THE INTERLOPER.
LANCE found his father and Octavia Gentry awaiting him in the
lean-to kitchen, Kimbro Cleaverage anxious and deprecating. Old
Ajax had dodged the issue, and Sylvane was out in the other room
trying to get the boys and girls to playing again. But Callista
was there--not beside her mother--she stood near the door, a
little pale and looking anywhere but at her bridegroom. Lance
Cleaverage's eye, half scornful, swept the scattered group and
read their attitude aright.
"Anything the matter with you-all?" he inquired suavely.
"Yes, they's a-plenty the matter with us, and with all decent
and respectable persons here in this house gathered this night,"
the Widow Griever began in a high, shaking, unnatural voice.
"I reckon all that means Ola Derf, for short," cut in Lance, not
choosing to be bored with a lengthy harangue.
"Yes, it does," Roxy told him. "That thar gal would never have
been bidden to Miz. Gentry's house. Callisty would never have
been called on to even herself with sech, long as she staid [141]
under her gran'pappy's roof. And when it comes to what it did
out in 'tother room, it's more than Callisty that suffers."
"Suffers!" echoed her brother with a contemptuous grin. "Well,
if that don't beat my time! I reckon Ola Derf cain't eat any of
you-all. She's just a little old gal, and you're a good-sized
crowd of able-bodied folks--what harm can she do you?"
"Well, Lance," began his mother-in-law, with studied moderation,
though she was plainly incensed, "I do not think, hit's any way
for you to do--evening Callista with such folks. She ain't used
to it."
Lance looked to where Callista yet held aloof near the door,
pale and silent, avoiding his eye.
"A man and his wife are one," he said, with less confidence than
would have been his earlier in the day. "What's good enough for
me is good enough for Callista."
He got no sign of agreement from his bride--and he had expected
it.
"Son, I think you made a mistake to bid that Derf gal here,"
spoke old Kimbro mildly. "But don't you let her start up any
foolishness, and we'll all get through without further trouble."
"Yes," broke in the Widow Griever's most rasping tones. "She
called the game I was a-showin' the boys and gals a Virginia
Reel, an' 'lowed she'd call off for us. Call off!" Roxy snorted.
[142] "A lot of perfessin' Christians to dance--dance to Ola Derf's
callin' off!"
Once more Lance's eye swept the circle of hostile, alien faces.
His sense of fair play was touched. Also, he felt himself pushed
outside and set to defending his solitary camp, with the whole
front of respectability arrayed against him. This, so far as the
others were concerned, was the usual thing; it daunted him not
at all. But when he looked to Callista, and saw that at the
first call she had left him--left him alone--arrayed herself
with the enemy--a new, strange, stinging pain went through his
spirit. He smiled, while odd lights began to bicker in his eyes.
"O-oo-oh," he said in a soft, careless voice, "didn't you-all
know that I aim to have dancin'? Why, of course I do." And he
walked away with head aslant, leaving them dumb.
It was but a retort, the usual quick defiance from the Lance
Cleaverage who would not be catechized, reproved; yet when he
entered the outer room and found Ola drawn over at one side,
unfriended, while a knot of whispering girls, quite across the
floor from her, cast glances athwart shoulders in her direction,
the good will of old comradeship, the anger of the host who sees
his guest mistreated, pushed forward his resolution.
"I reckon I'd better be goin' home," Ola said to the pale Callista,
who followed her husband [143] from the back room. "Looks
like I'm in the way here; and mebbe Lance ort not to have bid
me--hit's yo' house."
The bride looked from her bridegroom to the brown girl
strangely. In her own fashion, she was as unwilling to be
outdone as Lance himself. "This here is Lance's house," she said
coldly. "He bids them that he chooses to it. But I reckon he
don't aim to have any dancin'."
Roxy Griever paused in the doorway and peered in.
"I reckon the trouble is that none of the folks here know how to
dance," Ola was saying doubtfully. "Let's you and me show 'em,
Lance. Come on."
