I did not get an immediate reply. Her head remained sunk, and I could not see much of her face. The portion which I saw was still flushed, but not violently. I waited, knowing that I had stated my case as well as I could, and believing that further argument would be dangerous. The spot where we sat was the natural abode of silence. Now I could hear only the gentle breath of the low wind rustling the leaves, the musical gurgle of water, and the sweet song of a thrush hidden in the foliage to my left. I grew restless as the silence continued: apprehensions arose, and the sinister form of fear cast its shadow over my heart. Was she offended past forgiveness? Had Fate prepared this trap for me to rob me of—what was I thinking? What was this girl to me that I should wait her next words with set teeth and softly drawn breath? That I should now behold the wonder of her hair and the marvel of her face with inward quaking, fearing that they might depart from me forever? That the echo of her voice became a mocking, maddening refrain to my consciousness, and the sorcery of her simple presence made my brain swim? This waif of the woods; this fragment from one of the lower stratas of civilization; this half wild, ignorant, nameless, plebeian creature—what was she to chill my blood with the dread thought that from this meeting we went as strangers? I cannot answer. Leave the solution to biologist or sociologist. I only know the fact as it existed. I had rather have seen those gray eyes flashed upon me in perfect trust that moment than to have seen the sun rise the next morning!
What was she thinking? No movement, no sound, no sign. Like an image fashioned of flame and snow and draped with a moss-green garment, there she sat by my side, so close—so close. Then I knew something of what Tantalus felt when the cool water arose just beneath his cracked and burning lips, and receded as he bent to drink. So close I could have drawn her to me with a sweep of my arm, but mute and changeless as though made of stone.
Presently I could stand it no longer. I placed my palms upon the tree on either side of me, and leaned forward.
"Dyrad—Lessie—little girl! For God's sake—speak!"
Then came the miracle.
Again she started, as from a revery rudely interrupted. Her head was lifted quickly, gladly, and her big moist eyes gazed into mine glowing with tender faith. I know the dawn of an eternal Day will never thrill me as did this. I drew my face closer to hers.
"Then you—do forgive? Why were you silent so long, Dryad?"
"I's thinkin' 'bout—if Buck—ur th' light'n'—had killed you!"
"Who-a-a-a—Lessie! Who-a-a-a—Lessie! Whur air yo'?"
We jumped, and a revulsion of feeling which came near to suffocating me swelled in my throat. Granf'er was coming down the winding path from the house. He had a brown jug in one hand. He had halted to give his hail, and an instant later Lessie was on her feet, waving her sunbonnet and sending back a lusty yell.
This certainly has been a big day, the first one which has required two chapters of my story. I could have put it all in one, it is true, but I believe there exists a general preference for frequent "stopping places," and I shall defer to this opinion, partly, perhaps, because I heartily endorse it myself. Granf'er sighted Lessie at once, brought his jug up and down twice at arm's length by way of recognition, and resumed his way with the shuffling, elbow-lifting gait which usually attaches to men advanced in years when in a hurry.
How straight the girl's young body was! Uncorseted though I knew she must be, the lines of her figure conformed to the demands of physical beauty. From her naturally slender waist, belted only with the band made in her one piece frock, her back tapered up to shoulders which were shapely even under the poorly fitting dress. Her head, held more than ordinarily high now, as she watched Granf'er, was nobly poised on a firm, round neck, which I am most happy to record was not at all swan-like. I should like to add, in passing, that I have never seen a girl with a swan-like neck. If such exist, their natural place is in a dime museum, or a zoo. Such a monstrosity would, from the nature of her affliction, look like either a snake or a goose, neither of which have come down in humanity's annals as types of beauty. I must say it to the credit of most moderns, however, that the swan-necked lady is seldom paraded for us to admire. There were no crooks or loops in the Dryad's neck. Like a section of column it was; smooth, perfect, swelling to breast and shoulder.
I clambered to my feet behind her, cursing mentally the harmless, hospitable, doddering old fellow approaching, and singing a pæan of rejoicing in my soul at the same time. Such things can be. The breeze freshened, and began sporting with the dazzling, home-made coiffure on the Dryad's head. She had not loosened it since she came from her bath, and that is why I saw so plainly the classic outlines of her head and throat. The madcap wind caught her dress, too, as she stood exposed to its sweep down the ravine, and cunningly smoothed it over her hip and thigh; tightly, snugly smoothed it, then took the fullness remaining and flapped and shook it out like a flag. So I knew, again through no fault of mine, that this girl who had never even heard of a modiste—of her skill to make limb or bust to order—had grown up with a form which Aphrodite might have owned. She did not know the breeze had played a trick upon her; or knowing, thought nothing of it. The seeds of our grosser nature sprout more readily in the hotbed of a drawing-room of "cultured" society, than in the windsweet, sun-disinfected acres of the out-of-doors.
She spoke.
"Granny's picklin' to-day. She's run out o' vinegar 'n' has sent Granf'er to fin' me to go to town 'n' git some more."
"Let me go with you!" I urged.
"No," she answered, promptly; "'t wouldn't do. Don't you see?"
"I see what's in your mind," I replied, knowing that she was thinking I would likely meet the smith again; "but I should be glad to go anyway."
"No; you mus' stay here."
Firmly she said it, and my saner judgment told me she was right. It would have been a fool's errand for me to undertake.
"I know it is best," I assented reluctantly, "butwhydid Granny have to run out of vinegar this afternoon?"
Lessie threw me an amused glance over her shoulder, burst into a peal of laughter, and began waving her pole over her head in wide circles, taking this method to wind her line. When this was in place, she grasped the hook between finger and thumb, and imbedded it in the stopper.
"You bring th' fish 'n' th' bait," she said, and ran along the tree, sure-footed and nimble as a squirrel.
I picked up the can and bucket and followed. I looked at her catch as I went, and saw that it represented some half-dozen minnows only. Granf'er was waiting for us in the road. He had already transferred the jug to Lessie and given her instructions when I came up and cordially shook hands.
"How are you getting along?" was my greeting, as I wisely smothered the impatience I felt.
"Oh! fust rate;—'cep'n' th' ketch."
He put his left hand to his side and drew a wheezy breath.
Lessie gave her fishing-pole into Granf'er's care, smiled a farewell and started toward Hebron. It wrenched me for her to begin that lovely walk alone. She was twenty steps away when the old man suddenly turned.
"Don't go trapes'n' in th' woods fur flow'rs 'n' sich! Granny's wait'n' fur that air vinegyar!"
She waved her hand as a sign that she heard, but made no reply.
"A quare gal!" mused Granf'er, beginning to delve in his trousers pocket for his twist. "Fust 'n' las', they ain't no onderstand'n' 'er. She washes in th' woods lak a wil' Injun 'n' plays 'ith th' birds 'n' th' beastes. Oncommin quare, by gosh!"
He opened his mouth and allowed to roll therefrom his chewed-out quid, ran his crooked and cracked forefinger around his gums to dislodge any particle of the leaf which might still remain in hiding, and took another chew.
"But she is a most attractive young lady, nevertheless," I ventured, tentatively, putting one hand in my pocket for my pipe and holding the other out in dumb request. I remembered the guest-rite of my first visit, and shrewdly suspected this move of mine would please the old man. It did.
"Lak it, don't ye?" he grinned, his wrinkled face lighting with pleasure as he eagerly thrust the tobacco into my palm. "Light Burley 't is, 'n' skace 's' hen's teeth. Mos' craps plum' failed las' year, but I growed a plenty fur you 'n' me—yes, fur you 'n' me!"
