"Yes, Laz, that's the news a stirrin'."
Behind the lout's countenance a light was gradually turned up. "We all knows whut that means, Jasper, an' ef you need me, all you've got to do is to git out on the hill-top an' holler. Layin' in bed one night, an' I hearn a feller holler. I went to him. They had him tied across a log an' his shirt wasoff. I asked the cap'n of the gang whut it meant, an' he 'lowed that the feller had been in the habit o' whippin' his wife, an' then I 'lows, I does—'Old chap, I reckon you'll hatter swallow yo' salts. Good night.' An' I hearn him a swollerin' 'em. But if I hear you holler, Jasper, I'll—"
"Don't talk about it, Laz."
"All right. Good-day."
When he was gone the old man resumed his walk, musing: "Don't want to see nuthin' red on the ground."
He took out his knife, put his foot on a chair, and began to cut his shoe-strings. As he was cutting the string from the other shoe his wife, peeping round at him, inquired:
"Whut you do that fur?"
"I don't want to die with them on if I kin help it." And shutting his knife with a snap he resumed his walk up and down the room. "And I am a fixin' 'em so I kin kick 'em off."
"For mercy sake, Jasper, don't talk thatter way."
His sense of humor came back to him. "Oh, I may not have to kick 'em off. It wouldn't surpriseme if somebody else done the kickin'. But it's better to be prepared. The good Book says—"
"Oh, now, the good Book don't say no sich of a thing, and you know it. What makes you allus want to fetch in the good Book? Don't you know it say, 'Thou shan't kill?' Don't you?"
"Yes, but I ain't found whar it say, 'Thou shall let a feller kill you.'"
"Oh, there ought to be some way a smoothin' of it over."
"Yes, Margaret, a smoothin' of it over an' a pattin' it down with a shovel."
"Oh, fur goodness sake, don't talk thatter way. It distresses me so."
"Why, jest a while ago you was fretted because I didn't treat it serious. Wush you'd sorter draw off in writin' what you want me to do."
"Don't talk thatter way. I am so anxious, an' 'specially at this time when—"
"When what?"
"When these folks air here—when that young feller is a payin' so much attention to Lou."
"Don't worry about her, Margaret. If she hasto take bitter medicine, she'll do it an' smack her mouth."
"But, Jasper, he's the son of a United States Jedge."
"Wall, but thar ain't no objection to that, is there?"
"Oh, how tormentin' a man kin be when he tries."
"Oh, how tormentin' a woman kin be when she don't try."
"Did anybody ever hear the like? Jasper, don't you see how much Lou is a thinkin' of him? Air you so blind that you can't see that? An' you know that the app'intment of Peters mout spile it all."
The old man shrugged. "Yes, mout spile it all fur Peters. Let me tell you suthin'. I ain't a stairrin' round to see how much one pusson thinks of another, an' I don't know how much she keers fur that young feller, but I do know that she is worthy of any man that ever trod shoe luther. We give her all the freedom a girl wants, an' that man ain't a livin' that could turn that freedom into shame. If she falls in love with him, she will love him like a Starbuck—with all her soul. An' if he don't loveher, she'll be silent like a Starbuck. One day when we was a goin' down the creek in canoe you saw a fish come up an' strike at the paddle. Margaret, that was a Starbuck among fish."
There came a loud cry of "halloa," and Jasper went to the window.
"Helloa yo'se'f."
"My wagon's stalled down here," a man shouted, "and I'd like for you to fetch your steers and give me a lift up the hill."
"What air you loaded with?"
"Hoop poles."
"All right, I'll send a nigger down an'—" Just then he caught sight of Kintchin. "Here, you scoundrel, I thought I told you to haul a load of corn over to Spencer's."
The negro came up to the window. "Yas, suh, but you didn't tell me. I heard you tell dat man Laz, but he sich a liar you kain't blebe nuthin' dat's said ter him."
Jasper turned away to laugh and Kintchin came round into the house.
"But you heard me tell him, you scoundrel," said the old man.
"Yas, suh, I wuz er standin' dar at de cornder o' de house at de time, an' I yered you tell him, an' I would er blebed it, ez I tell you, but dat man is sich er monst'us twister o' de fack dat nuthin' said ter him soun's like de truf. I blebed it when you told him, but de minit he told me it sounded like er lie."
"Kintchin, that's putty good sense, anyhow."
"Yas, suh, an' ain't all dat sense wuth er quarter?"
Jasper began to grabble into his pocket, when Margaret spoke up: "Jasper, don't give that nigger no money. He won't do a thing I tell him to."
Starbuck gave him a piece of silver, and with a look of deep injury the darkey turned to Margaret. "Now, Miss Mar'get, whut you all time come er flatter me datter way fur? You knows I's allus a braikin' my naik fur you. I don't kere ef you is er 'oman, you's got er soul ter save, an' you oughter be a lookin' out fur it."
He ambled slowly toward the door, muttering ashe went, and Jasper's sharp command did not serve to enliven him overmuch.
"Come, move on a little faster, and yoke up the steers and haul that man's wagon up the hill. Never saw as slow a nigger in my life. Come on, and I'll go with you."
He hastened out, passing Kintchin and commanding him to come on. Margaret busied herself with picking up scraps of paper, among them doubtless being an account of what the captain did, and threw them out into the yard. Standing at the door, and glancing down the road, she spied Mrs. Mayfield, Jim, Tom and Lou coming from a stroll among the hills. Back into the house she ran, snatched down a turkey-wing fan from a nail in the wall, dusted a rocking-chair, smoothed herself, and was rocking placidly as any lady of leisure when the hill-side romancers entered the room.
During all the morning Jim had been silent. Standing on a purple knob, arms folded, gazing far away toward the rugged scenes of his life's work, he had reminded the world-woman of some discoverer, a Cortez viewing the Pacific; and when to break the spell of his attitude she asked him why he gazed so fixedly, he replied: "I am looking away off yander at the duty I am neglecting, ma'm."
"Why, you couldn't neglect a duty, Mr. Reverend."
"I didn't think so, but I am. I put myself in mind of the old feller that stood all day a smelling of a rose bush when the weeds were choking his corn. In my wheat field the tares are coming up, now that I am away, and I ought to be there to pull them up by the roots."
