Clem Sanders turned aside into the woods, following the sound. The
sere leaves rustled under his feet; the vistas seemed to be clarified
by their pure, fine brown color; now and then a dash of the bolder
red or yellow of the foliage, still hanging on the trees, served at
once to accent it and as a contrast. The boles were dark, and stood
out distinctly, apparently innumerable. He did not see her; he waited,
listening, but she sang no more, and he pressed forward without even
this variant and uncertain guide. There was much fallen timber here and
there, victims of the late storm, the leaves still clinging to their
limbs; sometimes a sturdy neighbor had caught the smitten tree, and
still stood, upbearing the dead bulk, its own doom certain but slow
in the weight of its lifeless burden; and here was one whose fall had
wrought at once complete devastation,—the giant of the forest hurled to
the ground in a single blast, the roots torn from the earth; the topmost
fibres of these clay-embedded roots were higher than the saplings hard
by; a deep excavation showed where they had once been buried. Suddenly a
hound clambered out of this cavity, nosing about with occasional wheezes,
evidently bent on small game. “I’ll be bound Andy Longwood didn’t let
ye run rabbits whenst _he_ owned ye,” even the lenient blacksmith was
moved to observe, marking this lapse from the accepted traditions of
the etiquette of deerhounds. He welcomed the sight of him, however, as
the herald of Marcella, and presently he saw her sitting quite still on
the bole of a fallen tree, her head bare, flecked with the sunshine as
the leaves stirred above her, one hand listlessly clasping the bough
near by, and the other holding a bunch of herbs which Mrs. Strobe had
charged her to seek; a basket of eggs was at her feet. As she looked up
and saw Clem coming toward her, his heart sank, so serene, and casual,
and unmoved was her glance. He had not doubted his good fortune since
the first stupendous moment of its revelation, but now he recognized the
incongruity of her expression, and its utter irreconcilability with his
conclusion. He had been prepared to be embarrassed, being—to use his own
phrase—“bashfuller ’n ennybody.” But in all his experience he had never
known so awkward and unhappy an interval as when he paused beside her,
after the succinct exchange of salutation, “Howdy.”
She looked calmly forward, and as he stood by the tree, with one hand
upon a branch that seemed to come out in a neighborly way and give him
something to lean upon, at all events, he gazed searchingly down at her,
then blankly at the sun-flecked woods, then once more bent his earnest
eyes upon her.
“Been a-huntin’ aigs?” was the scanty result of all this cogitation, as
he indicated the basket of eggs.
Marcella nodded assent. Then, after a silence she demanded, “Enny
objection?”
Even Clem could not fail to observe the flash of laughter in her eyes,
but it did not serve to render him more comfortable.
“Naw’m,—naw’m,” he said, with propitiating precipitation.
A long pause ensued. Marcella, despite her own deliberate methods of
conversation, found these intervals of irksome duration, and was moved to
make a remark.
“I hev been huntin’ guinea-hens’ aigs. They hide ’em so fur off, in
sech out’n-the-way places, but I fund a right smart chance of ’em.” She
looked down with satisfaction into her basket at the dull cream-colored
trophies, captured from the fowls, whose old vagrant instinct so long
survives domestication. “I fund twelve in one nest. I hev got a whole
passel o’ guineas.”
“_Yes_-sum!” said Clem, eagerly awaiting a pause that he might interject
this earnestly acquiescent formula. For all his bashfulness, he scarcely
withdrew his eyes from her face. His manner, too, was sufficiently
assured, but in every word he manifested his reverent humility, and
his timidity, and his earnest repudiation of any sentiment or opinion,
however dear, that might not coincide with hers. He would have found it
hard, so beset was he by doubt and fear, to put his fate to the test at
any time. But to go through all the decorous preliminaries of asking
her hand and heart, without disclosing that he had been prompted by the
encouragement which he had had from Andy Longwood’s report, was beginning
to seem inconceivably hazardous to a transparent soul, who had never
hidden an emotion in his life, or known a secret that he did not tell.
He was wrestling with the anxiety of the consciousness of her preference
and the necessity to make her suppose he knew nothing of it, when she
suddenly spoke again. The mention of the guinea-hens reminded her of
their donor, and of her ruse to take his weapon that he might do no harm.
“Hev ye seen Andy Longwood ter-day?” she asked casually, seeking to know
how far she had been successful.
It seemed to him in the moment that she had opened a way for him.
“Yes-sum. That’s why I kem hyar,—straight, straight ez I hearn it. I felt
so happy,—an’ yit I war ’feard ’twarn’t true. ’Twar true, Marcelly? ’Twar
true, though?”
She looked up at him, startled and amazed at his vehemence; her eyes
dilated, wonder in every eloquent trait. “What’s kem over ye, Clem
Sanders? Air _what_ true?” she asked bluntly.
