XIX
Hilda
Pink roses and red swung to and fro in the sunshine as they climbed the Doctor's whitewashed porch. Big bees hummed their sleepy drone from the fragrant hearts of the flowers, and a humming-bird whirred busily in and out in search of the honeysuckle that he loved. Up-stairs Mrs. Morgan was darning stockings in the coolest room in the house,—a bedroom with a northern exposure. A white shirt-waist gave a puffy look to a body that could ill endure such appearance of enlargement, and a black belt accentuated the amplitude of girth that it encircled. The good lady sat in an armless rocking-chair, or ratheronit, for she was by no means contained therein, but bulged over and beyond at all points. Her feet, shod in heelless black slippers, above which puffed white stockings, rested upon a low footstool, and her widespread knees provided a generous lap for the support of her supply of socks and her implements,—her needle-book' and darning-gourd and balls of cotton. She had that look of comfort that fat people seem to radiate even when it is evident that physical annoyance is their own share.
Pink roses and red swung to and fro in the sunshine as they climbed the doctor's whitewashed porch"Pink roses and red swung to and fro in the sunshine as they climbed the doctor's whitewashed porch"
Discomfort had no part in the picture that Mrs. Morgan presented, however, for a cool breeze gently ruffled her hair, and her eyes, when she lifted them from her work, rested contentedly on the fertile fields of the Doctor's farm, which were thriving, under Bob's management. She nodded with, pursed-up lips, as she wove her little lattices in heel and toe.
"He's doing better than ever Ah thought he would," she murmured. "Better, even, than Ah dared to hope,—thank God!"
Up and down, over and under, in and out went her needle.
"It's such a joy to Henry to have him so."
The scissors snipped a thread at the end of a darn, and a new hole displayed its ravage over the yellow surface of the gourd.
"It's been going on some months now, bless him! Ah'd like to know how he started in. Ah believe mahself it's Sydney."
The work sank into her lap for a space, while her shrewd eyes roamed over the fields, and sought Buck Mountain beyond, thrusting its topmost clump of chestnut-trees against the sky. She nodded to her thoughts as she picked up the unfinished sock.
"She's a wise mother who knows where her son ties his horse, and Ah confess Ah haven't always known, but it strikes me it's mostly the Oakwood hitching-post."
She smiled at her own sagacity.
"Not that Sydney'd have him. Though she might do a great deal worse, a great deal worse," she added, loyally. "But he cares for her enough to want to please her, and it takes the best to satisfy Sydney."
A step on the stairs outside made itself heard.
"Come in, dear. Ah was just thinking about you."
Bob flung his cap on the bed, sat down on a cricket beside his mother, and leaned his head against her shoulder.
"Tired, dear?"
"No, just hot. I've been over every field on the farm since breakfast."
"In all this sun!"
"Do you think it ought to cease to shine to shade your boy? There'll be a right smart crop this year."
"So your father was telling me yesterday."
"I've got better hands than usual."
"And they have a better overseer."
She let fall the stocking from her left hand and patted the shock of black hair resting on her shoulder. Silence fell between them—the embarrassment that comes from the broaching of a delicate subject.
"It's hard work," he sighed, and her mother-love knew that he did not refer to the management of the farm.
"We all have our dragons to fight, and yours is one of the hardest kind. Ah'm sure he's growing weaker, though."
"But he's still in the ring," groaned Bob, with a comical look, and they laughed in sympathy.
"I ought to have begun on him long years ago for your sake, ma dear, but—it wasn't you!" he blurted out, and hastened to kiss her, lest she be offended.
She could not help just a little sigh.
"It's what happens to most mothers, and we are thankful for the result, and put our vanity into our pocket."
"I don't want you to suppose that I'm such a puppy as to believe that she—you know who—cares for me—that way, you know. But I happened to think one day when—well, never mind what happened—I just thought that while she might never care anyway, she was dead sure not to if I went on being the kind of thing I was."
"True, dear, and even if she never did,"—how she longed to give him hope, as she had given him every toy he asked for in his baby days! But wisdom came to her now, and love gave her strength,—"even if she never did, the victory would still be a victory."
"And you'd care, anyway. Oh, mothers are good things! Do you mind my telling you-all this?"
He was sitting before her now, with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. She leaned forward and kissed him.
"You've given me the greatest happiness Ah've known for years, dear."
He pulled at the stockings in her lap.
"I don't think I've had much show lately, do you?"
"You mean——?"
