The castaway's gaze went to the girl kneeling beside him.
"An' the furrin woman!" he muttered.
Florence came running with the flask, which was full of brandy.
"Quick!" Josephine urged. "He's better, but he's raving crazy. Thinks
I'm a foreigner."
But, as Florence could have filled the cup of the flask, Zeke
interposed, with more animation than he had hitherto shown.
"If so be that's likker, an' ye 'lows to give hit to me, if hit don't
make no p'tic'lar diff'rence to you-all, I'd like to drink hit right
smack outen thet-thar new-fangled bottle, jest as we be a-used to
doin' in the State o' Wilkes."
"As you wish, of course," Florence replied, soothingly. "It will make
a new man of you."
Zeke promptly sat up and put his lips to the mouth of the flask, and
held them there while the rhythmic movement of his adam's apple
visibly witnessed thirstiness. The girls regarded him with
astonishment, which quickly merged in dismay, for they could not
guess the boomer's capacity for fiery drink. As a matter of fact,
Zeke, while he drank, lamented the insipidity of the draught, and
sighed for a swig of moonshine to rout the chill in his veins with its
fluid flames. He, in turn, was presently to learn, with astonishment,
that a beverage so mild to the taste had all the potency of his
mountain dram, and more. Chilled as he had been by the long hours of
exposure to the night air of the sea, while drifting the fifteen miles
from Ocracoke Inlet, and worn in body and mind by the peril of his
situation, Zeke found himself almost at once strengthened and cheered
by the generous spirit. He was, in fact, another man than the
exhausted castaway, as the girl had promised; he was himself again. He
was still weak and shaken; but his splendid vitality was asserting
itself. The gray, drawn face was colored to golden tan; the clear eyes
were shining with new appreciation of the joy of life. He had not
thought much after the very first, during those long, racking hours of
tossing on the sea. His brain had become numb. His fancies had run to
tender memories of moments spent with Plutina. Often, he had felt her
presence there with him, in the dark spaces of the sea. But the idea
that most dominated his mind had sprung from the lusty instinct of
self-preservation; he must cling to the raft. It had been the one
thing that he could do toward safety. His whole will had centered in
the clutch of his hands on the tubes.
Seeing the man thus recovered, the girls withdrew toward the runabout
to adjust their clothing, and to find some garment for the man, since
he wore only shirt and trousers. But the bull-terrier, for a wonder,
did not follow its mistress. Instead, it sat on its haunches close to
the mountaineer, and muzzled his hand. Zeke pulled the dog's ears
gently.
"That thump I gin ye must 'a' struck plumb down to yer heart, an' made
a right-smart change in yer affections. Ye wa'n't so dummed friendly
when ye tuck thet-thar hunk out o' my pants."
The dog whined an answer, and crept fawningly into the mountaineer's
lap, where it nestled contentedly. It was thus that the girls,
returning with a rain-coat, found the two, and they stared in
surprise, for the bull-terrier was none too amiable with strangers.
"I never knew Chubbie make friends like that before," Josephine
exclaimed. She looked in fresh curiosity upon the wholesome face with
the regular features, rather stern in repose, but now softened by a
smile. "It must be because he helped us pull you out. We couldn't have
done it without him. That makes you belong to him, in a way."
Zeke stared at the dog, with new respect.
"The darned son of a gun!" he ejaculated, gravely. "I reckon," he
continued after a meditative pause, "the little cuss felt like he owed
me somethin' fer sp'ilin' my jeans. That crack I gin him put the fear
o' God into his bosom, so to speak. 'The more ye beat 'em, the better
they be.'"
Josephine started at his words. Without a hat, the dark curls had
given a look so different to the face that, until now, she had not
recognized the man of the ferry-boat.
"Why," she cried, "you are the one!" She turned to the bewildered
Florence. Her blue eyes were flashing; her voice was hard. "He's the
creature that almost killed Chubbie. And to think we troubled to save
him!"
"That hell-fired pup o' your'n took a holt on me first," Zeke
protested wrathfully, forgetful of his reconciliation with the dog.
Then, a plaintive whine recalled him. He smiled whimsically, as he
patted the bull-terrier's head, which was lifted toward him fondly.
The anger died out of his face, and he smiled. "I've hearn these-hyar
dumb critters git things 'bout right by instinct, somehow. Yer dawg's
done fergive me. Won't you-all, mum?"
Josephine hesitated. The ingenuous appeal touched her. Only pride held
her from yielding.
"An', besides," Zeke went on, "ye was a-sayin' as how the dawg kind o'
felt I belonged to him like, bein' he he'ped pull me out o' the
ocean, an' so he had to like me. Thet-thar argyment goes fer you-all,
too, mum. So, I 'low ye gotter fergive me--specially kase yer dawg
begun hit."
