FLOYD sat on the bench for more than an hour after she had left him. His thoughts were of himself. He smoked two cigars moodily. The whole day was retracing its active steps before his eyes, from the moment he opened his ledger to do his morning's work till now that his naked soul stood shivering in the darkness before him. His thoughts bounded from one incident in his life to another, each leap ending in a shudder of discontent. Cynthia's dignified restraint, and the memory of her helpless, spasmodic leanings both to and from him, at once weighted him down and thrilled him. Yes, his almost uncontrollable passion was his chief fault. Would he ever be able to subdue it and reach his ideal of manhood? Throwing his cigar away, he rose to leave. His watch told him it was eleven.
He did not go towards the house and out at the gate, but took a nearer way through the orchard, reaching the rail-fence a hundred yards below Porter's house. He had just climbed over and was detaching himself from the detaining clutch of numerous blackberry briers, when he saw a head and pair of shoulders rise from a near-by fence-corner.
It was Pole Baker who advanced to him in astonishment.
“By gum!” Pole ejaculated. “I come as nigh as pease lettin' a pistol-shot fly at you. I was passin' an' heard some'n' in the orchard an' 'lowed it mought be somebody try in' to rob Porter's sweet-potato bed, an', by the holy Moses, it was you!”
“Yes, it was me, Pole.”
The farmer's slow glance left Floyd's face and swept critically along the fence to the white-posted gate in the distance.
“Huh!” he said, and was silent, his eyes roving on to the orchard, where his glance hovered in troubled perplexity.
“Yes, I went to see Miss Cynthia,” Floyd explained, after a pause.
“Huh, you say you did! Well, I didn't see no light in the parlor when I passed jest now'. I was particular to look, fer I've been everywhar to find you, an' Porter's was the last place. By gum! I didn't think a chap that had been kick'n' the clods o' the grave off'n 'im all day fer a woman scrape 'ud run straight to another gal before he knowed whether his hide was liable to remain solid or not.”
“I wanted to see Miss Cynthia,” Floyd said, “to ask her to go to bush-arbor meeting with me Sunday, and I didn't intend to let my affair with Jeff Wade interfere with it.”
“Huh, that was it! an' that's why you are a-comin' out o' Nathan Porter's orchard at eleven o'clock at night, is it?”
Floyd gazed at his rough friend for an instant, just a touch of irritability in his manner as he made answer:
“Miss Cynthia and I were sitting in the grape arbor, behind the house. She only stayed a minute or two. I sat there a long time after she went in. I was smoking and was beastly tired.”
“I see, I see!” Pole was slightly mollified, but was still to be heard from.
“Now, let me tell you some'n', Nelson,” he pursued. “Thar hain't no flower that ever bloomed an' throwed out sweet smells that's as nice an' purty as a pure young gal that's got good, honorable parents, an' the reputation of a creature like that is more valuable in my sight than all the gold an' diamonds on earth.”
“You certainly are right about that,” Floyd agreed, coldly, for he was secretly resenting Pole's implied warning.
“Well, then,” Baker said, even more sternly, “don't you climb out'n Nathan Porter's orchard at this time o' night ag'in, when thar's a gate with a latch an' hinges to it right before yore eyes. What ef you'd 'a' been seed by some tattlin' busybody? You hain't got no more right to run the risk—the bare risk, I say—o' castin' a stain on that little gal's name than I have to set fire to yore store an' burn it to the ground. The shack could be built up ag'in, but that fair name 'ud never be the same ag'in.”
“You are thoroughly right, Pole,” Floyd said, regretfully. “I can see it now. But I'm rather sorry to see you throw it at a feller quite so hard.”
“I reckon I'm sorter upset,” the farmer said, half apologetically, as they walked on. “I reckon it was my talk with Jeff Wade about his sister that got me started. That's mighty nigh broke him all to pieces, Nelson.”
“So you met Wade!” Floyd said, quickly. “I thought perhaps you stopped him.”
“You thought I did? What made you think I did?”
“Why, when I'd waited till about one o'clock,” Floyd replied, “I started out to Wade's, and—”
“You say you started out thar?”
“Yes, I knew he meant business, and I wanted it settled, one way or the other, so that I could go back to work, or—”
“Or turn yore toes to the sky, you fool!”
“I started to say,” Floyd went on, “that I knew something had interfered with his coming, and—”
“He'd 'a' shot seventeen holes in you or 'a' put seventeen balls in one!” Pole cried, in high disgust. “I finally fixed him all right, but he wasn't in no frame o' mind to have you come to his house an' rub it in on 'im. However, you hain't told me what made you think I stopped 'im.”
“Why,” said Floyd, “just as I was starting away from the spring, Mel Jones came running down the hill. He'd been hiding behind a big rock up there to see the affair, and was awfully disappointed. He begged me to wait a little longer, and said he was sure Jeff would come on. Then he told me he saw you in the road near Wade's house, and I understood the whole thing. I guess I owe my life to you, Pole. It isn't worth much, but I'm glad to have it, and I'd rather owe you for it than any one I know. What did you say to Wade?”