"Oh, well, I reckon I don't mean anything. It's all in the game. There's father," as a cry of "O-oh, Sophy!" was heard below. "Sophy's up here in the north room, dad," he called, eliciting from his mother the expected—
"You impertinent boy!"
The Doctor came in, bringing with him an air of excitement that made Bob cry,—
"What's up?"
Mrs. Morgan laid down her half-darned sock in anticipation.
"You never can guess the latest development."
"Ah've no desire to, Henry. Ah'd rather hear it at once."
"Who do you think's come?"
"Where?"
"To the Neighborhood."
"Henry, don't be so aggravating! Why don't you-all tell what you've got to tell, if youhavegot anything to tell."
This sarcasm drove on the Doctor to disclosure.
"Baron von Rittenheim's sister-in-law."
"His sister-in-law!" cried Bob.
"What in the world will he do with her in that cabin of his?" ejaculated Mrs. Morgan.
"Is she pretty?" This from Bob.
The Doctor was quite satisfied with the sensation he had aroused, and sat down to tell his story comfortably.
"Ah've just come from Oakwood, and Sydney told me. It seems she turned up last night after the Baron got home from the picnic; drove out from Asheville. He had to go and get Melissa Yarebrough to come and look after her."
"He wasn't expecting her, then?"
"Sydney says no. Of course he couldn't ask visitors to that shack of his."
"Ah suppose she hadn't any idea he was living that-a-way."
"Ah reckon not. She's his brother Maximilian's wife, or widow, rather, for she brought him the news of his brother's death. Sydney says he was quite broken up about it when he came over soon this morning to ask Mrs. Carroll if she would take her in. The old lady'd gone to fetch her when Ah got there."
"Did you wait?"
"You bet!"
"Is she pretty?" Bob asked again, with some insistence. Perhaps the Baron—how could he, though? But there was at least a chance of his falling in love with his own countrywoman.
"Pretty? I should say so! She looks like a lovely child, or an angel on a Christmas card, or something. Oh, you needn't grin. She won't look at you!"
"Saving all her looks for you, I suppose! Can she speak English?"
"Yes; but not enough to hurt anything. You'd ought to have seen her run up to Sydney, just like a little girl, and cry out, 'Oh, I thank you for that you have been so kind, every one, to my dear Friedrich!'"
"How did Sydney take that?" Mrs. Morgan could not resist a glance at her son.
"Oh, Sydney always does everything all right."
"What did she say to you, dad?"
"Oh, something about Friedrich telling her that Mrs. Carroll and Ah were his best friends."
"How long's she going to stay?"
"Ah don't know. Ah came away right off."
At Oakwood Baroness Hilda von Rittenheim's coming partook of the nature of an event. Sydney, who never had happened to hear even her name mentioned, went about during the time of her grandmother's absence in a state of agreeable anticipation. She was curious to see this unexpected arrival, and she took pleasure in arranging flowers in her room, and in shading the windows to produce the most desirable light.
"It will please him," she thought, "for us to be nice to her. Poor thing, she's lost all she cared for in the world; everybody ought to be nice to her." And she thought how happy she was herself, and resolved to be as kind as she knew how to be to the new-comer.
Sydney had a strong reluctance to face emotional or spiritual crises, and not even after her conversation on the bridge did she acknowledge to herself that von Rittenheim loved her, or that she cared for him. She was content to feel the glow that warmed her when she knew that she was the princess of his fable, and not to analyze her own feeling further, or to posit in him more than admiration.
Americans usually think of German women as fat and affectionate, or, if they are extremists, as "fit only to propagate their own undesirable race." Sydney formulated no idea of Hilda's appearance, but she found herself none the less surprised when she and Dr. Morgan watched from the window the tiny figure in its black robes, descending from the carriage.
"Why, the Baron said she was twenty-five, but she doesn't look any older than I do," she cried, and she flew down the steps to welcome her.
Hilda's little speech of thanks was natural and pretty, and Sydney liked her at once because she liked Friedrich. Katrina was delighted with her. Tom declared that he could listen to that accent forever, and John went into absurd raptures that were more serious than they sounded. Even Mrs. Carroll, usually not enthusiastic, granted her to be "Pretty? Yes, even lovely. And charming? Very."
Hilda must have felt herself to be under scrutiny during the day, yet she betrayed no knowledge of it. Her behavior was perfect. Several times she alluded to Max.
"Poor Max! The shock of his death was to me severe. Have I known Friedrich long? Oh, yes, indeed. Before ever I met Maximilian. I was living with my aunt in Heidelberg when he was at the University. I was a little girl then. Ah, yes, Friedrich always wasnettto me, even so before Max. Yes, always shall I love Friedrich."
