They were rather an incongruous element amid the festivities, but
they bore themselves very well, notwithstanding, and seemed to be
sufficiently interested. The elder of the two--a tall, slender,
middle-aged woman, with a somewhat severe, though delicate face--sat
quietly apart, looking on at the rough dances and games with a keen
relish of their primitive uncouthness; but the younger, a slight, alert
creature, moved here and there, her large, changeable eyes looking
larger through their glow of excitement.
“Thet gal thar,” drawled a tall mountaineer who supported himself
against the chimney and spat with placid regularity into the fire. “They
tell me thet gal thar hes writ things as hes been in print. They say
she's powerful smart--arns her livin' by it. 'T least thet's what Jake
Harney says, 'n they's a-boardin' at Harney's. The old woman's some of
her kin, 'n' goes 'long with her when she travels 'round.”
There was one fiddler at work sawing industriously at one tune which did
good service throughout the entertainment; there was a little furious
and erratic reel-dancing, and much loud laughter, and good-natured, even
if somewhat personal, jest. The room was one of two which formed the
house; the walls were of log; the lights the cheery yellow flare of
great pine-knots flung one after the other upon the embers.
“I am glad I thought of North Carolina,” Rebecca Noble said to herself.
“There is a strong hint of Rembrandt in this,--the bright yellow light,
the uncouth figures. Ah! who is that?”
A short time after, she made her way through the crowd to her relative's
corner among the shadows. She looked eager and excited, and spoke in a
quick, breathless fashion.
“I want to show you something, if you have not already seen it,” she
said. “There is in this room, Aunt Miriam, the most wonderful creature
your eyes ever rested on! You must prepare yourself to be startled. Look
toward the door--at that tall girl standing with her hands behind her.”
She was attired in a calico of flaunting pattern, and leaned against the
log wall in an indifferent attitude, regarding the company from under
the heavy lashes of her eyes, which had a look of stillness in them
which was yet not repose. There was something even secretive in her
expression, as if she watched them furtively for reasons of her own.
At her side stood a big, discontented-looking young man, who confronted
aggressively two or three other young men equally big, if not equally
discontented, who seemed to be arguing some point with him and
endeavoring to engage the attention of his companion. The girl, however,
simply responded to their appeals with an occasional smile, ambiguous,
if not scornful.
“How I wish I could hear them!” exclaimed Miss Noble.
It was her habit to utilize any material she chanced to find, and
she had really made her summer jaunt to North Carolina in search of
material, but she was not thinking of utilizing this girl, as she
managed to keep near her during the remainder of the evening. She had
merely found something to be keenly interested in, her interest in any
human novelty being, on occasion, intense. In this case her interest
increased instead of diminished. She found the girl comporting herself
in her natural position as belle, with a calm which was slightly
suggestive of “the noble savage.” Each admirer seemed to be treated with
indifference alike, though there were some who, for reasons best known
to themselves, evidently felt that they stood more securely than the
rest. She moved through game and dance with a slow yet free grace; she
spoke seldom, and in a low, bell-like monotone, containing no hint of
any possible emotional development, and for the rest, her shadow of a
disdainful smile seemed to stand her in good stead. Clearly as she
stood out from among her companions from the first, at the close of the
evening she assumed a position actually dramatic.
The big young mountaineer, who, despite his discontent, was a very
handsome fellow indeed, had held his own against his rivals stubbornly
during the evening, but when, after the final dance, he went in search
of his charge, he found that he was not first.
She had fallen into her old attitude against the wall, her hands
behind her, and was listening to the appeal of a brawny youth with a
hunting-knife in his belt.
“Dusk,” he was saying, “I'm not such a chicken hearted chap as to let a
gal go back on me. Ye sed I mout hev yer comp'ny home, 'n' I'm a-gwine
to hev it, Dave Humes or no Dave Humes.”
Dusk merely smiled tolerantly.
“Are ye?” she said.