“Oh, I told 'im all I knowed about that little frisky piece, and opened his eyes generally. It's all off, Nelson. He'll let you alone in the future. He's badly broke up, but it's mostly over findin' out what the gal was.”
They had reached the point where their ways separated, when they heard several pistol-shots on the mountain road not far away, and prolonged shouting.
“White Caps,” said Pole, succinctly. “They're out on another rampage. Old Mrs. Snodgrass, by some hook or crook, generally gits on to the'r plans an' comes over an' reports it to Sally. They are on the'r way now to whip Sandy McHugh. They've got reliable proof that he stole Widow Henry's pigs, an' they are goin' to make 'im a proposition. They are a-goin' to give 'im his choice betwixt a sound whippin' an' reportin' the matter to the grand jury. They want him to take the lickin' so he kin stay on an' work fer his wife and childem. I reckon that's what he'll decide to do. Sandy ain't in no shape to go to the penitentiary.”
“I guess he deserves punishment of some sort,” said Floyd, abstractedly, “though it's a pity to have our society regulated by a band of mountain outlaws.”
“They certainly set matters straight over at Darley,” Pole said. “They broke up them nigger dives, an' made it safe fer white women to go to prayer-meetin' at night. Say, Nelson, I'm sorter sorry I spoke so hard back thar about that little gal's reputation, but the very thought o' the slightest harm ever comin' to her runs me wild. I never have spoke to you about it, but I tuck a deliberate oath once to protect 'er with my life, ef necessary. You see, she's been more than a friend to me. Last winter, while I was off on one o' my benders, little Billy got sick. He had the croup an' come as nigh as pease dyin'; he could hardly breathe. It was a awful night, rainin', snowin', sleetin', an' blowin'. Sally left him long enough to run over to Porter's to beg somebody to run fer Dr. Stone, an' Cynthia come to the door an' promised it ud be done. She tried to git old Nathan up an' dressed, but he was so slow about it—grumblin' all the time about women bein' scared at nothin'—that Cynthia plunged out in the storm an' went them two miles herself, an' fetched the doctor jest in the nick o' time. Then she stayed thar the rest o' that night in 'er wet clothes, doin' ever'thing she could to help, holdin' Billy in her arms, an' rockin' 'im back an' forth, while I was—by God, Nelson Floyd, I was lyin' under the table in Asque's bar so drunk I didn't know my hat from a hole in the ground. An' when I heard all about it afterwards, I tuck my oath. I was in the stable feedin' my hoss; he heard all I said, Nelson, an' I'll be demed ef I don't believe he understood it. I'm here to say that ef anybody don't believe I'll put a ball in the man that dares to say one word agin that little angel, all he's got to do is to try it! This is a hell of a community fer idle talk, anyway, as you know from yore own experience, an' ef any of it ever touches that gal's fair name I'll kill tatlers as fast as they open the'r dirty mouths.”
“That's the way to look at it, Pole,” Nelson Floyd said, as he turned to go; “but you'll never have anything to fear in that direction. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Nelson. I'll see you in the mornin'. I ought to 'a' been in bed two hours ago.”
WELL I hear that Sandy McHugh tuck his whippin' like a little man last night,” Pole remarked to Captain Duncan and Floyd the next morning at the store. “They say he made strong promises to reform, an', gentlemen, I'm here to tell you that I believe them White Caps are doin' a purty good work. The lickin' Sandy got last night from his neighbors an' well-wishers towards him an' his family is a-goin' to work a bigger change in him than a long trial at court at the state's expense.”
“Well, they say he confessed to the stealing,” said the planter. “And a thing like that certainly ought to be punished in some way.”
“I never stold but once in my life,” Baker laughed, reminiscently, “an' I was sorter drawed into that. I was goin' with a Tennessee drover down to Atlanta with a car o' hosses. Old Uncle Abner Daniel was along, an' me'n him always was sorter thick. We come to Big Shanty, whar the conductor told us we'd barely have time to run out to the side o' the road an' buy a snack to eat, an' me'n Uncle Ab made a dash fer the lunch-counter, run by a bald-headed Dutchman with a bay-window on 'im. Thar was a pile o' sandwiches on the counter marked ten cents apiece, an' we bought two. I noticed Uncle Ab sorter twist his face around when he looked in his'n, an' then I seed that the ham inside of 'em both wasn't any thicker'n a piece o' paper.
“'Look here, Pole' said Uncle Ab, 'I bought asandwich; I didn't agree to pay that fat thief ten cents o' my hard money fer two pieces o' bread that don't even smell o' meat.'
“'Well, what you goin' to do about it?' says I.
