In the deep peace that rested like a benediction on the pine-clad slopes
of Scratch Hill the boy Hannibal followed at Yancy's heels as that
gentleman pursued the not arduous rounds of temperate industry which
made up his daily life, for if Yancy were not completely idle he was
responsible for a counterfeit presentment of idleness having most of the
merits of the real article. He toiled casually in a small cornfield and
a yet smaller truck patch, but his work always began late, when it began
at all, and he was easily dissuaded from continuing it; indeed, his
attitude toward it seemed to challenge interference.
In the winter, when the weather conditions were perfectly adjusted to
meet certain occult exactions he had come to require, Yancy could be
induced to go into the woods and there labor with his ax. But as he
pointed out to Hannibal, a poor man's capital was his health, and he
being a poor man it behooved him to have a jealous care of himself. He
made use of the dull days of mingled mist and drizzle for hunting, work
being clearly out of the question; one could get about over the brown
floor of the forest in silence then, and there was no sun to glint the
brass mountings of his rifle. The fine days he professed to regard with
keen suspicion as weather breeders, when it was imprudent to go far from
home, especially in the direction of the Crenshaw timber lands, which
for years had been the scene of all his gainful industry, and where he
seemed to think nature ready to assume her most sinister aspect.
Again in the early spring, when the young oak leaves were the size of
squirrel's ears and the whippoorwills began calling as the long shadows
struck through the pine woods, the needs of his corn ground battled with
his desire to fish. In all such crises of the soul Mr. Yancy was fairly
vanquished before the struggle began; but to the boy his activities were
perfectly ordered to yield the largest return in contentment.
The Barony had been offered for sale and bought in by Crenshaw for
eleven thousand dollars, this being the amount of his claim. Some six
months later he sold the plantation for fifteen thousand dollars to
Nathaniel Ferris, of Currituck County.
“There's money in the old place, Bob, at that figure,” Crenshaw told
Yancy.
“There are so,” agreed Yancy, who was thinking Crenshaw had lost no time
in getting it out.
They were seated on the counter in Crenshaw's store at Balaam's Cross
Roads, where the heavy odor of black molasses battled with the sprightly
smell of salt fish. The merchant held the Scratch Hiller in no small
esteem. Their intimacy was of long standing, for the Yancys going down
and the Crenshaws coming up had for a brief space flourished on the
same social level. Mr. Crenshaw's rise in life, however, had been
uninterrupted, while Mr. Yancy, wrapped in a philosophic calm and deeply
averse to industry, had permitted the momentum imparted by a remote
ancestor to carry him where it would, which was steadily away from
that tempered prosperity his family had once boasted as members of the
land-owning and slaveholding class.
“I mean there's money in the place fo' Ferris,” Crenshaw explained.
“I reckon yo're right, Mr. John; the old general used to spend a heap
on the Barony and we all know he never got a cent back, so I reckon the
money's there yet.
“Bladen's got an answer from them South Carolina Quintards, and they
don't know nothing about the boy,” said Crenshaw, changing the subject.
“So you can rest easy, Bob; they ain't going to want him.”
“Well, sir, that surely is a passel of comfort to me. I find I got all
the instincts of a father without having had none of the instincts of a
husband.”
A richer, deeper realization of his joy came to Yancy when he had
turned his back on Balaam's Cross Roads and set out for home through the
fragrant silence of the pine woods. His probable part in the young life
chance had placed in his keeping was a glorious thing to the man. He had
not cared to speculate on the future; he had believed that friends or
kindred must sooner or later claim Hannibal, but now he felt wonderfully
secure in Crenshaw's opinion that this was not to be.
Just beyond the Barony, which was midway between Balaam's and the Hill,
down the long stretch of sandy road he saw two mounted figures, then as
they drew nearer he caught the flutter of skirts and recognized one of
the horsewomen. It was Mrs. Ferris, wife of the Barony's new owner. She
reined in her horse abreast of his cart.
“Aren't you Mr. Yancy?” she asked.
“Yes, ma'am, that's me--Bob Yancy.” He regarded her with large gray eyes
that were frankly approving in their expression, for she was more than
commonly agreeable to look upon.