The expression tickled him into a creaky, croaky sort of laugh.
"It's good stuff, Granf'er," I agreed, compromising with my conscience by supposing that it was good to chew, although to smoke, it bit my tongue abominably and had a green flavor. "I've been intending to come back to see you and Granny and Lessie ever since I was here last, but one thing and another has prevented. I hope you are all well?"
I turned toward the path and moved forward a few steps, as though assuming we would now go on up to the house. But Gran'fer's thoughts did not run with mine.
"Well? Yes; that is to say, tol'ble." His manner was somewhat excited. "Granny, y' know, 's pickl'n' to-day, 'n' w'en she's pickl'n' she's turble busy, 'n' turble—turble techous.... Fine terbacker, ain't it?" as he saw the pale blue smoke beginning to come from my lips. "Yes, we're putty well, but Granny's ben kind o' contrairy these fo' days pas', 'n' bein' she's pickl'n' I 'low you 'n' me 'd jes' as well set down right here 'n' hev our chat."
He tried to speak in an ordinary way, but simulation did not abide in his honest, open soul, and I knew he felt he was breaking hospitality's rules in suggesting that we remain away from the house. The thought worried him, and he could not hide it.
"All right!" I answered, heartily, donning the hypocrite's cloak with perfect ease. (This is one of the advantages of our ultra civilized state.) "Women are different from men, anyhow, and take notions and ideas which we have to humor. And some people are so constituted by nature that they must be let alone when they are busy."
"Yes! Yes! That's it! Notions 'n' idees!" Gran'fer eagerly approved. "I don't see how yo' kin know so much 'bout wimmin if yo' 've never ben married.... Notions 'n' idees!" He chuckled with a dry sort of rattling sound, rubbed his leg, and thumped the ground with the butt of the Dryad's fishing-pole. "By gosh! Notions 'n' idees!" he repeated, for the third time, his eyes narrowed and his face broadened in a fixed expression of unalloyed pleasure.
"Suppose we sit on the big rock here?" I said, with a gesture toward the immense stone which formed the tip of the Point.
I walked out upon it as I spoke, and the old fellow dragged after, doubtless still caressing in his mind that chance phrase which had caught his fancy. The stone was a dozen yards across, and its creek side arose perpendicularly from the water, its top being five feet or more from the stream's surface. Here we sat, hanging our legs over as boys would. I smoked, and Gran'fer chewed. He really didn't chew much, because I am sure he was inherently opposed to the slightest exertion which was unnecessary, but now and then he would defile the limpid purity below, a fact which convinced me he was enjoying his marvelous tobacco far more than I was.
"Wimminiscuri's," began Gran'fer, when we had arranged ourselves comfortably. He twirled his stubby, funny looking thumbs contentedly and leisurely. The end of each was overhung with a remarkable length of nail, black and thick. "I s'pose they's nec'sary ur th' Lord wouldn't 'a' put 'em here, but it's a plum' fac' they's no read'n' 'em, 'n' no tell'n' whut they gunta do. S'firy 'n' me, come November twinty-fust, nex', hev ben married forty-two year. Right there in Hebrin wuz we married, forty-two year ago come November twinty-fust, nex'. At th' Cath'lic chu'ch on th' hill, th' same whut's now Father John's. He wuzn't here them days. 'Nother pries' married us. S'firy's a Cath'lic 'n' I wus n't nothin', but I wuz bornd o' Prot'st'nt parints. 'N' I made th' fust mistake right there. Onless two people hev th' same b'lief, they oughtn't to jine in wedlock, 'cus trouble's comin' shore 's sin."
He took off his worn, soiled, and shapeless straw hat to scratch his head.
"I suspect you are entirely right about that. I know of a number of unhappy marriages for that reason."
Gran'fer grunted, twice.
"S'firy's a buxom gal, ez th' sayin' goes," he continued, reminiscently. "Purties' gal hereabout she wuz, ef I do say it, but they's allus fire on her tongue. Jes' lak a patch o' powder her min' wuz, 'n' th' leas' thin' 'd set it off. 'Tain't in th' natur o' young people to look ahead, ur I never 'd 'a' tried life with S'firy. A young feller in love is th' out 'n' out damndes' fool on airth. I'se sich.... I couldn't stan' ag'in 'er."
He shook his head slowly, and fell to combing his straggling fringe of whiskers with his bent fingers.
I did not reply. I was not much interested in the old man's recital. I had guessed already practically all that he was telling me. My mind was full of other things; my thoughts were back on the Hebron road, following the footsteps of the girl with the jug.
"I fit, though; I fit to be boss o' my own house,"—the querulous, cracked voice broke in upon my reflections. "See here?" He drew his palm down over his long, shaven upper lip, and looked at me craftily with his little blue eyes. "I knowed a man onct, in them days, whut wore his beard jes' that way, 'n' he's the w'eelhoss o' the fam'ly. Th' wimmin wuz skeered uv 'im es a chick'n is uv a hawk. Whut he said theydone, 'n' done 'ithout argyment. 'N' I took th' notion that if I shaved my lip, too, 'n' looked kind o' fierce 'n' hard lak, that I c'd manage S'firy. So one mornin' I gits my razor 'n' fixes that lip, 'n' w'en I saw myseff I felt I c'd boss anybody, I looked that mean. So in I comes to S'firy, 'n' tol' 'er, kind o' brash, that I wanted sich 'n' sich a thin' done, 'n' kind o' squared myseff 'n' put my han's on my hip j'ints, same 's I saw that other feller do, y' know.... Chris' Jesus!... Whut happ'n'd? 'S ben a long time ago 'n' I can't ricollec' all th' doin's. But she called me a babboon fust, 'n' then she lit into me.... Well, I kep' on shavin' my lip, 'cus I 'proved o' th' style, but I didn't order S'firy no more, bein' 's I'm nat'rly a man o' peace."
"How many children did you have, Gran'fer?" I asked, presently.
"Jes' two. Th' fust 'n' wuz a boy whut died o' fits w'en he 's two weeks ol'. Th' nex' 'n' wuz Ar'minty, Lessie's mammy. She died w'en Lessie 's skacely more 'n a baby."
"What was the matter with her?" I asked.
Quick as a flash Gran'fer turned on me, an expression of alarm and anger mingled showing on his face. What had I done? Surely my question was simple and natural enough. He saw my surprise and astonishment, and his feelings softened instantly.
"She jes' pined 'way lak," he replied, dropping his eyes and smoothing the back of one hand with the palm of the other. "Didn't hev no fevers, nur nothin'. Jes' drooped, lak a tomater plant does w'en it's fust sot out 'n' don't git no rain. Got weaker 'n' weaker. Wouldn't eat nothin'. Didn't try to live. Couldn't do nothin' with 'er. So she jes' wilted up 'n' died, lak a tomater plant in th' sun.... Ar'minty."
