It was one of those moments charged with the realization of a
weighty emergency, when the mind shrinks from the responsibility of
discriminating in the crisis, and would fain leave the event to ensue
unchecked. Marcella sat as still as if she were merely a figure painted
on the pale yellow background of the sere mass of clambering vines
that clung to the porch on which the salient coloring of her dark blue
dress, the red kerchief about her throat, her brown floating hair, her
widely open brown eyes, the fresh flesh tints of her face and hands,
stood out with an effect delicate, yet intense. The little rough gray
spinning-wheel at her knee was distinctly marked, too, for its humble
neutrality of tone was aided by contrast, as well as the ashen brownish
hue of the old hound’s head. Perhaps it was the expression of her face,
instinct with expectation, that arrested her father’s fluctuating
attention. He looked at her, bewildered for a moment; then he turned
slowly in his chair, and with his deliberate sidelong glance sought to
follow the direction of her eyes.
He saw the approaching figure; there could be no doubt of that. The
cornstalks, all bleached and partially stripped of the wealth of blades
that the summer’s suns had drawn out, like a conjurer’s ribbon flaunting
from nothingness, to wave in the summer’s winds,—the residue, tattered
and mildewed, glittering here and there with the white rime,—came hardly
to Jepson’s breast. The broad shoulders of his blue jeans coat showed
above the growth; his wide white hat, set far back from his brow,
disclosed his features, with their distinctive chiseling. The peculiar
pose of his head and his erect carriage were so characteristic that he
could hardly be mistaken even at a distance. His eyes were fixed upon
the group, and he must have noted Eli Strobe holding to the arms of
his chair, his bandaged head bent forward, gazing open-mouthed, with
quivering jaw and pallid, stricken face. He certainly saw Marcella, and
his step slackened as he watched her suddenly rise and stand behind her
father, placing one finger on her lip. She lifted the other hand at
arm’s-length, and with a frowning, imperative face she waved him back. He
stood motionless for a moment, hesitating and at a loss. Then he walked
on slowly, still toward the house. There was a dip in the ground just in
front of him,—a marshy spot,—and there the corn had grown tall and rank;
so tall that the sere and half-stripped stalks, left to stand stark and
dead in the field till the spring burnings and plowings-under should
grant them sepulchre, reached higher than Teck Jepson’s head. Eli Strobe,
tremulously intent, watched the great white hat disappear behind these
relics of the lush crop; he waited motionless, his eyes fixed upon the
lower stalks where it should presently emerge. Time went by,—one minute,
three, five,—and still Jepson did not reappear. Andy Longwood divined
that he had turned aside upon Marcella’s signal, and had taken his way
along the furrows between the corn, out of sight, and so to the verge
of the field. But this was not the impression made upon the distraught
brain of the constable, as, his patience wearying at last and his muscles
failing, he sank back into his chair. He looked craftily at the two
young people, to judge what effect the apparition—for thus he deemed
it—had had upon them; if indeed it had appeared save to his own eyes. In
their uncertainty, dealing with the emergency at hap-hazard and as best
they might, they unwittingly fostered his delusion. Marcella was calmly
spinning once more, and Andy Longwood, taking his cue at last, idly
whittled a stick.
For some time no word was spoken. Strobe, gasping for breath, ever and
again looked fearfully over his shoulder to where the languid autumnal
sunshine lay still and vacant upon the expanse of the pallid corn.
Pilgrims were abroad in the blue sky, and now and then a wild weird
cry floated down from migratory birds, sometimes unseen, and sometimes
visible only in the tiny converging lines bespeaking the files of the
wild geese, all a-journeying. When wings not afar off, with a silken
rustle and gleams of living light, came cleaving the sunshine and
dimpling the waters of the shallows of the river, he showed a momentary
interest to see the wild ducks settle and rise again, as the crack of
a gun told that a death-charged missile had pierced their ranks. He
glanced mechanically after their flight as with clamorous cries they
took to wing. And then he did not forget to gaze once more upon the
curtaining corn where that significant figure had disappeared. A gray
squirrel scudded along the rail fence, then across the door-yard, with
a large hickory-nut in his mouth, and vanished up the bole of the
chestnut-tree, making small account of the old hound, who simply growled
in an undertone, his eyes bright and liquid and his ears pricked up. The
wounded man’s heavy-lidded eyes followed with a twinkle the whisking
squirrel. “Ye ain’t a-goin’ hongry this winter, air ye, bubby? I’ll be
bound ye be a reg’lar high liver, ef the truth war knowed.”