“I am Mrs. Ferris, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“The same here,” murmured Yancy with winning civility.
Mrs. Ferris' companion leaned forward, her face averted, and stroked her
horse's neck with gloved hand.
“This is my friend, Miss Betty Malroy.”
“Glad to know you, ma'am,” said Yancy.
Miss Malroy faced him, smiling. She, too, was very good to look upon,
indeed she was quite radiant with youth and beauty.
“We are just returning from Scratch Hill--I think that is what you call
it?” said Mrs. Ferris.
“So we do,” agreed Yancy.
“And the dear little boy we met is your nephew, is he not, Mr. Yancy?”
It was Betty Malroy who spoke.
“In a manner he is and in a manner he ain't,” explained Yancy, somewhat
enigmatically.
“There are quite a number of children at Scratch Hill?” suggested Mrs.
Ferris.
“Yes, ma'am, so there are; a body would naturally notice that.”
“And no school--not a church even!” continued Mrs. Ferris in a grieved
tone.
“Never has been,” rejoined Yancy cheerfully. He seemed to champion the
absence of churches and schools on the score of long usage.
“But what do the people do when they want to go to church?” questioned
Mrs. Ferris.
“Never having heard that any of 'em wanted to go I can't say just
offhand, but don't you fret none about that, ma'am; there are churches;
one's up at the Forks, and there's another at Balaam's Cross Roads.”
“But that's ten miles from Scratch Hill, isn't it?”
“It's all of that,” said Yancy. He sensed it that the lady before
him, was a person of much force and energy, capable even of reckless
innovation. Mr. Yancy himself was innately conservative; his religious
inspiration had been drawn from the Forks and Balaam's Cross Roads. It
had seemed to answer very well. Mrs. Ferris fixed his wavering glance.
“Don't you think it is too bad, Mr. Yancy, the way those children have
been neglected? There is nothing for them but to run wild.”
“Well, I seen some right good children fetched up that-a-ways--smart,
too. You see, ma'am, there's a heap a child can just naturally pick up
of himself.”
“Oh!” and the monosyllable was uttered rather weakly. Mr. Yancy's name
had been given her as that of a resident of weight and influence in the
classic region of Scratch Hill. Miss Malroy came to her friend's rescue.
“Mrs. Ferris thinks the children should have a chance to learn at
home. Poor little tots!--they can't walk ten or fifteen miles to
Sunday-school, now can they, Mr. Yancy?”
“Bless yo' heart, they won't try to!” said Yancy reassuringly. “Sunday's
a day of rest at Scratch Hill. So are most of the other days of the
week, but we all aspire to take just a little mo' rest on Sunday than
any other day. Sometimes we ain't able to, but that's our aim.”
“Do you know the old deserted cabin by the big pine?--the Blount place?”
asked Mrs. Ferris.
“Yes, ma'am, I know it.”
“I am going to have Sunday-school there for those children; they shan't
be neglected any longer if I can help it--I should feel guilty, quite
guilty! Now won't you let your little nephew come? Perhaps they'll not
find it so very terrible, after all.” From which Mr. Yancy concluded
that when she invaded it, skepticism had rested as a mantle on Scratch
Hill.
“Every one said we would better talk with you, Mr. Yancy, and we were
hoping to meet you as we came along,” supplemented Miss Malroy, and her
words of flattery were wafted to him with so sweet a smile that Yancy
instantly capitulated.
“I reckon you-all can count on my nevvy,” he said.
When he reached Scratch Hill, in the waning light of day, Hannibal, in
a state of high excitement, met him at the log shed, which served as a
barn.
“I hear you-all have been entertaining visitors while Uncle Bob was
away,” observed Yancy, and remembering what Crenshaw had told him, he
rested his big hand on the boy's head with a special tenderness.
“There's going to be a school in the cabin in the old field!” said the
boy. “May I go?--Oh, Uncle Bob, will you please take me?”
“When's this here school going to begin, anyhow?”
“To-morrow at four o'clock, she said, Uncle Bob.”
“She's a quick lady, ain't she? Well, I expected you'd be hopping around
on one leg when you named it to me. You wait until Sunday and see what I
do fo' my nevvy,” said Yancy.