“'Do about it?' says he, an' then he sorter winked, an' as the Dutchman had turned to his stove whar he was fryin' some eggs, Uncle Ab stuck out his long fingers an slid a slice o' ham out o' the top sandwich in the stack an' slyly laid it betwixt his bread. I deprived the one under it of all the substance it held, an' me'n Uncle Ab was munchin' away when two passengers, a big man an' a little, sawed-off one, run up jest as the whistle blowed. They throwed down the'r dimes an' grabbed the two top sandwiches, an' we all made a break fer the train an' got in together. The fellers set right behind me'n Uncle Ab, an' when they begun to eat you never heard sech cussin'. 'Damn it, thar hain't a bit o' ham in mine!' the big feller said; an' then the little 'un ripped out an oath, an' reached up an' tried to git at the bell-cord. 'The damn pot-gutted thief didn't evengreasemine,' he said, an' they both raised windows an' looked back an' shook the'r fists an' swore they'd kill that Dutchman the next time they seed 'im.
“I thought I'd actually die laughin'. Uncle Ab set thar with the straightest face you ever looked at, but his eyes was twinklin' like stars peepin' through wet clouds.
“Finally he said, 'Pole,' said he, 'this experience ort to teach us a lesson. You cayn't down wrong with wrong. We started in to beat that swindler at his game, an' ended up by robbin' two hungry an' honest wayfarers.'”
Floyd and Captain Duncan laughed. It seemed that there was a disposition on the part of both Pole and the planter not to allude to the unpleasant affair of the preceding day, though Floyd, in his sensitive attitude in regard to it, more than once fancied it was in their minds.
“There is a personal matter, Floyd,” said Duncan, after a silence of several minutes, “that I have been wanting to speak to you about. It is in regard to your parentage. I've heard that you are greatly interested in it and would like to have it cleared up.”
“I confess it, captain,” Floyd said. “I suppose that is a feeling that would be natural to any one placed as I am.”
“Most decidedly,” Duncan agreed. “And it is my opinion that when you do discover what you are looking for, it will all seem so simple and plain that you will wonder how you could have missed it so long. I don't think it is possible for a thing like that to remain hidden always.”
“It certainly has foiled me, captain,” Floyd replied. “I have spent more money and made more effort than you would dream of, but met with disappointment on every hand.”
“Perhaps you didn't look close enough at home,” said Duncan. “I confess the thing has interested me a good deal, and the more I see of you, and observe your pluck and courage, the more I would like to see you discover what you want.”
“Thank you, captain,” Floyd said, earnestly.
“I'm going to confess something else, too,” the planter went on, “now that I see you don't resent my interest. The truth is, I had a talk with Colonel Price about it. You know he understands more about genealogy and family histories than any man in the county. I asked him if he didn't think that your given name, 'Nelson,' might not tend to show that you were, in some way, related to a family by that name. Price agreed with me that it was likely, and then it flashed on me that I knew a man down in Atlanta by the name of Floyd—Henry A. Floyd—whose mother was one of the South Carolina Nelsons.”
“Is it possible?” the young merchant asked, leaning forward in almost breathless interest.
“Yes, and he is a man of good standing, but very unsuccessful financially—a man who was educated for the law, and failed at it, and now, I believe, lives only on the income from a big farm in Bartow County. I knew him quite well when we were both young men; but he never married, and of late years he seems soured against everybody. I met him at the Capitol in Atlanta only last week, and tried to get him interested in your family matter. At first, from his evident surprise that there could be any one bearing both those names up here, I thought he was going to reveal something that would aid you. But after asking me three or four questions about you, he closed up, and that was the end of it. He said he knew nothing of your parentage, but that he was sure you were no kin of his.”
“Say, captain”—Pole Baker broke into the conversation—“would you mind tellin' me right here what you told 'im about Nelson? I've seed the old cuss; I've been on his farm; I once thought about rentin' land from 'im. Did you tell 'im Nelson was a man of high standing here—that he was about the richest young chap in the county an' got more grit than a car-load o' sand-paper?”
“No,” Duncan laughed. “He didn't let me get that far, Baker. In hopes of rousing his sympathy, I reckon I laid a good deal of stress on Floyd's early misfortune. Of course, I was going to tell him all about you, Floyd, but, as I say, he didn't give me a good chance.”
“You were quite right, captain,” Floyd returned. “Pole would have made me appear ridiculous.”
“Huh! I'd a got more out o' the old fossil than Captain Duncan did,” Pole declared, positively, “You knowed how to manage men in the war, captain, an' you are purty good at bossin' an overseer when you are at a hotel in Florida an' he's fillin' a sack in yore corn-crib at home, but I'll bet my hat you didn't tackle that feller right. Knowing that he was down in the mouth, unlucky, an' generally soured agin the world, I'd never a-tried to git 'im interested in pore kin he'd never seed. I'll bet a quart o' rye to two fingers o' spilt cider that he'd 'a' talked out o' t'other side o' his mouth ef I'd a been thar to sorter show 'im the kind o' kin that he mought scrape up ef he turned his hand to it. You let me run agin that old skunk, an' I'll have him settin' up the drinks an' axin' me more questions than a Dutchman l'arnin' to talk our language. Shucks! I'm jest a mountain-scrub, but I know human natur'. Thar comes old Mayhew. He'll order us out—it's treat, trade, or travel with that old skunk.”
