferno was not as gruesome as the hero's of Ithaca, nor filled with majestic horrors like the immortal Dante's, yet it was undeniably true. One night I climbed the peak thrice between nightfall and daydawn. The last ascent found me so exhausted that I lay prone upon the table-like top, and watched the miraculous mystery of morning. It was the first time I had ever seen it from a great height, and the impression cannot be put into words. I am tempted to try—oh! the untold glory of the magical metamorphosis!—but no, I will withstand the inclination. The result would be akin to that a three-year-old child would obtain if given the necessary pigments and told to paint a sunset. There are times when even fools will not rush in; this is one of them.
Sunday night again as I pen these words. Seven days! Seven æons! My watch tells me it is twelve o'clock. As I pause for a moment a sound floats through my open window. It is not any night bird's trilling, for I know my singers of the dark, every one. Now it comes plainer. A sort of whistle, I should say, though it is a kind I have not heard for a long time. Its impression is fuzzy, as though done carelessly. I have heard boys whistle so, between their teeth. What is happening without my door, I wonder? No one bent on mischief, for such do not advertise their approach. The whistling has stopped. I declare I hear feet, and they draw nearer. I am not one bit alarmed. I think I prove this by continuing my task as the unknown footsteps steadily come closer. They stop. I look up. Arms crossed on my window-sill, head bobbing in greeting and goat tuft wagging, stands the Satyr. Before I can speak he loosens this tipsy stave:
"Say, Mr. Rabbit, you're look'n' mighty slim!""Yes, by gosh! ben a-spit'n' up phlim!"
"Say, Mr. Rabbit, you're look'n' mighty slim!""Yes, by gosh! ben a-spit'n' up phlim!"
"Come in here, Jeff Angel!" I cried, joy at sight of him mounting, and brightening my face with a smile of welcome. I dropped my pen and beckoned eagerly.
His grin broadened as he accepted my invitation forthwith, through the window. I meant that he should enter by the door, naturally, but instead he gave a leap, and came squirming and wriggling in like a great caterpillar. I was up and had him by the hand as soon as his feet touched the floor.
"Where's Lessie? How is she? How does she feel toward me? Why didn't you stop when I called you the other night? Talk, man! Hurry!"
The Satyr's grin seemed fixed.
"Whur 'n hell yo' ben?" he drawled, disengaging my clasp and sliding around the table to a seat on a box.
I rattled my chair on the floor impatiently and begged him to take that, but he demurred.
"Ain't used to 'em," he explained. Then, once more, in genuine and open curiosity—"Whur 'n hell yo' ben?"
"You've said it—in hell!" I answered, savagely, slipping my papers to one side and sitting upon the table's edge. "And Granny, your blessed aunt, is the one who shoved me in—good and deep!"
"Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw!" roared Jeff Angel, with an intonation indescribably ludicrous had I been in the humor to enjoy it. His head went back and his curving whisker shook at me like a bent forefinger.
"Damn it, man!" I gritted, worn irascible by that week's awful experiences; "don't laugh and joke the night away! Tell me about Lessie—then we'll make merry till morning if you wish!"
"We'll drink, till we sink, in th' middle o' th' road,But we won't go home till mawn—'n'!"
"We'll drink, till we sink, in th' middle o' th' road,But we won't go home till mawn—'n'!"
Thus caroled this irrepressible Antic, and drew from some recess in his rags the bottle which I had seen before.
I glared at him helplessly. Perhaps he was a trifle drunker than he was that other time, when I gave him his supper. There he sat swaying his head from side to side, peering mischievously at me with his watery blue eyes, irresponsible as an infant. Then I recognized the futility of anger, or importunity. This queer being would speak when he got ready, and not before. I made a great effort, and threw off the impetuousness which desired to know everything at once. I would humor this half civilized, half crazy person.
"Let us drink, then!" I agreed, bending forward with outstretched arm. "I need a bracer, anyway."
At this the Satyr sat up with distended lids and mouth ajar, holding himself to a rigid perpendicular by planting his hands on either side of him and putting his weight upon them.
"Shore 'nough?" he burst out.
"Shore 'nough!" I answered, with a positive nod. "Give me some of your white lightning; I've grown used to fire."