"But you need a vacation. Ail preachers take vacations. Why, in the cities, they—"
"Yes, ma'm," he broke in. "Sometimes theyshut up their churches, I know, and they go away from their desks and their pulpits; but they are learned men, bristling with sharp points against the man who attacks their creed. I am not armed that way. I can't argue; I can't defend the church against the smart men that Satan has hired. All I can do is to preach in my rough way and go about and beg men to do as near right as they can."
"And St. Paul could not have done more, Mr. Reverend."
"Ah," he said, bowing low, and then looking up at her. "I am afraid of St. Paul. He was a great scholar and in his hands the gospel was a dazzling thing. But with poor, ignorant Peter it was simple; and I choose Peter for my master because I am not afraid of him."
Below them Tom and Lou sat on a rock. The game young fellow was still shy. Sometimes he looked as if he despaired of ever recovering his wonted nerve, for in this girl, so modest and so shrinking, he knew that there lay asleep the wildcat's fearful spirit. Bold by nature he longed attimes to see this spirit blaze, but her soft eyes pleaded with him and gentleness made him afraid.
"Come right in," said Margaret as they appeared at the door. "Have this cheer, Miz Mayfield?"
"No, thank you I'll sit over here." She sat down near the table, and Jim took a seat opposite to her and resumed his silent gaze. "We have had a delightful stroll," said Mrs. Mayfield, taking off her gloves; and Lou who stood behind her peeped around lovingly into her eyes.
"Stroll," cried Tom. "I call it a chase. And you could catch a deer almost as easily as to keep up with Miss Lou."
"Why, Mr. Tom, I didn't walk fast."
"Oh," he rejoined, "you didn't walk at all. You flitted."
His aunt looked at him. "Tom, dear, don't be extravagant."
"Extravagant! That's the reason father let me come up here. So I couldn't be extravagant."
"He is determined to be literal," she said with a sigh.
Lou gathered up a handful of flowers that lay in Mrs. Mayfield's lap. "Let me have these," and she began to weave them into the city woman's hair.
"Why, daughter," cried Margaret, "don't do that. She mout not like it."
"Oh, don't stop her, please," Mrs. Mayfield replied, and then to Jim she added: "Did you ever have a fawn touch you with its velvety lip? The thrill of innocence, the—"
"Auntie, don't be extravagant," Tom broke in, and Lou gave him a look of tender reproof. "I wish you'd hush, Mr. Tom. I like to hear her talk."
"Why—why don't you like to hear me talk?"
"I do except when you interrupt her."
He hung his head. "Thank you. Wishes should be sacred when set to music."
"A very pretty speech," said Mrs. Mayfield, nodding Tom a compliment, and Margaret, not to be left behind, declared: "Oh, he couldn't be pearter if he tried."
"There," exclaimed the girl, patting Mrs. Mayfield's head, "you are in bloom."
"She was the moment you said so," Tom replied.
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, I know it. She burst into bloom the moment you spoke."
"Then I'm glad I said it. Some how you always make me feel glad when I've said somethin'. You are the only—only people that ever did that."
Jim had not spoken. Mrs. Mayfield asked him why he was so silent. "A man is sometimes most silent when he is afraid of saying too much," he answered, looking down.
"Mysterious wisdom," she mused, and this gave Tom his opportunity.
"Well, that's what you like, Auntie. You never did care for anything you could understand."
"I don't care for impertinence, sir," and Lou laughed at him: "There, you got it that time."
"Ma'm, I have no desire to be mysterious," said Jim. "A hay stack in an open field couldn't be plainer than my life up to now, but there comes a time even in the most honest man's life when he feels that he must hide something, and that something is the fact that he does feel."
"There, auntie," cried Tom, "he has given you enough mystery to last you—fifteen minutes."
"Is it too warm in here?" Margaret inquired, getting up and going toward the door. They told her that it was "very pleasant," and she looked around at them as if in her opinion it was getting fairly warm but not quite warm enough.
"Mr. Reverend," said Mrs. Mayfield, "I have never known a man like you. And did you ever have a fight, being a Starbuck?"
"I have seen men fall down."
"But you never killed anybody, did you—still being a Starbuck?"
"Kill anybody!" Tom cried. "Why, he's a D. D. not an M. D."
"Oh, hush, you stock joker. But Mr. Reverend, don't you think it is awfully wrong to fight?"
And gazing into her eyes he said: "At times, ma'm, it is just as essential as prayer. Now, Peter drew his sword and cut off a man's ear, and Peter stood right up next to Christ."
"But the Savior told him to put up his sword."
"Very true, ma'm, but not until after the feller had lost his ear."
"Law, me!" exclaimed Margaret, standing at the door, "but you folks air cuttin' up scollops."
"Mr. Reverend," Mrs. Mayfield continued, determined to pursue a subject so interesting to herself, "someone told me of a very heroic thing you did."
"Why, ma'm, I can't look back an' see that I ever did anything heroic. I have helped many an old woman across the creek; I have helped a man set out his tobacco plants, and I want to tell you that settin' out tobacco is the most fetching work I ever did."
"But this was something you can't make light of. I am told that when Memphis was stricken with yellow fever you went down there and nursed the sick."
For a moment he was silent and then he said: "They needed strong arms down there then. The hospitals were full and the churches empty. It seemed to me like the gospel had got scared and was running to the mountains. The Lord may nothave called upon me to preach, but I do believe he called on me to go down there."
Leaning upon the table she gazed into his face as if she were for the first time in her life contemplating a human mystery. "You are a noble man, Mr. Reverend. My faith in man gasped and died, but into it you have blown the sweet breath of a new life. Don't misunderstand me, I—"
"No, ma'm, I won't do that. It is not for me to place an estimation upon you. I don't know much about—"
"Come right in," Margaret called to Mose Blake, hesitating at the door. She led him into the room and began to introduce him to the company. "Mose, this is Miz Mayfield—" Mose shook hands with Jim. "No, this is Miz Mayfield." Mose shook hands with Lou, then with Mrs. Mayfield, and turning to Tom, to whom he was now presented, shook the stool which Tom held in his hand and upon which he was about to sit, took it from him and sat down. "All h—h—h—h—hands w—w—well, I h—h—hope."
"Well as usual," Margaret answered, sittingdown in the rocker. "Why ain't you folks been over?"
"Been a t—t—t—tryin' t—t—t—t—t—to git off. Granny sot t—t—t—the feather b—b—b—bed a—f—f—fire night afore l—l—l—last an' come mighty n—n—n—nigh b—b—b—burnin' up."