HILLHOUSE had gone over to Porter's early that morning. He found Nathan seated on the porch in his shirt-sleeves, his heavy shoes unlaced for comfort and a hand-made cob-pipe in his mouth. “I want to see Miss Cynthia a moment,” the preacher said, with a touch of embarrassment as he came in at the gate, his hat in hand.
Old Porter rose with evident reluctance. “All right,” he said. “I'll see ef I kin find 'er—ef I do it will be the fust time I ever run across her, or any other woman, when she was needed.”
He returned in a moment “She'll be out in a few minutes,” he said. “She told me to tell you to set down here on the porch.”
Hillhouse took a vacant seat, holding his hat daintily on his sharp knees, and Porter resumed his chair, tilting it backward as he talked.
“Ef you are ever unlucky enough to git married, parson,” he said, “you'll know more about women than you do now, an' at the same time you'll swear you know less. They say the Maker of us all has unlimited knowledge, but I'll be blamed ef I believe He could understand women—even ef hedidcreate 'em. I'm done with the whole lot!” Porter waved his hand, as if brushing aside something of an objectionable nature. “They never do a thing that has common-sense in it. I believe they are plumb crazy when it comes to tacklin' anything reasonable. I'll give you a sample. Fer the last ten years I have noticed round about here, that whenever a man died the women folks he left sent straight to town an' bought a high-priced coffin to lay 'im away in. No matter whether the skunk had left a dollar to his name or not, that Jew undertaker over thar at Darley, to satisfy family pride, sent out a coffin an' trimmin's to the amount of an even hundred dollars. I've knowed widows an' orphans to stint an' starve an' go half naked fer ten years to pay off a debt like that. Now, as I'm financially shaped, I won't leave but powerful little, an' that one thing worried me considerable. Now an' then I'd sorter spring the subject on my women, an' I found out that they thought a big splurge like that was the only decent way to act over a man's remains. Think o' the plumb foolishness, parson, o' layin' a man away on a silk-plush cushion after he's dead, when he's slept all his life on a common tick stuffed with corn-shucks with the stubs on 'em. But that'swomen!Well, I set to work to try to beat 'em at the game, as fur asIwas concerned. I 'lowed ef I made my preparations myself ahead o' time, with the clear understandin' that I wanted it that away, why, that no reasonable person would, or could, raise objections.”
“Oh, I see!” Hillhouse said, his mind evidently on something else.
“Well, you may see—an' any other reasonablemancould—but you don't see what them women done.
“Well, to go on. I went down to Swinton's new mill, whar he was sawin' out pine planks, an' set around all mornin', an' whenever I seed a solid heart-plank run out, I'd nab it an' lay it aside. Then, when I'd got enough to make me a good, roomy box, I axed 'im what the pile was wuth an' got the lot at a bargain, beca'se times was dull an' I was on the spot. Well, I hauled the planks home on my wagon an' unloaded at the barn. The women, all three, come out like a lot o' hens peckin' around an' begun to ax questions. They 'lowed I was goin' to make some shelves fer the smoke-house, to lay hams an' shoulders on, an' they was powerful tickled. I didn't let 'em know right then. But the next day when Jim Long come with his hammer an' nails an' saw an' plane, an' stood me up agin the wall in the woodshed, an' started to measure me up an' down an' sideways, they begun to scream an' take on at a desperate rate. It was the fust time I ever heard mournin' at my own funeral, an' it sorter upset me; but I told Jim to go ahead, an' he did start, but, la me! The whole lay-out run to 'im an' got around 'im an' threatened, an' went on at sech a rate that he throwed up the job an' went home. I got mad an' went off fishin', an' when I come back I found all o' them fine, new planks split up into kindlin' fer the stove, an' it wasn't a week 'fore my burial outfit was turned into ashes. I kin see now that when my time comes my folks will rake an' scrape to git up money to put me in a box so thin that a dead man could kick a hole in it.”
“They have their way of looking at such matters,” the preacher ventured, awkwardly. “Death is a serious thing, brother Porter, and it affects most people deeply.”
“It hain't so serious on a cash basis as it is on a credit,” Nathan declared. “But thar Cynthia comes now.”
“I'm an early bird, Miss Cynthia.” Hillhouse was actually flushed. “That is, I don't mean to hint that you are a worm, you know; but the truth is, I was afraid if I didn't come quick some hawk of a fellow would bear you away to bush-arbor meeting next Sunday afternoon. Will you let me take you?”
Cynthia's face clouded over. “I'm very sorry,” she said, “but I have already promised some one else.”