He picked up the bottle haltingly, as though constrained to unbelief in spite of my words and my waiting hand, and placing his thumb over the cob stopper, began to shake the contents furiously.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"Shakin' th' fusic off!" he enlightened me, and it was a moment or two before I figured out what he meant. Fusil oil in whisky rises; Jeff's vigorous action was to diffuse it. His corruption of the word told me that he was totally ignorant of what he really was doing.
He drew the stopper with his teeth, and handed me the bottle. I think I have said elsewhere in this narrative that drinking whisky is not one of my weaknesses. That is to say, it is not a habit. I can scarcely conceive of a man living thirty years in Kentucky without drinking a little whisky. I knew the stuff I held was vile, but I put it to my lips for two reasons. I was dead tired, and I wanted to set this contrary creature's tongue to going on topics which would interest me. I took a big mouthful, swallowed, and thought my time had come. Hot? My throat closed up, tight, and for a time I could not breathe. My mouth burned as though it had been cauterized. I slid from the table, choked, coughing, my eyes running water. Back to the kitchen I tore for a draught from the bucket on the shelf—for something that would unstop my windpipe. Pelting my ears as I ran were the high-pitched, cackling notes of the Satyr, volley after volley, as he hugged his knees and rocked and weaved in unrestrained delight.
"Whut's the matter?" he queried, in mock surprise, as I reappeared with my handkerchief busy about my eyes and mouth.
"No more o' that junk, Jeffy!" I replied, thrusting my hand into the medicine chest on the wall and producing a quart of ten-year-old rye whisky. "If I make merry with you I'll choose my beverage."
"That's spring wadder!" he returned, contemptuously. "We feed that to babies out here."
"Spring water it may be, but it's stout enough for your uncle."
I drew the cork as I spoke, placed my private brand upon the table, found my pipe and sat down facing my strange guest.
He proceeded to shame me by indulging in a very liberal potation, smacking his lips with greatest zest at its conclusion, and winking across at me in a manner intended to indicate his superiority.
"Where's your fiddle?" I asked; not that I cared especially, but it was incumbent upon me to be agreeable.
The Satyr jerked a grimy thumb toward the window which had just admitted him.
"Out thur on th' binch. 'S wropped up 'n' th' jew won't hurt it."
In the short silence which followed, we got our pipes to going.
"Was that you whistling a while ago?" I continued, after waiting vainly for my visitor to say something voluntarily.
"That's me a-play'n'."
"Playing?"
"Yes, play'n' a reed. Fus' thing ever I got music out o'."
Again his hand was hidden in his tatters for a moment, and came out with what appeared to be a long, slender stick. This he placed to his mouth after the manner of a clarinet player, and blew a pure, flute-like note. Then I saw the instrument was hollow, with little round holes along its length.
"Pipes o' Pan, by Jove!" I breathed. "Make me some music, Satyr."
Already I was aware of the effect of that mouthful of white lightning. A slow but sure elation was beginning to buoy me up unnaturally, and I felt the ebullience of spirit such as follows the knowledge of some great joy.
"Pipe for me, you heathen minstrel!" I added, smiling at him with narrowed eyes. "Draw from that piece of wood the things the birds, and the trees, and the brooks, and the flowers have told you. Trill me a moonlight roundelay, such as inspires the feet of fairies; make me see the wood violets nodding in the warm dusk, and let me hear the drone of bees in the tiger-lily's cup. Sound for me the dream-song of the runlet, as it whispers and babbles over its pebbly bed and between its moss-draped banks in the silver starlight. Bring me the low love-message of the dove when the breeze is but a sigh, and the witch-light from a sun just sunk fills all the forest with a chastened radiance, and makes it one vast sanctuary upheld by a million pillars. It is there your patron lives—the great god Pan! Tell me not you've never heard him by the river bank o' quiet days, when the squirrels sleep, and the chipmunks drowse, and the birds forget their tunes. Belike you've never seen him, for to mortals he remains ever invisible; but you, O Satyr, are most surely a cousin, if not nearer kin, and it may be you and he have danced many a bacchanalian revel together. Dost know him—the great god Pan? Goat-legged, horn-headed, pleasure-loving, with his pipes to while the time?"
I did not stop to consider that this outburst was jargon pure and simple to the ears which received it. My mind had suddenly become gorged with poetic thoughts, and I poured them out upon the helpless head of Jeff Angel.
"Fur Gawd's sake!—air yo' plum' gone?" he exclaimed, in unfeigned alarm, casting a rapid glance around as though meditating flight.
