JIM, THE PREACHER.
During the rest of the day the visitors were permitted to amuse
themselves. Lou was shy, Margaret was distantly respectful and the old
man went about in leisurely attendance upon his affairs, not yet wholly
unsuspicious. A week before the arrival of the "folks from off yander,"
as the strangers were termed, there had come to Jasper's house a nephew,
Jim Starbuck, a mountain-side preacher. His air bespoke that gentleness
resultant of passion bound and gagged. At eighteen he had been known as
the terror of the creek. Without avail old Jasper had argued with him,
with fresh scalps dangling at his own belt. One night Jim turned a
revival meeting into a fight with bench legs, beat a hard-hearted money
lender until he was taken home almost a mass of pulp. At nineteen he
turned a hapless school teacher out of the school house, nailed up the
door, and because the teacher muttered against it, threw the pedagogue
into the creek. At twenty he seemed to hear a voice coming from afar. A
man going to mill said that he saw Jim beside a log on his knees in the
woods, praying; he was called a liar, knocked down his insulter and went
on with his grist. He had spoken the truth, for on the night following,
Jim arose in the congregation, renounced his reckless ways, and with a
defiance of the world that among the righteous awaked applause, he came
forward and knelt at the mourners' bench. His religion "took," they
said, as if speaking of vaccination, and before long he entered the
pulpit, ready gently to crack the irreligious heads of former companions
still stubborn in the ways of iniquity. From behind a plum bush, in the
corner of the fence, he had seen Mrs. Mayfield and had blinked, as if
dazzled by a great light. Nor was it till the close of day that he had
the courage to come into her presence, and then for a moment he
gazed--and vanished. Old Jasper found him mumbling beneath the moon.
"Lost anythin', Jim?"
"Nothing that I ever thought I had, Uncle Jasper."
"Look like a man that is huntin' fur his terbacker."
"I've quit tobacco long ago, Uncle Jasper."
"Huh, give that up, too? Then you have been hit hard. But atter all, my
boy, a lick that ain't hard don't count fur much. Understand I believe
in yo' Book all right, but not as the most of 'em reads it. The most of
'em reads it so as to make you do the things you don't want to do, and
what they want you to do. A good many of 'em think it was writ fur them
ag'in you. Findin' new picturs on the moon, Jim? I don't see nuthin'
new; same old feller a burnin' of his bresh, allus a puttin' 'em on the
fire an' never gittin' through."
"I'm thinking, that's all, Uncle Jasper."
"Comes from readin' them books up on the hill-top, I reckon. They make
me think, too, when I git a holt of 'em, 'specially them about the
war--looks like it's a mighty hard matter for a man to tell the truth
the minit he grabs holt of a pen. Don't see why a pen is such a liar,
but it is. And yit, the biggist liar I ever seed couldn't more than
write his name. What do you think of them folks in thar, Jim?"
Jim strode off, came back and standing with one hand resting on the rail
fence that surrounded the old man's door yard, hung his head and
replied: "Old Satan sometimes puts good clothes on his temptations,
Uncle Jasper."
"Why, you don't think that young feller's a nosin' round to--"
"I don't see anything mysterious in him, Uncle Jasper. It's the woman
that--that strikes so hard."
"Huh. I didn't think you cared anythin' about women, Jim."
"Oh, I don't and you musn't think I do. Did you ever have a feller catch
a spear out of the sun with a lookin' glass and shoot it through yo'
eyes? That's the way she done me, as she was a standing there at the
door."
"Wall, as game a feller as you are ain't afeared of a woman."
"I don't know about that. The gamer a feller is among men the fearder he
is among women, it seems like. But what am I talking about? She won't
take any notice of me and in fact it won't make any difference if she
does. I tell you, though, I don't like to be treated that way by a
woman."
"Why, how did she treat you?"
"Looked something at me that made me dissatisfied with myself. I reckon
I must be a good deal of a fool, Uncle Jasper."
"Wall, I don't reckon you are as smart as old Henry Clay was. Still you
ain't no slouch. Come on in and I'll give you a knockin' down to her.
She can't no mo' than hit you with somethin'."
When introduced Jim shied off into a corner and there during the evening
he remained, gazing at the woman from "off yander," with scarcely
courage enough to utter a word. Mrs. Mayfield inquired as to his church
among the hills, and his countenance flared with a silly light and old
Jasper ducked his head and snorted in the sleeve of his home-spun shirt.
But the next morning Jim had the courage to appear at the breakfast
table, still gazing; and later when Tom and his aunt went out for a
walk, he followed along like a dog waiting to be scolded.
Several days later, while old black mammy was ironing in the sitting
room, Kintchin came in at the door which always stood open, and looking
about, slowly went up to the old woman and inquired if she needed any
more wood.
"No," she answered, not looking at him, "I's nearly done."
Kintchin scratched his head. "Wall, I jest come ter tell you dat ef you
does need any mo' I knows er man dat'll git it fur you. Me. An' w'en er
man fetches er lady de sort o' wood I'd fetch you, w'y she kin tell
right dar whut he think o' her. Does you hyarken ter me?"
Mammy, slowly moving her iron, looked at him. "Whut de matter wid you,
man? Ain't habin' spells, is you?"
"I's in lub, lady, dat's whut de matter wid me."
"In lub? In lub wid who?"
He leaned toward her. "Wid you."