The plain, brief recital stirred me, and awoke within me a wondering interest. Gran'fer's head was low now, so low that the hair on his chin spread out fanlike over his faded, checked shirt. His hand had ceased its caressing movement, and lay above the other. I could see that each had a slight palsied motion. The little bent figure at my side struck me as infinitely pathetic just then. Dull indeed must I have been not to have sensed the shadow of some dire tragedy occurring in the years he had mentioned. For a number of days past vague imaginings and sundry conjectures had come to vex my mind with their unsatisfying presence. I had known for some time that Lessie was not all she seemed, and now, this moment, I stood on the borderland of enlightenment. Unfamiliar thrills shot through me, flame tipped and eager. My heart pounded oddly, and my eyelids were hot against the balls. Instantly a thought had sprung full-born into existence, and it was the acceptance of this thought which sent that tingling, vibrating current shooting throughout my entire being. Where did Lessie get her refined features? Where the instinct to care scrupulously for her person? Where that mute, painful longing for something she could not name? From generation after generation of ox-minded hill folk? Impossible! From them came her wonderful simplicity, her extreme naturalness, her kinship with the wild places and the things which dwelt there. But—I felt now as if a force pump was connected with my chest, and that any moment it might burst asunder. Dare I ask Gran'fer? Dare I, almost a total stranger, intrude here, and seek to pry behind the veil these old people had drawn between their grandchild and the world? I resolved to make the effort, but with great caution, feeling my way with carefully chosen words. I did not want to offend, but the desire to know the truth about the Dryad was all but overpowering. It was not vulgar, idle curiosity. For I knew the deeps were stirred; that underlying all else was the strange, full throbbing of a new force.
So I put a hand on the old man's sagging shoulder in friendly way, and said, speaking softly—
"And is Lessie's father—"
I got no further.
It was as though I had put him in contact with a live wire. His drooping body straightened, his boot heels clicked against the face of the stone, and his stiffened arms shot over his head.
"Damn 'im!Damn 'im! Damn 'im!" he exclaimed shrilly, each expletive more forceful than the one which went before. He tossed his clenched fists skyward, and followed such a lurid stream of malediction, in consideration of some lily-minded reader, I will not set it down. I was almost alarmed at the storm my luckless speech had loosened; it seemed for a short time as if Gran'fer would really go into a spasm. His lip curled back brute-like till his teeth showed, while his face was grooved, seamed and twisted uglily. The evil memories which gripped him tore him roughly for several moments, and then his passion was spent, leaving him with eyes red and blazing, chest heaving and arms trembling. I learned nothing from his volcanic, torrential downpour of curses which in any way lightened the mystery I was burning to solve. It was merely a meaningless jumble of heated invective, delivered with deadly earnestness and the most emphatic inflections.
At first I was dumb. His violence came on him so suddenly and quickly. From the little I had seen of him I had set him down as a rather meek character, what manhood he may formerly have had henpecked out of him; an entity, forsooth, but nothing more. When the shock had passed I did not essay to soothe him. My judgment told me this would not have been wise. There are some people, especially rural ones and others of no education, who will not take soothing. In fact, it acts as oil, rather than water, to flames. I believed Gran'fer to be of this sort, and while I had no doubt his rage was both righteous and genuine, I let it wear out before I spoke again.
"I beg your pardon, sir; but I did not know."
He swallowed twice; I could see his hairy Adam's apple rise and fall.
"We don't—talk 'bout him. 'N'—yo' mustn't ast!"
The tones were trembling and weak now, but there was dignity in them. A feeling of true respect came to me for Gran'fer. There was something sterling in him. A man may crawl on his belly before a sharp-tongued shrew, and yet hold that within him which will arise at the command of necessity; stunned and brow-beaten worth quickened by chance, opportunity, or need.
Now there surged within me another wish—a wild desire to know one other thing. It would harm no one to tell me, and to me it meant much.
"Gran'fer," I said; "I'm your friend—your true friend. Perhaps I should put it that I am Lessie's friend. I apologize for what I said; I didn't intend any harm. I promise not to mention the subject again to you. But I pray that you will tell me this—does Lessie know—know about her father—who he was—and all?"
I waited for his answer, trembling inwardly. He seemed to be thinking. The cloud had come again to his face, and he began cracking his knuckles, a succession of vicious little snaps. Then one word burst from him, hard as a pellet of lead.
"No!"
"Thank you," I said.
Then there fell a silence between us. Gran'fer's mind was back in the past, and I was groping blindly in the mists of wonder and supposition. There was a reason, then, for the complex, warring nature of the Dryad. How I longed to know the whole truth! But I could go no further here. It was a painful subject, a guarded secret to the old man sitting humped over by my side, and for the time I must hold my curiosity in check. The revelation would come. I was determined to learn the story, one way or another, though from what source I could not remotely guess.
Gran'fer's customary garrulity had deserted him; he even forgot to spit in the water. When my pipe burned out I did not refill. I know both of us were oppressed, were quieted by the thought of this great wrong which had been inflicted nearly a score of years ago. So the creeping shadows came upon us, and beyond the high western spur the sky glowed salmon, and gold, and mauve. I heard a screech-owl's sudden chatter, and a crazy bat wheeled in a wide curve just in front of us. The surface of the creek grew leaden hued, and the mighty Harp of the Ancient Wood thrilled gently in response to the low twilight breeze. Gran'fer stirred, and got stiffly to his feet. I did the same. Somehow I felt awed. Out here creation seemed so immense, sorecent, that it was hard to believe the trail of the serpent had passed over this spot, too. We turned in silence and went back to the road.
From down Hebron way came the sound of singing. Not blatantly loud and shrill, but very mellow and rich-toned. It was a woman's voice. A change had come over me, and I did not want to meet her again just then. She would have marked the difference. I turned and held out my hand. Gran'fer took it and gave it a mighty squeeze. His eyes were wet, and his face looked pained. As I came down the ladder at the other end of the bridge I glanced across at him. He was standing where I left him, gazing down the road up which the girl was coming, with that song of light-hearted, carefree youth upon her lips.
I moved away, quickly.
I have spent all of this day on the bench under the lone pine.
Last night when I came away from Lizard Point without waiting for Lessie, I knew that I loved her. That was why I did not stay. I have sensed the coming of this affection for some time, and I have not set it down before because I wanted to be sure. To-night I am sure. Last night I was sure, but I wanted a little time in which to analyze this feeling, and be positive of it. My sleep was peculiarly sweet and peaceful after the day of trial. I do not know that I dreamed, but soothing waves of rest permeated me entirely, and a number of times I was conscious just enough to know that this unusual sensation possessed me. To-day I have not touched a book—the first day in years! Think of it. Was not that alone a portent? I got breakfast mechanically. The kitchen utensils looked almost strange, and I would pick up a dish and turn it over, and view it as though I had never seen such a thing befor. Queer, wasn't it? I wonder if any other man in his senses has acted this way. If he has, I venture to declare he wouldn't set it down for the world to read. But why not? We are all children, playing our little games, which are the same world-old games in different hands. And so, when I stopped and stared at my skillet this morning as I was washing it—stared till it turned to a beautiful, laughing, freckled face framed in gold, it was nothing to shame me. I recall the fact now with the full assurance that the big majority of my fellow men will not ascribe the action to lunacy.
When I stood in the front door the yard looked the same, but different, too. The area which I had cleared for the garden was dry, and invited my spade. Not now, Mr. Earth! You shall have another day's rest before I drive the steel tines again into you! I walked about, this way and that; thinking, not thinking. Sometimes I hummed; sometimes I smiled; sometimes I stood still with open eyes which did not see. All the time I was aware of some lack, but it was nine o'clock before I realized that I had not tasted a whiff of smoke. The thought did not make me blush, nor abash me. I went quietly in and found my pipe on the shelf where I kept it. It did not stay alight more than two minutes. I was standing at the place where the road went down when I realized that I was drawing the atmosphere alone through the stem between my teeth. Then I walked down to the bench under the pine, thrust my hands in my trousers pockets, sat down and crossed my legs.