Rebecca Noble, who stood within a few feet of them, was sure that the
lover who approached was the Dave Humes in question, he advanced with
such an angry stride, and laying his hand on his rival's shoulder,
turned him aside so cavalierly.
“No he aint,” he put in; “not an' me about. I brought ye, an' I'll take
ye home, Lodusky, or me and him 'll settle it.”
The other advanced a step, looking a trifle pale and disheveled. He
placed himself square in front of Lodusky.
“Dusk Dunbar,” he said, “you're the one to settle it. Which on us is
a-gwine home with ye--me or him? Ye haint promised the two of us, hev
ye?”
There was certainly a suddenly lit spark of exultation in the girl's
coolly dropped eyes.
“Settle it betwixt ye,” she answered with her exasperating half smile
again.
They had attracted attention by this time, and were becoming the centre
figures of a group of lookers-on.
The first had evidently lost his temper. She was the one who should
settle it, he proclaimed loudly again. She had promised one man her
“comp'ny” and had come with another.
There was so much fierce anger in his face that Miss Noble drew a little
nearer, and felt her own blood warmed.
“Which on us is it to be?” he cried.
There was a quick, strong movement on the part of the young man Dave,
and he was whirled aside for a second time.
“It's to be me,” he was answered. “I'm the man to settle that--I don't
leave it to no gal to settle.”
In two seconds the lookers-on fell back in dismay, and there was a cry
of terror from the women. Two lithe, long-limbed figures were struggling
fiercely together, and there was a flash of knives in the air.
Rebecca Noble sprang forward.
“They will kill each other,” she said. “Stop them!”
That they would have done each other deadly injury seemed more than
probable, but there were cool heads and hands as strong as their own in
the room, and in a few minutes they had been dragged apart and stood,
each held back by the arms, staring at each other and panting. The lank
peacemaker in blue jeans who held Dave Humes shook him gently and with
amiable toleration of his folly.
“Look 'ere, boys,” he said, “this yere's all a pack of foolishness, ye
know--all a pack of foolishness. There aint no sense in it--it's jest
foolishness.”
Rebecca cast a quick glance at the girl Lodusky. She leaned against the
wall just as she had done before; she was as cool as ever, though the
spark which hinted at exultation still shone steadily in her eye.
When the two ladies reached the log-cabin at which they had taken up
their abode, they found that the story of the event of the evening was
before them. Their hostess, whose habit it was to present herself with
erratic talk or information at all hours, met them with hospitable
eagerness.
“Waal now,” she began, “jest to think o' them thar fool boys
a-lettin' into one another in thet tharway. I never hearn tell o' sich
foolishness. Young folks _is_ so foolish. 'N' they drord knives?” This
is in the tone of suggestive query.
“Yes,” answered Miss Noble, “they drew knives.”
“They did!” benignly. “Lord! What fools! Waal now, an' Dusk--what did
Dusk do?”
“She stood by and looked on,” was the reply.
“Lord!” with the inimitable mountain drawl; “ye don't say so! But it's
jest like her--thet is. She's so cur'us, Dusk is. Thar aint no gettin'
at her. Ye know the gals ses as she's allers doin' fust one quare thing
'n' then another to get the boys mad at each other. But Lor', p'r'aps
'taint so! Dusk's powerful good-lookin', and gals is jealous, ye know.”
“Do you think,” questioned Miss Noble, “that they really would have
killed each other?”
“Lord! yaas,” placidly. “They went to do it. Both Dan'l and Dave's
kinder fiery, 'n' they'd nuther on 'em hev give in with Dusk a-lookin'
on--they'd hev cut theirselves to pieces fust. Young folks _is_ so
foolish; gettin' mad about a gal! Lord knows gals is plenty enough.”
“Not girls like this one,” said Miss Noble, laughing a little.
“Waal now, she _is_ good-lookin', aint she? But she's cur'us, Dusk
is--she's a cur'us creetur.”
“Curious!” echoed Rebecca, finding the term vague even while
suggestive.