"Why, you don't say so?" Margaret exclaimed.
"YES, I D-D-D-DO SAY SO, A-A-A-ATTER A F-F-F-FASHION.""YES, I D-D-D-DO SAY SO, A-A-A-ATTER A F-F-F-FASHION."
"Yes I d—d—d—do say so a—a—a—atter a f—f—f—fashion."
"How far do you live from here Mr. Blake?" Tom inquired.
"Oh, 'bout t—t—t—three sights and a g—g—g—good long w—w—w—walk."
"Charmingly indefinite," said Mrs. Mayfield and Jim, his eyes set, nodded to her. Tom declared himself willing to bet that Mose was a good fellow, "and I don't want to be impertinent," he ventured to remark, "but do you know they can cure stammering now? They can."
"Y—y—y—yes, I kik—kik—kik—know. I tuck—tuck some l—l—l—lessons once a—a—a—and was kik—kik—kik—cured. Got along all r—r—r—right till I t—t—tried to talk—long as I di—d—d—din didn't say nuthin'. Lou, air you g—g—g—goin' to church Sunday?"
"I don't know."
"Lowed I'd g—g—g—go with you. Mother said I ought to go up to the m—m—m—m—m—mourner's b—b—bench, but p—p—p—p—pap he 'lowed if I did git 'ligion I couldn't s—s—s—shout. But I'm in a hurry this m—m—m—m—mornin'. Granny's sick and wants some m—m—m—med—hison."
"What's the matter with her?" Margaret inquired.
"Don't know. She didn't s—s—s—say."
"But what sort of medicine did they send you after?"
"Oh, a—a—a—any sort you ain't g—g—g—got no use fur."
"Why, that won't do," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. "Why don't you send for a physician?"
"Oh, that's a—a—a—all right. It never makes any d—d—dif—difference with granny what s—s—sort of medicine she t—t—t—take—takes. If you go to church Sunday, L—L—L—Lou, I may seeyou there. G—g—g—got somethin' to s—s—s—say to you."
"How are you going to manage to say it?" Lou asked and he began to make signs.
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Mayfield, "what he has to say could be conveyed by signs."
"Yes," Tom declared, "signs are very impressive. Fellow made a few at me once and when he got through I found he'd knocked me down."
"Knocked you down!" cried Lou. "Oh, how could anybody knock you down?"
Mrs. Mayfield looked at Jim. "How charming to be a hero in the sight of a beautiful eye."
Jim drooped and said: "Yes'm."
Mose who had been screwing up his face began again: "Feller knock me down have me to w—w—w—w—whup."
The voice of Kintchin, driving the steers, came up the hill: "Whoa, hor, Buck, come yere. Come yere Bright." Mose remarked after a serious effort that the steers must have about all they could pull, and then added that he must be going. Tom asked if he found it difficult to pull himself loose, and hisaunt cried out! "Why Thomas." Kintchin's voice was heard again, further off and Mose said he "reckoned" he'd have to be pulled out by the steers. Margaret who had been searching the safe and the "cubbo'd", bade him wait a moment, that she had some medicine for him. "Here," she said, giving him two small packages, "'is some quinine and some calomy. Tell yo' granny not to take too much of the calomy. Mout salavater her."
"Yes'm. But it won't m—m—m—m—make any diffunce with granny w—w—w—wuther she's s—s—s—salivated or not. She ain't got no teeth. And b—b—b—besides, she likes the quinine better. She's d—d—d—d—deef and the q—q—q—quinine makes her head r—r—r—r—roar and she thinks she's hearin' suthin'. Well, er g—g—g—g—good day."
"Miz Mayfield," said Margaret, when Mose was gone, "I reckon these folks air mighty queer to you."
"Oh, no, they are close to nature in her most whimsical mood, and a mother of fun is better than a step-mother to scandal."
"I don't know what you mean, auntie" said Tom, "and I don't guess you do, but I'll bet they are game and that is enough to make them all right with me."
"Why," Lou replied, "the man that won't fight is a Judas."
"Good," cried Tom, taking her hands. "I'd rather hear a girl say that than to hear her play a symphony. Before my father was a judge he was a soldier. Now they call him a learned jurist but I am prouder of the fact that he was a distinguished colonel of cavalry."
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Margaret, "I must see about dinner."
"I'll help you mother," said Lou.
"No you won't," Margaret replied. "You jest stay right whar you air."
"You won't object to my helping," said Mrs. Mayfield, arising.
"Oh, no, that is you may come an' look on."
Jim snatched his hat off the floor and followed, leaving Tom and Lou alone in the room. The girl stood leaning on the table looking at the youngfellow, and though often of late had they strolled alone in the woods, yet he seemed to feel that this was the first time he stood facing so confidential a privilege.
"And you lived away off in Maine," said Lou.
"Yes, until father received the appointment to come down here."
"Is yo' mother livin'?"
"No, I can just remember her."
She mused for a few moments as if struggling with a thought. "I read of them findin' a new star," she said, "and I wondered if it wan't the speret of some good man or woman that hed passed away from down here an' gone up there."
"If that were true," he replied, coming forward and putting his hands on the table, gazing into her eyes—"if that were true and I should find a new star brighter than all the rest, I would call it—Lou."
She straightened up. "You must be careful how you talk to me because I might not know how to act. When folks would hide things they must talklike in a book, and I can't do that. But do you think if I was to read books I could be smart?"
"I have begun to think that books don't make so much difference after all. It's the soul that makes people great."
"There's hardly any way for a woman to be great," she said. "All I can hope for is not to be foolish."
"You couldn't be foolish. You might make a man foolish, but you—"
"Oh, how could I make anybody foolish?" she cried, and leaving the table she stood leaning upon the back of a rocking chair.
"How long have you known Mr. Peters?" he inquired and he appeared to be embarrassed.
"All my life."
"Is he game?"
"Game enough, I reckon. Why do you ask?"
"I met him in the road and without cause he insulted me. And I could have killed him!"
"He insulted you?" and she came closer to him. "Insulted you? Then why didn't you kill him?"
"Because—because—I can't tell you now and you musn't ask."
Away from him she turned her head. "All right, I won't ask."
Margaret came to the door. "Lou, go down to the spring house and fetch me that jar of butter," and coming into the room as Lou started, she added, just as Jasper came in. "It's a mighty heavy jar, Mr. Elliott. You mout go an' help her."