I have been a sane man all my life, except the day when I embraced the business of literature for a living. I am not nervous; sudden events do not startle me. I have taken life honestly and bravely, and I believe I have faced all the conditions which mere living brings, with courage. But to-night I have to relate that I sat on that hard bench without changing my position until two in the afternoon, when I just happened to drag my watch out. The mere position of the hands brought about a mental reaction, or I should say served as a powerful mental stimulant, for up to that hour I am not conscious of a single coherent thought. I had been sitting all that time in mindless apathy. Then I began to think. My first gleam of intelligence informed me that my watch must be wrong. Then I gained sense enough to look at the sun, to find that it had passed the meridian considerably. Followed at once a keen introspective query, to which no answer was forthcoming. Then I am sure I breathed gently, "You damn fool!" and became a man again.
I did not eat any dinner—punishing the body for a fault of the mind—but smoked instead. My pipe did not go out a second time. Hour after hour the black briar bowl stayed burning hot, and hour after hour I drove my mind, now thoroughly aroused and under control, along the various byways of thought, action and incident which had a common meeting point at the feet of the Dryad. It required an effort for me to do this—a great effort. Had I followed my inclination I would simply have brought her before my eyes in retrospection, and gazed upon the picture throughout the day. But she had ceased to be an incident. She was a reality—an abiding reality—a concrete fact impinging sharply upon the horizon of my life. I was not alarmed to know that I loved her, and I wondered at this. Perhaps there really was no occasion for alarm, but there were plenty of disturbing elements attending such a state of feeling; a number of persons and things to be weighed and considered, to be classified and given their relative places.
When all was summed up I was confronted with the result: Did I love her well enough to marry her? I was of good family and had the highest social standing. She was almost nameless. And here a sinister, insinuating thought came stealing along a lower corridor in my brain; a creeping, skulking, devilish thought which I caught and choked as I would have a mad dog on my threshold. When I had killed the noxious thing I knew that I did love her well enough to marry her.
What were her feelings toward me? She liked me, but I could not bring to mind a single word or expression which would lead me to infer her heart was touched, unless it was the incident on the log bridge, when she had remained silent for such a long time, and her words when she finally spoke. Surely her interest was more than casual to dictate a speech like that. If Gran'fer had not come I think now I would have told her then, for the simple sentence had set light to a powder train in my breast.
I believe in caste. I am something of a democrat, and much of a socialist. While the dream of universal brotherhood in its broadest meaning is Utopian from its very nature, yet all humankind has a claim upon us, for the body of Socrates and the body of Lazarus were wrought from the same material. Yet caste, if correctly applied, instead of offensively and arrogantly, as it more often is, is almost indispensable to society. You would not have your daughter marry a drayman, nor your son marry a waiting-maid. That is what I mean when I say I believe in caste. But while we draw and maintain the line of distinction, we can still display a proper and becoming degree of courtesy.
I have said that I love Lessie well enough to marry her, but I have not said that I love her well enough to marry her as she is. I know that would be a mistake which I would regret were she to remain as she is. But she does not belong in her present environment. I am as sure of that as I am that I live. Fate has cheated her, has imposed upon her, has grossly taken advantage of her helplessness. At the foundation of her being are lying inert, but real, many wonderful and beautiful and mysterious attributes and traits which go to make up the perfect, polished character of refinement. This also I know, because I have witnessed her pitiful strugglings against the degrading bonds of ignorance which Life has tightened about her. She feels this better part, which is unquestionably her true self, but she does not know what it is; to her it is simply a hidden, powerful, inner force which torments her with intangible, wordless protest and rebellion. She tries to obey—she has told me so—but she does not know what to do, or say. Poor little Dryad! How should she?
When I wrote to 'Crombie for the primer and the copybook I was moved only by a sincere interest in a pretty ignoramus, seeing at the same time an opportunity to relieve the tedium of long hours alone here. Now that they have come, I know that I shall begin at once to loosen the prisoned thoughts and emotions in my pupil for a different purpose. Will she learn quickly? No fear of that. I think I shall write for the first three readers when I have done my journal to-night. A long, loyal, heart-felt letter came along with the books. I shall not transcribe it, for it would fill up my pages without furthering my story, and this is the reverse of craftsmanship, I am told. But I must say that 'Crombie conceived the idea that I was going to open a school of two or three pupils—a natural idea, by the way—and earnestly advised me not to, as it would mean a degree of confinement which would work against me. He also gave various instructions and suggestions, and insisted in underscored lines that I pursue diligently my quest of the life-plant.
Who was Lessie's father? I do not doubt that this is the key to the whole mystery of her paradoxical personality. He was not a dweller in the wilderness of Hebron. He was a man of mental power; a man from the higher world of action, advancement and achievement. Assuredly, he was likewise a conscienceless knave. He had betrayed Araminta—Gran'fer's Ar'minty; Lessie's mother. A man who would do that is the best qualified candidate for hell imaginable. I am no hypocritical moralist, awaiting my own opportunity to despoil. Very frequently it is one of this breed of skunks who cries out the loudest against things of this sort. But I trust I do recognize humanity's rights.
Does Lessie's unknown parentage present a barrier to the progress of my love? No. That does not worry nor concern me in the least. It is true she is—she must be, the fruit of a brief union unblessed by preacher or priest. That does not make her the less charming, the less human, the less lovable. She is as blameless, as natural, as inevitable, as any other pure and stainless growth arising from baser elements. The fact that Lessie would be unable to produce the marriage certificate of her parents proved not the slightest obstacle to the current of my affections. Indeed, when I dwelt upon this, I became aware of an added tenderness; a desire to spread over her sunny head the shielding strength of my arms. The world is so ready to mock at infirmities and to reproach frailties. But I must discover her father's name, and what became of him. I cannot present this subject to the two old people with whom she lives.
Perhaps Father John would know. How long has he held this parish, I wonder? Most likely for many years. In remote country places priests, especially old ones, do not often change their field of labor. To-morrow I shall go to the priest's house again, and ask him. I do not know that he will tell me, but he holds the secret. If it came to him under seal of the confessional, of course he will not reveal it. But I've a notion it was countryside gossip at the time it occurred, and I will not be asking Father John to betray any confidence when I seek him for this information. Then, too, I have waited longer than I should to go and inquire about Beryl Drane, the girl with a face of twenty and the experience of a lifetime. Perhaps it would be better to see her first, before accosting her uncle on the subject. I am not sure that I can do this without arousing suspicion, for I am convinced Beryl Drane has a mind capable of keen and clear deductions, and I have no desire that my love for Lessie should become generally known yet. But I will try.
My love for Lessie! I look at that sentence written down on this white paper with my own hand, and something goes radiating through every cranny of me. I am in love—in love with an untamed Dryad of the oak glade, the deep, clear pool, the sun-dappled spaces of the whispering wood. Why do I love her? I ask myself. Why fares the bee to the flower, the bird to his nest, the squirrel to his tree? I love her; let that suffice. Alone here in my lodge on the lap of Old Baldy, beside my table, I write these words in a mood which never before possessed me. I am recklessly happy. I have—shall I write it—I have stayed my pen just now long enough to sit dreamy eyed for a quarter of an hour; to imagine that warm young body tight in my arms; those Irish gray eyes looking long and deep into mine; those, red, red lips against my own, and the blinding shimmer of her hair around and about my face and neck. God! My pulses leap and thrum in my temples at the thought, and my throat feels full and thick. My brother, have you never felt this way? Then you are missing a large portion of your human heritage.
