"Rabbit in th' log.Ain't got no rabbit dog."
"Rabbit in th' log.Ain't got no rabbit dog."
I stopped drawing on the stem, and turned my head in the direction of the sound. The burning splinter of pine nipped my fingers, and I dropped it. The crazy tune came from down the road, which curved not a great distance away. Again, louder, and in a more positive tone, some one declared:
"Rabbit in th' log,Ain't got no rabbit dog.Chick'n on my back,Houn' on my track,I'm a-makin' fur my shanty—God knows!"
"Rabbit in th' log,Ain't got no rabbit dog.Chick'n on my back,Houn' on my track,I'm a-makin' fur my shanty—God knows!"
The last word was carried through fluctuations which would almost have stood for a cadenza in a music score, and as it trailed off into silence the singer appeared from around the bend.
In the half light he presented a strange, almost a grotesque figure, as he toiled up the road repeating over and over his peculiar lines. I stood perfectly quiet, and watched his approach. There was a certain limp to his gait, coupled with a decided unsteadiness, which made his seeming yet more uncouth as he drew nearer and nearer through the gloaming. His head was bent, and he was unaware of my presence until he reached the plateau, and advanced some distance across it. Then he looked up, saw me, and came to a standstill with a jerky motion. He was perhaps twenty feet from me, as we stood and exchanged stares.
An exceedingly tall, loose-jointed individual faced me. His clothing was nondescript, mostly rags and tatters. His trousers, frayed at the ends, came to an abrupt stop several inches above the tops of his run-down, rusty shoes, and the spaces between showed a dust-begrimed skin. He wore a coat of the Prince Albert pattern, much too small. Beneath this was some sort of shirt which would not admit of description. His face was gaunt and hairy. I will not say he wore a beard; the term would be incorrect. The hair grew in patches; sickly, stringy strands, with an extra tuft on the chin which curved sideways. I was forcibly reminded of a goat when I saw this chin-tuft. He wore a colorless, conical felt hat, broad-brimmed and bandless. The brim continued the slope of the crown in an unbroken line, producing a startling effect. There came to my mind the headgear of Hendrik Hudson's crew as depicted in the play of Rip Van Winkle. This specter-like apparition might well have been a ghost, but for the recent evidence of a strong pair of lungs. Beneath one arm, hugged to his side, the figure carried a bundle covered with oilcloth.
For the length of a half-dozen breaths we stood motionless and speechless. Then the figure began to nod its head at me, slowly, soberly, up and down, up and down, and with each movement the curved chin-tuft would shake. This senseless action irritated me. I don't know why, for it might just as well have caused amusement. But for some reason I felt anger rising within me; not violent, but enough to barb my tongue.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
My words were sharp, but that they did not cut I knew from the sprightly reply.
"I'm a fiddler, 'n' I don't want nothin'!"
Still the head bobbed, and the goat-tuft shook.
"You're nothing of the sort," I retorted; "you're a satyr, and you want a drink of whiskey!"
He looked the first, and from his antic disposition I was convinced he was already more than half drunk. But I was entirely unprepared for the result which my statement brought about.
The angular figure became convulsed with immoderate laughter on the instant. He shouted and screamed with mirth, bending forward, thrusting backward, holding his ribs with one hand—the other was busy with the oilcloth bundle, which he never forgot—turning that repellent chin to the sky, and yelling his insane, cackling, demoniac merriment to the first stars. I thought he would surely have some sort of fit before my eyes, so overcome was he with glee. I stood erect and dignified, waiting for his stormy risibles to allay. After a full two minutes of noisy rapture, he calmed down somewhat, drew forth a bottle of remarkable size and tilted it with the neck between his lips. Making a smacking sound of satisfaction as he finished the draught, he half lurched, half walked toward me, extending the bottle as he came.
"Good fur rheumatiz," he said, stopping at arm's length, and good-naturedly leering his invitation for me to partake.
I shook my head.
"No.... Thank you."
There was an expression on his countenance which disarmed me of my wrath. At close range I searched his features. They were irregular, undecided. His nose was pug—another satyr touch—and his neck long, thin and ridged. I could not see his eyes. But something about him came out to me as an appeasing and soothing agent. Worse than useless for me to speculate as to what it was. A nameless something, probably, which acted upon my spirit, or nature, and charmed it in a way. I knew this thing before me was a fragment, a waif, a bit of flotsam on Life's sea. He could be nothing else. And yet—and yet, as he stood patiently with that enormous bottle stuck under my nose, and the genial, whole-hearted leer of invitation on his pagan face, I knew a sudden kinship; a quick, sympathetic rush of feeling, and as I waved the bottle aside with my left hand I thrust out my right and grasped his as it hung limply in front of the bundle he still pressed to his side with his elbow.
"I don't want your liquor, Satyr," I said; "but you may sit down and talk to me if you want to."
"Don't want good liquor?" he repeated, batting his lids, and lowering the bottle as though puzzled beyond understanding.
"Not now; not often. Sometimes I do. But what sort of stuff is that?"
I had just noticed the contents of the bottle was clear.
"White lightnin'," he replied, carefully stowing it away in a pocket I could not see.
I knew then. It was moonshine whiskey.
Suddenly his cadaverousness struck me afresh.
"Have you had supper—or dinner—or breakfast?" I demanded, with such vim that he answered hurriedly:
"Naw; neither; nothin'."
The grammar was bad, but the meaning was good.
"Then let's eat—you and I—and become acquainted."
I did not tell him my supper was over, though this bit of tact was doubtless unnecessary. Neither did I invite him indoors. While it is true I had really warmed to his outcast condition, the sentiment did not embrace the hospitality of my roof. I felt a desire to cultivate him, but the acquaintance must grow in the open.
He grinned appreciatively at my suggestion, and I saw him lick his lips surreptitiously, after the manner of a starved animal which smells food.
"Get busy about a fire, and I'll find the grub," I continued, not waiting for the assent which I knew he would give.
With that I went in the house, took from my larder some bacon, eggs, bread and coffee, all of which, with a skillet, I carried out. Quickly as I had moved, I found the Satyr's fire ablaze when I returned. This he had made from dry leaves and sticks which I had already scraped into a pile from off my garden plot.
As host, I prepared the meal. While it was cooking, my strange guest sat just across from me in a most uncouth attitude. His shoulders and a portion of his back rested against a stump; the small of his back he sat upon. His long, spider legs were flexed in such a manner that his sharp knees shot up into the air above his head. He had placed his dust colored hat upon the ground, and I could see pale, lifeless strands of hair waving in the early night breeze on top of his partly bald head. The oilcloth bundle lay across his stomach. Neither spoke during the few minutes in which the eggs, meat and coffee were being prepared. One of his claw-like hands lay upon the bundle. Once I saw his other hand stray rather aimlessly under his coat, but it brought nothing out when withdrawn.
"Go to it!" I said, cheerily, when all was done, shoving the skillet toward him, and rising to find a cup for his coffee.
When I came back it was to see him with the skillet between his knees, devouring its contents with the voracity of a starved wolf. He was using a stick and his fingers to convey the hot food to his mouth, as I had forgotten to provide either knife or spoon. I watched him in amazement, for he bolted the bacon and eggs as a dog might. It was very plain he was badly in need of nourishment.
"Good, Satyr?" I asked, squatting down and pouring out a running-over cupful of steaming coffee.
He tried to reply, but the words were unintelligible because of the fullness of his mouth. So I wisely made no further effort at conversation until the skillet was clean—literally clean—for the hungry man took chunks of bread and sopped and swabbed until the black iron glowed spotless. Three cups of strong coffee he drank, three big cups; then, because, I suppose, there was nothing left, he drew his ragged sleeve across his mouth, sighed and voiced his thanks.