“Yaas,” she said, expansively, “she's cur'us, kinder onsosherble ''n'
notionate. Now Dusk is--cur'us. She's so still and sot, 'n' Nath Dunbar
and Mandy they think a heap on her, 'n' they do the best they kin by
her, but she don't never seem to keer about 'em no way. Fur all she's so
still, she's powerful sot on fine dressin' an' rich folkses ways. Nath
he once tuk her to Asheville, 'n' seems like she's kinder never got over
it, but keeps a-broodin' 'bout the way they done thar, 'n' how their
clothes looked, 'n' all thet. She knows she's handsum, 'n' she likes to
see other folks knows it, though she never says much. I hed to laugh at
my Hamp once; Hamp he aint no fool, an' he'd been tuk with her a spell
like the rest o' the boys, but he got chock full of her, 'n' one day
we was a-talkin,' 'n' the old man he says, 'Waal now, that gal's a hard
wad. She's cur'us, 'n' thar's no two ways about it.' An' Hamp he gives
a bit of a laugh kinder mad, 'n' he ses, 'Yes, she's cur'us--cur'us
as ----!' May be he felt kinder roughed up about her yet--but I hed to
laugh.”
The next morning Miss Noble devoted to letter-writing. In one of her
letters, a bright one, of a tone rather warmer than the rest, she gave
her correspondent a very forcible description of the entertainment of
the evening before and its closing scene.
“I think it will interest him,” she said half aloud, as she wrote upon
the envelope the first part of the address, 'Mr. Paul Lennox.'
A shadow falling across the sunshine in the door way checked her and
made her look up.
It had rather an arousing effect upon her to find herself confronting
the young woman, Lodusky, who stood upon the threshold, regarding her
with an air entirely composed, slightly mingled with interest.
“I was in at Mis' Harney's,” she remarked, as if the explanation was
upon the whole rather superfluous, “'n' I thought I'd come in 'n' see
ye.”
During her sojourn of three weeks Rebecca had learned enough of the laws
of mountain society to understand that the occasion only demanded of her
friendliness of demeanor and perfect freedom from ceremony. She rose and
placed a chair for her guest.
“I am glad to see you,” she said.
Lodusky seated herself.
It was entirely unnecessary to attempt to set her at ease; her composure
was perfect. The flaunt-ing-patterned calico must have been a matter of
full dress. It had been replaced by a blue-and-white-checked homespun
gown--a coarse cotton garment short and scant. Her feet were bare, and
their bareness was only a revelation of greater beauty, so perfect was
their arched slenderness. Miss Dunbar crossed them with unembarrassed
freedom, and looked at the stranger as if she found her worth steady
inspection.
“Thet thar's a purty dress you're a-wearin',” she vouchsafed at length.
Rebecca glanced down at her costume. Being a sensible young person, she
had attired herself in apparel suitable for mountain rambling. Her dress
was simple pilgrim gray, taut made and trim; but she never lost an air
of distinction which rendered abundant adornments a secondary matter.
“It is very plain,” she answered. “I believe its chief object; is to be
as little in the way as possible.”
“Taint much trimmed,” responded the girl, “but it looks kinder nice, 'n'
it sets well. Ye come from the city, Mis' Harney says.”
“From New York,” said Rebecca. She felt sure that she saw in the tawny
brown depths of the girl's eyes a kind of secret eagerness, and this
expressed itself openly in her reply.
“I don't blame no one fur wantin' to live in a city,” she said, with
a kind of discontent. “A body might most as soon be dead as live this
way.”
Rebecca gave her a keen glance. “Don't you like the quiet?” she asked.
“What is it you don't like?”
“I don't like nothin' about it,” scornfully. “Thar's nothin' here.”
Very slowly a lurking, half-hidden smile showed itself about her fine
mouth.
“I'm not goin' to stay here allers,” she said.
“You want to go away?” said Rebecca.
She nodded.
“I _am_ goin',” she answered, “some o' these days.”
“Where?” asked Rebecca, a little coldly, recognizing as she did a
repellant element in the girl.