Josephine relaxed with a ripple of laughter. The mountaineer both
interested and pleased her. To her inevitable interest in one whom she
had helped to save from death, there was now added a personal
attraction. She perceived, with astonishment, that this was by no
means the hulking brute she had deemed him when her pet had suffered
at his hands. The dog's attitude toward him impressed her deeply.
Moreover, she saw that he was intelligent, as well as naïve. She
perceived that he had humor and quickness of feeling. His
responsiveness to the dog's advances pleased her. She was greedy of
experience and knowledge, easily bored by familiar things, likely to
be vastly interested, for a brief season, in the new and strange. She
realized that here, ready to her hand, was a type wholly novel. She
felt that it was her prerogative to understand something of the nature
of this singular being thus cast at her feet by fate. Certainly, it
would be absurd to cherish any rancor. As he had said, the dog's
action sufficed. Besides, she must be friendly if she would learn
concerning this personality. Every reason justified inclination. She
rebelled no longer. Her blue eyes gleamed with genuine kindliness, as
she spoke:
"I'll take Chubbie's word for it." Her voice became authoritative.
"Now, if you feel equal to standing up, we'll have this rain-coat on
you, and then run you down to the yacht. We'll attend to landing you
somewhere after you've rested and had something to eat."
Already Josephine's brain was busy, scheming to her own ends, but of
this she gave no hint.
Zeke pushed away the reluctant dog, and rose up stiffly. The
stimulation of the brandy stood him in good stead.
"I 'low I'm havin' a right-smart lot of experience," he remarked,
chuckling. "What with steam-cars, an' boats, an' wrecks, an' now one
o' them ornery devil-wagons. I hain't a-feared none," he added,
musingly, "but I hain't a-pinin' neither. I reckon I kin stand
anythin' what gals an' a dog kin. I'm plumb nervous or hungry--I don't
know which. Both, like's not!"
He rejected the offer of support, and walked firmly enough to the
machine, which he eyed distrustfully. Florence took the rear seat, and
Zeke established himself beside Josephine, the dog between his feet.
After the first few minutes, he found himself delighting in this
smooth, silent rush over the white sands. In answer to Josephine's
question, he gave a bare outline of his adventures in the three days
of his absence from the mountains.
"I was a-hankerin' arter experience," he concluded, "an' aimin' to
make my everlastin' fortin. I been doin' pretty peart, so fer."
"You've certainly had more than your share of experience in the time,"
Josephine agreed; "though I don't know about the fortune."
"Started right-smack off at the rate of more'n seventy-five thousand
dollars a year," Zeke rejoined, complacently. He laughed joyously at
the bewildered face the girl turned to him.
"I done figured hit out las' night, not havin' much of anythin' to do
on thet-thar raft, 'cept to stick." He gave an account of the capture
of the negro outlaw, for which he had received a reward. "I'm only
a-jokin', of course," he went on with new seriousness. "I hain't
pinin' fer no foolishness. All I want is enough so's not to be
hog-pore. An' I got a chance to learn somethin', an' to make
somethin', an', arter all, go right on livin' in my own country. An'
that's what Plutiny wants, too. An' I'll have enough to buy her
straighteners, if she wants 'em, by cracky!"
"Oh--straighteners?" Josephine repeated, mystified. Vague memories of
a visit to a hospital suggested an explanation. "Then, this person you
speak of, Plutina, is deformed?"
"Deformed!" For an instant, Zeke could only repeat the word,
helplessly.
"A curvature of the spine, I suppose," Josephine continued, without
interest. She had her eyes on the ribbon of sand now, and guessed
nothing as to her companion's disturbance, until his voice came in a
burst of protest that made her jump.
"Plutiny--deformed!" he exclaimed, harshly. Then, his voice softened
wonderfully, though it shook with the tensity of his feeling. "Why,
Plutiny's better'n anybody else in all the world--she is, an' she
looks hit. Plutiny--deformed! Why, my Plutiny's straight as thet-thar
young pine tree atop Bull Head Mounting. An' she's as easy an'
graceful to bend an' move as the alders along Thunder Branch. There
hain't nary other woman in all the world to ekal my Plutiny.
Plutiny--deformed! Why, mum, you-all talk plumb foolish."
The girl was too astonished before this outburst to take offense.
"But you spoke about straighteners for her," she protested.
Zeke stared for a moment, then grinned understandingly.
"Thet's what we-uns call 'em," he said. "You-all call 'em corsets."