"Hell 'n' blazes!"
It meant more, from him, than the most polished bit of rhetoric from a scholar.
"Glad you liked it," I said. "Do you smoke?"
For reply, he began to search his garments silently, and directly produced a cob pipe, as remarkable in appearance as its owner. To begin with, it was made from a mammoth corncob. I verily believe it was two inches in diameter. Around its middle was a dark band, where the nicotine had soaked through. The reed stem was so short that it brought the pipe almost against the smoker's lips. He helped himself to the twist of tobacco I offered him, dexterously flipped out a red coal from the edge of the fire with a stick, then deliberately picked the live coal up between finger and thumb and laid it on top of the pipe. I had heard of this feat, but had never believed it true.
Now my guest sat Turk fashion, contentedly puffing away, so I followed his example on my side the fire, after tossing on a few more sticks to keep the blaze going. The red embers would have sufficed for heat, the night being warm, but I wanted to see more of this queer being. Above all, I wanted to see his eyes. This I could not do, because the firelight flickered, smoke arose from the burning sticks, and the man had bushy brows.
For several minutes there was no sound but the gentle crackling of wood-fiber, or the occasional sizzling of a little jet of steam escaping from its tiny prison. Then I heard a question which almost startled me.
"Whut mought a satyr be, no-how?"
I laughed low, and pressed the spewed-up ashes down into my pipe.
"A satyr?" I repeated, thinking swiftly, for really I did not want to cause affront. "Oh! A satyr is a fellow who runs loose in the woods. That's you, isn't it?"
He was looking in the fire, and presently he began to nod.
"I reck'n it air; yes, I reck'n it air."
"But you've another name," I went on; "what is that?"
"Jeff Angel."
"That doesn't suit," I made bold to answer. "Satyr is much nicer than Angel. Where do you live, pray?"
"Anywhur; nowhur. Jis' use 'roun' th' country, eat'n' 'n' sleep'n' fust one place 'n' 'nother."
Feeling cramped, I now reclined upon my elbow with my head away from the fire. In this position my companion was invisible.
"Why did you come here to-night?" I resumed, pulling leisurely on my briar-root, and noting idly that the stars had become much thicker.
"I's goin' to sleep in th' shack," was the prompt reply. "Lots 'n' lots o' times I've slep' thur."
"And now I've rooted you out. I'm sorry."
"'Tain't wuth worryin' 'bout. I'll go on to th' P'int d'reckly."
I twisted my head in his direction with a swift movement.
"The Point?... Lizard Point?"
"Lizard P'int."
He evinced no surprise that I knew the name.
"Who do you know there?" I demanded.
"All on 'em. Granny, Granf'er, Lessie. They's my folks."
So her name was Lessie.
"Your folks! What do you mean?"
"Granny's my aunt."
That would make the Dryad and the Satyr cousins! Heavens! Could this be true? I sank back on my elbow, and slowly dragged the pipe stem over my lower lip into my mouth. Somehow I did not relish this news.
"Then you are some sort of cousin to Lessie," I murmured, confusedly, and I doubt if he heard. At least, he did not reply, and I lay and looked at the sky and the somber bulk of the forest below, pondering this strange news which I could not comprehend. Was it possible that bright creature's blood could flow in the veins of this derelict? The idea did not suit me, and yet I had no reason to doubt it. My interest flagged; I no longer felt the inclination to question, and a long silence fell. I could not order my guest away, especially after he had broken my bread, but I would not be sorry when he went. The minutes passed; the fire sank low. My pipe burned out: I could feel it cooling under my hand. A drowsiness stole over me. I must have been on the borderland of sleep when I became dreamily conscious of a strange, pervading harmony. Ethereal echoes seemed to wake within my brain, and the hushed night was suddenly tuned for a fairies' dance.
In stupefied amazement I swung my head around, and my mouth fell ajar and my brows knit when I saw from whence these heavenly strains proceeded. Jeff Angel was back against the stump. His knees were sticking up like the broken frame of a bicycle, and he had a violin under his chin. The goat-tuft was spread thinly out over the tail of the instrument. His peaked slouch hat was a dirt-colored cone on the ground at his side, and by it lay a crumpled piece of oilcloth. His eyes were closed, and there was an expression of deep peace upon his homely countenance. His long, big-knuckled, claw-like fingers moved over the strings with the apparent aimlessness of a daddy-long-legs in its perambulations, and they thrilled to the caress of his frayed bow as the lips of a chaste lover to the lips of his beloved. I did not speak, nor move, for I was dumfounded, and the night had been transformed into an elfin carnival of dulcet sounds. My imagination was aroused, and I could almost see nymphs and naiads uprising from the dense growth all around, crooning as they came of woodland delights, and chanting the stories the low wind told them when the world was asleep. The quiet ravine was peopled with a ghostly company which made sad, eerie, but entrancingly sweet music, such as might have been heard in heaven when the morning stars sang together. The notes were liquid, living, colorful. Sometimes there were brief silences between them, which were filled with palpitating echoes. Suddenly a trembling flood of impassioned sound rushed forth on swallow wings into the star-filled night, and I sat up with a gasp.
"Jeff Angel!"
A downward crash of the bow which set all the strings to jangling horribly; then silence.
The man was abashed, confused, for he hastily reached for the cloth bag and thrust both violin and bow therein. He spoke as he fumbled nervously at the drawstring.
"I didn't know you'd keer!" he said, contritely.
He had misinterpreted my exclamation.
"Care? Care!" I burst forth, leaning forward with my palms on the ground. "I never heard such music in all my life, and I have heard men play who receive a thousand dollars a night! Where did you get it?... How do you do it?"
The satyr secured his worn coat across his chest with one button, then bent toward me and replied earnestly.
"I guess it's bornd with me. I've never ben no 'count frum a kid. Wuzn't wuth shucks—never. Jis' wouldn't work—I couldn't. They's no work in me. When they tried to make me I'd run off. I'd run fur off in th' woods 'n' lay 'roun' all day, a-lis'n'n'. I heerd thin's." He stretched out one gaunt arm and waved it with an uncertain, twisty motion. "I heerd thin's. More 'n' th' birds a-cheepin' 'n' a-twitt'r'n' 'n' th' squir'ls a-barkin' 'n' a-yappin' 'n' th' bees a-junin' in th' flowers. They's other thin's—lots o' thin's I heerd. Th' crick's got a song—it'ssicha song—'bout th' purties' 't is' I reck'n, 'cus it's changeabler. 'N' they ain't no en' to th' chune th' win' sings. Sometimes it's lazy 'n' sleepy, 'n' yo' wan' to duck yo' head 'n' snooze, 'n' ag'n it's pow'ful strong 'n' loud 'n' almos' skeers yo' with its shoutin'. 'N' they's other thin's—thin's I can't tell yo' 'bout 'cus I don't know whut they air—but I hears 'em. I c'n jis' shet my eyes any day out in th' deep woods whur they ain't nothin' but woods, 'n' fus' thin' I know I'm a-floatin' on a cloud with music ever-whurs. When I's a kid I went hongry fur some 'n' to play on, so one day I foun' me a big reed, 'n' I made me a w'is'le with holes in it. I jes' mus' play."
He rose to his feet, put his pipe away without knocking the ashes out, and carefully tucked his oilcloth bundle under his arm.
"Pow'ful good supper, 'n' I wuz hongryright! 'Blige' to yo', sho. Good-by!"