"Oh, may I?" Tom asked of Lou.
"Yes, you may, but—"
"But what?"
"I won't ask you to."
"Oh, you won't have to ask me."
"Well, then, come on."
Jasper looked knowingly at Margaret, who, laughing, went back into the kitchen and the old man, shaking his head, humorously mused: "Blamed if I don't wish I could fix up things thatter way." He sat down, took up a lap-board, and upon it began to cut a piece of leather; but leaving off the work, gave himself up to deep thought. "Shot fo' and stobbed three," he said,his mind on the story paper. "Ah, it may not be true, but it sounds mighty natchul. I wonder how it all is goin' to end. Don't want to think about it; wush I could think of somethin' else. Margaret's got her heart set. And I wonder if my little girl has too. If she has it's the first time, an' if his heart don't come when hers calls it, it will never call ag'in." And for a long time he sat there, immovable, gazing; and in his old eyes there was a dream.
Old Jasper's meditations were disturbed by Kintchin who thrust his head through the window and inquired: "Doan want me to take dat co'n ober ter Spencer's 'fo' dinner, does you?"
"No, any time this evenin' will do."
The negro came into the house and as he entered Starbuck said to him: "And while you are resting you mout grind the axes."
"Yas, suh; grind de axes while I's er restin'. Look yere, Mr. Starbuck, ain't you got some work fur me ter do while I's er eatin'?"
"Let me see. I reckon I can rig up a thing so you can churn with yo' foot."
"Yas, suh. But whut's de use in stoppin' dar? You mout ez well scuffle roun' an' fin' suthin fur me ter do wid de udder foot. Look yere, Mr. Starbuck, ef it's jest de same ter you, I blebe I'd like ter quit dis place."
"Why do you want to quit? Don't I give you plenty to do?"
"Oh, yas, suh; dat is on er pinch. But de truf is it 'pear ter me like things er gittin' sort er squawlly roun' yere. Dat man Peters he's threatenin' ter knock er nail kag in de head an' ring er dish rag an' I doan want ter git in no row. You Starbuck folks may not mind it, but I ain't uster bein' shot. He say he gwine be 'p'inted deputy marshal, an' w'en he sees me er grindin' de co'n he gwine put er lot o' holes th'u' me. I doan want ter look like no sifter."
Jasper arose, put down his lapboard, shut his knife and with a serious air said to the old darkey. "I'm here to protect, you, Kintchin."
"Yas, suh, but you mout do de most o' yo' pertectin' atter I'se dun dead."
"Wall, atter you're dead it won't make any difference."
"N—n—no, suh, dat's er fack. I hadn't thought o' dat. Funny how sich er 'po'tent p'int will come ter er man w'en he neber did think o' it befo', ain't it?"
"Don't you worry. You air safe enough."
"Safe ernuff? I doan know whut you calls safeernuff. You mout feel like you's safe ernuff ez long ez you ain't lost bof laigs an' er arm or two, but dat sort er safe doan suit me."
"I give you my word, an' you know whut that means."
"Yas, suh, I knows all 'bout dat, but er word kain't stop er bullet."
Over to the old negro he slowly walked and gently put his hand on his shoulder: "My word can, old man—mine has, an' I will protect you with my life."
"Yas, suh, an' I'll stay, but ef I gits killed I gwine hol' you 'sponsible. Mark whut I tells you." He turned to go and at that moment Peters entered the room. The negro quickly shambled to get out of his way, and halted in the door.
"Starbuck," said the visitor, "thought I'd drap over to see you ag'in. And whut's that nigger always hangin' round fur when I want to talk to you?"
"Lives here, don't he?"
"That ourt ter settle it but, I lay it won't," muttered the negro, standing in the door. Peters turned toward him with the remark:
"That vote they give you don't count for much."
"No, suh, not till da counts it."
"Shut up."
"Yas, suh, dat's whut I's er doin' jest ez fast ez I kin."
"Peters," said Starbuck, "I don't like to ask a man his business when he's in my house."
"I reckon business is the right word, Starbuck," and moving closer to Kintchin he demanded: "Somebody got a mortgage on yo' feet so you can't move 'em?"
"Wha'fo'?" replied the negro, ducking his head.
"You keep on a standin' thar when you see I want to talk to Starbuck."
"W'y, bless yo' life, you's so entertainin' I kain't hardly t'ar myse'f loose. Wheneber you talks it puts me in de min' o' er fiddle."
"But it don't make you move yo' feet, you scoundrel."
"No, suh, ef I moved my feet when de fiddle wuz gwine folks would think I wuz er dancin' an'da'd turn me outen de church, an' I doan want 'em ter do dat. Hurts er man's business w'en he's turned outen de church."
Peters addressed himself to Jasper. "Well, you have teached that nigger nearly enough impudence to break his neck."
"Didn't know I was sich a good teacher, Lije. Don't you want a few lessons? Go on, Kintchin." The negro slowly went away, looking back and shaking his head, and Starbuck added: "Peters, I'm afraid I'll have to furgit my raisin' an' ask you what you want."
"I want to give you the opportunity to have some sense."
"Well, now, Lije, it's mighty kind of you to be givin' out that sort of artickle. Puts me in mind of the old feller that give away his shirts when he didn't have none to spare."
"Good natchul talk, Starbuck—natchul as the squawk of a duck. But I didn't come here to swop the perlitenesses of the season."
"No?" said Starbuck.
"You know I have been out of the neighborhood an' ain't had a chance to talk business until lately."
"That's so."
"And you ought to know what that business is."
"Yes, I know."
"Even if a man is gittin' old, Starbuck, thar ain't no reason why he should be a fool."
"That's a fact, Lije."
"And the biggest fool in the world, Starbuck, is the man that won't keep out of trouble when he kin."
"That's true."
"Starbuck, ain't yo' eyes wide enough open to see that I kin ruin you?"
"Yes, Lije, with his eyes half shet a man kin see a rattlesnake."
"Then with both of 'em wide open he ought to see a panther."
"I'm a lookin' at you."
"That's all right, Starbuck. But we've passed the time fur beatin' about the bush."
"I ain't a beatin', Lije."
"Starbuck, do you want to be ruined?"
"Stop!"
"Do you want to see yo' wife with her head bowed down on the table?"
"Stop!"
"Do you want to hear yo' daughter cryin' down thar in the valley?"