Yet, the effect of this conversation reached beyond the humorous. In
some subtle fashion, it provoked the girl to keener interest in the
young man. She was perhaps, though she would have denied the
suggestion hotly, a little piqued by the exaltation with which he
praised his rustic sweetheart. Josephine was an exceedingly attractive
young woman, and she was accustomed to having men show their
appreciation of the fact. It was new to her thus essentially to be
ignored, and not quite agreeable. There could be no tender interest
between herself and this handsome barbarian. The idea even of
flirtation was quite inconceivable. Nevertheless, it was strange that
he should be so imperceptive of her charms. Doubtless, his eyes were
blind to the refinements of beauty. They should be opened. It would be
dreadful if the fellow should grow away from the girl who was waiting
for him. And yet--Josephine checked her thoughts, and blushed a
little. But a plan matured.
That plan was followed diplomatically when she secured a private
interview with her father, after the return on board the yacht.
"Daddy, dear," she said, with a manner as casual as she could
contrive, "let's keep this Mister Higgins on board. He's bound for New
York, but in no particular hurry. We'll get him there in about ten
days."
Mr. Blaise, who was a plethoric, fussy little man, adamant to all the
world save his only child, regarded her now in perplexity, his shrewd
eyes a bit mischievous.
"I don't imagine it's to be the stereotyped romance, just because you
dragged him out of the sea," he said. "The chap has the makings of
considerable of a man in him, and he's good-looking enough to catch a
girl's fancy; but he's not your sort. So, why?"
"Besides," Josephine retorted, smiling, "Florence has the same right
in him as treasure trove. That would make the romance too
complicated."
"Why?" Mr. Blaise repeated.
"I've never met anyone like him," the girl explained, with truth, if
not all the truth. "He's unique. I want to study him. Such knowledge
is broadening--better than books."
"Bosh!" was the comment. "You mean, he's just a freak to you, and
you'd like to look him over a little longer. There's no harm in that,
if it amuses you. But don't be silly about broadening yourself." He
regarded his daughter critically. "And leave out the deserts. They're
too broadening, if you like. You're getting plump."
Josephine accepted this meekly, in her satisfaction over having her
way as to the new guest.
"I'll go and invite him, right away," she exclaimed. "He'll liven us
up."
But her father wrinkled his brows in doubt.
"What about the effect on the young fellow, himself?" he demanded.
"It can't do him any good, Josie. That sort of thing's unsettling, you
know."
Josephine attempted no reply, as she went on her way. Her father could
not see the flush that touched her cheeks.
Through such devious ways did it come to pass that the mountaineer
entered a world of which he had never even dreamed. His own complete
ignorance of social conditions prevented him from appreciating the
marvel wrought by fate in his behalf. In the simplicity of his
character, he accepted the change as a perfectly natural event in the
world that he had set out to explore. It was this simplicity, which
kept him from undue self-consciousness, that carried him safely
through what must otherwise have been an ordeal. He accepted what had
befallen thankfully, and sought to learn what he best might from the
novel environment. His interest was conspicuously in others, not in
himself. He was greedy of information, lavish in liking. By a benign
miracle, there were no snobs in the yachting party, which included
also two young men, and two of the owner's age, besides Josephine's
aunt. This chaperon was a motherly soul, and, in sheer kindliness of
heart did much to make the situation easy. The informality of the
party, too, was a tremendous advantage to the young man, though he
never guessed it. On the contrary, he accepted things as they were
enthusiastically, with never a thought of dismay. In flannels loaned
him by the largest guest, which fitted too snugly, he presented an
appearance so excellent that Mr. Blaise was moved to pinch his
daughter's ear, while reminding her of the stereotyped romance.
Such was the cause of Plutina's wearisome waiting for the letter that
did not come. Zeke found, to his distress, too late that an interval
of a week or more must elapse before a letter posted in Bermuda could
possibly reach the mountains. But, beyond that, there was nothing to
disturb the girl who loved him. The heart of the lad amid the luxuries
of life on the yacht was unchanged in its devotion. It was, indeed, as
if he saw all things as a frame for her. He was forever thinking how
Plutina would look here or there, in connection with this or the
other. The gowns of the three women, were viewed critically in
relation to the mountain girl. He would imagine her loveliness
enhanced by the sheen of silk, by the films of lace, by the lusters of
jewels. Josephine thought once when she appeared in a dainty evening
frock, not too daring, that she had penetrated his armor of aloofness,
for he blushed hotly as his eyes went to her neck, and his gaze fell.
She was deceived. He remembered in that moment, how he had once kissed
the soft whiteness of Plutina's throat, where the homespun gown lay
open. Now, memory of the warm bliss of that kiss sent the blood
racing and tingling.