He swung around and started across the plateau.
I leaped up quickly.
"Come back again soon, Satyr!" I called. "A supper any time for ten minutes fiddling!"
He waved his hand, but made no reply.
A few moments later, from down the road, growing fainter and fainter, I again heard that fantastic rhyme:
"Rabbit in th' log,Ain't got no rabbit dog."
"Rabbit in th' log,Ain't got no rabbit dog."
I have been to Lizard Point.
Before sunrise this morning I was up, and out. I sleep with both windows open and the shutters up, so the first daybeams rouse me. Thereafter I do not attempt to sleep, but rise at once. This is another of 'Crombie's commands. He said the air was fresher and sweeter, and the distillations from the earth and vegetation purer and more efficacious. He said all this would do me good, and I am trying to follow out his wishes to the letter, because life is sweet to me, and I want to get well. (I must say that I never felt more vigorous than I do to-night.) It went hard with me at first—this rising with the lark—for, in common with most bookish folk, it had been my custom to sit up into the small hours, and sleep late the next morning. Now I am growing used to it, and I love it. I find that I feel better; stronger, more active and alert. There must be some tonic properties in the early morning air to affect me in this way.
The world is never so lovely as when she wakes from sleep. Not even when her old tirewoman, the sun, flings her golden coverlet over her just before nightfall, does she appear so bewitchingly beautiful. This morning, for instance, when I stepped without my door, I felt as if I had been transported by magic into some new and mystical land. Like a maiden whose virginal slumbers have been filled with peaceful dreams of her beloved, the earth was waking. Gently—so gently—she pushed the fleecy fog-billows from her breast. Afar the folds of night seemed yet to cling about her, as though loath to leave her form. Nearer, but way up the valley, grayish, shifting mists writhed slowly, uncoiling vaporous lengths before the ever increasing light. Nearhand, trees, bushes and stones showed dew-sweet and clean. And when, at length, the day had triumphed, and I beheld the rim of a gold ball topping the far eastern range, my breast throbbed with a quick elation, and a song burst from my lips.
I spent the morning working on my garden. It is my peculiarity that when I begin a thing I find no rest until it is finished. By ten o'clock I had cleared the surface of all the available area, and felt much pleased with my efforts. I had worked hard, for there were loose rocks to be got rid of, some of them large and difficult to handle, in addition to the leaves and sticks. But prospects seemed excellent for a fine crop. There was no doubt that this was virgin soil, and as it lay in sun for several hours each day, there was no valid reason why it should not produce abundantly. I must now let it dry out for a few days, then spade it up and plant my seed. Seed! Why, I hadn't so much as a pea or a bean on the place, except in cans! I had several sacks of potatoes, but I wanted a diversified garden. Almost immediately the solution came. I would go to Hebron and buy all the seed I wanted. Comforted by this thought, I set about an early dinner. I hummed contentedly as I bustled around in my small kitchen. It was not until I sat down to eat that I realized the song I had been persistently repeating was the absurd tune which had heralded Jeff Angel's coming and farewelled his departure.
Later, with the sun swinging exactly at meridian, I took my staff and headed down the road, intending for the Dryad's Glade. Ever since my brief talk with the girl there had been a slow, steady pulling within me toward that creek which flowed south. It didn't worry me especially; in fact, it didn't worry me at all—why should it? But it was there. When I was employed I was not aware of it, but whenever my mind rested there flowed into it, like the resurgence of a low, moon-touched wave, the picture of one standing on the brook's bank, with copper-red curls crowned with white stars. It was a pleasant picture, and I did not try to banish it.
Now, fairly started on my way, I wondered that I had not gone before. I moved with restive eagerness, and presently reached the spot where I had encountered the girl—Lessie. I did not like the name. It was empty, vapid, meaningless, ugly; just a sound by which one was known. She could not help it, of course. It might have been Mandy, or Seliny. Lessie did not seem so terrible when I thought of others much worse, but it did not fit her.
I tarried for a moment under the dogwood tree. Its blossoms were fading now. I saw the jagged ends of several low branches where she had broken off her coronal. But there was no sign of squirrel or bird. Passing on, I plunged into the undergrowth which lined the creek bank as far as I could see, and made my way along. There was something of a valley here, and it would have been easier going nearer the base of the knob several rods away, but the stream's course was erratic, so I clung to the bank and fought my way forward. It was a toilsome journey, and the half-mile was beginning to seem interminable when all at once I burst, perspiring, into an open, and found I had arrived.
Just before me the creek split on a tongue or wedge of land, which came sweeping gradually down from a vast spur in the background. Shaping itself to a sharp point represented by an enormous, deeply imbedded bowlder, the formation broadened backward rapidly and generously, widely deflecting the halved stream. A quarter of a mile away I could see a house—or cabin—surrounded by a dilapidated rail fence, with sundry pens and outbuildings in miniature clustered in the rear. In the foreground, to the left, was an acre or two of tilled soil. Paralleling the left fork of the cloven creek, looping the point and fording the right fork, was a mountain road. In front of me, spanning the left fork, was the trunk of a huge beech tree, lopped of its branches, and that this was a bridge which some far-gone storm had placed I knew at once, for a crude ladder led up to its root-wadded butt.
For several minutes I stood, panting from my exertions, and conscious of a slight pain in my right side. This did not alarm me, for I was convinced it was nothing but what old people call a "stitch," caused by my recent strenuous walk. I had reached Lizard Point—a most insignificant name for such an impressive portion of country. There was but one dwelling visible; therefore there could be but one place for me to seek for Lessie. I came to the ladder, and had placed my foot upon the bottom-most cross-piece when I halted, and in secret manner, although there was no need of secrecy, drew the jar from my pocket and hid it under the tree's lowest roots. I had promised Lessie I would tell her why I carried it with me the next time I saw her, and this I did not want to do, for she would fail to understand, and I would only appear ridiculous. Queer how a man shuns being made ridiculous, but after all it is only natural, especially if one is inclined to sensitiveness.
I mounted to the tree, and saw that the bark along its top surface had been completely worn away. The tree had evidently been in use as a means of passage for a long time. I walked across, sure-footed and steady, and found a slight path winding up the easy ascent toward the house. This I followed, keeping my eyes on the log dwelling ahead. As I drew nearer, I made out a small porch, or stoop, and on this some one was sitting. There was no other sign of life, if I expect a bony, yellow dog which came slowly into sight from around the corner, and a string of white ducks filing sedately down to the creek. I passed through a gap in the crazy fence and traversed the yard. I now saw that it was an old woman who sat on the porch. She was very fat, and she sat in a low rocking-chair with her knees apart. A ball of yarn lay in her lap, and she was knitting and rocking, knitting and rocking. Her great bulk completely hid her support, but I knew it was a rocking-chair from her motions.
As I stopped at the edge of the stoop and respectfully took my cap off, the dog gave a low growl, then lay down, keeping one topaz eye fastened upon me suspiciously. The fat old lady paid no more attention to me than if I had been a hen or a duck, but sent her needles flying the faster. I regarded her in silent wonder for a moment. Her dress was a plain one-piece garment of some dark, cheap stuff, utterly unrelieved from somberness except for a row of shiny white horn buttons down the front. Her feet were large and flat, and were encased in carpet slippers with a gaudy pattern of alternate crimson and green. She wore iron rimmed spectacles which rested so near the tip of her pudgy nose I wondered they didn't fall off. Her gray hair was parted very precisely in the middle and slicked back close to her head. Her mouth was thin and hard, and her face acrid looking.