"I tell you to stop!"
"Do you want to know that the little grave down yander—"
"Stop, Peters, stop!" the old man cried, and then held forth his hands. "You don't see nuthin' red on my hands, do you? Look, they are jest as nature made 'em. Peters, fur God's sake don't turn 'em red."
"That's good talk, Starbuck, an' it mout belong to the pulpit but not to business, an' I'm a business man."
"Yes, you look like it."
"And I'll act like it, too; I'll tell you that fur yo' own infermation. An' thar ain't a man in the country that likes to give out infermation better'n I do—when I see that it's goin' to be of use to somebody. But I don't like to waste my wisdom, Starbuck. Look, here, don't you know the right to ruin you has come down to me from my folks, like er old spinnin' wheel? It's a fact, and you know it. But I don't want to do it if I can help it. I know I would make yo' daughter a good husband, but frum what I kin gether she wouldn't wipe her feet on me."
"Oh, yes, Peters, she mout if she had been walkin' in the mud."
"Yes, ah, hah. So I've got another plan."
"Oh, I don't reckon you're slow, Lije, when it comes to gittin' up plans."
"That's true. An' I'm jest a little slow about askin' favors, but I want to borry a thousand dollars, an' I don't want no time sot when it must be paid back, nuther. I want that understood."
"Why, that's what they call blackmail, ain't it?"
"Oh, I don't care whut they call it, but I want you to git it fur me. That p'int is settled. You've got to git it, an' git it quick."
"Why, Peters, I'd have to sell my land."
"Better do that than to throw away yo' liberty. You know that it means ruin for you an' yo' wifean' a broken heart fur yo' girl. All I've got to do is to act, an' you go to the penitentiary."
Upon Starbuck's face there was an expression of keen suffering. Pleadingly he put up his hands, looking toward the door leading into the kitchen and exclaimed. "Hold on. Somebody mout hear you."
"Oh, got you to thinkin', have I?"
"Yes, an' a man thinks better when he's by hisse'f."
Peters moved off toward the door and halting, remarked: "Yes, may think better when he's by hisse'f, but not as fast. When he's got thinkin' to do that he don't want to do he mout shirk it if left by hisse'f. Well, I'll give you a leetle mo' time, but not much. My plan is that when you've got a bad piece of work on hand, git through with it as soon as possible. I'm goin' down the road a piece an' will drap in on my way back," and as he passed out he looked back and added: "Thinkin' ought to make a man wise."
The old man stood looking through the window, at Peters as he ambled along the road, and turning away he muttered, "Shot fo' an' stobbed three," his mind flying back to the story paper.
Mrs. Mayfield, followed by Jim, came in from the kitchen, remarking, "we have been helping your wife but she has expelled us."
"I don't reckon thar was very much help needed." He waited until she had sat down, and then coming slowly toward her he inquired: "Ma'm, air all the deputy marshals in the state under yo' brother, the Jedge?"
"All in this district, I should think, are under the jurisdiction of his court."
"I reckon the Jedge is putty hard on folks that makes what they call wild-cat liquor."
"Extremely so, Mr. Starbuck. He sends them all to the penitentiary."
"I don't reckon he knows that a man may make liquor and yit have some little jestice on his side."
"My brother can see no justice in a violation of the law."
The old man was silent for a few moments and then he asked: "Do he have the app'intment of the deputy marshals?"
"I don't know as to that. I suppose, however, that the Marshal appoints his own deputies. Do you want someone appointed?"
"Me? Oh, no," and walking off he added to himself: "It's someone I don't want app'inted. That's the question with me." Margaret came in and he inquired if dinner were nearly ready.
"As soon as the co'n pone's done," she answered, and he swore that he was as hungry as a bear in the spring of the year. The old negro mammy came to the door and with a peculiar softness which ever characterized his voice when speaking to her, he bade her come in. "Set down," he said, bringing a chair for her. "You look monst'us tired. Now, jest rock yo'se'f thar an' putty soon you'll git rested."
"Thank you, Mars Jasper. An' I hopes you's all well, bof in de flesh an' in de sight o' de Lawd."
"Ah, mammy," said the old man, "you never forgit the Lawd, do you?"
"How kin I, Mars Jasper, w'en I so close ter Him. An' Marster, dis is my birfday."
"Is that so? And how old air you to-day, mammy?"
"I doan hardly know, but I's eider eighty-fo' ur eighty-six."
"An' nobody's life could have been given mo' away in love to others."
"I hopes dat my soul is white, Mars Jasper."
"As white as a lamb, washed in the dew."
"Thank you, Mars Jasper, fur I ain't gwine be yere much longer, fur I's er gwine home. De road has been long an' I's almos' wore out, but I'll git home atter while, an' when I does, I gwine tell de Lawd erbout de folks down yere."
Tom and Lou came from the spring house, carrying a small jar, and the old man exclaimed: "Why, it must be heavy." His wife knew that he was charicaturing her and she stood contemptuous, with arms folded, as he sprang forward to assist the two "youngsters." "Let me help you," and pretending to stagger under a great weight, he took the jar and with great apparent difficulty put it on the table.
"Jasper," said his wife, "I wouldn't make light of it."
"Light of it! Why, I couldn't make light of anything so heavy."
"Father," said Lou, "the bees have swarmed and settled on the peach tree."
"That so? Why, I thought thar was honey in the air. Come on Jim an' help me hive 'em. Won't take but a minit." Jim began to roll up his sleeves. "Oh," protested the old man, "I don't want you to preach to 'em. Ma'm," he continued, addressing Mrs. Mayfield, "he always goes at 'em with his sleeves rolled up, and, I gad, he fetches 'em."
Jim strove to explain to Mrs. Mayfield, but Jasper pulled at him. "That's all right, Jim, she understands. Come on, or them bees might fly away. Come on, I tell you. Ma'm take yo' eye offen him so he kin come on. Thar, I thank you," he said, bowing, when Mrs. Mayfield looked in another direction. "Thankee, ma'm an' ef I had a eye as fetchin' as your'n I could haul wood with it. Come on, Jim." He drew the preacher out of the house,and Margaret said to Mrs. Mayfield: "Don't let Jasper fret you, ma'm."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Starbuck, to me he is an old time story book, illustrated."
"My father fret anybody?" cried Lou. "How could he?"
"Why don't you say I couldn't fret anybody," Tom broke in, and looking sweetly at him she innocently inquired, "Could you?"