"That's what your juice did for me," I explained, laughing to reassure him of my sanity. "One more swallow, then we'll have a tune!"
We pledged each other from our respective bottles, and the Satyr played.
Again I find myself hampered, for I cannot translate that performance through the medium of words. It was the most astounding exhibition I have ever listened to. His work on the violin had been entirely beyond the range of my comprehension, but then the dormant possibilities were in the violin. What was there in this slender reed? Unguessed miracles of sound! I sat and stared at the grotesque form on the box, wondering at first if I really was so intoxicated that my imagination was acting the ally for this vagabond artist. No, the ability of this uncouth musician was real, and my appreciation was only heightened by the subtle power of the draught of mountain dew. As I sat and puffed in lazy contentment, many a woodland pageant passed before my eyes. I saw all the things for which I had asked, and more. Beneath his hands the dumb reed became a sentient power; became a living, speaking force. Nature's infinite secrets dropped from it in purest pearls of sound. I heard the twitter of birds; the love-call, the anger-cry, the alarm-shriek, the mother-croon. I heard the wailing sweep of the wind when the storm gathers and hurls its invisible battalions upon the countless army of trees. I heard the wordless lisp of the matin zephyr when a new, fresh breath moves across the world at dawn. I heard the vesper sigh like a prayer from tired lips. I heard the whistle of the dove's wing in its startled flight, and the quail's liquid call. I heard the holy hymn of midnight when the moon hangs big and yellow, and the numberless strings of the Ancient Harp vibrate softly to her summons. I heard the sweet purling of running water, and the barely audible echo of an insect's hum.
I had no word of praise or compliment when Jeff took the pipe from his lips and carelessly laid it aside. What I had just given ear to was beyond platitude or fervent adjective; beyond comment. Silence was the only true meed which might be accorded it, and this I gave.
Jeff sighed, twisted his shoulders as though to rid himself of a cramp, ran his tongue over his lips, and picked up his bottle.
"Wuz that whut yo' wanted w'en yo' 's talk'n' out o' yo' head?" he ventured, with a coy, sideways movement of his chin.
I nodded. Here was a combination worthy of profound study. Totally unlearned, depraved but not debased, with a soul so full of music that even his besotted state had no power against it. I failed to understand.
For an hour thereafter I strove with all the skill at my command, used every artifice, to draw the Satyr out, and make him tell what he knew. In vain. He saw through each device; he avoided each veiled trap. He drank often, and good-naturedly insisted that I should imbibe every time he did. There was no help for it, but presently I was taking no more than a thimbleful at a time, for I realized that my condition was becoming most uncertain. Jeff seemed proof against the stuff, for he poured it down recklessly, without any noticeable effect. But when he arose to his feet after a while to feel in his trousers pocket for a match, I saw results. He giggled, swayed, and quite suddenly sat down again. I hospitably got up to supply his needs from a box on the mantel, when to my dismay and great surprise I discovered that the room was beginning to turn around and the furniture to do a silent jig. I drew my face down sternly to rebuke myself for this hallucination, and started determinedly toward the mantel. Where was the mantel? As I sat it was to my left. When I stood it was in front. Now it was to myback! I whirled angrily, and bumped into Jeff Angel, who had risen to renew the investigation of his trousers—I mean pants. Jeff didn't wear trousers; he wore pants—and that's too dignified a name for them. We bumped, instinctively grappled, and naturally came to the floor. Jeff fell on top; I felt that abominable chin-tuft tickling my neck. I pushed him off, and in a few moments we had gained what I shall term an oblique perpendicular. That is, both his feet and mine were on the floor, but his were some distance away from mine, and we were mutually supported by our intertwined arms. He regarded me with a watery leer, and one eyebrow tilted, while I endeavored to look very dignified; with what success I of course cannot say.
"Y's damn good feller!" averred my cup companion, blinking laboredly.
I managed to move my feet forward a little, and to straighten my leaning body correspondingly. Then I bethought me that I was host, and my guest wanted a match. I looked for the mantel; it was not in sight. I turned gravely to myvis-a-vis.
"Whersh man'l?" I asked, when a weakening of my waist muscles caused me to bend forward and then back in a most awkward manner.
Instead of replying to my question, the Satyr, with eyes glassily set on vacancy, began some more of his infernal doggerel.