"Uh-h-h—good morning," I said, hitching at my trousers; an unconsciously nervous action.
"Marnin'!"
I jumped—really I did—for it was as though she had let a gun off in my face. I had never heard such a voice. Vinegary? Well!
I curled my fingers around my chin and looked at the dog. His fiery eye had not wavered. Then I looked at the cat—for in that moment I was firmly convinced this old beldamwasa cat. Her mouth had squared into yet firmer lines, and her brow had grown portentous. Still her needles fussed about the half-made sock in her yellowish hands, and her gaze was down, as before.
"Do the—"
I started to ask if people by their name lived here, but when I came to the name I could not supply it; I had never heard it. I stammered, coughed, then knew that a pair of fierce little green eyes were flashing at me.
"Air yo' a plum' fule? Whur air yo' wits 'n' yo' tongue 'n' yo' commin sinse? Can't yo' tell a body whut yo' want wi'out stam'rin' 'n' stutt'rin' 'n' takin' all th' day? Folks as has got work to do ain't got no time to waste on tramps 'n' sich!Talk!"
Like a cyclone this tirade enveloped me, bursting upon my ears in a high, rasping voice which dragged on my nerves after the manner of a file.
I became desperate. This old virago should not oust me. I thrust my body forward, and, chin out, replied with some heat:
"Is this where Granny, and Granf'er, and Lessie live? That's what I want to know?"
"Land sakes! Jony 'n' th' w'ale!... Airyouhim?"
Her hands dropped in her lap; she cocked her head and viewed me afresh.
During the momentary silence which followed I heard shuffling footsteps within, and an old man appeared in the open doorway in front of me. He wore a shirt made of bed ticking; his trousers were not visible, because of the coffee-sack which wrapped him from his waist to his shoes. He was bald, his white beard was a fringe about his face, his upper lip shaven. He was drying a white dinner plate of thick ironstone china with a cloth.
"S'firy!" he said, in a squeaky, timorous voice; "S'firy!"
He got no further.
Granny turned her head sideways, at right angle to the speaker, and promptly exploded.
"Jer'bome! Git right back to yo' work! Git! 'N' don't let me see nur hear yo' till them dishes is washed 'n' put away!"
Granf'er (it could be no one else) retreated obediently, without a word. Granny's face swung around to me again.
"If all men wuz as triflin' 'n' ornery as that air'n o' mine, Lord knows whut th' worl' 'd come to.E-tern'l perdition, I reck'n! He jes' lays 'roun' 'n' chaws terbacker, pertendin' he carries a ketch in 'is back. Plum' laziness, I tell yo'! But I don't 'low no vagrints 'roun' me. Jer'bome's got to work 's long 's he b'longs to me.... Now! I said, air youhim?"
"I'm the stranger who lives in the shack on Bald Knob."
Granny resumed her knitting at this point. I noticed that her shining needles seemed to be fighting each other as she continued:
"Look whut I'm a-doin' fur 'im now! Slavin' to git somethin' to keep 'is feet warm 'gin winter comes. He's not wuth it! Lak as not he'll crack one o' them dishes 'fo' he gits 'em done. He's that keerless. Most do-less man Ieverseen.... Yes, I've heerd 'bout yo'—twict."
"I hope you received a pleasant report?" I ventured.
"Jes' las' night he lef' th' dish tow'ls a-hangin' on th' lot fence 'n' th' calf et 'em up. 'N' th' day befo' he fed a gang o' day old chick'ns meal 'n' wadder 'n' they swelled up 'n' died. 'N' chick'ns wuth fifteen cents a poun' at th' store!... Lessie come home a fo'tn't ago with a tale o' meetin' some feller. I tol' 'er gels 'd better leave all tramps be."
"But I'm not a tramp!" I protested. "I'm usually considered a gentleman."
"That's whut Jeffy 'lowed. He's here last night—pore feller!—'n' tol' us 'bout eat'n' a snack with you on Baldy—whut in th' name o' the sevin plagues does a man in 'is right min' wan' to live thur fur?—tell me that!"
"I find it very pleasant—"
Then the light went out, soft hands were pressing hard over my closed lids, and a cool, ferny perfume drifted to my nostrils. I was conscious of warm wrists alongside my head, and a stifled giggle just behind me.
"Lessie!" I cried, remembering the childhood prank.
The blinding hands were at once withdrawn, and as she leaped back new vials of wrath were opened.
"Of all outlandish doin's!"
Granny had raised her head only at my exclamation, but she saw enough.
"Whut on airth air gels comin' to this day 'n' time?—tell me that! Never seen 'im but onct—mought be a redhanded 'sass'n—ur a thief—ur—ur—uranythin'! 'N' all my teach'n' all these years. W'en I'vetol'yo' that all men were 'ceptious, 'n'tol'yo' to b'lieve nothin' they say, 'n'tol'yo' to have no talk with 'em but 'Howdy' 'n' 'Good-by,' 'n' here yo' air a-huggin' a stranger—teetot'l stranger—'fo' my eyes!"
Granny's jelly-like body really trembled with rage, and I began to have fears for the outcome of the incident. Of course, it amounted to nothing at all so far as right or wrong was concerned. It was simply a natural expression of the primeval simplicity which marked all the Dryad's movements. She was a child, and she had played a child's trick.
She now stood a few feet to one side, looking at me in unfeigned amazement, apparently indifferent to the old woman's outburst. She was dressed nicer than when I saw her before. Her garment was pale green, with little wavy stripes of darker color. Her shoes, too, were a grade better, but still clumsy, and she had a ribbon on her hair, which hung, as before, down her shoulders. She seemed averse to wearing anything on her head, for she held her bonnet—a poke bonnet, like the one I had handed her in the glade—in her left hand.
As she looked fully and squarely at me with her peculiar Irish gray eyes, I felt the same sensation come as when I had first beheld her. It was a feeling I cannot adequately describe, because no definite word I can think of would do. If the word existed, and if I knew it, I would set it down. I should be just as glad to know what that feeling meant as you. Perhaps each of us shall find out later.
She gazed at me and I gazed at her, and Granny gazed at us both. Our eyes met for a full breath, and then somehow mine fell to her throat. When a woman's throat is beautiful it is altogether as attractive as a lovely face. The Dryad's throat was a poem. If John Keats could have seen it, another golden ode would have come down along with the famous seven. It was simply a perfect column of warm, white, vigorous young life. Not too slender, and swelling on to the shoulders in the gentlest, most marvelous contour. It was while I was engaged in fascinated contemplation of her throat she spoke.
"Land sakes!... How'd yo' know my name?"
"The Sa—Jeff Angel told me."
"Oh!"
Her face underwent a rapid change, and the next moment she had leaped lightly upon the porch, flung her arms around Granny's neck and snuggled her head against the old woman's bosom.
"Don't you bother 'bout me, Granny!" she said, in soothing tones, and again that indefinable haunting cadence smote my ears and caused me to stir uneasily as I stood watching the scene. What a creature of moods this girl was!
Now one hand patted Granny's fat cheek, and another smoothed the lusterless gray hair. The expression which stole over the truculent face made me think of the sunlight falling suddenly upon some forbidding cliff, and that moment I knew how deep and wonderful must be the love which beat in that old heart for Lessie.
"La! Now, chil'," said Granny, "have yo' way if yo' mus', but be keerful—always be keerful. 'Specially o' men folks, 'cus they's so full o' Sat'n 'n' mischief."
With that she sniffed resignedly, uplifted her brows, carefully freed herself from the caressing arms and picked up the sock and the ball of yarn, both of which had fallen to the floor under Lessie's onslaught.