“Oh, is that so?” Hillhouse could not disguise his disappointment. “Are you going with—with—”
“Mr. Floyd asked me,” the girl answered, “and I told him I'd go. I'm very sorry to disappoint you.”
“Why, Cynthia”—Mrs. Porter had approached and stood in the door-way, staring perplexedly at her daughter—“you told me last night just before you went to bed that you had no engagement for Sunday. Have you had a note already this morning?”
Cynthia, in some confusion, avoided her mother's sharp, probing look.
“It doesn't matter,” she said, lamely. “I've promised to go with Mr. Floyd, and that is sufficient.”
“Oh yes, that is sufficient, of course,” Hillhouse said, still under his cloud of disappointment, “and I hope you will have a pleasant time. The truth is, Floyd is hard to beat at anything. He has a way about him that wins the—perhaps I may say—the sympathy of nearly all ladies.”
A reply of some sort was struggling for an outlet in Cynthia's rapidly rising and falling bosom, but her mother forestalled her with tight lips and eyes that were flashing ominously.
“Brother Hillhouse,” she said, “a man of that stamp has more influence over girls of the present generation than any other kind. Let a man be moral, religious, and sober, and thoughtful of the reputations of women, and he is shoved aside for the sort of men who fight duels and break hearts and ruin happy homes for their own idle gratification.”
“Oh, Mrs. Porter, I didn't mean to raise such a—a point as that,” Hillhouse stammered. “I'm sure Miss Cynthia appreciates all that is good in humanity; in fact, I think she leans decidedly that way. I couldn't expect her to let a little public gossip turn her against a friend whom she believes in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hillhouse,” Cynthia said, drawing herself up to her full height and turning to go in. “I appreciate the way you look at it.”
She went into the house, walking very straight and not looking back.
Porter stood up and knocked the ashes from his pipe in his hard, broad hand. “Do you see that thar gate, parson?” he laughed. “Well, you take a fool's advice an' go home, an' come back some other time. Neither one o' them women know what they are a-talkin' about, an' they'll have you as crazy as they are in ten minutes ef you try to follow 'em.”
When Hillhouse had gone, Mrs. Porter went back into the sitting-room and stood over Cynthia as the girl sat sewing at a window.
“You maythinkyou've got my eyes closed,” the old woman said, “but you haven't. You didn't have any engagement with Nelson Floyd last night at supper, and you either saw him after we went to bed or you have had a secret note from him this morning.”
“Have it your own way,” Cynthia said, indifferently, and hot with vexation she bent her head over her work.
“I was watching your face this morning, too,” Mrs. Porter went on, “when your pa came in and said that Wade did not meet Floyd at the spring, and I noticed that you did not seem at all surprised. I'll get at the bottom of this, now you see if I don't!” And white with suppressed anger, Mrs. Porter turned away.
As she went out Mrs. Radcliffe, with a tottering step, came into the room and drew near to Cynthia.
“I am worried about your mother,” she said, standing with her thin hand resting on the window-frame. “She troubles so much over small things. I shudder when I think about it, Cynthia; but I'm afraid she'll go like your aunt did. It seems to be inherited from your grandfather's side of the family.”
“Are you really afraid of that, granny?” The girl looked up, a serious expression dawning in her eyes.
“Well, I don't know as I think she'd actually kill herself, as Martha did, but if this goes on her mind certainly will give way. It's not natural—it's too great a strain for one human brain to stand. She didn't sleep a wink last night I know that, for I woke up several times and heard her moving about and sighing.”
“Poor mamma!” Cynthia said, regretfully, to herself, as her grandmother moved slowly from the room. “And I spoke disrespectfully to her just now. Besides, perhaps I have given her cause to worry, from her stand-point. God forgive me, I reallydidgo out to meet him that way, and if she thinks it would be so bad, what must he think? Is it possible for him to class me with—to think of me as—as he does of—Oh!” and with a hot flush burning her face, Cynthia rose hastily and put her work away.
AT one o'clock the following Sunday afternoon Nelson Floyd drove up to Porter's gate in his new buggy, behind his spirited Kentucky thorough-bred. Nathan Porter in his stockinged feet, for the day was warm, stood on the porch, and as Floyd reined in, he walked down the steps and out to the gate, leaning over it lazily, his slow, pleased glance critically sweeping the horse from head to foot.
“You've got you a dandy at last,” was his observation. “I used to be some'n' of a judge. Them's the slimmest legs fer sech a good stout body I ever seed. He totes his head high without a check-rein, too, an' that's purty. I reckon you come after Cynthia. She'll be out here in a minute. She knows you've come; she kin see the road from the window o' her room. An' I never knowed a woman that could keep from peepin' out.”
“Oh, I'm in no hurry at all,” Floyd assured him. “It's only ten miles, and we can easily make it by the three o'clock service.”