It occurred to Sydney that there was a shade too much insistence on this mutual affection, but she berated herself for a "jealous piece," and ordered Uncle Jimmy to bring out on the lawn coffee as well as tea, in deference to her guest's probable predilection.
"Yes, dear Frau Carroll," said Hilda, in answer to a question. "Indeed, have I much to talk with him. He comes this evening to see me. I have much to tell him and to hear from him."
Over her cup she glanced shrewdly at Sydney, who was enraged to feel herself blushing.
When Baron von Rittenheim appeared in the evening, Sydney and the Schuylers and John were just starting for the Hugers' dance.
"Surely you will go," the little Baroness had said, "and you will not think of me one time."
"You ask too much," murmured John.
She glanced at her mourning with a look that might have meant yearning for Max, or a desire to go to the ball.
Then she raised her eyes to Friedrich's, and Sydney was surprised to see a look of anger sweep over her childish face. Seeking its cause she found von Rittenheim's eyes fixed on herself, so full of love and longing and sadness that her one wish was to comfort him. Involuntarily she took a step towards him, and held out her hands. Then she remembered herself, and swept him a low courtesy, as if in thanks for the admiration of his gaze.
"You like my frock, M. le Baron?" she asked.
Von Rittenheim's eyes went to the fluffy white mass lying on the floor, and rose again to her face.
"He's speechless with rapture, Sydney," said John.
"I am, indeed," said Friedrich, bowing with his hand on his heart.
"Then come on, Sydney, and let language flow once more." And Tom dexterously threw her cape over her shoulders.
"See that? I've learned to do that really well since I was married. I've been practising in private. Mrs. Schuyler, allow me." And he repeated his performance and swept his flock before him to the door.
XX
Sacrifice
"I know that you two have much to say to each other," said Mrs. Carroll, when the noise of departing wheels had died away. "Ring the bell, Baron, please, and tell James to light the lamp in the little sitting-room. And in considering your plans, let me beg both of you to remember that it will be a pleasure to us all if the Baroness will stay at Oakwood as long as she wishes."
Hilda ran to the elder woman in her childish, impulsive way, and thanked her with many little German phrases of gratitude. Von Rittenheim raised her hand to his lips and murmured,—
"You make my decision easier, dear lady."
In the little sitting-room Hilda established herself in a huge arm-chair, whose high back cast a shadow on her face, and Friedrich, at the window, drew in great breaths of sweet summer air. He turned to her when Uncle Jimmy had gone.
"First tell me about Max."
"Yes, I must tell you about Max. I am afraid it will be an added grief to you to know that Max——"
"What is it?" he asked, sharply and apprehensively, as she hesitated. How familiar to him was that feeling of apprehension about his brother. Hilda was sitting erect in the big chair, looking at him fixedly.
"Max—shot himself."
"My God! Shot himself! Poor girl!"
The expression on Hilda's face changed to one of relief—almost of joy. After all, his first thought had been for her.
"Why did he—how did it happen?"
"He had had troubles——"
"Money?"
She nodded.
"I think they distressed him more than usual. And he was—he wasn't quite himself."
Von Rittenheim stared persistently out of the window, his face almost entirely turned away from her. He lost not a word of what she said, and at the same time there ran through his mind memories of their boyhood days together, and of their adventures at the gymnasium and the university. Then their rivalry over Hilda. With what careless ease Maximilian had won her away from his brother, just for the pleasure of victory. He felt again a dash of the old bitterness.
"You mean he was drunk?" he asked, bluntly.
She raised her tiny hands before her face as if she were warding off a blow. Friedrich hardly could hear her "Yes."
Her action suggested an idea to von Rittenheim.
"Tell me, Hilda." He stammered over the question. "Did he—did Max ever strike you?"
Without a word Hilda pushed back the hair that fell over her forehead at one side, and showed, close to the roots, a scar.
Friedrich gazed at her in horror.
"You poor, poor girl!"
Again the glow of satisfaction warmed her face.
"Where was he when he—when he died?"
"At the Schloss—in my dressing-room."
"You were there?"
"My dress was wet with his blood."
Over Friedrich there rushed man's protective feeling, the desire to shield a woman from pain; his own yearning of not so many months ago, to fend this one fragile creature from the world. He drew nearer to her, and she leaned back in her chair and looked up at him out of the shadow.
"I could not bear to live at the Schloss any longer—there were horrible memories, and I was alone; I told you my aunt had died. You know she was my only relative."
Von Rittenheim knew. It was at her aunt's house in Heidelberg that he had met Hilda.