“Marcelly,” he replied, his voice trembling, “don’t git mad at me, no
matter what happens; ye know I ain’t school-larned like yer dad.” This
was merely a fortuitous stroke of policy, for his simple nature was not
capable of attempting genuine strategy. “I dunno ef ye hev furgot, but
Andy Longwood said ez ye ’lowed ter him ye war goin’ ter marry me; an’
the Lord knows I hev lived an’ breathed jes’ in that hope, ’pears ter me,
ever sence I war alive’ but”—He stopped precipitately.
Her face was scarlet; her eyes flashed with a fire that seemed to scorch
him.
“Did ye b’lieve _that_?” she cried contemptuously. “Did ye b’lieve I’d
’low sech ez that?—an’ I never did, ’ceptin’ ter nod my head when dad
said ez much, kase the doctor ’lowed we mustn’t argufy an’ cross dad, an’
git him sot catawampus in his temper. Did ye ’low I’d say in earnest I’d
marry a man ez never axed me?”
For once in his life Clem spoke to her with eager and decisive
opposition. But even then it was prefaced with his suave “Yes-sum.” “But,
shucks, Marcelly! Talk about axin’! Ye know I’d hev axed enny day in the
year ez I warn’t afeard ter. Ye air obleeged ter know ’twar jes’ kase I
war afeard ye’d say no. I kep’ a-puttin’ it off, ’lowin’ mebbe suthin’
mought happen ter make ye think mo’ of me.”
She was not appeased. “Waal,” she observed calmly, “I warn’t in earnest.
I never thunk about marryin’ ye. An’ I won’t.”
“Yes-sum,” said Clem, crestfallen. “But ye’ll never git nobody, Marcelly,
ez would try harder ter do jes’ like ye wanted him ter. I wouldn’t cross
yer notions no way ye could fix ’em. These other boys in the Cove, ef ye
air thinkin’ ’bout choosin’ one out’n Brumsaidge”—
“I don’t _choose_ folks. I ’lowed I hed tole ye that,” she responded,
holding her head very high on her fine and delicate neck, and looking at
him with her definite straight eyebrows frowningly meeting above her dark
eyes, that seemed to him unnaturally clear and brilliant.
“Yes-sum. But howsomdever these other boys air powerful set in thar way,
an’ some o’ thar ways ain’t pritty ones.” This as closely approached
slander as the good Clem Sanders could compass. “They air toler’ble good
boys,” he felt constrained to qualify, “but they wouldn’t be good fur ye
ter marry. I tell ye, now, Marcelly, ye mought find a smarter man mos’
ennywhar,—though not a better blacksmith,—but ye’ll never find nobody ez
loves ye like I do, an’ would take the pains ter please ye like I would,
ef ye war ter marry me.”
“I hev got no sort’n notion o’ doin’ it,—never hed,” she declared bluntly.
“Yes-sum,” said Clem, infinitely cast down.
“I dunno ez I hev got ter marry enny o’ the boys in the Cove. I dunno ez
I hev got ter marry ennybody,” she said loftily. “Some folks don’t.”
“Yes-sum; but didn’t they always ’pear ter you-uns ter be powerful
lonesome?” he suggested humbly.
This did not altogether fail to take effect. She pondered silently for a
time on this phase of a single life. Presently she remarked:—
“I wouldn’t be no lonesomer single ’n I’d be married ter _some_ folks.”
He interpreted this as a thrust at his own lack of certain congenial and
companionable qualities which she esteemed essential.
“Yes-sum,” he replied, more cut down still.
Perhaps she felt some pang of pity for his disappointment; perhaps she
was not now so angry as at first, because of his very natural mistake,
and thought it the least brutal method of disposing of his superfluous
heart to argue the uncongeniality of his interests and pursuits.
“An’ air yer ways so powerful pritty, Clem?” she demanded. “Cornsiderin’
how close we neighbor the forge, an’ hear the dancin’, an’ the fiddlin’,
an’ the wrastlin’, an’ laffin’ ez goes on thar of a evenin’, I never
expected ter live ter hear yer ways called pritty ones.”
“Yes-sum,” said Clem. “But ef ye’d marry me I’d stay home of a evenin’,
an’ that thar forge would be dark an’ still enough I’ll be bound.”
“Waal, yer wife, whoever she’ll be, won’t want sech fiddlin’, an’
dancin’, an’ singin’ round her in her house of a evenin’ ez ye hev been
useter, Clem. I can’t think o’ ye no ways but ez cavortin’,—though ye air
mighty peaceable an’ quiet, an’ _kin_ behave some similar ter a mouse
whenst ye kem visitin’ the gals.”
“Yes-sum,” said poor Clem. “But I don’t visit no gals but you-uns.”
“Laws-a-massy! An’ jes’ think how Is’bel an’ granny hev been gin over ter
pride, bein’ ez they ’lowed ye kem a-visitin’ them!” There was a wicked
gleam in her eye as she sped this dart. “Naw, naw! everybody knows the
name that thar forge hev got!”