As the girl arose to her feet Granf'er appeared a second time. He had not removed the badge of domestic toil which had enveloped his nether half when I first saw him, and he was dragging a low, shuck-bottomed chair behind him. It came down the step leading from the porch into the house with a bump and a clatter, and Granny blazed out again.
"Jer'bome. Look at yo'! Tryin' to break that cheer to splinters! Ain't yo' got stren'th to carry ev'n acheer? 'N' is thim dishes washed 'n' put in th' pantry, whur they should orter be?"
Granf'er dumbly lifted the chair, conveyed it stiffly to the furthest front corner of the porch, and quietly placed it. Then he turned to me, and with a show of dignity said, in his thin voice—
"Set down!"
I at once stepped upon the porch, advanced and shook hands with the old man, then took the proffered seat with a word of thanks.
He turned and hurried indoors, returning immediately bearing two other chairs identical with the first. One of these he handed the Dryad, just across the porch entrance, and the other he brought around and gingerly lowered to the floor about a foot from mine. When we were all seated Granf'er stretched one leg out to its fullest length, in order to gain freer access to his pocket, and after some tugging produced a half twist of tobacco. This he silently extended to me with a comical facial contortion which plainly meant that I should take all I wanted. I shook my head, and smiled.
"Light Burley!" he explained. "Skace 's hen's teeth. Don't yo' chaw?"
"S'pec' ever' man yo' meet toliveon terbacker?" snapped Granny, without looking up.
"No," I replied; "I smoke."
"Then smoke. Yo' come too later fur dinner, so now we'll hev to mix terbacker instid."
It dawned upon me that it was a sort of guest rite he was offering me, so I crumbled some of the light yellow leaf into my pipe and fired it. Then he gnawed off a satisfactory chew, and stowed the remainder away.
He crossed his legs—by this time I had discovered that he wore boots with his trousers legs stuck down in the tops—in that comfortable, sagging way all old men have, and with one hand in his lap holding his elbow, he plucked gently at the front of his fringe of whiskers while his jaw worked erratically as he slowly adjusted the savory particles in his mouth.
No one spoke now for two or three minutes. It certainly was a new experience for me. A swift glance showed me that the Dryad had weighed the situation and was amused. Imps of fun danced in her eyes, and there was a tightening about her mouth which told me that she was holding herself in check with much effort. She was speechless from choice; the other two from nature.
Without warning Granf'er twisted his neck and ejected a curving stream of amber. It came down with a splash on the back of a half-grown chicken loitering near. There was a squawk of alarm, a flutter, a scurry from danger.
"That's right!" shrilled the bundle of fat. "Ef yo' can't kill 'em no other way, drownd 'em with terbacker juice!"
"Granf'er didn't see it!" championed Lessie. "It's under th' aidge o' the po'ch, 'n' 'tain't hurt no-how."
Once more I saw her teeth, like two rows of young corn when the husks are green.
Granf'er paid no more heed to his helpmeet's words than if it had been the wind blowing down the chimney. Even his expression did not change. Already a real pity was creeping into my heart for Granf'er. It took neither seer nor mindreader to discern that he belonged to that most to be pitied class of all who live and breathe—a man who has become simply a woman's creature. A man who, for one or more of a hundred reasons, had abdicated his kingship in the home, suffering a reversal of rule contrary alike to all divine decrees and natural laws. Such a man deserves what he gets, it is true, live he in a mansion or a hovel. Man was created to rule, and woman knows it. It is by ruling only that he retains her love. When his reign ceases, then not only does her love cease, but her respect also. Look about you!
Granf'er drew the palm of his hand across his lips, mechanically—and with what seemed like a very natural motion—smoothed out some puckers in his coffee sack apron, and spoke. He was looking out upon the quiet majesty of the encircling hills, but I knew that he was addressing me.
"Y' see, Jeffy's S'firy's nevvy. He come wrong, we-all 'pine. Leas'ways, they's some'n' in 'is head that's somehow onbalanced 'im. No nat'r'l man 'd go tromp'n' thoo th' woods frum morn'n' till night 'ith nothin but a fiddle fur comp'ny. S'firy's special'y sot ag'in a fiddle, holdin' 'ith lots o' folks that th' dev'l's in it—"
"I'd jes' love to smash it to smithereens over a stump!" interpolated Granny.
"—but ez fur me 'n' Lessie, we kind o' enj'yJeffy's scrapin' 'n' sawin'. Lessie's re'ly plum' cracked 'bout it, 'n' 'd foller Jeffy over th' hull durn county if we didn't p'suade 'er pow'ful."
"Seems to me, Jer'bome, yo' c'n tell it 'ithout cussin'. Only las' Sunday I had to speak to Father John 'bout yo' increasin' wickedness!"
"The hull durn county!" repeated Granf'er, quietly and reflectively, his gaze still fixed on the high hills. "They has big times—thim two—though Jeffy's mos' unsartain in 'is visits. Sometimes it's a month w'en we don't ketch sight o' 'im, 'n' ag'in he lingers with us a day or so at a spell. We sets lots o' store by Jeffy, 'cus th' Lord in 'is wisdom has saw fit to 'flict 'im. Th' wus' thin' 'bout 'im is th' liquor—"
"I'd hevsomepride, Jer'bome!"
"—n' w'en he gits holt o' that he goes plum' lunatic crazy sometimes. Y' see, it's th' shiners 's whur he gits th' mos.' Th' ryavines over yan air full o' the'r still-houses, 'n' Jeffy fiddles fur 'em fur 'is bottle full o' liquor. Puss'nly, I hol' that a little liquor is pow'ful he'pful, but S'firy 'lows it's no good fur nothin' 'cep' to make dev'lment 'twixt people—"
"Ef I had my way not another drap'd go into a bottle!"
"—'n' I 'gree they's some sinse in her argyment, though it's my b'lief that a w'ite man 's got to drink some'n', 'n' 't' 's well be pyore whiskey as anythin'."
He stopped to relieve his overcrowded mouth, uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way, "to keep 'em frum goin' to sleep," and continued:
"'Pears to me Lessie said yo' come frum Lets'nt'n—uh-huh—some little ways off. 'S never thur. Walked over to Ced'rt'n onct, but home 'n' Hebrin's good 'nough for weuns. We ain't th' wanderin' kin', yo' mought say, but live peaceful 'n' work our—"
"Work!"
"—work our lan', whut little we've got that's fit'n'. You's good to our Jeffy—to S'firy's Jeffy, that is, fur he ain't no kin to me (not that I'd be 'shamed o' Jeffy, onderstan', on 'count o' his not bein' jes' right in th' head)—so I says to yo' here 'n' now 'ith S'firy 'n' Lessie to witness, as head o' this house I says yo're welcome here to-day 'n' any day!"
Then, quite unexpectedly, he clamped his hand across my leg above the knee, and gave me a squeeze which hurt.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon on that small front porch. Granf'er entertained me in the manner I have outlined; a mixture of opinion, native philosophy, and local news, with occasional caustic interruptions from Granny's two-edged tongue. Lessie said very little—what chance had she in the face of Granf'er's garrulity?—and once she went in the house and stayed for half an hour. When she came back she had on yet another dress, pure white this time. There were some frills and tucks and a touch of imitation lace here and there. I'm sure it must have been her Sunday frock. She was showing off her wardrobe, after the manner of a tot of eight or ten.
The sun had halted for a moment in its downward course on the crest of a range as I arose to go.