"Then Maximilian had told me that we could not live in the Schloss if you did not supply the money to carry it on. After he died I could not feel myself indebted for that to you when I had treated you so badly."
She hung her head. Von Rittenheim made a gesture of polite dissent, and walked again to the window.
"You always had enough money, I hope?"
"No sum ever was large enough for Max." They both smiled. "But a piece of great good fortune came to me just after you went away."
Von Rittenheim turned again to the window and betrayed some embarrassment, but Hilda was intent upon her story, and noticed nothing.
"Some of the investments into which my dowry had been put appreciated enormously in value."
So that was the way Herr Stapfer had explained it. Friedrich nodded approvingly.
"So I always had enough for my needs, even when——"
"When what?"
"Forgive me. I did not mean to say it."
"You were going to say, 'Even when Maximilian took it?'"
She hung her head again, like a sorry child. He noticed how her neck and arms shone white through the thin black of her gown.
"After all, you are his brother. Perhaps I should tell you. At the end—it was because of that that he shot himself, poor Max! He came to me in my room and asked me for money, and I told him I had none. Indeed, he had taken the last I had a few days before. He did not believe me, and he threatened to shoot himself if I did not give it to him."
"Coward!"
"Of course, I did not think that it was more than—excitement. How could I believe that he was in earnest? But he kept crying, 'Give it up, give it up!' The servants heard him. And then——"
Friedrich crossed quickly to her and leaned over the chair as she sat with her face buried in her handkerchief.
"Hilda, it seems to me no woman ever needed pity and comfort more than you. You have come many thousands of miles to claim it from me, and I will not fail you. You reminded me last night of my oath to you. I repeat it now. My life is at your service if it can bring you happiness."
The words sounded forced and stilted to his ears, even while he pressed the little white hand that she put out blindly towards him. He was not sorry for his pledge; he felt that he could have done no less; but Sydney's proud, earnest face flashed before him, and his memory saw it soften and flush with the happy shyness that covered it when she gave him her handkerchief,—and he wondered to what extent Hilda would consider that his promise bound him.
A few days made it clear that he had committed himself to no mere form of words. She received the admiration of every man in the Neighborhood. Patton McRae's elastic heart added another to its list of occupants, and John Wendell fell seriously in love with her. But always in the foreground she placed von Rittenheim. It was not alone that she looked for his coming, and monopolized him when he arrived; that she deferred to him, and did half a hundred tell-tale things; but in some way, by a hint here and a phrase there, she made every one understand how it had been with them in the past,—how madly he had loved her; how foolish she had been to break the engagement; how worse than foolish, for she had broken his great, noble heart, too. But, now—with a pretty sigh and an appealing look—now was her opportunity to remedy the harm she had done. When one or two of the bolder ones hinted at an engagement, she denied it, with a rebuking glance at her black gown, her fascinating, floating diaphanous black gown. Still, it became evident to every one that when a proper time had elapsed after Maximilian's death, her consolation would be even more remedial.
John haunted her steps, and left her only when the Baron came. Then he disappeared until his rival's departure. Sydney grew distant in manner to von Rittenheim, and often he did not see her at all when he went to Oakwood. Hilda's visit to Mrs. Carroll was prolonged on the ground that seemed to have place in every one's mind, though no one could trace its origin, that she would stay on near Friedrich until it was time to go home to Germany to begin her wedding preparations,—say, until after Christmas,—and that they would be married as soon as the year of mourning was over.
"It would be disgracefully soon if her husband had been a good man, of course, but he was such a beast!" And a shrug made all the necessary condonement for the hastening of the marriage.
By September the whole neighborhood was converted to this belief, all except John, whowouldnot believe, and Sydney, who had not trusted herself to think.
The compulsion of thought seized her in her own room one night, after a day when it had been forced upon her that there could be but one truth, and that the conclusion to which her friends had come. From window to window she walked, dragging her trailing draperies, softly blue in the moonlight. She was fretted into constant motion by the impelling might of a desire to do something that would put off the moment when she must stop and think out the situation. She tried to divert her fancy to the channels of her daily life. She decided what colts should be broken next summer. She devised a new plan for keeping Bob employed and happy when the dull days of winter should come. She endeavored to be grateful that her grandmother was less harassed by pain than usual. Yet through all wreathed the insistent cry, "Face it. You must face it."
That compelling threat she knows who recognizes that the one dearest to her on earth must die. It commands the scrutiny of facts, and an end to the glossing of truth. It rings the knell of hope. Later comes the sustaining reflection of the future life,—its opportunities for work and its attendant happiness for him who enters upon it. But now is self's confrontment with loneliness, with sorrow, with despair.