“Yes-sum.” He hesitated for a moment; then he said, looking at her, his
jaw growing square and determined, his expression changing with this
infusion of more mundane matters into his thoughts, “Thar ain’t a-goin’
ter be enny mo’ o’ them queer midnight goin’s-on at the forge, Marcelly,
arter this,—ye mark my words.” Then, as if he fancied he had spoken too
roughly, he hastened to say, apropos of nothing, “Yes-sum,” and cleared
his throat.
Marcella sat feeling stunned for a moment. Could he have known, in some
inexplicable way, of the discovery that she had made at the forge in
the wild, stormy midnight? Was he indeed aware of the intrusion of Jake
Baintree and the stranger, who worked the bellows, and wielded the hammer
and sledge, and were frightened when interrupted, and who came forth only
to give aid for humanity’s sake? She would not forget that they gave aid,
whatever might happen, she said to herself.
He did not interpret her expression aright; he only saw that she was at a
loss.
“Hain’t ye never hearn what happened at the forge arter Pa’son Donnard
’lowed he seen the devil thar?”
“Naw,” she said, fixing her eyes gravely on him.
Her interest in the subject emboldened him to sit beside her on the log,
but as he bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at
her, he only saw her profile; for she listened silently, flattering him
with her air of attention, but did not turn her head.
“Waal, arter the pa’son seen the devil thar I felt toler’ble tormented,
an’ sorter kep’ a lookout on the forge; an’ one night, ’bout midnight”
(Marcella’s foot stirred uneasily amongst the pine cones; her face was a
trifle paler than its wont; her lips were slightly compressed), “I hearn
the hammer an’ the sledge a-poundin’ an’ the bellows a-roarin’, an’ fur
all ’twar a moonlight night”—
“Oh, moonlight!” exclaimed Marcella with a note of relief.
“Yes-sum, bright moonlight—but I could see the forge fire a-flarin’
through the chinkin’. Waal, I dunno what got inter me, but I felt
obligated ter know ef that thar dead Clem Sanders—Ye hearn’ bout _him_,
didn’t ye, what pa’son purtended ter see?” He spoke with acerbity and a
curling lip.
Marcella nodded.
“I wanted ter see ef _he_ war thar agin, with the devil mebbe a-strikin’
fur him. Waal, I war so darned clumsy an’ awk’ard I fell down flop agin
the window-shutter; an’ I hev got purty fur ter fall, an’ thar’s a heap
o’ me ter topple, an’ I like ter hev busted the side o’ the house down.
An’ when I got up thar war no light, nor sound, nor nuthin’; jes’ a
leetle mite o’ a live-coal on the ha’th, an’ the anvil a-singin’. Waal,
I lowed ’twar Satan, till Jube Donnard—ye know, the pa’son’s son, a
darned tattler!—he went an’ tole it all ter his dad. An’ ef ye’ll b’lieve
me, that thar godly old man did go an’ prop hisself on the side o’ the
mounting ter git a view o’ Satan,—wanted ter see him!”
“The pa’son!” exclaimed Marcella, vaguely scandalized.
“Yes-sum, the pa’son! An’ I tole Jube I would never listen ter him
preach no mo’—enny godly man ez hankered ter view the devil agin, arter
hevin’ viewed him wunst! An’ a-skitterin’ out in the middle o’ the night,
like he war one o’ the boys, along with that thar caper-y Jube! Sometimes
I feel like _I_ be too pious _myself_ ter ’sociate with the pa’son’s
son. An’ Jube up-ed an’ ’lowed ez he didn’t keer whether I went ter hell
through neglectin’ means o’ grace an’ the pa’son’s sermons or jes’ from
active wickedness, an’ ez his fambly hed no contrac’, ez he knowed on,
ter land _me_ on the golden shore! Jube say him an’ his mam ain’t the
pa’son, an’ nuthin’ like it, an’ the congregation hain’t got a mortgage
on nare hair o’ thar heads, though the pa’son ’lows ez his flock owns
him.”
Clem repeated the sharp retort of his friend without any show of
temper, as if he were merely interested in setting the purport of the
conversation before Marcella. She kept quite still, her hands holding
the bunch of herbs, her eyes meditative and yet attentive. She seemed
to pursue a definite train of thought, which she in some sort modified
and adjusted in reference to his disclosure. He had never talked so much
in all his life. He found a new and unique pleasure in sitting beside
Marcella, feeling liberated in some sort, since Mrs. Strobe’s sarcasms
no longer paralyzed his simple modes of thought, nor Isabel’s pert
interruptions embarrassed him and cut him short. Marcella seemed willing,
nay, eager, to hear, and how glad he was to tell! Always afterward he
associated the place with that happy hour: the drear season of autumn
seemed the choicest time of the year. How should he take heed now that
the splendor of the turn of the leaf was but a hectic red and presage of
death; that the sun would be but a cold glitter for a time; that snows
were garnering somewhere; and many things light and blithe—that bird
in its poise on the golden-rod, the squirrel frisking along the tree,
even a deer of which they had a sudden glimpse, approaching in a silent
interval, thrusting out its graceful head, with startled lustrous eyes,
from the laurel not twenty yards away, and disappearing at the sight
of them—all should die under the rigors of the hard winter coming. He
saw only how Marcella’s hair waved, how fair of face she was, how the
sunlight crept to her feet and crouched there, like a tame thing, casting
a yellow brilliancy into her brown eyes as she looked down. It was an
undreamed-of delight, this choice confidence, and she might be sure of
hearing all to which she would listen; he had forgotten the doubtful past
and his fears for the future in the rich flavor of the exquisite present.