When shall I tell her? Not at once, I think. It will be better to school her some first. And—Buck! By some strange chance I have not reckoned with Buck to-day. Buck must be reckoned with. He will not efface himself, and I respect him the more that he will not. Diplomacy and arbitration and plain reason are all out of the question with Buck. When I come to reckon with him it will be by the might of my good right arm. It is the old, old method of medieval times of settling a difficulty where the favor of a lady is involved, but it is an honorable one, if conducted fairly, and I suspect as good as any. I must begin a system of physical training, so that I may be fit for the final bout. That will be some fight, my masters!
Eight weeks ago I dreaded the weary monotony which awaited me in this forsaken spot!
Well, events yet unborn are on the knees of the gods. I intend to go as straight to my destination as my judgment and will can carry me. I have but written that I shall not tell the Dryad of my love yet. Now I should like to modify that statement and say that I shall not tell her if I can help it. For a sudden sense that my passion is broadening and intensifying has come to me, and I shall make no promises—no, not one. Now, this moment, I quiver at the recollection of her cadenced laugh; I tremble as I see again the eyes which might craze a man of wood. Ah! Dryad, if you were here to-night—if you were here—if you were here—
"This is a beautiful day."
Such was my exceedingly original and extremely interesting greeting to Beryl Drane this morning. I arrived at the house at eight o'clock, found, as I thought, no one astir, and was preparing to knock when I discovered the young lady diligently clipping roses from a hedge near the back. It is not often that I descend to sheer banality, but I can offer no excuse for my opening remark as I came up over the grass behind her. She was a little startled. She turned quickly with a short "Oh!" and looked at me curiously. Somehow I did not like the look. It was possessive, in a way; intimate, as though we shared a secret, or something like that. She was dressed in a polka dot brown gingham, and had on an old bonnet whose projecting hood softened those lines which seemed to shriek of the things which made them. A low collar encircled her firm neck snugly. She wore leather half mitts, had a pair of shears in one hand, and from the elbow of her other arm hung a wicker basket over half filled with voluptuously red, dew-bright roses. She regarded me with that subtly smiling, upward glance which coquettes have, and in that morning air, with the flowers, under the shielding bonnet, she was pretty. She was too adroit to overdo the pose. It lasted scarcely two ticks from a grandfather's clock, then she smiled frankly, deftly looped the shears on a finger of her left hand, and held out her arm.
"I'msoglad to see you!" she said, winningly, and for the soul of me I could not help but feel my heart grow warmer in response to her tone. Ah, little sibyl! You have conjured more than one man's mind into deadly rashness, but you have paid, little moth with the soot-spotted wings!
"Are you?" I replied, surprisedly, as I grasped her grippy, slender hand and uncovered.
"Sure!... Don't you suppose Hebron is a trifle monotonous to me after the fleshpots of Egypt?"
"I had thought you would be—not angry, but displeased and disgusted with me that I had not come sooner."
"Oh! I have learned to make allowances for men!" she retorted, airily, with a toss of her head and a half pout; "and I'd have no respect for a man who'd have to be kicked away from a woman's feet. I've seen that kind. I supposed you would come when it suited your inclination."
She deliberately turned to the hedge again and tiptoed to grasp a heavy-headed bloom which seemed to have dropped asleep, drugged by its own perfume. She could not reach it.
"Let me," I said, and stepping forward, caught the thorn-set spray and pulled it toward her. The action made a little shower of water drops to patter on her upturned face, and a single rich-hued petal became displaced, drifted gently down, and actually lodged in the crevice of her slightly parted lips. Both laughed at the incident, for it was unusual.
"You shall have this one," she said, when she had clipped it, "from me."
I felt foolish, in a way, as she came close to me, fumbling here and there about her waist and the bosom of her dress.
"Have you a pin?" she queried, archly, and before I could answer her swift white fingers were searching the lapels of my coat. "Here's one," she added, on the instant, and tugged it out.
Then she secured that rose to my coat, standing so close to me that the bottom of her spreading skirt brushed my legs.
"You are very forgiving and very kind," I assured her, "and I thank you for the favor. I'm sure I do not deserve it."
"Do men ever deserve what they receive from women?" was her startling reply, and she did not look me in the eyes then, but instead fingered the jumble of Jaqueminots in the basket with head averted. Surely this niece of the Rev. Jean Dupré's who had journeyed to Hebron to rest was not conventional. Equally true it was that she possessed an unusual degree of intelligence, and was accustomed to speaking her mind.
I hesitated briefly. Not that I was in doubt what to say, but among us men of the South that old chivalry toward women which is always stubborn and often reasonless, still struggles mightily. And it is a goodly thing, forsooth, this same chivalry; but truth is better.
"I think so," was my steady answer, and I held my eyes ready to meet hers, but she did not move her head. Only the white fingertips with their whiter nails yet burrowed among the fragrant mass of green and red.
"You do?... How can you say that? Uncle says it, too—but he's a priest."
"I say it because I think it true. I'm sure you would not have me tell a lie merely to please you. Your viewpoint must be restricted, circumscribed, for I know you are in earnest. The question is really too comprehensive to actually admit of a specific answer. Many women give all and get nothing; many men give all and get nothing. Many give and receive on an equable basis, and they are the ones who are happy. It depends simply upon one's experience or observation how he answers your question. My life leads me to believe in all sincerity men will do their part fuller and far more justly than a woman will. Perhaps yours has convinced you that just the reverse is true.... But for mercy's sake, let's not drift into a sociological argument this morning."
"By no means. I just wanted to know what you thought.... Now I must apologize for keeping you. You have come to see uncle?"
She started toward the house as though to call him, but I caught her arm and she halted.
"I came to see you, primarily. First, to assure myself that you had really quite recovered from drowning—I have asked of you down at the store—and second, to discuss a mighty secret with you."
"You have really—asked about me?" she returned with lifted eyebrows. "You knew when you left that day I would recover, thanks to your skill. Was not that enough?"
I felt annoyed. It appeared as if she was trying to make me confess a deeper interest than I truly owned.
"A common sense of decency would have impelled me to assure myself you were suffering no bad after effects," I replied.
"Oh, that was it?" she responded, I thought a bit coolly. Then—"You mentioned a secret. How on earth could a secret exist in this lonesome-ridden place? But of course I'm all curiosity now to hear it. Let's go to the summerhouse. Uncle rises late, and is now in the midst of his breakfast."
She moved toward a conical shaped piece of greenery, and I put myself at her side. It proved to be some trellis work built in the form of a square, with a peaked top, the whole completely covered by some luxuriant vine. Even the doorway was so thickly hung that we had to draw the festoons aside to enter. Within the light was tempered to a gray-green tone. A hammock was swung across the center of the place, and on all sides except the entrance one were placed benches. Miss Drane set her basket down and promptly dropped into the hammock, where she twisted about into a comfortable attitude. She apparently took no notice of the fact that her dress had become drawn up six or eight inches above her shapely ankles, but quietly loosened the strings under her chin and cast the bonnet on the floor, then threw her arms above her head, laced her fingers, and turned to me with a smile which was half humorous and half pathetic.