At the corner of the fence Jasper and Jim halted. They had just seen Peters enter the house. "Howdy," said the ruffian, entering the room. "I 'lowed I mout find Starbuck here."
"It would be safer for you to meet him where other folks are," Lou spoke up and Peters bowed mockingly.
"Mars Peters," said Mammy, "please don't bother Mars Jasper, he's er gittin' old."
And toward the poor old creature the ruffian turned with a scowl. "Shut up, you old fool."
"Why, Mr. Peters," they all of them cried, and at that moment Jasper and Jim came into the room. "Peters," said the old man, "this woman nursedme. My mammy died an' left me to her, an' as a little baby she was the only mother I knowed. My grandaddy built this house, an' that door was opened by him an' never has been shut, an' anybody comin' along that road was always welcome to come in. But thar is one man that must never darken it ag'in." He took out his watch and looking at it, continued: "I'll give you jest one minit, Peters."
The ruffian looked at a gun standing in the corner; looked at Jasper holding the watch; looked at the women, who in disgust turned their faces from him; looked at the door, and clearing his throat, walked out.
"Sometimes, ma'm" said Jasper speaking to Mrs. Mayfield, "the laziest man ain't got no time to stay no longer."
"Well, I wouldn't make light of it," remarked Margaret.
"No lighter than I can help. I reckon we'd better eat a snack an' then Jim, you may preach to them bees."
Several days passed and Peters was seen no more about the Starbuck place, but the old man knew that the scoundrel had not surrendered his scheme, but merely was lying low, waiting for his appointment as deputy marshall. Such an office was not hard to get. The danger attending it often made material scarce, for higher among the hills where the rebellious spirit of man had never failed to gaze with defiant contempt into the eye of the law, the distiller's blood smeared the rock and the deputy, if not taken away by friends, was left to the buzzard. So, whether or not trouble was on the road to meet old Jasper, depended upon a piece of paper, to be written and stamped in the capital of the State. But something else soon arose to claim the sympathetic attention of the household.
One morning Lou came running into the house almost breathless, with the excited words that old mammy was dying in her cabin. They all of themhastened to her bedside, and when she saw the old man kneeling upon the floor, she put forth her mummied hand and left it rest upon his head.
"I's gwine tell de Lawd erbout de folks down yere," were her last words, and from the woods they brought wild flowers and among them she slept, black sentiment of a hallowed past—a past of slavery, but of love. More than treasured heirlooms, of rusty swords which, once bright, had flashed in gallant hands; more than tress of hair, tipped with gold and ribbon-bound; more than old love-letters, books or fading picture of serenest face—more than all else does the old black mother bind us to the sunny days of yore. Beneath a tree, where at evening when the sun was low often had she sat watching the cows as home they came from the cane-breaks in the bottoms, they dug her grave; and from all about, from fern-fringed coves and knobs where the scrub oak grew, the people came, old men and women to pay their respects to this bit of another age, going home—and the children, came wonderingly, curious, with pictures of witches in their fertile minds. The sermon was preached by an old negronearing ninety. At the head of the grave he stood and cast his whitish eyes about, but nothing was there for him to see, for during many years he had groped about in darkness. Once the property and playmate of a favored child, he had been taught to read, and as the years passed on, stubborn learning yielded to him, and along the hill-sides he walked with the old prophets, with their poetic words burning in his mind.
"Friends, close to me but somewhere off in the darkness," he said, "we have come here to put this poor old piece of human clay in the cradle that won't be rocked until the last day. In the years gone by, many a time have we seen her, at the break of day, coming home from a bedside where she had watched and nursed all night. When our spirits were low for want of hope, she has sung us back into faith. When our blood leaped to throw aside lowly ways and take up with the ways of sin, she told us that she was going home to tell the Lord. No letter in the great Book fastened itself on her poor mind, but in her soul the spirit of that Book always had a home. My friends, here was apoor old creature who never in all her long life had anything to hope for except a word of gratitude for a kindness done. Many a time I read the Bible to her, and though I made it the study of my long life, yet from what might seem the darkness of her mind, there would sometimes flash a new light and fall with bright explanation upon its pages." The old negro halted to wipe his brow and Jim whispered to Jasper: "Is that learning or ignorance inspired? I never heard many white men talk that way."
"I don't know what it is," Jasper replied. "But that old man, I have hearn tell, went through a great school along with his young marster."
"It should not be in sorrow that we place her here," the preacher continued. "With the simple minded and therefore the virtuous, she accepted the gospel as a reality and not as a theory, and a gleaner in the harvest field of promise, she takes to the Master her old hands full of the wheat of faith, and her soul will enter upon its glorious reward. Let us pray."
As they were returning from the grave a negrocame up to Jasper and said that he wished for a moment to speak to him. "Doan you reccernize me?" he inquired, and Starbuck replied that he did not.
"W'y, sah, I's de generman whut de white man had tied ter de tree."
"Oh, yes, and also the gentleman that fell in love with my old rooster."
"Yas, sah, de se'f same."
"And now what can I do for you—put another chicken in yo' way?"
"No, sah, dat ain't whut I want. I wuz er cuttin' some wood dis mawnin' ober at de Peters' place, an' I yere some talk dat don't soun' like er flute. 'Pear like dat white man has got some trouble in his head fur you."
"Yes, I know."
"An, frum whut I coul' gather he gwine gib it ter you; an' ef you wants me ter I'll he'p you tie him ter er tree an' w'ar him out."
"No, that won't do. But do you know whether or not he has got a app'intment from off yander at Nashville? Did you hear?"
"I doan think it quite got yere yit, but he keep oner lookin' down de road 'spectin' it to come erlaung at any minit. Ef you want me ter, suh, I'll keep er lookout while I's er workin' roun' de place, an' knock him in de head de minit it do come."
"No, you musn't do that. Is he expectin' some help?"
"He wuz er talkin' erbout some men, sah. You ain't got no cullud ladies ober at yo' house now, is you?"
"No, an' I don't want any mo' for none could take the place of old mammy."
"No, sah, I reckons not, but I wuz jest er thinkin' dat ef you had any dar I would drap ober a visitin'. I's allus sorter s'ciety struck atter I goes ter er funul. It's den dat I kin fetch 'em wid my talk. It's easy ter out-talk er lady atter er funul. I's had 'em take down er ole glove an' empty dar money in my han'."