Marcella took note of the easy, natural tone. She drew a long sigh of
relief. The tense, feverish spark had died out of her eyes; they were
pensively bright, as she fixed them smilingly upon her father. She
believed that her quick resource had taken effect. He had seen Teck
Jepson, certainly, but she thought that at the distance he could not
have recognized him, and that she had averted the calamity which the
sudden entrance upon the scene of the man whom he supposed dead would
surely have precipitated. He might have been shocked into a relapse of
his ravings and his violent mania, from which perhaps he would never have
emerged again.
“An’ the doctor say, ‘Keep him quiet,’” she muttered.
The sunshine, and the air, and the wonderful balsamic freshness and
buoyancy that seemed to pervade it, all had a tonic effect on Eli Strobe.
His color became more natural, his eye was calmer, the blood in his veins
seemed charged with his own bold identity. He began to feel his courage.
“I ain’t afeard o’ nuthin’,” he remarked triumphantly, suddenly pursuing
aloud the tenor of his thoughts. His daughter stopped and stared,
crestfallen, since he seemed again incoherent. “I never war afeard o’ no
livin’ man, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ ter set out at my time o’ life ter git
skeered at harnts. I war a-tellin’ ye jes’ now ’bout mebbe Teck Jepson’s
harnt mought set out ter walk. Ef he tuk ter foolin’ round me, I’d jes’
ax him, ‘What kin ye do? What kin ye do?’” He put both hands on his knees
and wagged his head from side to side, casting up that characteristic
sidelong glance, as if thus defying and confronting the supposed spectre.
“‘Ye couldn’t do nuthin’ ter me whilst live an’ hearty. An’ I ain’t
a-goin’ ter be afeard o’ ye now ye air dead. Ef ye kem a-tromplin’
round hyar, I’ll arrest ye,—I’ll sarve papers on ye. I’m constable o’
Brumsaidge yit!’”
Once more he turned abruptly, and looked out over the emptiness of the
cornfield. Then he leaned back in his chair, and this idea of serving
papers on the “harnt” came over him anew, and seemed to amuse him
mightily. Now and again he muttered, “I’ll sarve papers on ye,” and
chuckled slyly to himself. “I’ll sarve papers on ye, till ye’ll be glad
ter stay in yer grave, writ proof.”
“This hyar Jepson,”—he spoke aloud, leaning forward with his elbows
on his knees, and assuming that sly, confidential air characteristic
of the rustic gossip, as he looked from one to the other of the young
people,—“he tried powerful hard ter make up ter me in his last days,
though I know he never used ter like me much, kase I war cousin ter
M’ria White, ez married Ben Bowles, an’ put her up ter gittin’ a powerful
good trade out’n Teck whenst he went ter live with them,—an’ ginerally
kase I war kin ter M’ria. An’ I’ll ’low myse’f M’ria air a pritty stiff
one ter stan’. Some folks useter think mebbe I mought marry M’ria
myse’f, me bein’ a widower; but I say, ‘Naw, sir! I ain’t a-goin’ ter
hev my pleasure at the jedgmint day plumb _de_stroyed by hevin’ ter go
ter heaven with two wimmen a-clawin’ an’ tearin’ each other’s hair an’
golden harps ’bout which one owned me! Thanky! One wife’s enough. Mought
be said ter be a plenty.’” He laughed with his heavy bass rumble. “But I
want ter tell ye ’bout Teck,” he went on, lapsing into his tone of urgent
mystery. “Oh, I tell ye, in his las’ days he made up ter me,—Teck could
be ez smooth an’ slick ez a bullet when he wanted ter; an’ what fur, do
ye reckon? Why, fur Marcelly. He war bound ter find favior in her eyes,
so, knowin’ she set a heap o’ store by her dad’s opinion, he ondertook
ter git mighty friendly with _Me_!”