The cry became insistent in Sydney's ears. Face it she must.
She stepped through the long window upon the balcony which commanded west and south. The moon swam cold in the steel-blue sky. The ribbon of low-lying mist betrayed the devious winding of the creek. On the horizon swung the gray masses of the mountains, their hardness veiled in the tender light of distance. Sydney fell on her knees and twisted her hands one within the other. She spoke in a whisper.
"I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! Oh, I cannot bear it!" she repeated over and over.
Then stung to openness by the lash of the constant inward cry—
"I love him! Oh, I love him! Oh, I cannot bear it!" she moaned yet again.
She rocked to and fro upon her knees, and hid her face in her hands to shut out the glory of beauty and calm that lay before and around her.
"I never thought that love would be like this. To feel it—to be sure of it—and to have to give him to another woman!" She began to cry weakly.
The moon flooded the gallery with its light. A diamond on one of Sydney's clasped hands winked as gayly as if a tragedy were not filling the girl's heart. Then oft-read words came to her lips:
"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing more courageous, nothing higher; nothing wider, nothing more pleasant; nothing fuller nor better in heaven and earth."
"For it carries a burden which is no burden, and makes everything that is bitter sweet and savory."
"He that loveth flieth, runneth and rejoiceth; he is free and is not bound."
"He giveth all for all."
"He giveth all for all." She repeated it again and again.
She had, indeed, dreamed of a love for which sacrifice should be a joy. But that this should be the kind of sacrifice! Even through her wretchedness the humor of it penetrated, and a woe-begone smile fluttered over her lips.
The singing words came to her again.
"Let me be possessed by love, mounting above myself."
"Let me love thee more than myself, and love myself only for thee."
She kneeled upright and rested her folded arms upon the railing. Peace seemed to be flowing in upon her, and a purpose grew into form within her mind. With increasing control she rose to her feet.
"If my love is worth anything it can do even that."
Her uplifted face shone strong and beautiful as she left the splendor without, and knelt beside her bed.
"O God, I thank thee that thou hast granted me the power to love. Help me now, I implore thee, to make use of this, my dearest treasure, for the joy of others."
XXI
A Poke Party
Friedrich was sitting at his solitary breakfast. He had grown expert in the daily preparation of bacon, eggs, cornbread, and coffee; but that is a poor feast which is denied the sauce of companionship, and he dallied with his spoon, while he stared gloomily through the open door. The jaded green of the late September foliage harmonized with his mood of depression.
He went to Oakwood now only so often as courteous attention to his sister-in-law—poor little girl!—seemed to demand. Sydney avoided him; and John, who still lingered, although the Schuylers had gone north long before, gave him the black looks of a jealous rival. Hilda, though never assuming before him the part of betrothed which every one assigned to her, nevertheless made him feel the bond by which he had engaged himself,—a net as fine as silk and as strong as steel; an enmeshment of chivalry and sympathy and love for his good word.
He made his new business the excuse for his infrequent visits. It was no subterfuge, for even in the short period of two months the "McRae Cattle" were earning encomiums, from those who knew stock, for their good condition and the flavor of their beef. Both on the Baron's place and at Cotswold long shelter-sheds were being erected for winter protection; and at Cotswold, whose larger size warranted the establishment of a more extensive plant, the firm had put in a small stationary engine to cut the feed, and was building a silo for the preservation of the winter supplies. A dehorning machine, which caused a moment of present torture for the sake of months of future peace, served an additional purpose as an advertisement. Farmers came from far back in the mountains to see the inhuman weapon, and incidentally brought along a calf or two to sell as an excuse for their waste of time. Their denunciations sent more of the curious, who were not deterred by motives of tenderness from submitting their creatures to the operation, provided they received a good price.
When Hilda had discovered her brother-in-law's straitened circumstances she had offered to him a part of her income, deploring his evident poverty with real distress of voice and manner.
"I don't understand why it is so,—you are not extravagant, like Max,—but I can see the fact plainly enough, and I beg you to take it, dear Friedrich."
Friedrich kissed her hand in gratitude, but refused, explaining that he had enough capital for the undertaking of his business venture, and that his personal wants were of the simplest.
"But your house, Friedrich. It is not fitting that a von Rittenheim should live in a cabin like that."
It is not fitting that a von Rittenheim should live in a cabin like thatIt is not fitting that a von Rittenheim should live in a cabin like that
"Man makes the house, Hilda, and I don't feel that my dignity is hurt. I am comfortable, and that is all that is necessary."
