“War ye a-axin’ jes’ now, Teck, who fetched the news hyar? I warn’t
payin’ much ’tention.”
Jepson did not take his eyes from the flames. “Naw, I didn’t ax,” he said.
Bowles subsided into silence, and his wife turned and cast a contemptuous
glance upon him, which he comprehended as a rebuke that he should
interfere.
The fire burned the freer and the clearer for the draught from the open
door; the circle sat well back from the hearth in the alternate red
flare and white fluctuations; the dark night looked in through the black
aperture of window and door; the awful solitude of the unpeopled mountain
was close without. Sometimes a dallying white presence was visible, and
one might know that a mist was skulking close at hand, clearing away
again to show the glimmer of a lonely star through a dark pine bough.
A tree-toad trilled; the woods sighed, and lapsed again to soundless
solitude.
Mrs. Bowles, too, chafed at the silence. Once or twice she visibly
restrained herself. Then returning to her first impulse, she observed,
“Teck don’t want ter know, Ben. Them ez he don’t like he jes’ won’t see
nor hear, an’ it does him mighty nigh ez well ez ef they war dead. He
knows somehow ez ’twar Jake Baintree ez hev been hyar this evenin’”—
Jepson lifted his head. “Jake Baintree!” he ejaculated, in evident
surprise.
Mrs. Bowles rejoiced in her opportunity. “Yes, sir, ’twar Jake Baintree.”
Her dark bead-like eyes flashed. She smiled flexibly; her white teeth
glittered.
“What call hed he ter kem hyar?” Jepson demanded, puzzled.
“What call hedn’t he?” Mrs. Bowles retorted. “He be a free man! He
travels the mountings whar his will leads him,—same ez a fox or a deer.
He be ekal ter them dumb sinners, ennywise, I reckon, though he ain’t
’lowed ter git baptized.”
She relapsed into silence, with an obvious satisfaction to have shot this
arrow. She expected him to inquire further. But he only rose, looked on
the rude shelf, that served as mantel-piece, for his pipe, filled it,
scooped up a coal from the edge of the fire, and smoked thoughtfully,
with no show of desire to hear more; and this stimulated infinitely
Mrs. Bowles’s intention to continue the detail of the visit. She leaned
forward, her elbows on her knees, gazed smilingly into the fire,
apparently meditating on these things, and once she broke out “Waal,
waal!” as if in reminiscent wonder and interest.
Her husband, always alert to take an acceptable part, looked first
at her, with her patent bid to be interrogated, and then at Jepson’s
impassive and lofty face, with its proud indifference. He reflected that
Jake Baintree was in one sense his half-brother’s enemy, and in another
the object of his persecution, and he said nothing.
Mrs. Bowles flushed with a dull red glow, but still persistently smiled
and gazed into the fire; then shaking her head slowly and gently, she
presently broke forth again:—
“Waal, waal, I never hearn the beat o’ Jake’s talk! He ’peared plumb
rej’iced over the happenings in the Cove. An’ I ’lowed ter him—I said,
‘I’ll thanky ter remember it be my cousin—yes, sir, own blood relation—ez
Teck, Jepson hev murdered, so don’t git ter glorifyin’ over it hyar.’
An’ he say, ‘I can’t holp it. Mis’ Bowles. I’m sorry fur Eli an’ his
darters, but ’tain’t mine ter question the Lord’s devices, nor what He
’lows that a day shell bring forth. The Lord suffered it,’ he says, ‘so
Eli mus’ submit, an’ his kinfolks too. But,’ he says, ‘the Lord hain’t
done nuthin’ so much ter my taste fur the las’ ten year! We-uns’ll see
how the mate o’ Daniel will look in a cage hisself,’ Jake say; ‘no other
lion nor other wild cattle thar, but he kin cavort around an’ rage fur
twenty. We-uns will see how the friend o’ Moses, the Lawgiver, will stand
agin them lawgivers down ter the criminal court. We-uns will git a chance
ter rest our ears ’bout them folks in the Bible fur one while, sure, fur
the livin’ will gin Teck all he kin tend ter, ’thout studyin’ on them
ez be dead an’ gone so long they oughter be furgot, ef they ain’t.’ An’
I ax Jake, I jes’ riz up an’ axed him, ef he warn’t ’shamed ter talk
that-a-way, whenst he purtended ter hev got religion. An’ he ’lowed he
hed got through with wantin’ religion. Whenst the pa’son declared he
wouldn’t baptize him, it jes’ kem on him like a flood o’ light ez he hed
ruther go ter hell ’n ter heaven along o’ sech Christians ez pa’son an’
Teck. An’ sence that minit his soul hed troubled him no mo’.”