“Oh, well, I reckon it don't make no odds to you whether you holdyoremeetin' in that hug-me-tight or under the arbor. I know my choice 'ud 'a' been jest one way when I was on the turf. Camp-meetin's an' bush-arbor revivals used to be our hay-time. Us boys an' gals used to have a great way o' settin' in our buggies, jest outside, whar we could chat all we wanted to, jine in the tunes, an' at the same time git credit fer properly observin' the day.”
“That's about the way the young people look at it now,” Floyd said, with a smile.
“I reckon this is a sort o' picnic to you in more ways than one,” Porter remarked, without a trace of humor in his tone, as he spat over the gate and wiped his chin on his bare hand. “You ort to enjoy a day o' freedom, after waitin' two hours at that spring fer Jeff Wade. Gee whiz! half o' Springtown was behind barracks, sayin' prayers an' beggin' the Lord to spare the town from flames. I didn't stay myself. I don't object to watchin' a fisticuff match once in a while, but fellers in a powder-and-ball battle like that seem to try to mow down spectators as hard as they do the'r man. Then I don't like to be questioned in court. A feller has to forgit so dern much, ef he stands to his friends.”
“No, we avoided trouble,” said Floyd, in evident aversion to a topic so keenly personal. “So you like my horse! He is really the best I could get at Louisville.”
“I reckon.” Porter spat again. “Well, as you say, Wadewillshoot an' he kin, too. When he was in the war, they tell me his colonel wanted some sharpshooters an' selected 'im to—but thar's that gal now. Gee whiz! don't she look fluffy?”
For the most part, the drive was through the mountains, along steep roads, past yawning gorges, and across rapid, turbulent streams. It was an ideal afternoon for such an outing, and Cynthia had never looked so well, though she was evidently fatigued. Floyd remarked upon this, and she said: “I don't know why it was, but I waked at three o'clock this morning, and could not get back to sleep before father called me at six. Since then I have been hard at work. I'm afraid I shall feel very tired before we get back.”
“You must try not to think of fatigue.” Floyd was admiring her color, her hair, her eyes. “Then you ought to relax yourself. There is no use sitting so erect; if you sit that way the jolting over this rough road will break you all to pieces. Don't lean so far from me. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm glad I beat Hillhouse to you. I saw him going to your house the next morning. I know he asked you.”
“Yes, he asked me,” Cynthia said, “and I was sorry to disappoint him.”
Floyd laughed. “Well, the good and the bad are fighting over you, little girl. One man who, in the eyes of the community, stands for reckless badness, has singled you out, and thrown down the gauntlet to a man who represents the Church, God, and morality—both are grimly fighting for the prettiest human flower that ever grew on a mountain-side.”
“I don't like to hear you talk that way.” Cynthia looked him steadily in the eyes. “It sounds insincere; it doesn't come from your heart. I don't like your compliments—your open flattery. You say the same things to other girls.”
“Oh no; I beg your pardon, but I don't. I couldn't. They don't inspire them as you do. You—you tantalize me, Cynthia; you drive me crazy with your maddening reserve—the way you have of thinking things no man could read in your face, and above it all, through it all, your wonderful beauty absolutely startles me—makes me at times unable to speak, clogs my utterance, and fires my brain. I don't know—I can't understand it, but you are in my mind all day long, and at night, after my work is over, I want to wander about your house—not with the hope of having you actually come out, you know, but to enjoy the mere fancy that you have joined me.”
A reply was on her hesitating lips, but his ardor and impetuosity swept it away, and she sat with lowered lashes looking into her lap. The horse had paused to drink at a clear brook running across the road. All about grew graceful, drooping willows. It was a lonely spot, and it seemed that they were quite out of the view of all save themselves. Cynthia's pink hand lay like a shell in her lap, and he took it into his. For an instant it thrilled as if the spirit of resistance had suddenly waked in it, and then it lay passive. Floyd raised it to his lips and kissed it, once, twice, several times. He held it ecstatically in both his own, and fondled it. Then suddenly an exclamation of surprise escaped Cynthia's lips, and with her eyes glued on some object ahead, she snatched her hand away, her face hot with blushes. Following her glance, Floyd saw a man with his coat on his arm rising from the ground where he had been resting on the moss. It was Pole Baker, and with his shaggy head down, his heavy brows drawn together, he came towards them.
“I was jest waitin' fer somebody to pass an' give me a match,” he said to Floyd, almost coldly, without a glance at Cynthia. “I'm dyin' to smoke this cigar.”
“What are you doing out afoot?” Floyd asked, as he gave him several matches.
“Oh, I'm goin' to meetin', too. I know a short foot-path through the mountains. Sally an' the chil-dem didn't want to come, an' I'd a heap ruther walk five miles than to ride ten over a road like this 'un. I'd sorter be afeard of a mettlesome hoss like that'un. Ef he was to git scared an' break an' run, neither one o' you'd escape among these cliffs an' gullies.”