He was addressing himself now to Andy Longwood, whose expression had
changed from pity and embarrassed anxiety to keen and alert interest.
The young fellow’s face was flushed; he had drawn himself into a tense
listening position as he sat on the step; as he turned his head eagerly
upward, his light, curling hair fell down longer still upon his broad
shoulders beneath the wide brim of his hat, set far back. He had the
greater interest in what was to come because he began to realize that
Eli Strobe was perfectly sane except in regard to the circumstances
surrounding the disaster,—his delusion concerning Teck Jepson’s death
and the manner of it. He simply was the victim of what is known as a
“fixed idea.” On other topics his mind seemed even more alert and lucid
than formerly, possibly because of that freshened interest in life
characteristic of the invalid returning to the world after an interval
of seclusion. He was more talkative than was his wont, and in relaxing
his reserve he had lost that very glutinous quality, his policy, which
usually serves to hold together what men really think, and prevent it
from melting into speech, which is often the reverse of what men think.
“An’ I didn’t know what in the name o’ Aberham ter do!” continued
Eli Strobe, with uncharacteristic communicativeness. “Me runnin’ fur
election, an’ this hyar man a-courtin’ round Marcelly. An’ he hed hearn
mam accidentally ’low ez Marcelly despised him, so I hed ter be powerful
keerful, kase I didn’t want him ter vote agin me fur constable. That war
the main pint. Young folks kin git married or stay single, whichever
seems the foolishest ter ’em; that’s what they always do,—the foolishest.
But ye can’t git ’lected ter office by jes’ wantin’ ter. Ef ye ain’t
’lected constable, _ye can’t be constable_. But ef ye can’t git one
gal, ye air mighty apt ter git another; they ain’t all o’ one mind. An’
I didn’t want the young folks’s foolishness ’bout fallin’ in love ter
oust me out’n my office. Kase Teck Jepson air mighty robustious, an’ ef
he hed tuk a nation ter work agin me in the election he’d hev done it
with a will. So when he’d say suthin’ ’bout Marcelly, I’d say, ‘Thar’s
plenty o’ time fur me ter choose a son-in-law, Teck, an’ I mus’ say
candidates fur that office abound in this kentry.’” He stopped to laugh,
then went on gravely: “‘The outlook fur sons-in-law is promisin’. I ain’t
liable ter be destitute; but I be goin’ ter take my time ’bout gittin’ a
son-in-law.’ So Teck jes’ didn’t know whether I favored him or no, but
warn’t made mad; though I knowed all the time ez Marcelly war a-goin’ ter
marry Clem Sanders,—ain’t ye, Marcelly?”
Andy Longwood caught his breath, as he looked up at her. There was a
touch of coquetry in the glance of her eye and her mounting color, as she
nodded a careless acquiescence. She would not contradict the invalid, and
perchance she relished the tumult of indignation that flared, upon her
gesture of affirmation, in Andy Longwood’s face; for nothing concerning
her old playfellow seemed a serious matter to her. The next moment she
was smiling down at him, ready to signal a negative to him, but he had
turned his head resolutely away.
“Sometimes,” pursued the politician, “I’d say ter Teck, whenst he talked
’bout Marcelly, I’d say, ‘I’m obligated ter hev a mighty smart man fur
my son-in-law, kase I hev got a darter ez hevn’t got her ekal fur looks
an’ goodness outside o’ the courts o’ heaven. Kin ye read?’ An’ he’d say,
mighty oneasy, ‘Naw; what do I want ter read fur?’ An’ then I’d say, ‘Kin
ye even spell? Clem Sanders kin.’ An’ he’d say, ‘Naw,’ powerful glum, I
tell ye. Then he’d be perlite fur true fur a while,—a good while. When,
Andy, I’ll tell ye, ’twixt ye an’ me an’ the gate-post, sech spellin’ ez
Clem Sanders kin do oughter be agin the law! It air agin every law o’
spellin’. Clem oughter be hung a leetle fur each offense. It jes’ fixes
him in his criminal conduct agin the alphabet. Oh, ho! But Teck never
knowed no better. He ’lowed I wanted a school-larned son-in-law, an’
Clem war that larned man. Heigh ho! I reckon I oughtn’t ter hev made him
so mis’able in his las’ days. But I couldn’t abide ter git cut out’n my
office kase all the young idjits in the kentry war insane ’bout Marcelly.”