Jepson slowly blew the smoke from between his lips; the hand that held
the corn-cob pipe did not tremble. There was no suggestion of anger
in his dark blue eyes, the color of the iris distinct as he gazed
meditatively into the fire. The flicker of the flames fluctuated upon
his regular, definite features, and he showed no consciousness of his
surroundings save that he kept his former attitude rigidly, in order that
Bob, leaning forward with the excited eye of achievement and the quick
breath of effort, might triumphantly accomplish the feat of unbuckling
and taking off the large spur. The child’s posture incommoded the
slumbers of Aminty’s yellow cat that lay in his lap, and she held her
green eyes half open that she might guard against the danger of being
too much compressed as he bent over. More than once she put up her paw
against the breast of his nightgown, with an admonitory claw extended;
but he only peremptorily caught it and put it down, and went on with his
enterprise as before.
Mrs. Bowles seemed disposed to despair and desist, as she gazed
speculatively at the impassive Jepson. Her husband stirred uneasily, and
then remarked non-committally, “_Some_ say Jake Baintree air a bad aig.”
His wife did not often condescend to a dialogue with him alone. But
this was the only prospect of covering her retreat with dignity, as she
relinquished her attack on Jepson. She turned her face with a commingling
animation and benignity toward her husband, and rejoined in a tone of
interest, “Yes, folks say so; but what s’prised me war the cur’ous way
he behaved hyar this evenin’. I wisht ye or Teck, one, hed been hyar,
jes’ ter see how he ’peared. He sot thar in that cheer,—’twar gittin’
on toward dark,—an’ his face war sharp an’ clear, somehows, an’ white,
an’ his hair so slick an’ shinin’, an’ his looks so keen, like he war
studyin’ ’bout a heap he never would tell in this worl’. An’ he say, ‘I
ain’t got no mo’ use fur religion, Mis’ Bowles. I hev got no use fur
rivers, ’ceptin’ ter go swimmin’ in ’em.’ An’ I say, ‘Hev ye traded off
yer soul, ez ye don’t ’pear ter ’low ye hev got none ter save?’ An’ he
say, ‘Ye look out fur me at the Jedgmint Day, Mis’ Bowles, an’ ye’ll
’low I stan’ toler’ble high amongst the n’angels.’ He say, ‘I hev got
suthin’ else ter look arter now. Folks in the mountings dunno ez much ez
they think they do, Mis’ Bowles. I fund that out whilst I war in jail in
Glaston an’ larnin’ so much o’ town ways.’ An’ I say, ‘It’s good ye air
pleased with yer smartness, Jake, fur ye air the fust one I ever hearn
accuse ye o’ sech.’ An’ I jes’ up-ed an’ set about gittin’ supper, an’
lef him thar ter brag by hisself. An’ whenst I looked at him, arter a
minit, he hed tuk a paper out’n his pocket an’ war a-purtendin’ ter read.
His eyes war jes’ set sorter cross-eyed onter it, an’ his lips a-movin’
like he war a-talkin’ ter hisself, an’ he looked so plumb foolish ez I
jes’ drapped the bowl what I war stirrin’ batter in, an’ hollered an’
laffed. An’ he say, ‘Ye don’t b’lieve I kin read, Mis’ Bowles; jes’
listen, an’ I’ll read ye ’bout a man what got tired o’ livin’ in the
world, an’ got onter a raft on the ruver.’ An’ sure enough Jake did.”
Jepson suddenly lifted his head. “What did the man do?” His eyes were
alert with the interest of the incomplete suggestion, the promise of a
narrative; he held his pipe in his hand; the feeblest tissue of smoke
stole upward from it. He had forgotten her antagonism.
She broke into a discordant laugh. “Laws-a-massy, ye reckon I kin
remember all that thar! Naw, sir. I didn’t mo’n half listen, bein’ all
tuk up ter see Jake readin’ like a preacher! An’ Jake say, ‘I reckon ye
won’t see Teck no mo’, Mis’ Bowles, bein’ as they mus’ hev ’rested him
by this time. Else I wouldn’t hev kem inter this house, it bein’ sorter
his’n, ez he lives hyar an’ hev put his stock with yourn. An’ I’ll say ye
air mighty well rid o’ him, in my idee.’ Arter that he went.”