“Oh, I can hold him in,” Floyd said. “Well, we'd better drive on. Do you think you can get there as soon as we do, Pole?”
“I won't miss it much,” said the farmer, and they saw him disappear in a shaded path leading down the mountain-side.
“He puzzles me,” Floyd said, awkwardly. “For a minute I imagined he was offended at something.”
“He saw you—holding my hand.” Cynthia would not saykissing. The word had risen to her tongue, but she instinctively discarded it. “He's been almost like a brother to me He has a strong character, and I admire him very much. I always forget his chief weakness; he never seems to me to be a drunkard. He has the highest respect for women of any man I ever knew. I'm sorry—just now—”
“Oh, never mind Pole,” Floyd broke in, consolingly. “He's been a young man himself, and he knows how young people are. Now, if you begin to worry over that little thing, I shall be miserable. I set out to make you have a pleasant drive.”
AN hour later they arrived at the bush-arbor, a rough shed upon which rested a roof of freshly cut boughs of trees and on which there were benches without backs. The ground was strewn with straw, and at the far end was a crude platform and table where several ministers sat.
Leaving his companion near the main entrance, Floyd led his horse some distance away before he could find a suitable place to hitch him. Returning, he found a seat for himself and Cynthia near the rear. They had not been there long before Pole Baker slouched in, warm and flushed from his walk, and sat directly across the aisle from them. Floyd smiled and called Cynthia's attention to him, but Pole stared straight at the pulpit and neither looked to the right nor left. Floyd noticed a farmer bend over and speak to him, and was surprised to see that Pole made no response whatever. With a puzzled expression on his face, the farmer sank back into his seat.
The meeting was opened with prayer and a hymn. Then Hillhouse, who had arrived a little late, came in, a Bible and hymn-book in hand, and went forward and sat with the other ministers. Floyd noted the shifting look of dissatisfaction on his thin face, and his absent-minded manner, as he exchanged perfunctory greetings with those around him.
“Poor fellow!” Floyd said to himself, “he's hard hit, and no wonder.” He glanced at the fair face at his elbow and thrilled from head to foot. She was certainly all that a woman could possibly be.
Then there was a rousing sermon from the Rev. Edward Richardson, an eloquent mountain evangelist. His pleadings bore immediate fruit. Women began to shed tears, and sob, and utter prayers aloud. This was followed by tumultuous shouting, and the triumphant evangelist closed his talk by asking all who felt like it to kneel where they were and receive prayers for their benefit. Half of the congregation fell on their knees. “Did you see that?” Floyd whispered to Cynthia, and he directed her attention to Pole Baker, who was kneeling on the ground, his great, heavily shod feet under the seat in front of him, his elbows on his own bench, and his big, splaying hands pressed over his eyes.
“Poor fellow!” she whispered back, “he is making fresh resolutions to quit drinking, I suppose. I'm so sorry for him. He tries harder to reform for the sake of his wife and children than any man I know. Sometimes I am afraid he never will succeed.”
“Perhaps not,” said Floyd. “You see, I know what it is, Cynthia.”
“You?”
“Why, of course, it almost got me down once. There was a point in my life when I could have been blown one way or the other as easily as a feather. I don't want to pose as being better than I am, and I confess that I am actually afraid at times that it may again get the best of me. God only knows how a man has to fight a thing like that after it has once become a habit. As long as matters are like they are now, I can hold my own, I am sure; but I actually believe if I had to meet some absolutely crushing blow to all my hopes and aspirations, I'd—I'd really be as weak as Pole is.”
“I don't believe it,” said Cynthia, raising her frank eyes to his. “I don't believe a word of it,” she repeated, firmly.
“You don't? Well, perhaps your faith will save me.”
The prayer over, the preacher next called on all who felt that they needed special spiritual help in any particular trial, affliction, or trouble to come forward and give him their hands. Several men and women responded, and among them, to Floyd's growing astonishment, was Pole Baker. He stood erect at his seat for an instant, and then, with his long arms swinging at his sides, he walked up and shook hands stiffly with the minister.
“You were right about it,” Floyd said to Cynthia. “I reckon he's making new resolutions. But where is the fellow going?”
They saw Pole, after releasing the preacher's hand, turn out at the side of the arbor, and slowly stalk away towards the spot where Floyd had hitched his horse.
“Perhaps he's going to start back home,” Cynthia said. “It's getting late and cloudy, and he has a long walk before him.”
“That's it,” said Floyd. “And footing it through the woods as dark as it is even now is no simple matter; though Pole really has the instincts of a red Indian. But I don't understand it, for he is not headed towards home.”
There was another earnest talk from another preacher, and then Hillhouse closed the meeting with a prayer.
Leaving Cynthia at the arbor, Floyd went down for his horse. He was not far from the buggy when he saw Pole Baker rise from a flat stone upon which he had been seated. Without looking at him, Pole went to the hitch-rein and unfastened it, and led the restive animal around in the direction he was to go.