"Now I'm fixed. Settle yourself the best you can, and let's hear the mystery."
"May I smoke?" I asked, dodging under one of the ropes, and coming around so that I might sit facing her.
"Certainly."
"A pipe?"
"Oh, yes! I'm thoroughly smoke-cured."
I dropped upon a bench and drew forth my materials, while she lay and eyed me with her inscrutable stare.
"You're a funny man!" she declared, presently, her flexible lips twisting into an odd smile.
I chuckled, and jammed the tobacco in the bowl.
"How do you get that?" I ventured.
"Why didn't you ask to share the hammock with me?"
Now though I knew something of woman's ways and woman's wiles, I felt a blush rising, and to hide it I dropped the match I held and bent over to pick it up. Clearly his reverence's niece was bent on a flirtation wherewith to while away the days of her exile. It is needless to say that in my present state of mind I had no heart for dalliance of this sort, but I realized that I must not offend her, so I struck the match on the sole of my shoe and slowly lighted my pipe, thinking hard all the time of what I should say.
"You looked so very comfortable," I replied jocularly, between puffs, "that I could not bring myself to make the request. And—you lay down, you know, as though you wanted it all to yourself."
With a quick, lithe movement she turned on her side, rested her cheek on her hand, and retorted:
"Was that idea really in your mind before I spoke? The truth, mind you!"
I was thoroughly uncomfortable. Just what Beryl Drane was driving at I could not guess, but I knew the simple talk which I had come to have with her had suddenly assumed the proportions of a task. It would be silly and egotistic to think this little body was in love with me, and yet as she lay curled kitten-like within arm's length there was a seriousness in her face and manner which troubled me far more than what my answer to her last question would be.
"No, it was not," I replied, meeting her eyes steadily.
"All men don't tell the truth," was her unexpected rejoinder; "but you do.... Don't you think I am worth sitting by?"
Heavens! Why did she persevere in this strain? Why? God pity her, I knew. I knew her birthright of womanliness and unsullied purity had been bartered long ago for the pottage of faithlessness and sham pleasures, and that now the exceeding bitter cry rang in her soul day in and day out. She had made sacrifice of the substantial, the real, the true, and the good, on the shadowy altar of indulgence. She had flung aside the fruit to devour the husk, and the penalty was an insatiable gnawing of the evil teeth which she had first guided with her own hand to her being's core. I shivered inwardly as these thoughts darted lightning-like through my mind, and my face shaped itself into lines of gravity.
"Little girl," I said, gently; "I should be glad to sit by you, but what's the use in this instance? We are as two birds passing in mid-air. Soon you will go; soon I will go. Let's be good, honest friends while we stay."
I leaned toward her and spoke earnestly, trying to keep any note of rebuke from my tones. She did not reply, but colored slightly, turned her head partly away, and lowered her lashes. I smoked in silence for a few moments to give her a chance to speak, but she remained silent, and directly I said, throwing my voice into a cheerier key:
"If you're to help me with my secret we must hurry. Our few minutes on the river did not last long enough for us to get very well acquainted, but probably Father John has told you that I am roughing it for a few months on a certain big knob back in the woods. I've met a few people, and—"
Poor, hopelessly stupid mind of man! In my agitation caused by the attitude Beryl Drane had seen fit to adopt toward me, I had forgotten that the confidence I had purposed bestowing involved another girl—a beautiful girl! Now it was too late to hold back. Two slits of eyes were viewing me cynically, and a low laugh bubbled up from her throat.
"Who is she?" mocked Beryl Drane, who lived in the world.
"I don't know!" I answered, boldly. "That's what I want you to help me find out."
"What's her name?"
How cold the words were; like little sharp icicles. Ah! Womankind! Velvet soft, iron hard; dove merciful, tiger cruel; heaven breasted, hell armed; honey lipped, gall tongued!
"They call her Lessie."
Her sweetly bowed mouth had turned to a straight line of scarlet as she shook her head.
"I don't mix with the rabble here."
She spoke to cut, and she succeeded. The insolent words bit sharply, and a flame-like resentment set a hot reply on my tongue, but I withheld it. I waited a while, that my speech might not betray my agitation.
"She lives with her granny and gran'fer on Lizard Point. Surely you have seen her at church? Granny is very conscientious, I'm sure, in the performance of her church du——"
"I never go to church!" interrupted Father John's niece. "But I think I know the people to whom you refer," she added, at once. "I cannot recall the name of the family, however.... You must be extraordinarily stupid not to have learned her surname, being in love with her."
Evidently Miss Drane was ignorant of the circumstances surrounding the Dryad's birth, and a great wave of relief rolled up in my breast when I was assured of this.
"A man doesn't love a girl's name," I thought. Then I said:
"It would seem so, indeed."
I can't imagine what there was in that innocent sentence to cause affront, but instantly the girl in the hammock swung her feet to the ground, arose, and picked up her bonnet and basket.
"I don't think you are at all nice!" she said. "Go on and love your little cabin minx if you want to! She'll be sadly wiser when your love is over and you have gone back where you came from. I know you men—all alike!... If you want to see uncle you'll find him in the library at this hour."
Then out she switched with never so much as a "Good-day," leaving me staring amazedly at the clustering viney mass which swayed behind her vanished form. I had known many kinds of women: petulant, spoiled, mean; gracious, charming, good. I knew the majority of them were not amenable to logic, and would sometimes take offense at a smile or a wrong inflection. But when Beryl Drane flung this low insinuation in my face, I was nettled. It was utterly without foundation or reason. It bore out strikingly the opinion I had previously formed of her, and as I sat and turned the matter over in my mind, I knew presently that I was pitying her. For there is no sadder sight on the world's broad breast than a woman with a spotted soul. This poor child's perceptions were all awry, her affections wrenched and twisted, and in that moment I almost cursed the fate which would permit such a sacrilege. My resentment was gone, or was directed against the nonunderstandable forces, powers—call them what you will—which so often, in their workings, flung the spotless lily under the filthy snout of a hog, and dashed the white soul of a girl into a pit of smut and slime! Give me the reasons, ye gray-bearded savants! You are children fumbling in the dark. You do not know.
I got up and passed without the leafy curtain. Miss Drane had disappeared. I walked to the porch, found the front door open, and entered the hall without knocking. I judged the library to be on the right, and at that door I tapped. The old priest's voice bade me "Come!" I went in, and when he saw me cross the threshold, Father John leaped up with a nervous agility which was incongruous when associated with his many years, and hastened forward.
"Ah-h-h! Ze pleasure! W'ere have you bene, m'sieu?"
He smiled cordially, and led me to an easy chair by the table, holding my hand until I was fairly seated.
"Roaming the woods, principally," I replied, easily, noting the extremely comfortable furnishings of the apartment. "I have been here a half-hour, I should say. I found Miss Drane cutting roses, and stopped for a chat with her. She seems perfectly well?"
Father John made a grimace, and spread his hands.
"Zat chil'! I love 'er m'sieu, but she try me. She plague me wiz 'er pranks, zen she come wiz 'er arms aroun' my neck—so—an' fix eversing."
He obligingly essayed to hug himself by way of illustration, and I nodded my comprehension.
"You will doubtless miss her when she leaves you?"
He twisted his features as from a sudden pain.
"I can't sink of zat, m'sieu. She have bene wiz me t'ree—four—five weeks; she is one—headstron' chil', but she make me vair happy—oui."