She had unburdened her mind. She had spent her quiver,—not a barbed
shaft remained. She was glancing about the room, meditating upon
certain arrangements to be providently made over night for the early
breakfast; now and again her gaze rested on Bob, still serenely awake
in his nightgown, and holding up before eyes that squinted in the eager
intensity of their interest the spur which he had taken from the boot.
She was altogether unprepared for aught of moment when Jepson said
slowly, “Ye hed better lay off ter milk the cow-critters sooner ’n
common, ter-morrer, M’ria, kase I be goin’ ter drive my stock off from
hyar by daylight. I hev hed in an’ about enough o’ this place.”
Her small eyes dilated; she changed color; her jaw dropped. Her
lethargic husband was suddenly tense and alert, looking at Jepson with a
dismayed deprecation, aghast at the prospect of this collapse of their
partnership. Mild as he was and weak, he was man enough in this emergency
to upbraid his wife.
“Thar now, M’ria!” he said, temperately, however.
It was the first rebuke he had ever given her, and he quailed as the
words passed his lips. But she took no heed of them; her sense of loss
was so poignant as to dull all resentment. “Why, Teck!” she exclaimed,
her voice cordial with persuasive intonations, “ye goin’ ter leave
us—jes’ kase I tole ye what that thar black-hearted Jake Baintree say
’bout our bein’ well rid o’ ye? I didn’t go ter hurt yer feelin’s. Ye
ain’t goin’ ter leave us fur sech ez that!” She smiled at him, her eyes
and her teeth glittering in the glow of the fire.
“’Tain’t fur nuthin’ Jake Baintree say,” he disclaimed, still placidly
gazing at the blaze, with none of the excitement and instability of an
unconsidered resolution in his face. “I jes’ be a-goin’ fur good.” He
seemed unpliable enough to daunt persuasion or appeal.
“Laws-a-massy, Teck!” Ben Bowles exclaimed, lantern-jawed, and pallid,
and disconsolate. The inflections of his voice had such dreary
suggestions that Jepson glanced at him, as he sat pulling at his
hay-colored beard, the deeply indented grooves and wrinkles in his face
growing more definite and multiplying, his weak blue eyes appealing and
forlorn. He might have seemed in terror of being left at the mercy of
his wife, who sat beside him, the picture of discomfiture, and swift
repentance, and anxious forecast.
The survey evidently suggested to Jepson some modification of his plans.
“I’ll leave old Spot an’ her calf, bein’ ez yer cow air dry, so ez the
chill’n kin hev buttermilk an’ M’ria kin churn; an’,” after a moment’s
pause, “I’ll leave one o’ my horses, so ye kin git along better puttin’
in craps nex’ spring. Ye kin keep ’em ez long ez ye’ll feed ’em.”
“Why, Teck!” cried Mrs. Bowles, in a pained yet cordially insistent
tone; she forgot what she was about to say, for there surged in upon
her the recollection of his “stock,” for which they had besought him to
abide with them, and which, benefited infinitely the housekeeping and
the farming in a thousand ways. He possessed only a few head of the
commonest variety, but they seemed much when once within her grasp, and
it had been as if she owned them. “Why, Teck!” she exclaimed once again,
at a loss how to continue.
“Ye needn’t say nare word,” he declared. “I’m goin’ by daybreak.”
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, put it in his pocket, rose, and
strode out on the porch. He had not contemplated one of his long mountain
jaunts,—only a turn or two in the solemn stillness of the night, to be
alone with his thoughts, to be free from the presence of his fellows.
This was contrary to his usual custom, and he knew that she thought
him far away when he saw her through the open door rise up by the
hearth-stone, and heard her say impressively to the forlorn, stooping,
and disquieted Ben Bowles,—
“Ye mark my words,”—she lifted her arm and shook her forefinger at
him,—“Eli Strobe ain’t dead mebbe, but he will be soon, an’ Teck air
aimin’ aforehand ter git out’n the kentry with all he hev got; he’ll flee
the State, an’ that ter-morrer mornin’.”
Bowles listened with plaintive, hopeless, upturned face. The small Bob
had become rigid with propriety of demeanor the instant she lifted
her arm, and sat with his bright hazel eyes fixed expectantly and
deprecatingly upon her. The man outside in the darkness watched the group
for a moment, and then turned away into the black night.