He happened to think of this conversation as he drank the last of his coffee, and he realized that Hilda's offer was another of the tiny threads that linked him to her. He thought how true it was now that, so long as he could make his living out of his new business, he cared nothing for the roof that sheltered him; while on that golden night of happiness when Sydney and he had watched the river flow under the bridge, he had been glad of his new prosperity because he could build forhera house such as she should fancy.
He did not allow himself to think often of Sydney. He was glad that he had had the strength to refrain from asking her to be his wife until he had something more substantial than his name to offer her. It relieved somewhat the present situation. Yet her avoidance of him he could construe only as contempt for a man who had played with her while bound by other ties. Sometimes he felt that he must explain to her how intangible were those bonds. Yet he was sufficiently conscious of their actual existence to feel that the difficulties of explanation were almost insurmountable. And Hilda, poor child, took his devotion entirely for granted.
His thoughts were leading him in a circle, and it was a relief when Melissa appeared in the doorway. He sprang up to welcome her.
"Come in, Mrs. Yare-brough. How do you do?"
"Ah'm well, thank ye. How are you?" returned Melissa, in the polite formula of her kind.
"Won't you have a cup of coffee?"
"No, Ah thank you. How's Mrs. Baron?"
"Mrs. Baron? Oh! She was very well the last time I was at Oakwood. She asks fr-requently for you and the baby."
"Mrs. Baron's so sweet! Ah never 'lowed to like anybody's much's Miss Sydney, but Mrs. Baron's jus' splendid."
With a woman's care-taking instinct, she began to gather together the dishes on the table and prepare them for washing.
"No, let me," she said, in response to von Rittenheim's objection. "Jus' while Ah'm talkin'. Ah stopped by to tell ye that Ah'm goin' to have a party to-night, an' Ah'd be proud to have you-all come to hit."
Her interest in him was so evident, and her desire to give him pleasure so real, that Friedrich responded, heartily,—
"Certainly, I shall go. It will give me delight. It is kind of you to ask me."
Melissa turned away, and rattled the knives and forks in gratified embarrassment.
"Hit's goin' to be to mother's 'cos her house is larger. You know where hit is?"
"Yes, indeed. Is it a dance?"
"Hit's a poke party, but there'll be dancin', too."
"A poke party! What is that?"
"Don't you-all know what a poke party is?"
"Poke? That is what I do with my finger at the baby."
Melissa laughed aloud.
"You wait 'n see, then. Ah reckon hit'll be a surprise party fo' you as well as a poke party."
It was clear that Melissa had imparted to her friends the Baron's guess as to the probable nature of a poke party, for he was greeted with broad smiles as he made his way through the crowd of men and boys about Mrs. Lance's door into the room where dancing was going on. Melissa came to him and proposed a seat beside Mrs. 'Gene Frady until the cotillon should be ended, but von Rittenheim preferred to go about the room as dexterously as he might in avoidance of the dancers, speaking to his acquaintances among the women and girls who lined its walls. There was space upon the floor for only two sets, and the lookers-on gossiped patiently, until such time as Alf Lance, the fiddler, should grow weary and let fall his bow.
"They's fo' blue waistes here to-night. Ollie Warson looks mahty sweet in her's."
"Do you think so? Hit seems like she favored her paw too much."
"Well, Bill Warson 'lows that if they's any good looks in the family, they come from him."
"Maw, you-all got a hairpin? Give hit to me next time I turn co'ners."
"Look at Evvie Williams! She always gets a seat nex' the window, so's she c'n talk to some feller out o' hit."
"Ah did, too, when Ah was that age."
"Yes, Ah remember you did. Ah don' guess Hamp Pinner's goin' to dance with Ollie tonight."
"Yes, he is. He jus' ast her in through the window."
"Sh, sh, sh. Will you hush yo' fuss!"
"Ah'm well, thank ye, Mr. Baron. How are you?"
"Look at Drusilla Pinner cross her feet, an' her a church-member, too!"
"Ah been lookin'. She's awful careless about her dancin'."
"This child'll have to go to bed in the other room. He's yellin' jus' tur'ble."
"Ah 'low M'lissy 'll make some money out o' this. They's right smart here."
Von Rittenheim made his rounds and joined the group of men at the door. They received him pleasantly, for he was a favorite among them. Indeed, since his misfortune in the spring he had noticed an added warmth in their attitude, and a certain intimacy of approach. As he talked to them the music stopped abruptly, and with its last note he found himself alone, for the youths about him had precipitated themselves into the room to secure their partners for the next cotillon. The enterprising Hamp came in through the window, by which port of entry the orchestra departed in search of the reviving pail on the back porch.