“Ye see, Marcelly, Jube air one o’ them boys ez tell all they know, an’
ain’t got no sort’n jedgmint; though he’s good-hearted, Jube is, an’
him an’ me useter play roun’ the wood-pile in the chips tergether ’fore
we-uns could walk. An’ so we be toler’ble friendly. An’ though Jube tells
on me ter the pa’son, he kems back an’ tells on the pa’son ter me.”
His eyes twinkled, for he thought that, having little to lose, he might
endure Jube’s frankness better than the parson, who must be flawless.
Then his face grew grave with a certain reflective intentness; a
prescient excitement was kindling in his eye.
“Waal, Jube say that night whilst him an’ the pa’son roosted like two
demented tur-rkey gawblers up thar on them big bluffs right above my
forge, they seen no devils, but about midnight two men kem along the
road,—powerful dark night it war; they kem gingerly along, an’ Jube say
they stopped right thar in front o’ the door o’ the shop. Jube say he
knows, kase he hearn one o’ ’em rattlin’ the latch I put on them big
doors ter keep ’em from blowin’ open in the wind. An’ then Jube, stiddier
waitin’ fur ’em ter go in an’ see what they’d do, jes’ ’lowed he’d skeer
’em, an’ he flapped his arms an’ crowed—Ye ever hear Jube crow?” he
demanded suddenly, breaking off.
She shook her head slowly from side to side, although she refrained from
saying that she did not covet the privilege in future.
“Yes-sum. Waal, sir,” continued Clem in pride, “he kin crow like a
sure-enough, reg’lar rooster,—ye’d think ’twar haffen a dozen poultry.
Skeered the pa’son, sir, bein’ so onexpected, mighty nigh ter death. Jube
can’t keep from laffin’ now whenst he tells ’bout’n it, though he say he
knows the devil will burn him well fur laffin’ at his dad. An’ them men,
they hollered an’ runned a leetle way. An’ then they stopped an’ hailed
Jube. An’ all of a suddenly the sheet-lightning flickered up, broad an’
steady, an’ he seen who ’twar.”
Marcella’s cheek was burning; her excited bright eyes were still cast
down, and how the sunlight at her feet flared luminously into their
limpid depths! She could hardly wait to hear, although she knew before
she heard.
Clem lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “’Twar Jake Baintree, one
of ’em,” he said. “An’ the t’other Jube hed never seen afore,—dressed
diffe’nt, some similar ter town folks, some o’ the boys say, from what
Jube tells: tall, with sandy whiskers, an’ light, an’ quick-steppin’. Oh,
Jube will know him agin, ef ever he gits a show at him!”
There was a sort of savage exultation in his voice, and in his face as he
nodded his head to one side with a burly gesture of triumphant forecast.
Marcella felt a sudden cold thrill. She turned her head, and her eyes met
his. “How does Jube expec’ ter see him agin? What’s he contrivin’ ter do?”
Even Clem Sanders hesitated, conscious that in this lure of happiness he
had been led too far. The secret he would not have deemed safe with any
woman. Had she been the wife that he wished to make her, he might have
contrived to shift, to evade, to postpone. She was not married to him,
and he could deny her nothing.
“Yes-sum,” he began, with polite preface; “but don’t let them boys know
ez I hev tole ye, Marcelly, else they’d string me up ter a tree. Thar’s
a lot of ’em a-layin’ fur Jake an’ that strange man.”
“What air they a-goin’ ter do ter ’em?” Her voice had risen from its
mellow contralto tones into a husky shrillness that was a note of fear,
presaging horror.
Clem Sanders’s sensibilities were not acute, and he did not recognize its
meaning.
“That depends on what sort’n account they kin gin o’ tharselves.”
He was flattering himself that he had succeeded in so interesting her,
and as he looked at her his long and narrow eyes smiled brightly, in the
full faith of pleasing her.
“Gin an account o’ tharselves?” she murmured ponderingly. She remembered
how fragmentary and indefinite had been their explanation of their
intrusion at the forge and of the stranger’s presence in the mountains.