Wildly, the sister cast about her for aid. Old Ajax regarded the
scene with the same covert enjoyment he had given another
domestic embroglio. Her father had slipped through a back door
under pretense of seeing to the horse. Her glance fell on
Flenton Hands. This was the man for her need.
Earlier in the evening, when Flenton made his appearance in
Lance Cleaverage's house, accompanying his sisters, Octavia had
murmured, "Well, I vow! Ef I'd 'a' been him, ox chains and plow
lines couldn't have drug me here, after what was said an' done
last night." Even Roxana had wondered at the cold obtuseness
that could prompt the acceptance on Flent's part of that general
[144] invitation Lance had flung back over his shoulder to the
deserted wedding guests, and looked in vain to see what it was
that Hands expected to gain by his attitude. There was some
whispering and staring among the other guests, but Flenton Hands
was admitted to be "quare," and his connection with the
Settlement offered a ready means of accounting for his not doing
things like other people. Now the Widow Griever felt that
Providence--it is wonderful how people of her sort find
Providence ever retained on their own side of the case--had
dictated the attendance of this exemplary and godly person,
second only in authority concerning church matters to Brother
Drumright. She hastily dragged him aside, pouring out the whole
matter, in voluble, hissing whispers, with many backward jerks
of the head or thumb toward where Ola and Lance, in the midst of
a group of boys and girls, still laughed and joked.
"I don't know as I ort to mix into this here business," Hands
began cautiously--the man was not altogether a fool. "The way
things has turned out, looks like I ain't got no call to
interfere."
"'Course you have," Roxy Griever told him. "Preacher Drumright
ain't here--ef he was, I'd not even have to name it to him; he'd
walk right up to Lance Cleaverage in a minute--spite o' the way
Lance done him last night--an' tell [145] him what he ort an' ort not
to do. An' yo' the next after Preacher Drumright. Go 'long,
Flenton. Speak to him. Mr. Gentry won't, an' Poppy's done left
to git out of hit. Poppy never would do what he ort where Lance
was consarned. He wouldn't give that boy discipline when he
could have kivvered him with one hand--an' now look at the
fruits of it!"
Thus urged, Flenton made a somewhat laborious progress toward
the middle of the room. Deep in that curious, indirect, unsound
nature of his was the hankering to brave Lance Cleaverage in his
own house, to insult and overcome him there before Callista; but
the pluck required to undertake the enterprise was not
altogether moral courage; in spite of the laws of hospitality,
there might be some physical demand in the matter, and this
Flenton was scarcely prepared to answer.
He halted long at his host's shoulder, seeking an opportunity to
enter the conversation. Ola paid no attention to him; Callista
stood a little apart from the two, looking down, playing with a
fold of her skirt. Finally, most of the people in the room noted
something strained and peculiar in the situation of affairs, and
began to stare and listen. Flenton cleared his throat.
"Brother Cleaverage," he essayed in a rather husky voice.
Lance wheeled upon him with eyes alight. [146] Thrusting his hands
far down in his pockets, he stared at Flenton Hands from head to
foot. Then his glance traveled to the widow behind Flenton's
shoulder.
"We-e-ell, well," he drawled, with a lazy laugh in his voice,
"have you and Sis' Roxy made a match of it? That's the only way
you'll ever get to be kin to me, and name me brother, Flenton
Hands."
Roxy's long drab face crimsoned darkly, and she fluttered in
wild embarrassment. Hands laughed gratingly, but there was no
amusement in the sound.
"No," he returned in his best pulpit manner--he was sometimes
called upon to officiate at small gatherings when the preacher
could not be present--"no, yo' worthy sister an' me hain't had
our minds on any such. But we have been talking of a ser'ous
matter, Brother Cleaverage."
The form of address slipped out inadvertently, and Hands looked
uncomfortable. Lance shook his head.