Melissa came timidly to von Rittenheim.
"Won't you-all dance this nex' one, Mr. Baron? Ah'll get ye a partner."
"I fear I should make too many mistakes. I do not understand well enough English to know quickly what says the director."
"Oh, yo' partner 'll tell ye all that."
"Then, if you will be that partner, will I try."
"Oh, no. Hit looks like Ah'd been askin' you."
"But no, Mrs. Yare-brough, for I would not tr-rust myself to the care of anybody whom I knew less well."
"Truly? Then we'll stand here?" And Friedrich, looking at her beaming face, did not regret the effort.
The other participants in the cotillon gained no praise from the spectators, for every eye was upon their unexpected guest. They applauded his successes and smiled encouragingly upon his mistakes. They admired his good looks in pleased undertones, and secretly urged Alf to prolong the dance and their pleasure until it seemed to Friedrich that he had been on the floor for hours.
When at last the music stopped, Bud's voice was heard calling, loudly,—
"Come in yere, boys, 'n get yo' pokes."
The girls found seats for themselves, while the men crowded into the other room.
"Hit's supper," said Melissa, giving Friedrich a little shove towards the door. "You'll see now."
"May I have the honor of bringing yours to you?"
"No, Ah thank ye, Mr. Baron. Ah always eats mine with Bud. But you-all go in an' get some, an' you'll fin' somebody to eat hit with when ye come back."
In the other room the men crowded before a table upon which were piled paper bags of different sizes. Each man was taking two, one for himself and one for his partner.
"This size poke is ten cents," insisted Bud, in the uproar, "'n this size is fifteen. They's good things in 'em all. The quality's the same, hit's the quantity makes the difference. Yes, they's devil ham san'wich. Ah know they is, 'cos Ah cut mah finger openin' a can fo' M'lissy this mo'nin'. Yes, they's cake, too. You, Hamp, that size is fifteen!"
As Friedrich approached, a laugh went up at the expense of 'Gene Frady, who had taken a bag of each size.
"Watch out which one 'Gene gives his wife," cried Bud, sarcastically.
The babies on the bed, four of them, were aroused by the noise, and joined their voices thereto. Three older children, who were sleeping rosily under the covers, slumbered on peacefully.
"One poke, or two, Mr. Baron? Ah'm proud to see you-all here," said Bud.
"A poke is a bag, eh? Give me two pokes, if you please, Bud. Yes, the large ones."
Returning to the dancing-room, he made his way to Mrs. Lance, Melissa's mother, who was sitting near the window. She was flattered into silence by the attention of the offered poke, and they ate the contents of their bags with solemnity.
A figure moving in the dim light outside attracted Friedrich's attention. He put his head out of the window. The man came directly beneath, and looked up.
"Ah, Pink, I thought that was you. I want to see you at some time."
"Ah'll watch out fo' ye when you-all's unhitchin' yo' mule."
"Very well. I'm going in a few minutes. You do not come in?"
"No. Hit's M'lissy's party, 'n she 'n me ain' friends."
"Here, take this, then."
Friedrich dropped his partly filled poke into the ready, uplifted hand.
"I had my supper very late to-night," he explained to Mrs. Lance, "and a man outside a party looks so forlorn, don't you think so?"
"Some of 'em deserves hit," returned Mrs. Lance, laconically. "He's one."
Von Rittenheim was fumbling with the halter-strap of his mule, when Pressley appeared beside him out of the shadow of a pine-tree.
"Is that you, Pr-ressley? Do you r-ride or walk?"
"Ah'm walkin'."
"Then will I not mount."
Friedrich slipped the reins over the mule's head, and led him out on to the highway. Pressley walked beside him. The stars shone brightly enough to make visible the open road.
"Are you-all goin' to ask me about the rent, Mr. Baron? Bud 'n me's been pullin' fodder fo' a week. Hit's all ready in the upper field, 'n you c'n take yo' choice any time. They's good bundles, fo' han's to the bundle."
"Thank you. No, it was not of that I was going to speak. I want to tell you that about six weeks ago—it was in August—I was up on Buzzard Mountain one night, and I fell asleep there."
Pink looked at him suspiciously in the darkness, and put a piece of the road between them.
"I fell asleep on a ledge of r-rock, and when I woke up I heard voices just under me."
"The hell ye did!"
"It was you and Bud."
"Well, what ye goin' to do about hit? Hit ain' befittin' you to squeal on us."