Granf'er was voluminous in his invitation to "Come ag'in 'n' set a w'ile"; Granny tendered me a defiant nod in response to my polite good-by, and lo! as I turned to bid Lessie farewell last, she had already moved into the yard, and was waiting for me! Side by side we started down the narrow, hard-beaten path. That is, she took the path and I walked in the new grass which bordered it.
"I'll go to th' crick with yo'," she said, demurely; then, with characteristic irrelevance—"Ain't Granny tur'ble?"
"Granny's jealous of you, and I suppose she has nagged at Granf'er so long it has become a fixed habit. I'm really sorry for the old fellow, Dryad."
"Whut?"
She turned a quizzical, puzzled face.
I laughed, gently, and made known to her the meaning of the word.
"There are lots of things I'm going to tell you when I get a chance," I added. "Wouldn't you like to know about this big world, and about the many kinds of people who live in it? About the great cities, and about what people have done and are doing? Wouldn't you like to learn how the trees grow, and what makes the wind, the lightning, and the thunder? About all the birds and animals; streams, rocks and hills? Wouldn't you like to learn all these things, and lots more?"
Her eyes had widened as I talked, and now on her fresh, unlined face a wonder and a hunger grew. It seemed as if her fallow mind was struggling to emerge from some dark, concealing mist—to leap up and meet the knowledge I had promised. A look almost of distress, born of futile longing. We were moving very slowly. She spoke.
"I've—sometimes—w'en by myse'f—mos' often in the deep woods—I've felt some'ncrawlin'in here"—she put her hand to her head—"some'n' that 'peared to be want'n' to say some'n'. 'N' I's diff'ernt then. I didn't wan' to go home to Granny 'n' Granf'er. I wanted to go some'r's else—way off, maybe, 'n' I'd be mis'ble 'cause I couldn't tell—couldn't make out whut 'twuz, yo' know. 'N' after w'ile it'd go 'way 'n' leave me, 'n' I wouldn't git right fur a day or so. I ast Father John 'bout it one day 'n' it looked lak it hurt 'im, 'n' he tol' me not to have them spells if I c'd he'p it. Said they wuzn't good fur me. 'N' jes' now, w'en yo' tol' me 'bout all them things you's goin' to learn me—it come back—come back lak th' crick comes down w'en it rains in th' hills—with a rush 'n' pour, 'n'—'n'—oh! I wan' to know!—Idowan' to know!"
She clasped her hands with something like a tragic gesture, and stared hard at the ground in front with forehead a-frown.
I did not answer her at once. How could I? A new facet of her many-sided nature had flashed upon me, and I was a little dazed. We reached the tree-bridge before I attempted a reply.
"I shall be here a year. Come to see me on Baldy. Or come to the place where I first found you, and I will meet you there. I'm going to give you the things for which you long. I can do it, but not with Granny or Granf'er. They would object; they would not understand."
She looked up at me—for I had climbed to the tree—dumbly, yearningly.
"I'll come," she said. It was scarcely more than a half-whisper.
I did not like to leave her in that mood.
"All right, Dryad!" I returned, cheerily. "Now tell me where that road goes."
My aim was to bring her mind back to its accustomed channel for the present. She brightened at my query.
"T' 'Ebron," she said.
"Oh! Yes! Some day soon I'm going there. I have a garden at home and I'm going there to buy seed."
She laughed at this, and I felt relieved.
"Good-by, Dryad."
I knelt on the tree, bent down and took her upheld hand in mine. It was warm, soft, and, that moment, clinging. Forerunners of dusk had come, and the gray pools of her clear eyes made me release her hand and get on my feet.
She moved away, and as I turned to set my face in the opposite direction, something halted me in the very act.
On the Hebron road, two hundred yards or more distant, I saw the figure of a man. A young, tall, bareheaded, roughly clad man, standing very straight and still. He saw me; he was looking at me. Of that I was sure. His position was by a great stone, which cast him in deeper shadow. There was something portentous in his attitude, natural though it was. I stopped and returned his inspection of me, but he made no sign, no gesture. He might have been a tree of the forest, for all of his immobility. A feeling, not of fear, but of premonition, swept over me as I went on across the tree.
I knew it was Buck Steele, the smith of Hebron.
I did something to-day which I have had vaguely in mind ever since I took up my abode in the wilderness. I climbed to the very top of my hill of refuge.
The principal reason why I have never attempted it before was that I feared it would prove too much for me; would require too much exertion. And 'Crombie, while advising and insisting upon continuous exercise, had also warned me not to overdo it.
This morning I felt mighty as Tubal Cain. My walks, my regular hours, my wholesome diet, are having effect. I am beginning to brown. At seven o'clock, when I shaved, the path of my razor showed a firm, tanned skin. My eyes are clear, and I can feel life coming into me. Oh, what a glorious thing it is! Just simple, primitive, animal life! I don't know when I have coughed. I can inflate my lungs, and imagine the consternation of that "colony" at the inrushing flood of this ozone laden air. I am not deluding myself that I am sound. 'Crombie said it would take time, and 'Crombie knows. But I am better. My recent walks have not caused me to pant and blow. That is why, this morning, I felt the assurance within me that I could surmount old Baldy's peak, and feel no bad results.
Rain fell last night. It began just as I went to bed, and I lay and listened to it. There is something most fascinating about rain on the roof after you have gone to bed. Last night it dropped gently, a steady murmur. It came to my ears as a cradle song of Nature. I could hear it outside the window near which I sleep. The patter, patter, and after a while the gurgling of little streams over the clapboard eaves. I remember of thinking what a good soaking my garden spot would get, and of the consequent delay waiting for it to dry out before I could spade it up, then I went to sleep.
This morning I was awakened by the orchestra of the birds. I had heard stray notes before about daybreak. Snatches of song, broken trills, single cries, and challenging calls. But this morning it was different. I don't know how to account for it. Whether the rain had something to do with it; whether they met by accident or appointment. The solution of that question is a minor thing, however. I received the full benefit of the gathering. I have never heard an exhibition which equaled that forest symphony. There must have been nearly a dozen varieties of birds. And each little fellow was singing with all the heart of him. I tell you they made music. Each had a different tune, and among humans this would have represented bedlam. But among the feathered kind—take my word for it if you have never heard it—the effect was wonderful. It was one great alleluia chorus, and the air throbbed with the sweetest music I ever heard. I recognized many of the vocalists by their songs. I knew that about my plateau were gathered the cardinal, the thrush, the oriole, the catbird, the jay and the mockingbird. And when I mention the jay, let no one rise up and point the finger of scorn, exclaiming on that blue-coated fellow's harsh and grating scream. Mr. Caviler, your voice is harsh and grating too when you get very angry, isn't it? But have you never heard the love-note of the jay? Have you never, in the dappled shade, when their half-fledged nestlings are flapping and hopping about and stretching cavernous yellow jaws for worms and moths—have you never heard the parent birds, watchful in the overhead branches, make love? There was never a sweeter, mellower, richer tone drawn from flute or harp than the love-note of the jay.
Many others were there that were strange to me, but the effect of the whole was so sweet that I had to drag myself from bed, so charmed was I by that chorus in the early dawn.
The sky was clear when I came out; a deep, rich, fathomless blue. Night had taken the rain-clouds with it when it left. A woodsy, wet, earthy odor, than which there was no perfume rarer, delighted my nostrils. Everything was washed clean. The leaves, the trunks of the trees, the very stones. It was then, as I stood and felt the might of the everlasting hills entering into me, that I decided on my task for the day. As yet it was too early. The ground was soft. It would be wet and slippery on the slope above, and perhaps muddy. I determined to wait an hour or two, so went down to my favorite seat under the pine tree, taking with me Spencer's "First Principles," which is a book calculated to make one use his mind, at least.