This, she was sure, would fail to satisfy aught but gratitude that in
its fullness was content to abate even curiosity. How should it satisfy
antagonistic, suspicious, even cruel men, who had set themselves to
spy, to judge, to punish? The rough habits of the region, the lawless
justice sometimes meted out by the arbitrary tribunals who claimed the
preservation of local morals as within their exclusive jurisdiction, were
only too familiar to her. She realized with a quick throb of the heart
that these men were in danger. They had involved themselves in mystery;
their midnight intrusions at the forge could hardly be easily explained
and innocently accounted for, or they would not have been secret. She
was aware, too, of that insurmountable inequality which character
creates in equal conditions. Had it been Bassett and Jube Donnard who,
for secret purposes of their own, had invaded the smith’s forge and
cloaked their comings and goings in mystery, it would have been hard to
rouse Broomsedge Cove to any sense of wrong that the owner might have
sustained, or any threatened security of the public peace and honor. Far
less leniently regarded would be the same deeds wrought in the same way
by Jake Baintree, who according to public opinion had escaped the gallows
by a technicality, and this stranger, a physician, a learned man, lurking
in his company, probably seeking to evade the vengeance of the law for
some dark deed that she shuddered to more definitely imagine. Doubtless
they were in danger.
She had strong nerves. There was nothing partisan in her manner as she
said, “How do ye know they ever war in the forge a-workin’ an’ sech? Ez
ter Jube, I don’t set no store by Jube’s seein’. He kin see ennything
he air a mind ter,—or else _say_ he hev seen it. Mought be Satan, sure
enough.”
“Yes-sum,” acquiesced Clem. “It air somebody ez ain’t used ter the
blacksmithin’ business, fur no good smith would hev let that thar leetle
bend in my leetle tongs git bruk off that-a-way, an’ then botch it
a-mendin’ it. That hurt my feelin’s wuss ’n all,—the way he done the
work.” He shook his head, grieved at the artificer’s incapacity. “But
sence Jube knowed ez ’twar Jake Baintree at the latch, the boys don’t
b’lieve in the devil no mo’,—leastwise not at the forge, ’thout it’s him
along o’ Jake. Jake’s ekal ter ennythin’. Ye know he killed Sam’l Keale.”
“He never!” Marcella burst forth suddenly. “_Dad_ say he never!”
“Yes-sum.” Clem made haste to agree. “Ye know, though, that’s what them
fellers up an’ down declar’.”
Marcella was silent for a moment, regretting her display of feeling, but
Clem, alarmed for the progress which he fancied he had made in her good
graces, proceeded with the subject in which she so evidently felt an
interest.
“They—whoever they air—hain’t been ter the forge more ’n a few times,
an’ that’s a fac’,—the night whenst I saw it lighted up, an’ the time
when they tried ter git in, an’ Jube skeered ’em off; arter that the boys
began ter set up reg’lar fur ’em.”
“Whar?” she exclaimed, aghast; then recollecting herself, she asked more
calmly, “Wharbouts, Clem?”
“At my house. Night arter night ’bout ten of ’em hev kem thar with thar
rifles, an’ watched that thar forge fur a glimge o’ light through the
chinkin’, an’ listened fur the hammer an’ sledge. But them two hevn’t
never lit up the forge but twict,—the time I seen it, an’ Gid Dake seen
it wunst afore that. Though some say they b’lieve ’twar lighted that
night o’ the big storm; the boys kem ter watch, but it ’peared so durned
rainy they ’lowed ’twarn’t no use.”
So the vigilantes had nodded while she made her perilous journey to the
forge, that terrible night, and brought help thence. She trembled to
think how slight a thing had saved the two intruders.
“They hain’t done much harm,—jes’ three times sence the first of August,
an’ this air deep in the fall o’ the year,” she commented.
“Yes-sum,” assented Clem. “But nobody knows what harm they air doin’, an’
what mo’ they air goin’ ter do. Ef it’s good, ’tain’t apt ter be hid.”
“I dunno who sets them Brumsaidge boys up ter jedge,” she said angrily,
abandoning argument for more facile depreciation.
“Yes-sum,” said Clem blandly. “But they ain’t the sort ter wait ter be
set; they jes’ set tharse’fs up,—with thar rifles ter prop ’em,” he
added, carrying out the figure.
There was a troubled restlessness in her anxious bright eyes, a pathetic
droop in her red lips. She looked deeply thoughtful, careful, plotting,
as she said:—
“I wonder at ye, Clem Sanders, knowin’ ez ye do ez sech ez that air agin
the law, to capture them men; an’ ef thar ’count o’ tharselves don’t suit
ye foolish Brumsaidge pates, a-shootin’ them two fellers, or stringin’
’em up. An’ ye a-lettin’ them spies an’ lynchers ter meet at yer house
ter watch an’ lie in wait!”
“Yes-sum. Laws-a-massy, Marcelly,” exclaimed Clem, enlightened and
precipitate, “ef ye don’t want ’em ter kem ter my house an’ spy, I’ll
run ’em every one off from thar,—every mother’s son of ’em, ef I hev ter
shoot a hole through every man’s head ter git him started. Say the word,
Marcelly!” he cried, in the enthusiasm of his prospective obedience. “Say
the word!”