Von Rittenheim turned hot in the darkness, and made an impulsive motion that induced a corresponding disturbance in his companion.
"If I had thought of doing that I should not have spoken to you to-night."
Pressley nodded, and came across the intervening space.
"You-all wan' to come into the game, eh?"
"No, I do not want to join you, if that is what you mean."
"Well, what do ye want, anyway?"
"I wees' to say a few things to you. I do not ask you to stop moonshining. You are old enough to decide for yourself what kind of life you pr-refer to lead, though you know well that the life of a law-br-reaker is not the r-right sort."
"Oh, quit preachin', Mr. Baron. You-all's a law-breaker, yo'self."
Friedrich clutched the reins with a jerk that made the mule give a disgusted snort. The justice of the retort compelled him to self-control, as well as the knowledge that a giving way to rage would accomplish nothing, whereas coolness might do something.
"You know as well as I do the penalty of br-reaking the law. You've suffered it more than once, they tell me."
"Ah reckon Ah've cost 'em right smart mo'n they ever got out o' me," chuckled Pink.
"So I do not ask you to face the r-results of what you do, because you know well what they are, and you have made your choice. But I do ask you to think carefully before you undertake the r-responsibility of making Bud a criminal."
Pink's eyes shone cruelly in the darkness, but he only said, "Seems like you-all been a long time startin' on this yere work o' reform. You said hit was six weeks ago you heard us a-talkin'."
"Perhaps I have been wrong to delay. But that morning Bud seemed not sure and determined about joining you, and I hoped that he might make up his mind to refr-rain."
"How do you know he ain'?"
"Oh, by the grape-vine telegraph. Those things always are known. Also have I heard the men at the party to-night talking about it."
"Bud ain' no boy. Don' you think he's old enough to decide fo' himself fo' or ag'in' the life of a law-breaker, as you call hit."
"No, I do not. Bud is several years younger than you in r-real age, and he is a child beside you in deter-rmination. Also, he admires you."
"Ah'm grateful for the compliment!"
"You could do anything with him."
"Ah'm doin' what Ah wan' to with him."
Von Rittenheim looked at his opponent in disgust, and fell back upon his last argument.
"You know well what are the chances of your getting caught. You've been caught before."
"Yes, but Ah won' be this time. Hit was fellers that was mad with me who told on me befo', 'n Ah've fixed hit this time so Ah ain' got no enemies. They's only one feller that might inform."
"Who's that?"
"You."
The Baron flung up his head in quick scorn, and Pressley noted the gesture shrewdly, and nodded in satisfaction. Still he drove in another nail.
"A feller who'll listen will tell."
Friedrich colored angrily.
"You mean me? It does not sound well to hear—that! At first when I awoke on the mountain I was sleepy. I r-realized not what it meant. When I did know, I had no wees' to die at once. I was unarmed myself, and a man in your position would shoot deter-rmined to kill."
Pressley smiled at this tribute to his quickness and resolve.
"But it is not a question of me. What I was going to say was that you know there's a chance of your being arrested, and surely you would not care to feel that it was through you that Bud had br-rought that shame and disgr-race upon his wife."
"His wife?"
The ejaculation sounded to von Rittenheim like the hiss of a snake, and he drew away from Pressley as from a reptile.
"You have no r-relatives to suffer; alone you bear the bur-rden of your misdeeds. But if Bud goes wr-rong consider of the gr-rief of that poor Melissa, and think of the baby gr-rowing up to know that her father is a cr-riminal!"
"You-all think you got a mahty strong argyment there, Mr. Baron, don' you? But let me tell you, that's the weakest one you could bring. M'lissy Lance told me 'No' when she was a girl, an' M'lissy Yarebrough's never spoke a decent word to me since she's been married, 'n 'f unhappiness comes on her, Ah'll be glad of hit; 'n 'f hit comes through mah doin', hit's only what Ah'm aimin' at."
"'Aimin' at?' What mean you by that?"
"Ah mean Ah'll be gladder still 'f she's hurt through me."
"Know you not that it is a coward who takes pleasure in the pain of women and children?"
"So be," returned Pink, cheerfully. "A coward Ah am, then, fo' that's the way Ah feel."
"I warn you I shall speak to Bud."
"Talk yo' hatful, Ah don' care. Ah got a pull on him. Talk all you please so long's ye don' talk to the marshal."
"An' Ah ain' afraid o' yo' doin' that," he continued to himself, as he turned into the side road that led to his cabin. "You-all's had enough o' them folkses; an' you ain' that kind, either."