"I ain't yo' brother," he demurred, with exaggerated patience.
"You' gettin' the families all mixed up. Hit was Callista I
married."
The boys and girls listening were convulsed with silent mirth.
Rilly Trigg snickered aloud, and little Polly ventured to follow
along the same line. Flenton's pale face reddened faintly.
"I know mighty well-an'-good you ain't brother of mine, [147] Lance
Cleaverage," he said doggedly. "Ef you was, I'd--I'd--"
"Say it," prompted Lance, standing at ease and surveying his
adversary with amusement. "Speak out what's in you. You got me
right here in my own house where I'd be ashamed to give you yo'
dues. Now's the time to free yo' mind. I ain't fit to have
Callista, is that it? She could a' done better--that's what you
want to tell me, ain't it?"
There was a perfect chorus of approving giggles at this,
extending even to the male portion of the company. The tinge of
color left Flenton's sallow cheeks, and they were paler than
usual; but he hung to his purpose.
"I've been axed by them that thinks you ought to be dealt with,
to reason with you." He finally got well under way. "Callista
Gentry belongs to a perfessin' family--she's all but a church
member. You fussed with the preacher last night and tuck her
away from in front of him, an' married her before a ongodly
Justice of the Peace, an' now you air makin' motions like you
was a-goin' to dance here in her house. Yo' sister said that yo'
father wouldn't do nothin', and she axed me would I name these
things out to you; and I said I would. Thar. I've spoke as I was
axed. Looks like the man that's got Callista Gentry could afford
to behave hisself." [148]
With each new accusation, Lance's lids had dropped a bit lower
over the bright eyes, till now a mere line of fire showed
between the lashes, and followed the movement of Flenton's
heavily-swung shoulders, as he emphasized his words with uncouth
shruggings. Yet when all was said, only the conclusion seemed to
stay in Lance's mind. He was asked to do and be much because he
had Callista. But what of the bride? Was not something due from
Callista because she had him?
"'Pears to me like you're in a mighty curious place, Flenton
Hands," he began in a silky, musing voice. "Ef you was wedded to
anybody--jest anybody--I'd shorely keep out o' your way and let
you alone. Is this yo' business? Have I asked yo' ruthers? Has
Callista? I got just the one word to say to you--an' it can't be
said here in my house. But it shall be spoken when and where we
meet next--you mind that!"
A sudden, tense hush fell on the room. Did this mean the
declaration of war which amounts to a one-man feud in the
mountains, and which finally reaches the point where it is kill
or be killed on sight? Flenton dropped back with a blanched,
twisted countenance. He had not bargained for so much.
The young host looked around. His company had separated itself
swiftly into sheep and goats, the elders and the primmer portion
of the young [149] people whispering together apart, while the
bolder youthful spirits gathered in a ring about himself and Ola
Derf. One of these, Rilly Trigg perhaps, took up the banjo and
commenced laboriously to pick chords on it.
"Now, if Callisty could only dance, we'd shore see fun," Ola
Derf suggested.
Lance looked to where his bride stood, aloof, mute, with bitten
lip, listening to what her mother whispered in her ear. Yes, he
was alone once more; she was with the enemy. His glance took the
girl in from head to foot. He saw that she had removed his first
gift, the slippers.
"Callista can dance about as much as you can play, Rill," he
said mockingly.
The bride lowered white lids over scornful eyes and turned her
back. Rilly laid down the banjo. A couple of the boys began to
pat.
"Come on, Lance," whispered Ola defiantly. "I dare ye to dance.
I bet yo' scared to."
A dare--it was Lance Cleaverage's boast that he would never take
a dare from the Lord Almighty. He flung himself lightly into
position. "Pat for us. Buck, cain't you?" he suggested half
derisively. Then, with a swift, graceful bending of the lithe
body, he saluted his partner and began.