He sank a little deeper in his soft chair, and pulled contentedly at his long-stemmed pipe.
It was hard for me to broach the subject uppermost in my mind. Twice my lips parted to open the discussion, but each time the sentence which followed related to an entirely different matter. So for quite a while we talked of the weather, the crops, the parish, and it was while we were discussing the neighborhood that I knew my opportunity had arrived.
"I have become very much interested in the family at Lizard Point. You know them well?"
"Vair well. Madame is vair releegious; a good woman. M'sieu is—is—indeef'rent; ma'm'selle—ah, ze young ma'm'selle!"
Again his spread hands went out expressively, and he shook his head with wrinkled forehead.
Inwardly I smiled, but outwardly my face was set to decorous lines.
"Does not the granddaughter belong to your fold?" I asked.
"Ah! m'sieu; we try. We try all her life lon' to make her ze Christian. But she wil'—she wil' as ze bird in ze wood. She an' ze half crazy Jeff—ze fiddle player—zey heazen, m'sieu. Zey never dark ze door of ze church. Zey run in ze fores', fiddlin' an' dancin', an' ze devil he laugh an' skip by zey side!"
He put his hands between his knees, palm to palm, and rocked to and fro in genuine distress. I could think of no suitable reply on the moment, so remained silent.
"I have ze pity for ze chil', poor sing!" he resumed, presently. "Ze chance she has not had, like ozzer ones. Meybe ze curse of ze broke' law follow her; I don' know—I don' know!"
He sighed, and let his narrow shoulders droop forward in an attitude both sad and pensive.
"Tell me about that if you can, Father John," I said, placing my elbows on the table's edge and leaning toward him. "I will say to you in strictest confidence that I am deeply interested in Lessie; it is not idle curiosity which prompts me to ask this. I know her father betrayed and deserted her mother; Gran'fer has practically admitted this to me, but he will go no further. You must know the man's name—what was it?"
Father John lifted his head and looked at me.
"Zat, m'sieu, I cannot tell you."
"Why?"
I kept my eyes fastened on his persistently, but respectfully.
"Because m'sieu has not ze right to as'."
I felt rebuked. Knowing as little of me and of my feelings for the Dryad as he did, he was right. Should I tell him more? My words would be safe with this gentle old man.
"Suppose I love the girl, Father John? Would I not then have the right to know everything about her parentage?"
A pale smile passed over his thin lips.
"M'sieu—jokes wiz me. You, ze gen'leman, ze areest'crat—to love ze little wil' ma'm'selle?Je crois que non!"
"It may seem incredible to you, but I do love her. I feel I can trust you with the secret, for even she does not know it yet. Believe me, I beg you. I am very much in earnest."
The doubting look faded from the priest's face, to be succeeded by one of amazement.
"Probably you do not understand this," I hastened to add; "and I should not blame you. But you, in holy orders from young manhood, with your mind and time engrossed in spiritual things, have no intimate knowledge of the powerful call of man to woman, and woman to man. It has come to me unexpectedly, swiftly, surely; here in the wilderness. In the city it passed me by. But I truly love the little wild ma'm'selle. Listen to my plan. I intend to take her far along the road to education and refinement; I intend to develop the great good which lurks smothered in her mind and soul; then, if she will, I shall marry her. That is my reason for asking you to tell me of that man."
Father John was convinced that I spoke the truth. I could see it before he replied.
"Ze—zeaieul, zeaieule; has m'sieu tol' zem?"
I stared at him bewilderedly.
"Ze madame an' ze m'sieu she live wiz!" he burst out, desperately. "How call you zem?"
"Granny and Gran'fer—her grandparents!" I exclaimed.
"Bien!...Well zen?"
"I have not told them. I have not told Lessie. I did not know it myself until last night."
"Soit.But ze secret, m'sieu, is zeirs."
"Is not the girl concerned, my good sir?" I demanded.
"Celeste?"
"Celeste!"
"Ze wil' ma'm'selle you call Lessie. I chris'en 'er myself, m'sieu; her name Celeste."
"And these boors have corrupted it to Lessie!" I almost shouted.
"Zey couldn't 'member Celeste," smiled Father John.
For a time I was silent, gazing at that vision in my mind which bore the sweet name of Celeste instead of the meaningless one of Lessie.
"Has she, then, no rights in the matter?" I persisted, and at the words I knew my voice had changed. Father John's candid and matter-of-fact revelation had filled me all up, somehow. I am aware there was no good reason why this should be, but people deeply in love have a constant abhorrence of anything and everything remotely bordering on reason.
"Should she, m'sieu, seek ze inf'mation, I sink I should tell 'er."
Sweetly grave and courteous were the words, and even in my impatience I recognized their justness.
"Very well, father. But I must ask you another question which I trust you can answer without offense to your conscience. Was Lessie's—was Celeste's father a man of learning; a man who moved along the higher walks of life, or was he simply a countryman?"
Only for a moment he hesitated.
"He was ze gran' gen'leman in manner—ze scholar—ze sinker. His heart was black!"
"It must have been," I breathed, as I rose.
My host again followed me to the low stone step at the porch entrance, protesting against my departure and begging me to stay for dinner, which came at noon. I told him I would come again, and I meant it.
"You have been very kind," I said, in farewell, "and I want to thank you for the things you told me. In time Celeste will come with her demands, trust me for that."
"Vair well, m'sieu!" he cried, twisting his face into a maze of goodhumored wrinkles.
At the gate I turned and waved to him again, sweeping the premises with my eyes as I did so for a sign of Beryl Drane.
That most peculiar young woman was nowhere visible.
"A, B, C, D, E, F,—H?"
We sat side by side on the edge of the porch, with our feet on the low stone step. For fifteen minutes I had been drilling Celeste in the alphabet.
But little explanation is necessary to make clear my position in the hostile camp. To-day is Sunday. When I first arose I began planning a way to reach Celeste—Lessie no longer for me!—without any unpleasant attending circumstances. I had recently been assured by the parish priest that Granny was "a vair releegious woman," and it was upon this fact that I presently laid my schemes. It was probable that Granny attended mass twice on Sunday; beyond doubt she went once. Early mass was over by the time my idea began to crystalize, but the chances were that Granny would go to the later services, because there was a deal of housework to be done at the beginning of each day. Then Granny's large body moved slowly, and the road to Hebron was long. I was vastly comforted when I reached this conclusion, and about ten o'clock I armed myself with primer and copybook and hit the trail for heaven.
I wish the reader—gentle or otherwise—could have taken that trip with me, and felt as I did. I wish everybody in the world could feel, all the time, as I did on that leisurely walk to Lizard Point. There would be no more sin or sorrow, my brothers! It was my first pilgrimage to the shrine of my recognized affection, and my feet trod not upon the good earth, but upon separate little pillows of compressed air. The day left nothing for the most critical to wish for. It was a great, perfumed bloom of light and color, glowing like a jewel in the Master's hand. And in the midst of all this perfection I was the one man seeking the one woman.
Reaching the bridge, I skulked about in the woods like a wild Indian, viewing the house with gradually increasing impatience. But I was rewarded in what my watch declared to be a very few minutes. Granny's ample shape bustled out upon the porch, and she came waddling down the path like an over-fattened goose. She had on her Sunday fixin's; a shiny bombazine black dress and a tiny black bonnet which looked small indeed atop her big head. A palm leaf fan in one hand, a rosary and a handkerchief in the other; thus did S'firy sally forth that morning, while I stood hidden in the shade and grinned, tickled as any schoolboy would be who sees a guard desert a watermelon patch. I could hear her puffing as she reached the road and took up her march south—poor old woman! A long, hot time lay before her, going and coming, and I was convinced she deserved the blessing she hoped to receive.