It was eleven o'clock before I looked at my watch—too late for mountain climbing that morning. Upon reflection, I saw that this was just as well. In fact, the afternoon would be a much better time to make the ascent. The sun had been shining generously for several hours, drying both the vegetation and the surface of the ground. So Mr. Spencer had really done me a good turn in carrying me through the forenoon. I left the book on the bench and went back to the Lodge, thinking to resume my reading after I returned from the peak. I did not expect to be gone over an hour and a half, allowing for plenty of time to rest.
After a leisurely dinner, I took my alpenstock, and imagining myself at the base of the Matterhorn to lend zest, bravely fronted the upward climb.
It was rather stiff work from the beginning. I flanked the Lodge for a score of yards, and started up where the ascent was comparatively gradual. This did not last long. Before I reached the encircling band of evergreens I had to force my way through bushes which insisted on rapping my nose, and vines which were equally determined to tie themselves into knots over my toes, and trip me. At length I came to the dark line of pines and cedars, where I stopped to investigate my condition. My breath was coming pretty heavy, but I was not really tired. So after a few moments' rest I went on. My going was tolerably easy now while the trees lasted. Beneath their shade the earth was barren. Some half dead moss and a plentiful sprinkling of pine cones was all. As I walked over the latter they yielded softly to my feet, and sent up a pungent odor. I heard no bird notes here, but once a brown-winged shape flitted soundlessly by in front of me, low to the ground. Everything was very still. There was no wind astir. The belt proved to be a somber spot, and I was not sorry when I had passed it. The dense shade had a depressing effect.
Then I came to open ground; open and bare. Two hundred and fifty feet above me rose old Baldy's head. For perhaps half the distance a scrub growth strove for existence in the rocky soil; beyond that the surface was absolutely denuded. The incline had grown much sharper, but the earth was knotty and uneven, in many places indented with excoriations, and I found I could go forward with much greater ease than I had anticipated. A quarter of an hour later found me facing the last ascent, which was all but perilous in its sheer rise. My staff was of no avail here; hands and feet must win. So I laid my alpenstock down, drew a deep breath and started up. Just how I got to the top I cannot say. But there is a big element of tenacity in my nature, and I fought on with squared jaws and set teeth, slipping, scrambling, sprawling, until I had won. I crawled over the crest on my hands and knees, and for quite ten minutes I lay prostrate, recovering my wind and my spent strength. Then I got onto my feet and looked about me.
It was a glorious prospect; even solemn and majestic. A prodigious sweep of country was laid bare before me. I hesitate to say how many miles I could see, for distance is most deceptive at great altitudes. But it was the topography, more than the far reaching view, which impressed me. I was standing in the midst of a world newly created, the only living creature. Leagues upon leagues of virgin forest flowed back from my point of vantage till the perspective ended in a misty blur. East and west stretched the mighty ranges, with constantly diverging spurs, each clothed with its own garment of green and glistening glory. Anon the ancient hills valleyed into troughs whose length had no visible limit, and it did not require the imagination of a poet to behold beneath me the effect of an immense sea which had suddenly been frozen into permanent form. How illimitable! How overpowering! Slowly I turned to the different points of the compass. Far to the north a smudge of smoke fouled the tender bosom of the sky, and I quickly looked another way. Cedarton lay in that direction.
For a half-hour I stood and gazed, and wondered, and thought. Here was incentive for rumination, and when I at length withdrew my eyes from the bewildering panorama I felt infinitesimally puny, and weak, and small. What was I? A mote in a sunbeam; an atom of matter; no more.
The point upon which I stood was an irregular circle, approximating thirty feet in diameter. An imperfect stone formation marked its outer boundaries; the effect of some Titanic convulsion in forgotten time. In one place—toward the southwest—the rim of rock broke, and here the earth had sloughed away before the ages-long war of the elements, the result being a broad, flume-like chute leading downward. Instinctively I drew back from this place, for it suggested unknown terrors. A sort of sandy, granular deposit covered the top of the knob; the grinding caused by years upon years of wind and rain.
My inspection of the peak occupied scarcely a minute. Then I sat down in its exact center, lit my briar-root, hugged my knees, and allowed myself for the first time that day to think of yesterday's experience. You could never guess my first thought. It was that material would quickly accumulate now for my book. I sensed the approach of things—of many things, and not all of them were pleasant. In fact, some wore grisly aspects. I believe in premonitions. I don't know what they are, or what causes them, or anything about them except they exist. But one came to me as I sat on the tiptop of old Baldy this afternoon, smoking my pipe and hugging my knees, and feeling very much like a bird in its eyrie. I was troubled and elated in turn; a queer experience, but common to all. There was no reason in the world why I should have been either depressed or uplifted. But somehow the near future looked to me to be vibrant with incidents waiting their chance to happen, and in some unformed way I felt that, innocently enough, I had set in motion a train of events which would quickly envelope me in their workings. I say it was a premonition—a prescience—and I believe I am right.
I can make nothing yet of Lessie or her household. Granf'er and Granny have their prototypes among those who call themselves ultra refined. Each is interesting to me, in his and her way. Granny has a suspicious nature. I cannot think she is as down-right mean and crusty as she pretends to be. Maybe Granf'er is trifling, and trying, and Granny might have to lash him with her tongue to keep him in the traces. I am sure the old lady's dislike for me is real, though why this should be I cannot fathom just now. I have a strong suspicion that deep down in her heart Granny has a feeling of worship for the Dryad, and in everything which presents itself in masculine shape she sees a possible cause for Lessie leaving her. That seems the most plausible reason for her dislike. Lessie has plunged me into a quandary where I can see no light at all. Her personality is the most complex I have ever encountered. She is absolutely baffling. I can't understand the way she talked to me as we came down the path from the house scarcely twenty-four hours ago. What was it within her that suggested the things of which she spoke? If she had delivered an oration in Latin I could not have been more surprised. She—the product of many generations of hill dwellers, whose intelligence always remained at a minimum, among whom the stirrings of ambition were never felt and where knowledge had never gained the slightest foothold—she to suffer the travail of a fettered mind striving for light; of a shackled soul struggling for expression! What could it mean? And to make the enshrouding darkness yet more dense,she was cousin to the Satyr! The Satyr! That whimsical, hapless ne'er-do-well who strolled the woods day after day, drinking white whiskey, and bringing strains from his old fiddle which made one's flesh creep with their weird sweetness. Is it a wonder I was puzzled? I promised to help her, and I am going to do it. I know the task will be pleasant. I will escape monotony, and she will be improved, and in this way it will work good to both of us. I shall begin—but at this point in my cogitations there floated suddenly across the field of memory that tall, dark shadow standing on the Hebron road, still and stern.
I took the pipe from my mouth and stood up. The sun had more than half completed its journey from zenith to horizon. I made another detour, looking for the best place to descend. I found it a short distance from where I had come up; almost a path, surprisingly easy to traverse. I carefully noted its location with reference to the points of the compass, and went down with practically no labor. Already I knew I should come back, for the spot held a strong attraction for me. Not alone for the view, which in itself was sufficient compensation for the climb, but there was also a sense of such complete aloneness—and I have that peculiarity. At times I want to be where no one can see me, or talk to me. I want to be utterly alone, without the possibility of interruption. Such a place I knew I had found on the peak of Bald Knob.
When I reached the evergreens I realized that it must be almost twilight on the plateau. At least a cooling, grateful shade was there, and the philosophy of Spencer.