"What's your name?"
"Da calls me Ham, suh."
"Well, Ham, I reckon thar's a good deal of the scoundrel about you."
"Ain't it funny suh, dat I's yered dat befo'?Yas, suh; but scounnul or not, I'll keep er sharp lookout on dat man Peters an' come an' tell you ef suthin' happen."
Lou was tearful and depressed over the death of the old woman, whom she had loved, who indeed was as a gentle grandmother to her, and going home from the burial had but little to say; and Tom, respecting what to him was a strange grief, walked along in silence. And for the most part Jim was silent, too, but Mrs. Mayfield was aroused by what she had seen and heard. "Every day this rugged world up here presents something new, Mr. Reverend. Instead of becoming more able to compare it with other places I have known, it is further and further removed as time passes. Of course I had read books and heard songs, but never before coming here did I believe that in real slavery had there existed poetry."
"They tell me, ma'm, that the greatest poetry has come out of the dark," he replied, walking with his eyes cast down.
"Then even as a Southerner you don't believe that slavery was right."
"No, ma'm, for slavery must dwarf the soul and the Book teaches that the Ethiopian had a soul to save."
"But some of the slaves must have been kindly treated."
"Yes, ma'm, but the true way to be kind to ignorance is to enlighten it."
"The old man who preached had known enlightenment and yet he holds no bitterness against the people who kept his race in the dark."
"Ma'm, as a general thing the negro is not revengeful. Sometimes he is a beast and he commits terrible crimes, but he is often like an animal—a dog. Kindness makes him forget an injury. With his strong animal nature his affection is warm, and sometimes when he forgets revenge he has also forgotten gratitude."
He fell into silence and they walked slowly along, now far behind the others. She strove to lead him back into a discussion, but he would not talk, and when they reached the house, she sat down alone, and he stood out at the fence, looking up and down the road. A man came along and asked him howmuch longer he expected to remain in the neighborhood, and glancing round at the house, at the woman who sat near the door, he replied: "Don't think I'm going to stay much longer. Have you had any news from over my way?"
"None except they are anxious for you to come on back."
"Well, you may tell them that they may expect me soon."
That night the household went early to bed, with the exception of Old Jasper who, with a candle, sat at his table, not reading the story paper, but attempting to write.
The next morning Lou was churning out in the yard and near her Mrs. Mayfield sat, sewing. The scene was inspiring. Off to the right flowed the blue creek, and everywhere were the hills, softly purple in the distance.
"Things look so lonesome since poor mammy died," said the girl.
"But her passing away was beautiful," the city woman made reply, sewing, thinking, glancing up with a sigh and then permitting her gaze to wander off among the hills. "You were very fond of her, weren't you?"
"Yes. Her black face was one of the first I ever saw. She nursed father and me, too; and she was like a mother. I—I wish you would stay here a long time, Mrs. Mayfield."
"I don't like to think of returning to what people almost senselessly call the world. This is the world as God made it. And amid these heart-throbs of genuine nature I am beginning to live anew."
"But you'd get tired of it if you had to milk a cow that can pop her tail like a whip," and after churning vigorously for a time, she inquired: "Did you have trouble away off yonder where so many folks live?"
"Yes, my married life ended in misery."
Lou ceased to churn and for a time stood musing. "Did you' husband tell you a lie?"
"He lived a lie, my dear."
"Lived a lie? I don't understand how anybody can do that. Didn't he love you?"
"Once, perhaps, but the love of some men is as variable as the wind, blowing in many directions."
"But how could he tell you he loved you if he didn't?"
"My dear, men tell women many things that aren't true."
"I don't like to know that." She ceased churning again and thoughtfully leaned upon the dasher. Suddenly she looked up and then came the question: "And did they put yo' husband in jail?"
"Oh, no."
"What did they do with him?"
"His friends shrugged their shoulders, laughed and—forgave him."
"And didn't yo' friends try to kill him?"
"Oh, certainly not."
"What did they do?"
"Well, they shrugged—and didn't forgive me."
"But they had nothing to forgive," she replied, with a frown.
"In the world, my dear, that makes no difference." She was silent for a time and the girl stood motionless, looking at her. "Sometimes I have thought," she continued, "that it was not altogether his fault. With the error of tenderness and confidence I believed that my life was his, his mine; I believed that his every thought belonged to me—and perhaps I asked him too many questions, and when a woman begins to do that, she is unconsciously setting a trap for her husband."
For a moment the girl looked at her. "I don't know what you mean. But when you came here with all yo' putty dresses, I thought you must be happy."
"Little girl, there are many well-dressed troubles,and misery may gleam with diamonds. But we won't talk about it. I have battled it out and now I am surprised—and perhaps just a little disappointed," she added with a laugh, "to find that I'm not as unhappy as I was. Sometimes there is a consolation in feeling that we are utterly wretched."
"Is there?" She meditated for a time, puzzled, and then said: "I don't believe it. You might just as well say that we have better health when we're sick."
Mrs. Mayfield looked away, and the girl stricken with remorse, hastened to her and said: "There, I have been too brash, haven't I? You must forgive me for I didn't intend to be brash."
"Brash, my dear? What do you mean by that?"
She laughed. "Why, I thought everybody know'd what brash meant. Well, it's er—too quick to say somethin' you oughtn't to say."
"Well, then, I don't think you were 'brash.'"
"Thank you." She resumed her work, and after a time left off to inquire: "May I ask you somethin'?"
"Certainly—anything."
"Well, where you came from how long does it take anybody to—to fall—in love?"
Mrs. Mayfield blushed. "No longer than it does here, my dear. Sometimes here and everywhere love comes like death, in the twinkling of an eye. But why do you ask?"
Upon her bosom the girl pressed her hands. "Because lately there is somethin' here that tastes bitter an' sweet at the same time. You have told me somethin' about yo'se'f an' now I will tell you somethin'. I—I love Tom."
The woman arose. "Oh, but you mustn't tell it—you mustn't let him know it. He is wayward and I am afraid that he has innocently deceived you. He is hardly responsible—he says many things he doesn't mean. He—"
"And is he a liar, too?" the girl exclaimed, her eyes ablaze with anger.
"Oh, no, not that. But has he told you?"
She stood cold and defiant. "Not with words that I didn't understand, but sometimes when he looks into my eyes I feel that he is tellin' me with somethin' I do understand, and now—now I mustshut my eyes." And catching up the churn she ran into the house, Mrs. Mayfield calling after her.