Marcella was mechanically tearing the herbs into bits in her trembling
hands, as she sat and thought,—significant thoughts, since the lives of
two men, perchance, hung upon them.
“That wouldn’t do no good,” she remarked presently. “They’d jes’ take
tharselves ter watchin’ somewhar else.” After a moment she added
bitterly, “Ye know how sech men be: gin ’em a notion arter blood, an’
it’s no mo’ use ter call ’em off ’n ’tis ter blow yer horn fur a hound ez
air followin’ on a hot scent. Thar’s some hound an’ some painter an’ some
fox in sech men,” the soft-faced young cynic declared.
“Yes-sum,” faltered Clem Sanders. He sat dumfounded for a moment,
the significance of her troubled mien gradually dawning on his slow
perceptions. “Laws-a-massy, Marcelly,” he cried, “ef ye want me ter, I’ll
jes’ let them men work in my forge ez a constancy, scot-free. I won’t
gredge ’em nuthin’, though they bruk up every tool in my shop, an’”—his
face clouded—“mended ’em arterward. I will say I never see sech work,—the
man oughter be ’shamed! I dunno whar in Kingdom Come he could hev larnt
his trade,—sech larnin’ ez he hev got. But I’ll take Jake Baintree an’
that strange man, ef he war the devil, inter partnership, ef ’twill
please you-uns. That’s all I live fur, Marcelly,—ter please you-uns. Ef
ye will marry me,” he continued, leaning nearer to her,—“ef ye’ll marry
me”—
“Oh,” exclaimed the girl, with a gesture of impatient repudiation, “Ye
air so tormentin’ tiresome.”
“Yes-sum,” said Clem, drawing back, rebuked, but not alienated.
“Would enny other mortal on the yearth ’low I’d marry a man so ez ter git
his cornsent fur two other idle idjits ter hev the run of his forge?”
Clem thought that it would be better for all concerned if the “other
idjits” were idle, but he only murmured, “Naw’m,” and listened with
respectful and earnest attention as she went on.
“I ain’t got no wish ’bout’n ’em, ’ceptin’ I don’t want ’em kilt nor
hurted no ways,—jes’ fur thar sake, not mine; jes’ kase they air folks,
an’ hev got a right ter live till thar Maker calls ’em. Takes a man ter
expec’ ter git suthin’ fur hisself ter pay him fur every leetle favior he
does fur other folks.”
She was fast becoming pessimistic under the stress of her fears, and her
perplexities, and her consequent anxious irritation.
“Yes-sum,” said Clem in humble concession. Then plucking up, “I jes’ mean
ter say, Marcelly, ez I would do ennything ter pleasure you-uns, an’ ef
ye want them men ter work in my forge, they kin do it an’ welcome!”
She looked sharply at him, seeking to discern in his open, ingenuous
countenance any indication that he divined that she had more definite
knowledge of the intruders than he had been able to secure, that she
was ready to scheme for their safety, that she tolerated and continued
the conversation in their behoof, in the hope of further information
for their sake. But it was evident that Clem Sanders, in the fullness
of his loyalty, neither questioned her motives nor even speculated
concerning them; he accepted all that she said and did as he accepted
the sunshine,—as the most righteous and beneficent expression of the
generosity of nature. Some gratitude stirred in her heart with the
recognition of the depth and sincerity of the sentiment with which he
regarded her, and it was more gently that she said:—
“Ye couldn’t do nuthin’ nohow, Clem. Wunst them boys hev got the idee,
nuthin’ kin stop ’em, an’ ef they didn’t watch at yer house they’d watch
somewhar.”
“Yes-sum,” said Clem.
“An’,” she went on thoughtfully, “ef, when they tuk arter them men, ye
tried ter stop ’em, they mought slash ye up, or shoot ye ’mongst ’em, an’
I don’t want that ter happen.”
His face was irradiated by this evidence of her care for him.
“Yes-sum!” he cried jubilantly.
Marcella rose abruptly from the log. “I mus’ be goin’ in,” she remarked.
She put on her tunnel-like sun-bonnet, and with the eclipse of her face
within its depths the day seemed to him to have darkened suddenly. She
stood irresolute for a moment, looking vaguely about her; her attitude
denoted despondency; she drew a long breath that had a suggestion of a
sigh, and then she picked up her basket of eggs.
“Kin I tote yer basket fur ye, Marcelly?”
“Ye could, bein’ toler’ble survigrous,—ef I’d let ye,” she responded
ungraciously, still keeping hold of the handle of the basket. She moved
slowly along, her tread noiseless upon the thick carpet of pine needles;
only now and then her skirts stirred the fallen leaves, that gave a
sibilant rustle. Clem walked humbly beside her, looking down at the
baffling sun-bonnet that hid her face, and keeping silence in deference
to her mood. All the world was still; the sunshine made no progress from
limb to limb of the dark bare trees where it lay so yellow. And time was
surely drowsing somewhere. The sky was cloudless, changeless. Winds!—they
were now a mere tradition; the day had suggestions that seemed eternal in
its rich, enduring light, its serene impassivity. The shadows, too, were
motionless, save for those of the young mountaineers as they passed under
the boughs.