A few moments later I crashed through the bush in the rear of the Lodge, came around and flung my cap boy-like on one of the benches alongside the door, then hurried toward the lone pine. When I had taken a half-dozen steps I looked up, and halted abruptly.
Lessie was standing under the tree, holding "First Principles" open in her hands.
She saw me the same instant, and her eyes brightened with what seemed to me pleasure, while slow waves of color came into her cheeks. She smiled, and stood motionless, waiting for me to approach.
I lost no time in bidding her welcome. When I took her hand in greeting the contact was electrical—it may have been my imagination, I grant—but I'm sure I felt as if a charge of some kind had been projected into me.
"Whut's this book?" she asked, closing the volume but still holding it with a clinging touch. It was to me as if she wanted to make it a part of her, her hands and fingers were so enveloping in their grasp.
"That's heresy—rank heresy!" I laughed. "If Father John saw me reading that he would tell you to run from me as fast as you could."
She glanced up with a most attractive blending of alarm and amusement on her face.
"Then whut yo' read it fur?" she demanded.
"It was written by one of the smartest men the world has ever known, and I want to find out what he thinks. We don't have to believe all we read, you know. We can read for various reasons."
I saw she did not understand.
"Sit down," I continued. "Here, the bench is big enough for two. I'm so glad you have come to see me to-day. You almost missed me; I've been up on Baldy."
We sat side by side. There was barely room enough; as it was our hips came in contact. Then I told her of my little trip toward the clouds. I'm sure she was not at all interested. In fact, after the first brightening of her face at the moment of my appearance, a sort of shadow had come upon it, as though cast from a mind not at rest. I watched her as I talked, and I know she was paying no heed to my recital. She toyed with the book, pressing the pages together, bending them in her fingers, and allowing them to slip under her thumb with a rustle. Now I saw her hair at close range for the first time, and it was truly a crown of glory. Solomon's wisdom was not at fault. A woman's hair holds some mysterious power for a man fully as potent as any of her other charms. There is sorcery in it—and sometimes love-dreams—and sometimes oblivion—and sometimes madness! As I gazed at the Dryad's hair my voice unconsciously dropped to a lifeless monotone. Quickly I noted a fact which formed a fitting supplement to my former discoveries regarding the care of her person. By all legitimate courses of reasoning her hair should have been stringy, sleek, unkempt, and—dirty! But I beheld it the reverse in every particular. No boudoir bred Miss of any city could have produced better cared for tresses. Each silken strand lay separate from its fellows. The whole mass was shining clean, and fresh, and fluffy; the well-shaped ears were transparently spotless, and her neck, where the yet finer hair grew upward and where tiny rings of cobwebby gold fluttered, was immaculate. Fellowman, do you marvel that my tale of climbing the peak came to an end almost in drivel?
As I stopped, rather sheepishly, she lost her hold on the book, and it slipped from her knees to the ground. Each bent to recover it. I was the quicker, but in the forward and downward movement which she made the Dryad's hair tumbled over her shoulders onto my neck, head and face, in a subtly scented, smooth, tickly mesh. It lasted but a moment; I think the shortest moment of my life. We came up laughing, both our faces red. But as for that, one's face is always red when one bends to pick up something.
I opened the book at the front, found a big capital A, and pointing to it, asked Lessie what it was.
She shook her head.
"I don' know."
The pity of it! I could scarcely credit her reply.
"Would you like to know? Would you like to know all the letters in this book, big and little, so that you could read them at a glance?" I asked.
Again that hungry, helpless look came to her.
"Oh!... Yes!"
The first word was spoken with a sharply indrawn breath of eagerness. The last one fell softly a moment later.
"You shall, Dryad. It's a shame you can't do it now. Is there no school here—in the neighborhood—at Hebron? Why have you never been to school?"
"They wuz a school in Hebron. Granny wouldn't let me go."
She was fingering a ruffle on her dress just above her knees in an embarrassed way.
"Wouldn't let you go!" I exclaimed, indignantly ... "Why?"
"A man had it—a young man—'n' Granny hates men, 'specially young men."
"Why does she hate young men?"
"I don' know—you heard whut she said 'bout 'em. She's always preachin' that to me."
I thought my former reading of Granny's attitude correct now, but I did not speak of this to Lessie.
"Granny has done you a great injustice," I said, gravely; "however honest her intentions. I'm going to see that you have a chance, Dryad. But if I'm to help you, I must speak of things exactly as they are, and there shall have to be many corrections. You won't mind this, will you? I mean you will understand why it is done—that it is absolutely necessary for you to get along. You won't take offense—won't get mad, will you?"
She turned her eyes full into mine, her mobile face for the moment serious and calm.
"I'll doanythin'to learn—to know! Oh! I git so lonesome fur—furknowin'! I'm all shet up, 'n' they's things in my head 'n' in here that's jes' bustin' to git out!"
She placed her hand on her breast. Her brows had drawn together and I knew each word was the exact truth.
"All right; it's a bargain," I answered. "We'll begin this very minute. Have you noticed that I talk differently from you, and Granf'er, and Granny'?"
Her mouth was set firmly as her chin moved up and down. I think she was a little scared at the beginning of her lessons.
"I talk correctly, and you talk incorrectly. That's hard to say, but we can't build without solid truth for a foundation. You should learn to speak correctly in a very short time, if you will be very careful, and try. It will take longer to learn to read, and write, but even that will not prove such a great task. Now, answer me—why did you come here to-day?"
"I come 'cause I wanted to!"
Quick as a flash her reply was out, and I could see she was watching me in a fascinated, apprehensive manner. I smiled to reassure her.
"You should say—'Icame be-causeI wanted to.' Say it that way."
"I—came—be-cause I wanted to!"
There was something almost pitiful in her fearful earnestness. This was the beginning of the opening of a sealed door before which she had stood so long, with no one to break the fastenings for her. She had put one hand against the dark trunk of the tree, and now her finger tips were white around the nails from the pressure she had unconsciously brought to bear, and she was trembling the least bit. Poor little Dryad in her windowless house! It must have been an ordeal for her.
How queerly that simple sentence broke upon my ears. It was the first perfect one she had ever spoken, and she enunciated it with painful precision, breathing each word forth in trepidation.
"Good!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands, whereat her tenseness vanished, and her bearing became like one who is somewhat confused, but happy. "Don't forget that, now. Always say 'I came.' Many of your words are not words at all, but fearful corruptions which long use and carelessness have made worse. Then you drop your 'gs' outrageously, but that is a fault you'll overcome by practice."
Thus for an hour we sat on the narrow bench under the tall pine, while I made her answer question after question in her own way, then had her say them again the right way. Her aptness was amazing. Her mind seemed to seize and absorb the elemental instruction I gave her as a parched plant does moisture. She remained constantly intent, alert, ready; and when at length the slowly deepening shadows warned me that she should be going, and I told her the lesson for the day was over, I saw that she was agitated, excited, and her eyes shone as if brightened by wine.
"Oh, you're a capital pupil!" I complimented, warmly, as we arose and stood for a moment side by side. "Now how would you answer me, Dryad?"
She cast me a sidewise glance; partly mischievous, partly shy, partly earnest.
"I'm glad!" she said, quickly.
I knew that she had evaded my trap cleverly, and I did not lay another for her.
"Now you must go."
I spoke reluctantly, for the hour had been an unusually charming one for me. I had always maintained that I had rather be a roadmender than a school teacher, and generally speaking, I hold to the idea still. But I can think of no more delightfully pleasant experience that has ever come my way than when I gave Lessie her first instruction under the pine on the edge of the plateau.