The Derf girl was a muscular little creature; she moved with the
tirelessness of a swaying branch in the wind; and Lance himself
was a [150] wonder, when he felt like dancing. The circle of young
people mended itself and grew closer. The two in the middle of
the floor advanced toward each other, caught hands, whirled,
retreated, and improvised steps to the time of Fuson's spatting
palms.
It was a pretty enough sight, and innocent, except for what had
gone before. Roxy Griever had retired in some disarray, upon
Lance's sarcastic coupling of her name with that of Flenton
Hands. Now, coming into the room with the supposition in her
mind that everything was settled in a proper way, she caught
sight of the two and stiffened into rigidity. For a moment she
stared; then, as the full meaning of the scene burst upon her,
she made three long steps to where the youthful Polly stood,
taking in everything with big, enjoying eyes, seized her by the
scant, soiled homespun frock, and hauled her backward from the
room, Polly clawing, scrabbling, hanging to the door frame as
she was snatched through.
"Poppy," shrilled the widow, in the direction of peaceful old
Kimbro, using the tone of one who cries fire, "you kin stay
ef yo're a mind--an' Sylvane can do the same. The best men I
ever knowed--'ceptin' preachers--has a hankerin' for sin.
Ma'y-Ann-Marth', she's asleep, an' what she don't see cain't
hurt her. But as for me, I'm a-goin' to take this here child home
[151] where she won't have the likes of that to look at. I feel
jest as if it was some ketchin' disease, and the fu'ther you git
away from it, the safer you air."
The last of these words trailed back from the dark, into which
the Widow Griever and her small, reluctant charge were rapidly
receding.
Kimbro and his son remained, intending to remonstrate with Lance
when he should have finished his dancing. Octavia Gentry came and
made hasty farewells, hoping thus to stop the performance. Callista
stood looking quietly past the dancers to some air-drawn point on
the wall, and her expression of quiet composure was held by all
observers to be remarkable.
"Oh, no, Mother," she said quietly. "You and Gran'pappy are
never goin' out of my house before you have eat. Come taste the
coffee for me and see have I got it about right. When I was
gettin' my supper for to-night, I found out that there was many
a thing you hadn't learned me at home; so you'll have to show me
now."
With a dignity irreproachable, apparently quite oblivious to the
dancers, the patting, the laughing, shouting onlookers,
Callista smilingly marshalled her forces and put forward her
really excellent supper. Here her pride matched Lance's--and
overmatched it. He might dance, he might fling the doing of it
in her face and the faces of her kindred; she would show herself
[152] unmoved, and mistress of any situation which he could
contrive.
And the supper was a strong argument. People in all walks of
life love to eat; those who danced and those who held dancing
sinful, were alike in their appreciation of good victual. It was
only a few moments before this counter movement broke up the
saltations in the front room and the infare appeared, from an
observer's point of view, a great success, as the happy,
laughing crowd circled about the long tables, those who had
joined to forward the dance coming out looking half sheepish,
altogether apologetic and conciliatory.
"I'm mighty sorry Sis' Roxy had to go home," Callista said
composedly, as she served her father-in-law with a steaming cup
of coffee. "I'm goin' to make a little packet of this here cake
and the preserves Mammy brought over, and send them by you. I
want her to taste them."
The host was the gayest of the gay. But unobserved, his eye
often followed the movements of the bride, and dwelt with a warm
glow upon the graceful form in its womanly attitude of serving
her guests. She had fairly beaten him on his own ground. A
secret pride in her, that she could do it, swelled his breast
and ran tingling along his veins.
So much for the company at large, for what Callista would have
called "the speech of people." When the last guest was gone the
bride faced the [153] bridegroom alone in the house which had
seemed to her so fine. Cold, expectant of some apology, offended,
bewildered, yet ready to be placated.
Lance offered no excuses, but plenty of kisses, praise, and an
ardor that, while it did not convince, melted and subdued her.
The breach was covered temporarily, rather than healed. [154]