Marcella paused when they reached the fence that was the boundary of
Eli Strobe’s land, and Clem began to see that she intended to take
leave of him here. There was a gap in the fence; some of the rails lay
half fallen, one end upon the ground and one supported by the zigzag
structure. She rested her basket here, and glanced up at him from the
shadow of her sun-bonnet. Her eyes seemed dark and melancholy, and her
look was afar off, somehow, and he had a sense of distance from her which
led him abruptly to exclaim, “I ain’t said nuthin’ ter make ye mad at me,
hev I, Marcelly?”
She laughed a little. “Nuthin’ but foolishness. But thar’s so much o’
that in this world thar’s no use in gittin’ mad; don’t make folks no mo’
reasonable ez I knows on.”
“Yes-sum. But ye ain’t mad at me?” he pleaded.
“Naw, I ain’t,—I ain’t,” she exclaimed impatiently! “Good-by,” she added,
encouragingly.
“Yes-sum. Good-by,” the poor fellow echoed dolorously; and so he turned
and took his way down the long lane, leaving her still standing at
the fence. His heart was heavy within him; how eager she had been to
be rid of him! His hope had sunk; the wound his rival had dealt began
to ache. He felt a repulsion for all the familiar world, for all the
aspects of the future as they shaped themselves before his glance,
unwontedly prescient. Life hardly seemed worth the living, and he had
scant courage to see it through. His mental and moral atmosphere was all
uncharacteristic, and although he had not command of even the simplest
capacity to feign, and made no effort to disguise the downcast spirit in
which he had returned from his open and obvious mission, the gossips at
the forge forbore, rather from an intuition of prudence and policy than
a merciful desire of sparing him, to rally him upon his defeat. He was
stern and gruff, and the presence of his cronies grated upon his mood.
He went to his work silently, some of his chagrin expending itself in
an energy of industry, and the mellow clanking of the hammers roused
the echoes to their wonted iteration; under his skill the metal grew
soft or hard as he willed, and for a time there was no indication that
aught was amiss with the master of the forge, save his dull, intent, and
frowning face. This tense mood could not continue, and presently, under
the strain, his nerves began to give way. He had already felt some slight
inconvenience from the inexperience of Jube Donnard, who was striking
for him to-day, his own assistant having gone hunting. Once so absorbed
was he that, as he tapped the iron where Jube should strike, he did
not swiftly remove the hammer as was his habit, and the great sledge,
hoisted by the parson’s son with both arms, came crashing down upon the
hand-hammer, sending it flying out of the smith’s practiced hand, and
jarring his arm to the shoulder-blade. In a sudden passion he flung
the bar of hot metal at his dodging volunteer striker, and then with a
growling oath he turned away to the door.
“Time ter quit, ennyhow,” said the facile Jube.
For the great red sunset was flaring in at the widely opened barn-like
doors, and though the vermilion disk still lingered above the dusky
purple mountains, the hunter’s moon, a luminous sphere, pearly and
splendid, swung high in the east, with all its sentiments of solitude and
alien influences, with all its brooding nocturnal fancies, as if it were
alone in the sky save for its familiar the vaguely scintillating star at
the zenith.
“A clear night,” said Clem to himself, with a sigh, as he sat down on the
log by the door.
It was not the weather signs alone that gave his voice its significant
intonation; it was the congruous circumstance furnished to the nocturnal
enterprise. He noted presently a dark figure with a rifle on its
shoulder, crossing the bridge above the narrows of the river, thrown
into bold relief between the crimson sky and its lustrous red reflection
in the water. The sun still gave the current a glint of gold; a rising
vapor borrowed mysteries from the moon, and the figure seemed taller than
normal height as it disappeared in the woods. It was not long before
Clem saw another armed man approaching from down the road. The vigilantes
were gathering. He rose, with a long-drawn sigh, and closed the shop for
the night,—for all his cronies were gone,—and then betook himself home to
his supper.
He had had no very definite sentiment in regard to the organization that
had charged itself with the enterprise of solving the mystery of the
intrusions at the forge, and administering punishment should it be deemed
required. It had seemed to him, however, natural and right enough that
these enigmatical proceedings should, in the interests of public justice,
be subjected to scrutiny, especially as it had been discovered that Jake
Baintree, almost universally considered to have cheated the gallows, was
concerned in them. Since, however, Marcella had set her face against the
self-constituted judges, and had spoken of them with reprobation, his
interest, his sense of injury, even his curiosity, had dwindled. He was
conscious of wishing them all far enough from his premises when, after
leaving his mother unsuspiciously washing the supper-dishes, thinking he
had gone to his cronies at the forge, he took his way out through the
tall sere grass and leafless bushes across the door-yard to the barn,
where his hidden coadjutors lurked, awaiting him.