That self-deception was as near as Josephine ever came to triumph.
Florence understood, to some extent, at least, the mood that
influenced her friend. A feminine intuition inspired in her a like
ambition to pierce this young savage's reserve. Through her own
feeling, she readily divined that of Josephine. Thus, the two became
unconfessed allies in the employment of their wiles against an
unsuspecting victim. It was, indeed, the lack of suspicion on his part
that irritated them to the point of exasperation. He was so utterly
innocent of their manoeuvers against his peace! Both of the girls were
attractive beyond the average. Josephine, a plump blonde, ingenuous of
manner, sophisticated, capricious, yet not spoiled, egotistic, but
winsome, full of electric vitality; Florence, taller and darker, with
an air more sedate, yet doubtless capable of deeper and more enduring
emotions. Each possessed excellent features, and the fascinations of
radiant health, sufficient culture, and the most exquisite refinements
of personal detail. They deserved the humble admiration of any man.
They expected tender adulation from most, and from most they received
it. At the outset a certain impassivity on the part of this wild
mountaineer excited their astonishment, then, quickly, their
dissatisfaction. They were moved to a caprice against his calm,
against this indifference that was an affront. They had no wish to
work him serious harm, but his disregard was intolerable. Since the
heart of neither was engaged, there was no jealousy between them in
the affair. Since each was secretly ashamed of her motives, there was
no confidence between them.
Their failure, in the lazy days and evenings of voyaging and of
rambling in the Bermudan islands, was undeniable. It was the more
aggravating since the young man patently admired them. Even, his
admiration was excessive, almost reverential, at times. Yet, it was
altogether impersonal. They came eventually to know that this
mountaineer regarded them with warm friendliness, with a lively
gratitude, with a devoted respect, with a certain veneration. But that
was all. No dart from their quiver of charms touched to the passionate
heart of him--nor ever could. From whichever side the shafts were
thrown, always they were shattered against a white shield, and fell
harmless. That shield was Plutina.
One night, as the yacht neared New York, Josephine and Zeke sat
together, watching the scud of clouds across the moon. The mountaineer
spoke softly, after an interval of silence.
"The clouds is runnin' thar jest as I've seen 'em lookin' out across
the valley from Stone Mounting--with Plutiny." There was a caress in
his voice.
Josephine checked an ejaculation of impatience. The savage was
incorrigible--quite! Him, and his everlasting Plutina! Perverse
curiosity overcame discretion. Perhaps, too, after all, he only needed
guidance. She tried to believe, though vainly, that only shyness
prevented him from improving an opportunity any other man would have
coveted.
"Tell me," she said softly, with a sympathetic lure in her tones, "is
Plutina so very beautiful?"
The lure was effective. Zeke turned to her with the hazel eyes darkly
luminous in the moonlight.
"Tiny's beautiful," he answered tenderly; and there was music now in
the slow drawl. "I 'low she's the most beautiful woman in the world."
"I'm afraid you're prejudiced," Josephine objected, with a disarming
laugh. "Of course, you ought to think so, but, really you know, you
haven't quite seen all the beautiful women in the world. Now, have
you?"
"All I need to," was the confident assurance. "Why," he continued with
an apologetic smile for his boldness. "I done seen you-all, Miss
Blaise, an' I reckon you-all are about as beautiful as a woman kin
be--'ceptin' Plutina."
The tribute was potent from its very unexpectedness. It eased the
chagrin from which vanity had suffered. Evidently, her charms were not
disregarded. It was simply that this lover had given his heart, and
that he was loyal. The girl sighed a little enviously at the
realization. She knew too well that many, perhaps most, in her world
were not loyal, even when their hearts were given. She wondered if, in
truth, there awaited her the boon of a like faithfulness. Yet she
persevered in her probing.
"Out in the world," she said musingly, "where things are so different
from up in your mountains, you may change. It may be you won't want to
go back, to the hills--to Plutina."
A flush of wrath burned in Zeke's cheeks, visible in the gloom.
"Hit ain't fittin' fer you-all to say no such thing, Miss Blaise. But
I kin fergive ye, kase ye hain't seen our mountings. They hain't no
other place more beautiful. Mister Sutton done told me so, an' he's
been all over the hull world. An', besides, hit's home. A man what
don't love his home country better'n any other--why, mum, he's jest a
plain skunk.... An' Plutiny, she's the best part o' home. There
hain't no land so beautiful, nor no woman. No, mum, I sha'n't
change--never! I kain't!"
And Josephine knew that it was so, and once again she sighed.