He leaned back in his chair once more, desisting at last, for there
had begun to be an unmistakable prospect of losing his audience. Andy
Longwood, who had wished to go earlier, but had found his will not
adequate to the emergency, remaining helplessly embarrassed by the
awkwardness of the situation which left him an unwelcome witness of
the manifestation of Eli Strobe’s mania, now felt the energy of his
own grievances imparted to his volition by the disclosures which had
chanced to be made. He was once more self-absorbed, self-centred. He
hardly noticed the wounded man, or that he rose so precipitately upon
the conclusion of the last sentence that it savored of the rudeness of
interruption and disrespect to his elders. He could go now, easily
enough,—willingly. His face, as he stood, younger far than his muscles,
callow of expression considering his height, belying his claim to the
authority and respect that he arrogated as a full-grown man, was flushed,
and wore that petulant importance of adolescence that falls far short of
the dignity for which it strives. Marcella knew well the puerile heroics
and reproaches that would have come from him had they been alone; and so
much his senior was the girl, four years his junior, that she was wont to
slyly laugh at him, to maternally humor his view of his own importance,
and to feel very kindly toward him, for they had always been together,
and he had been a merry and good-tempered play-mate in the old days. He
had not yet ceased to be amusing, save, poor fellow, to himself.
“I mus’ be a-goin’,” he observed, not lifting his eyes, and articulating
indistinctly, for he only slightly moved his lips. She had often seen him
in this mood, and ten years ago these manifestations, so familiar to her,
would have preceded a wild burst of tears and a stamping of small brogans
in rage. She remembered him well in this guise of youthful grief. Such
seizures had passed from his recollection as if they had never been. He
could not have pictured himself at any period so removed from that idea
of dignified and important identity which he fancied was himself.
“We air goin’ ter dish up dinner, Andy,” she observed, alluringly. “Some
o’ the late corn ain’t plumb hardened yit, an’ we air goin’ ter hev
corn-puddin’. Them guinea hens ye gin me lays aigs enough fur ennythin’.
Ye better stay.”
Few people in this world have the opportunity of beholding a fairer, more
gracious face than that which she turned, as she bent over her wheel, and
looked at him, her eyes shining and sweet, her lips smiling, showing the
glittering line of her teeth.
But he kept his eyes averted.
“I don’t want no dinner,” he declared.
“Got above eatin’, hev ye?” remarked Eli Strobe, whose affinities were
essentially those of maturity, and who had scant sympathy with the callow
stage of manhood. He entertained a robust contempt for its assertions and
its confidence in some bigger and better future, likely to wait upon its
superior capacities, than other men had attained. “Ye’ll git ter heaven
quicker ’n ye think fur, ef ye jes’ hold out an’ foller that fashion ez a
constancy.”
Andy lifted his eyes slightly now, with an expression of surly
indignation, but mindful of his own position he said merely, “I ain’t
hongry.” He lingered a moment still, because the mountaineers do naught
precipitately; then with a deliberate “Waal, good-by,” he started away.
“Andy!” cried Marcella, her voice indeed as sweet as the mocking-bird’s.
He turned, gloomily unappeased, stiffly obeying her behest to accord
attention. He leaned upon his long rifle, as he stood in the path and
looked back. She had risen, and had come to the verge of the porch; one
hand was on the post, the other was held out to him. She was smiling
still, and tears would have impressed him as more appropriate,—smiling
easily and naturally, with a touch of jesting, ridiculing remonstrance
in her manner. “I furgot. I want ter ax ye ter do me a favior—but—but—ye
look so mad I be mos’ afeard. Air ye mad?”
_So mad!_ And this was the way she interpreted his heartbreak.