The building was of the description most usual in the region, constructed
of logs, unhewn and unchinked, with a loft and a wide open space
beneath, where a wagon, two or three plows, and a sorghum-mill stood.
The brilliant moonlight fell through each crevice, its silver sheen
alternating with the black shadow of the logs; the whole place was
pervaded by this tempered splendor, and through the broad open pass-way
he could see the white frost gleam responsive upon the expanse of the
fields, on the rails of the fence, on the boughs of a great pallid,
denuded tree with its stark and wintry shadows, on the clumps of broad
mullein leaves beside the door. The horned heads of the three cows were
distinct in the placid divergent rays, filtering through the crannies as
the animals still stood at their manger; and on the opposite side the
two sorrel mares were half dozing, and did not so much as cast a glance
toward him as he entered the shadowy place, so accustomed had they become
to this in-coming and out-going of nocturnal visitants. A slim little
filly, however, hardly larger than the calf that stood near by, came
frisking out to see who was heralded by the sound of the step, and seemed
to consider a great up-kicking and a series of bounding gambols on its
wiry, angular legs an appropriate greeting; then finally disappeared into
the shadows of its dam’s stall. The calf suddenly backed its ears, and
sought to imitate the filly’s deft demivolt in a stiff bovine caper; then
stood still once more, earnestly watching Clem as he made his way to the
ladder, the rungs of which were very far apart, and up into the loft.
Here the shadows were less assertive, for a rude, square window had
been cut in one of the gables, and the moonlight came through and lay
in a refulgent rhomboidal figure upon the floor. An occasional flicker
across it told of a fluctuating stir amongst the cobwebs that hung in
thickly woven folds from the rafters, and were stretched in gossamer
filaments across the aperture itself; sometimes, as these caught the
light, they gave out a silvery glimmer, as if some precious metal had
served in the weaving. There was a great pile of corn in the ear in one
corner, and the swelling masses of hay bulged far over the open pass-way
beneath, and almost hid it from view. Amongst its billows, close in to
the wall, a setting hen, with outspread wings, was upon her nest; now and
then she opened her small bright eyes, but for the most part she kept
them calmly shut, for, timorous though she was, she had become inured
to the strange conditions of the place, feeling assured that whatever
might result from the councils held here, she and hers were not under
consideration. Altogether incongruous and at variance with the simple,
rural significance of the spot were the figures of armed men, that lay
idly and at ease upon the hay, or strode restlessly to and fro upon the
quaking flooring, or paused before the square moon-flooded window to look
out upon the strip of cultivated land, the expanse of darkling forest on
every hand, the violet vaporous spaces—empty air—above the unseen valley,
and the towering, purple, moonlit ranges looming to the sky; but most of
all, and often indeed, they looked down the white winding road where the
little forge stood under the crag, between the mountains and the dark and
lustrous river.
“Hy’re, Clem,” the owner of the premises was greeted, when his head
appeared above the floor as he slowly mounted the rungs.
“Hy’re,” he responded in a gruff growl.
The tone and manner were so uncharacteristic that one or two of the
martial figures striding about turned and looked around at him in
surprise. Bassett, lying on the hay, lifted himself upon his elbow, and
demanded, “What ails you-uns ter be so powerful high an’ mighty? Ye think
ye air Teck Jepson, don’t ye?”
Clem Sanders said nothing for a moment. Still with his unwonted air of
grave dissatisfaction, he lumbered into the moonlit place, one hand
in his pocket, his shoulders slouched forward as he peered about from
under his broad hat-brim at the men’s faces, as if he were seeking to
individualize them, and mentally calling the roll.
“Whar’s Teck, ennyhows?” he asked. “He ain’t hyar.”
“Not yit,” sneered Bassett. “He’ll be kemin’ along arter a leetle,
a-ridin’ of his mare, though he knows the rest o’ we-uns ’low ez ’tain’t
safe ter hev hoss critters hitched round hyar. Ef all o’ we-uns done
that, thar’d be enough hosses ter make ez much racket ez a comp’ny o’
cavalry, an’ them men would git a warnin’, and we-uns would never ketch
’em. Ye mark my words, Teck’ll be ’long d’rec’ly, a-ridin’ like some
great captain.”
As he spoke, a sudden, distant, undistinguished sound smote the air.
“What’s that?” cried Bassett, half springing up, and resting upon one
knee on the pile of hay.
“Hush!” said one of the vigilantes near the moonlit window. He bent
toward it, his eyes scanning the empty road, the silent woods, and lonely
mountains with the melancholy splendor upon them.
The others stood motionless, listening.
The man at the window abruptly turned toward them his moonlit face, the
sheen full in his dilated, excited eyes; he held up one significant
finger, bespeaking attention.
For the sound had come once more.