He was as good as his implied promise, but the day began discouragingly
with an extra and, as it seemed to Hannibal, an unnecessary amount of
soap and water.
“You owe it to yo'self to show a clean skin in the house of worship.
Just suppose one of them nice ladies was to cast her eye back of yo'
ears! She'd surely be put out to name it offhand whether you was black
or white. I reckon I'll have to barber you some, too, with the shears.”
“What's school like, Uncle Bob?” asked Hannibal, twisting and squirming
under the big resolute hands of the man.
“I can't just say what it's like.”
“Why, didn't you ever go to school, Uncle Bob?”
“Didn't I ever go to school! Where do you reckon I got my education,
anyhow? I went to school several times in my young days.”
“On a Sunday, like this?”
“No, the school I tackled was on a week-day.”
“Was it hard?” asked Hannibal, who was beginning to cherish secret
misgivings; for surely all this soap and water must have some sinister
portent.
“Well, some learn easier than others. I learned middling easy--it didn't
take me long--and when I felt I knowed enough I just naturally quit and
went on about my business.”
“But what did you learn?” insisted the boy.
“You-all wouldn't know if I told you, because you-all ain't ever been
to school yo'self. When you've had yo' education we'll talk over what I
learned--it mostly come out of a book.” He hoped his general statement
would satisfy Hannibal, but it failed to do so.
“What's a book. Uncle Bob?” he demanded.
“Well, whatever a body don't know naturally he gets out of a book. I
reckon the way you twist, Nevvy, mebby you'd admire fo' to lose an ear!”
and Mr. Yancy refused further to discuss the knowledge he had garnered
in his youth.
Hannibal and Yancy were the first to arrive at the deserted cabin in the
old field that afternoon. They found the place had been recently cleaned
and swept, while about the wall was ranged a row of benches; there was
also a table and two chairs. Yancy inspected the premises with the eye
of mature experience.
“Yes, it surely is a school; any one with an education would know that.
Just look!--ain't you glad yo' Uncle Bob slicked you up some, now you
see what them ladies has done fo' to make this place tidy?”
Shy children from the pine woods, big brothers with little sisters and
big sisters with little brothers, drifted out of the encircling forest.
Coincident with the arrival of the last of these stragglers Mrs. Ferris
and Miss Malroy appeared, attended by a colored groom.
“It was so good of you to come, Mr. Yancy! The children won't feel so
shy with you here,” said Mrs. Ferris warmly, as Yancy assisted her to
dismount, an act of courtesy that called for his finest courage.
Mrs. Ferris' missionary spirit manifested itself agreeably enough on
the whole. When she had ranged her flock in a solemn-faced row on the
benches, she began by explaining why Sunday was set apart for a day
of rest, touching but lightly on its deeper significance as a day
of worship as well; then she read certain chapters from the Bible,
finishing with the story of David, a narrative that made a deep
impression upon Yancy, comfortably seated in the doorway.
“Can't you tell the children a story, Mr. Yancy? Something about their
own neighborhood I think would be nice, something with a moral,” the
pleasant earnest voice f Mrs. Ferris roused the Scratch Hiller from his
meditations.
“Yes, ma'am, I reckon I can tell 'em a story.” He stood up, filling
the doorway with his bulk. “I can tell you-all a story about this here
house,” he said, addressing himself to the children. He smiled happily.
“You-all don't need to look so solemn, a body ain't going to snap at
you! This house are the old Blount cabin, but the Blounts done moved
away from it years and years ago. They're down Fayetteville way now.
There was a passel of 'em and they was about as common a lot of white
folks as you'd find anywhere; I know, because I come to a dance here
once and Dave Blount called me a liar right in this very room.” He
paused, that this impressive fact might disseminate itself. Hannibal
slid forward in his seat, his earnest little face bent on Yancy.
“Why did he call you a liar, Uncle Bob?” he demanded.
“Well, I scarcely know, Nevvy, but that's what he done, and he stuck
some words in front of it that ain't fitten I should repeat.”