“Much obliged to you, old man,” Floyd said, deeply touched by the action. “I could have done that myself.”
“I know it, Nelson,” Pole responded; “but I've got some'n' to say to you, an' as it is late an' may take a minute or two, I thought I'd save all the time I could an' not keep yore little partner waitin'.”
“Oh, you want to see me, do you?”
Pole hesitated, his glance on the ground; the sockets of his big eyes were full-looking, and the muscles of his face and great neck were twitching. Presently he stared Floyd steadily in the eyes and began:
“Nelson, you've knowed me a good many years in the way one man knows a friend an' neighbor, or even a brother, but you don't plumb understand me yit. The Lord God Almighty's made men side by side in life as different as two kinds o' plants, or two sorts o' minerals. Me'n' you is friends, an' I'm a-goin' to say at the start that I love you as a brother, but we see things different—me'n' you do—we act different about some things. That's what I want to see you about.”
“Oh, I see!” Floyd had never been more perplexed in his life, but he waited for Pole's explanation.
“I hain't here to reflect on the character of women in general, nuther,” said Baker, “though what I say mought sound like it to the shallow-minded. I'm here to tell you that the Lord God has made some o' the sweetest an' best an' purest women that ever lived unable to resist the fire the devil kindles in some men's eyes. Jest as the Almighty allowed Old Nick to play smash right among the elected angels o' heaven tell he was kicked out, so does he let 'im play hell an' damnation with the best an' purest here on earth, usin' as his devilish instrument men who excuse the'rselves on the plea that it's human natur'. A good woman will sometimes be as helpless under a hot-blooded man's eye and voice as a dove is when it flutters an' stands wonderin' before a rattlesnake that means to devour it soul and body.”
“Pole, what's all this mean?” Floyd asked, slightly irritated.
“You wait an' see, dern yore hide!” said Pole. “Ef I kin afford to talk to you when I'm due at my home an' fireside, you kin afford to listen, fer ef it don't do you some good, it will be the beginnin' o' more harm than you ever had to tackle in yore short life. I want to tell you, Nelson, that that little woman you drove out here has been as true a friend to me asyouhave, an' if I have to side with one or the other, it will be with the weakest one.”
“She's made sacrifices fer me. She saved little Billy's life, an' one day while I was lyin' too drunk to hold my head up in the swamp betwixt her daddy's house an' mine, she found me thar an' run an' fetched fresh water in my hat, an' bathed my nasty, bloated face with her wet handkerchief, an' kept tellin' me to brace up an' not go home that away an' make my wife feel bad. She done that, Nelson Floyd,an', by the holy God, ef you think I'm a-goin' to set idle an' eventhinkthar'sa bare resko' her bein' made unhappy by a big, strappin' thing in pants, an' a vest, an' coat, an' a blue neck tie, you've got little enough sense to need a guardeen to look after yore effects. I don't say tharisdanger nor thar hain't, but I seed you doin' a thing back thar on the road that didn't strike me as bein' plumb right, coupled with what I seed when you climbed over the fence o' Nathan Porter's orchard nigh midnight not long back. I've already told you I love you like a brother, but while meetin' was goin' on I made up my mind to say this to you. I got down at the preacher's invite an' prayed on it, an' I went forward an' give 'im my hand on it, axin' the sanction o' the Lord on it, an' I'm here to tell you to yore teeth, Nelson, that ef a hair o' that bonny head is harmedthrough youI will kill you as I would a p'ison snake! Now, I've said it. I'd 'a' had to say it ef you had been my twin brother, an' I'm not a-goin' to be sorry fer it, nuther. Yore a good, well-meanin' young man, but you ain't yorese'f when you give way to hot blood.”
Floyd was standing behind the neck of his horse, and for an instant Pole could not see his face. There was silence for a moment. Then Floyd came round the horse and stood facing the mountaineer. He was pale, his lower lip was twitching; there was a look in his eyes Baker had never seen there before.
“Pole,” he said, “I'd shoot any other man on God's earth for talking to me as you have.
“You mean you'dtry, Nelson.”
“Yes, I mean I'd try; but I can't be mad at you. We've been too close for that, Pole. I admire you more than any man alive. With all your faults, you have done more, in the long run, to lift me up than any other influence. I don't know what to say to you. I—I feel your words keenly, but you understand that I cannot, after what you have said, and the way you've said it, make promises. That would really be—be an insult to—to the lady in question, and an acknowledgment that no brave man could make to another.”
“I understand that, Nelson.” And Pole, with a softened face, held out his big, warm hand. “Shake, old boy. Let it all pass. Now that you understand me, I'm goin' to trust you like a friend. No good man will harm the sister of a friend, noway, an' that's what she is to me. She's my little sister, Nelson. Now, you go take 'er home. I don't like the looks o' that cloud in the west,' an' I don't like the way that hoss o' your'n keeps layin' back his ears an' snortin' at ever' leaf that blows by.”