So that is the way I crept into the hostile lines this morning and began teaching the little wild ma'm'selle.
She was surprised but glad when she saw me. You may be sure I searched her face anxiously, and her welcoming smile and warm, strong handclasp set my heart a-throbbing. I told her at once what I had come for, and asked how long Granny would be away. Three hours, at least, I learned. She was ready and eager to begin her lessons. I inquired about Gran'fer, too, as we sat down together on the porch's edge, and heard that the dinner had been left in his charge, and he was consequently on duty in the kitchen, whence he would scarcely dare emerge until relief came. The fire was to be kept up, and certain vessels holding cooking vegetables were to be kept full of water. Gran'fer would hardly dare run the risk of permitting the beans or potatoes to scorch, and the chance for a happy three hours looked good indeed.
Celeste wore a white shirt waist, brown skirt, leather belt—andslippers! I could barely credit the last fact when my eyes noted it. Where on earth did she get slippers which buttoned across the instep with a strap? She had on black stockings (and right here I want to say, parenthetically, that I think black hose the most becoming color a woman can wear) and altogether presented a far more civilized appearance than she had ever done before. I placed the primer upon her knees, and while she held it open I began teaching her the letters, using my forefinger as an index. Her sunny head bent eagerly to the task, and looking at her face I saw each freckle had become a tiny island in a sea of crimson. She was blushing hotly, probably from the simple fact that she had at last started upon that unknown road which would lead her up and out of the gloomy valley of ignorance where she had always dwelt. I know an answering color came to my cheeks, for they began to burn. Had I been sure Gran'fer would remain faithful to his vegetables I would have told her that moment, for never had mortal woman seemed so lovely and alluring, and never had my heart hammered and pounded so loudly on the stubborn door of my will. I realized that my resolve to hold my tongue until she had become tutored in some degree was an idiotic determination, and that I would prove it so the first time I could catch Celeste where we would be safe from interruption.
Through the twenty-six capitals we went again and again. Then I took the book and asked her to say the alphabet. She fell down on G, but if every failure was accompanied by the doubting, anxious, piteous, altogether captivating expression which distinguished this one, no culprit would ever hear a word of censure.
I hope I am not tiresome. Truth is not always interesting, and you must not question my veracity. To-night I will not avow that my hitherto well balanced mind is perfectly plumb. Since I confessed to my journal I found I have shot into the rapids, and this girl with hair like a potpourri of sunbeams and Irish gray eyes which starts some trembly mechanism to going inside me, is going to be the biggest and most important thing in my life.
Of course I laughed when she said H instead of G, but it was not a laugh that hurt. It was the one which soothes and condones. She laughed, too, and again I saw an upper row of teeth—white as young corn, and as even. In half an hour she had turned the trick, and in addition could name any letter which I might choose on sight. Yes, I was proud of her then, and—yes, I told her so; wouldn't you? We then went through the small letters once or twice, but I did not ask her to learn any of them this morning. Celeste couldn't understand why the big letters and the little letters were not alike, and I couldn't either, so no explanation was forthcoming. Presently the primer was laid aside, and I produced the copybook. The Dryad's interest was just as intense when this branch of her education was brought to her notice.
"Is this writin'?" she queried, suspiciously, indicating the line in script at the top of the page.
"Yes, that's writ-ing," I said, but my eyes were kind.
"—ing, then!" she retorted, with some force, but I knew she was aggravated with herself, and not with me. Then she sat up very straight, and defiantly checked off each word of her next sentence on her palm, using an absurd fist as a checker.
"It—don't—look—like—Gran'fer's—writ-ing!"
I roared mightily at this, for her belligerency was irresistible.
At first she was amazed at my outburst, for her earnestness had prevented her from seeing how truly attractive her little speech had been. But as I kept on laughing she presently joined me, and together we raised such a disturbance that Gran'fer hurried out to investigate. I jumped up and took his hand, and managed to control myself enough to tell him the cause.
"B' gosh! 'S a good thing S'firy's not here!" he exclaimed, leering from one to the other with his good-natured eyes twinkling. "She'd 'low you 's bust'n' th' Sabbath, 'n' like 's not 'd 'viteyouback to Baldy!"
He poked a crooked finger in my ribs, thrust his middle out and his shoulders back and gave a series of piercing screeches which I judged was his way of expressing superlative mirth.
I put my arm around his shoulder chum-fashion, and drew him aside.
"I hid and watched her leave," I whispered.
Again he screeched.
"You're a durned wise 'n'!" he said, presently. "S'firy's sot ag'in yo' somehow, but I's jok'n' w'en I said I'd 'low she'd 'vite yo' back to Baldy. She wouldn't do sich a vi'lent thin' as that, see'n' as how she's got no airthly complaint ag'in yo', 'cep'n' you're a young man 'n' good-look'n', 'n'"—lowering his voice and nodding toward the Dryad, who sat apparently absorbed in her copybook—"she don't 'low to ever let no man make love to that gal, 'n' she's skeerd o' yo' on that 'count—see?"
"Gran'fer, I smell some'n' burnin'!" called Celeste.
The old man turned with a trembling, low-voiced "Good God!" and bolted into the house, and instantly I heard a tin cover clatter on the kitchen floor.
"Whut'd you tell Gran'fer w'en you took 'im over there?" asked Eve, when I was again beside her.
"The truth," I replied, not altogether relishing a like confession to her.
"Tell me, too!" she demanded, at once.
"Suppose I won't?" I parried, grasping the opportunity offered to weigh her character in different scales.
She thought a moment, with a queer little squinting of the eyes.
"Well, if you won't—I don't keer!"
It was not pique, but perfect candor.
"I told him that I waited down yonder in the woods until Granny went to church," I said.
She smiled, and spread the copybook out afresh.
"You needn't 'a' done that. I've had a talk with Granny, 'n' she's goin' to let you come, same as she does Buck ... I p'suaded 'er."
"Bless your heart, Dryad! How did you manage it?"
"Granny'll do mos' anything for me," she answered, simply. "I tol' 'er that you jes' wanted to learn me, 'n' that I wanted to learn—so bad; 'n' that it wouldn't cost nothin'. So she ast Father John, 'n' he said it'd be all right. He said he knowed you."
"Yes, I've met Father John—and his niece."
"I don't like her," said Celeste, turning the leaves idly.
"Why don't you like her, Dryad?"
"'Cause—'cause—oh, jes' 'cause!"
She pouted her lips slightly, and shook her head.
So she, too, had that unanswerable reason which all women can claim.
"I feel sorry for her, because I don't think she has been happy. She has lived in cities all her life, and the cities have taken something from her they can never give back."
"Whut?"
"All things which you, living here in the hills, possess, and which are a woman's most precious gifts; purity, innocence, womanhood."
"I don't know 'zackly whut you mean."
"I shan't try to put it into simpler words just now, Dryad. But in the eyes of all true people you are worth more than a thousand Beryl Dranes."
She pursed her lips and gave a whistle of astonishment.
"Has Buck been here lately?" I asked.
"Not since I seen—I saw you on the log bridge."