Miss Malroy's cheeks had become very red, and Mrs. Ferris refused
to meet her eye, while the children were in a flutter of pleased
expectancy. They felt the wholly contemporary interest of Yancy's story;
he was dealing with forms of speech which prevailed and were usually
provocative of consequences more or less serious. He gave them a wide,
sunny smile.
“When Dave Blount called me that, I struck out fo' home.” At this
surprising turn in the narrative the children looked their disgust, and
Mrs. Ferris shot Betty a triumphant glance. “Yes, ma'am, I struck out
across the fields fo' home, I didn't wish to hear no mo' of that loose
kind of talk. When I got home I found my old daddy setting up afo' the
fire, and he says, 'You come away early, son.' I told him what Dave
Blount had called me and he says, 'You acted like a gentleman, Bob, with
all them womenfolks about.”'
“You had a very good and sensible father, Mr. Yancy. How much better
than if--” began Mrs. Ferris, who feared that the moral might elude him.
“Yes, ma'am, but along about day he come into the loft where I was
sleeping and says to me, 'Sun-up, Bob--time fo' you to haul on yo' pants
and go back yonder and fetch that Dave Blount a smack in the jaw.'” Mrs.
Ferris moved uneasily in her chair: “I dressed and come here, but when
I asked fo' Dave he wouldn't step outside, so I just lost patience with
his foolishness and took a crack at him standing where I'm standing now,
but he ducked and you can still see, ma'am”--turning to the embarrassed
Mrs. Ferris--“where my knuckles made a dint in the door-jamb. I got him
the next lick, though!”
Mr. Yancy's moral tale had reached its conclusion; it was not for him to
boast unduly of his prowess.
“Uncle Bob, you lift me up and show me them dints!” and Hannibal slipped
from his seat.
“Oh, no!” said Betty Malroy laughing. She captured the boy and drew him
down beside her on a corner of her chair. “I am sure you don't want to
see the dents--Mr. Yancy's story, children, is to teach us how important
it is to guard our words--and not give way to hasty speech--”
“Betty!” cried Mrs. Ferris indignantly.
“Judith, the moral is as obvious as it is necessary.”
Mrs. Ferris gave her a reproachful look and turned to the children.
“You will all be here next Sunday, won't you?--and at the same hour?”
she said, rising.
There was a sudden clatter of hoofs beyond the door. A man, well dressed
and well mounted had ridden into the yard. As Mrs. Ferris came from the
cabin he flung himself out of the saddle and, hat in hand, approached
her.
“I am hunting a place called the Barony; can you tell me if I am on the
right road?” he asked. He was a man in the early thirties, graceful and
powerful of build, with a handsome face.
“It is my husband you wish to see? I am Mrs. Ferris.”
“Then General Quintard is dead?” His tone was one of surprise.
“His death occurred over a year ago, and my husband now owns the Barony;
were you a friend of the general's?”
“No, Madam; he was my father's friend, but I had hoped to meet him.” His
manner was adroit and plausible.
Mrs. Ferris hesitated. The stranger's dress and bearing was that of a
gentleman, and he could boast of his father's friendship with General
Quintard. Any doubts she may have had she put aside.
“Will you ride on with us to the Barony and meet my husband, Mr.--?” she
paused.
“Murrell--Captain Murrell. Thank you; I should like to see the old
place. I should highly value the privilege,” then his eyes rested on
Miss Malroy.
“Betty, let me present Captain Murrell.”
The captain bowed, giving her a glance of bold admiration.
By this time the children had straggled off into the pine woods as
silently as they had assembled; only Yancy and Hannibal remained. Mrs.
Ferris turned to the former.
“If you will close the cabin door, Mr. Yancy, everything will be ready
for next Sunday,” she said, and moved toward the horses, followed by
Murrell. Betty Malroy lingered for a moment at Hannibal's side.
“Good-by, little boy; you must ask your Uncle Bob to bring you up to the
big house to see me,” and stooping she kissed him. “Good-by, Mr. Yancy,
I liked your story.”
Hannibal and Yancy watched them mount and ride away, then the boy said:
“Uncle Bob, now them ladies have gone, won't you please show me them
dints you made in the doorjamb?”