"Come back, Lou, I didn't mean that. Please come back and let me explain." She hastened toward the door and Lou came running out. "Lou, I didn't mean—" But she would not stay to hear. She ran away and Mrs. Mayfield was begging her to return when Tom came hurriedly out of the house. The girl had seen him and with fluttering heart she was seeking the loneliness of the woods.
Mrs. Mayfield seized Tom by the hand. "Just a moment, Tom. Wait, sir; just a moment." He strove to pull away, but she held him back.
"Yes, as soon as I catch the fawn. Let me go, please."
"Why, have things come to such a pass as this? Wait just a moment, I tell you."
"Well, what is it?"
"Why won't you be more considerate? Why do you act this way? What are you trying to do? You must remember that Mr. Starbuck is our host, and that his daughter, while one of the most lovable of little girls—"
"Ah, you are leaving off your romance and are coming down to level-headedness. Yes, she is lovable and as sweet as a wild strawberry, and I have fought against this thing until I am tired of it. But what are you trying to get at?"
"She is not of your world, Tom."
"Oh, world be blowed. I've got no world—never had one."
"Well, then, your set, your—"
"Damn my set, if I've got one. I wouldn't give her for all the sets in the world. You can see that—you must have seen it all along."
"Then you are in earnest?" she asked, putting her arm about him.
"In earnest? You might just as well ask a dying man if he means it."
"That's all I want to know, my boy—I want to know that you are true."
"You are all right, auntie," he said, kissing her.
"It is simply a question of love, Tom. And that should come before everything. Go and find her."
"Yes, if I have to track her with the hounds," he replied, hastening away; and she stood looking afterhim, with a new light in her eye. And while she was standing there, Jim came out of the house.
"Ma'm," he said, and she turned with a start; and toward her he came with a gentle boldness, and she looked at him in surprise. "Ma'm, I have come to tell you good-bye."
Her breath came quick, and then with a smile she quieted herself as one resigned to evil news. "Why, you aren't going, are you?"
Standing a few paces from her he hung low his head. "Yes, I thought I'd better cut my stay a little short. My people need me."
As someone far away she saw him, though he was nearer now. "But don't we—don't your uncle need you?"
He was not too big, not awkward now—his hands were not in his way, and thinking not upon how to stand, stood gracefully; and the breeze that came down the creek brought cool perfume from the nestling coves where all the day and the night the wild rose nodded.
"No, ma'm; my work lies away over among the mountains." She turned to walk away from him,but looking up, was closer. "I beg yo' pardon, ma'm, but haven't you got a picture of yo'se'f you would give me?"
"A picture of me? What do you want with it, Mr. Reverend?"
"My cabin is under the hill, and in the winter time it is dark there and I would like to have—have a never-failing lamp to lighten it."
"Oh," and her hands were pressed to her bosom, "You can't mean that."
"Ma'm, I don't joke about sacred things."
"Mr. Reverend—"
"If you would call me Jim one time—just once, I should have something to dream about."
She gestured and he caught her hand. "Please don't," she pleaded, slowly taking her hand away. "Please don't talk that way. You know I told you that you had revived my faith in man, after it had gasped and died. But you spoke a resurrecting word and—"
"But would my dreaming again and again that I had heard you call me Jim—would that kill it again? Honey,—I—I beg your pardon. I am used to talking to children, and I call them by pet names. I beg your pardon."
She looked far away, at the blue water rippling down the hills. "If in your sight I could be as a little child."
"Ma'm, I lead a child, but you could lead me."
"To walk with you, Mr. Reverend, would be along the upward path, toward the sunrise."
"Ma'm, you make me think of Christian when he stood with clasped hands, looking up at the golden city where they sang, 'holy, holy.'"
"How could I make you think of that, Mr. Reverend?"
"Walking with me toward the sunrise. Ah, but the wild briar would tear your dress."
"But haven't the briars torn your flesh?"
He pointed upward. "Ah, and a wound in His service is balm to the soul."
"Mr. Reverend, a true woman would take most of the wounds if—"
"If she were—loved?"
"Yes," she said, and her face was pale.
Before her he drooped, sinking to the earth, andon his knees he gently took her hand. "Toward woman my heart has been dumb, but you have given it a tongue. I love you. You dazzled me and I was afraid to speak—I was afraid that I might be worshipping an idol."
"Oh, not an idol. Oh, not that. No poor heart could be so humble as mine, Mr. Reverend. But strong in its love for you, it accepts your love as a benediction. Oh, if you only knew what I have suffered—"
"But I must not know and you must forget. With me you must begin your life over again."
Upon her hand he pressed a kiss, and no idle eye was there in mockery to gaze upon them and no ear save his own heard her when she said: "And together we will do His work."
"In the vineyard of usefulness. Ma'm, we will go among the stricken and nurse them."
Gentle mischief sometimes sweetens quiet joy. "Then, you haven't come to tell me good-bye," she said, and the light from her eye fell upon his face, leaving there a smile. "Well no, not now," he replied, arising. "But I had spoken for passage inthe stage coach and I must go now and tell them not to save the place for me. And when I come back we will go to the mountain-top and view from afar the field of our life's work."
"May I go with you?"
Now they were slowly walking toward the gap in the yard fence which Old Jasper called the gate.
"The way is short, but it lies over the creek and through the brambles," he said, and after a pause, looking fondly into her eyes he added, out of his great store-house of care and sympathy: "The thorns would thirst for your blood."
"They have drunk yours and your thorns shall be mine."
They stood at the gap in the fence. "Yes," he said, "when I have more than I can take care of. The fact is—what shall I call you?"
"Mary," she answered.
"Mary," he repeated. "It is sweet with the memory of many a home and hallowed by the Christian's hope. And, Mary, when I come back I will bring a preacher and a paper from the law. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand, and the understanding is beautiful and precious." She stood so near and he was so lost—so near that her lips were close to his and he kissed her and started as if the earth had shaken beneath his feet.
"And—and now, Mary, I won't have to beg your pardon when I call you by pet names."
"No, Jim."
"And we will surprise them, Mary."
"Yes, Jim."
He kissed her again and hastened down the road. She looked after him until his head sank down behind a hill, and then for a long time she stood there, leaning upon the fence, and suddenly, with her hands clasped, she cried: "Oh, miracles were wrought in the wilderness."