"W'y you couldn't lub me," she said. "I's eighty odd an' you ain't but
sixty. I's too old fur you. I doan want ter fool wid no chile."
Kintchin came closer and made an attempt to take her hand, shrewdly
watching the hot iron slowly moving over the bosom of a shirt. "I'll
burn da black hide ef you doan git erway. You bodders me."
The old rascal assumed an air of great astonishment. "Whut, er man
bodder er lady dat he lubs?"
"Didn't I tole you you couldn't lub me?"
"Couldn't lub you? Ain't you been er savin' yo' money all deze years,
an' ef er man kain't lub er lady dat's been er savin' her money, who kin
he lub?"
She gave him a look of contempt. "Oh, I knowd dar wuz er bug in de milk
pan. It's my little bit o' money you's atter, but you ain't gwine ter
git it. Dat money's ter bury me wid." And in a self-satisfied way she
nodded at him and resumed her work.
Kintchin stepped back, the word 'bury' having thrown a temporary pall
upon his cupidity, but soon he rallied and renewed his attack. "Funny
dat er lady will save all her life long jest ter be buried. I doan blebe
in deze yere 'spensive funuls nohow. Huh, an' you oughter hab ernuff by
dis time ter bury bof o' us. An' ef you says de word I'll be buried
side o' you ter keep you comp'ny."
She ceased her work and looked at him. "I won't need no comp'ny. I'll be
busy tellin' de Lawd 'bout de folks down yere. An, I gwine tell him,
w'in I goes home."
She gathered up the clothes basket and went into an adjoining room,
leaving Kintchin to muse alone. He heard the low whistle of a
backwoodsman's improvised tune, and looking up, saw a man leaning
against the door-facing. To the old negro the new comer was not a
stranger. Once that big foot had kicked him out of the road, and lying
in his straw bed the poor wretch had burned with resentment, cowed,
helpless; and sleeping, had dreamed of killing the brute and awoke with
a tune on his black lips. He knew Lije Peters, neighborhood bully
without being a coward, a born black-mailer, a ruffian with the touch of
humor, ignorant with sometimes an allegorical cast of speech. As he
entered the room he looked about and seeing no one else, spoke to
Kintchin:
"Whar's Jasper Starbuck?"
"I seed Miss Margaret an' Miss Lou out yander jest now," Kintchin
answered, backing off as Peters advanced toward him.
"I didn't ask about them. Whew, what you got sich a hot fire in here
for?"
"Mammy's been ironin'."
"Yes. Been a meltin iron I should think. Is Starbuck at home? Answer me,
you scoundrel." He made a threatening gesture and Kintchin, backing
further off, cried out, "Doan rush me, suh. Ef I'se er scoundul you
hatter give me time. Er scoundul hatter be keerful whut he say. I seed
Mr. Starbuck dis mawnin', suh."
Peters turned as if to go out, but halted and looked at Kintchin. The
old negro nodded. "Say, is that young feller and that woman here yit?"
"Gimmy time--gimmy time. I's er scoundul, you know."
"Do you want me to mash your head?"
Kintchin put his hand to his head. "Whut, dis one right yere? No, suh, I
doan blebe I does."
"Well, then answer me. That woman and young chap here yet?"
"Yas, suh, da's yere."
"She's his aunt, I understand."
"Yas, suh, dat's whut you un'erstand."
"Why did they come here? What are they doin'?"
"Gimmy time. Da come caze da wanter ter, an' now dat da's yere, da's
jest er bo'din'; dat's all."
"You are an old fool."
"Yas, suh," replied Kintchin, "dat's whut I yere."
Mammy came in and said to Kintchin, "De steers broke down de fence an'
is eatin' up de co'n. See, through de winder?"
"Dat won't do," Kintchin exclaimed with hurry in his voice but with
passive feet. "No, it won't do. Steer ain't got no right ter come roun'
er eatin' up de co'n."
"But w'y doan you go on, man? Mars Jasper'll git arter you."
"I's gwine. Allus suthin' ter make er man work his j'ints," he moved off
toward the door, and turning just before going out, said to Peters:
"Yere come Miss Lou now."
The girl came in singing, but seeing Peters, hushed, and turned to go
out.
"One minute, Miss Lou," said Peters, bowing awkwardly.
She halted, looked at him and said, "Well?"
"Won't you sit down," said Peters, making a great show of politeness.
"I'm not tired," Lou replied.
Peters smiled. "I've got suthin' I want to say to you."
"Then I may be tired," she said, sitting down. "Well?"
Peters stood for a moment, looking at her and then inquired: "Did yo'
father tell you suthin' I said to him?"
Slowly rocking she looked up at him. "He always has enough talk of his
own without repeatin' what other folks say."
"But what I told him was about you."
"Well, if what you said wasn't good you wouldn't be here to tell about
it, so it don't concern me."
He attempted to smile, but failed. "I don't know about that."
"You don't know about anything--much."
"Enough to know what I think of you."
"Hope you know what I think of you."
"Ah," said Peters, "I don't reckon you think of me very often."
Lou got up and went to him, looked straight into his eyes and said:
"Think of you! Why, I never know you are on earth till you come where I
am and then I spend my time tryin' to forget you are there."
"Well, now," replied Peters, "that ain't very polite."
She stepped back and looked at him in pretended astonishment. "Was
anybody ever polite to you?"
"Well, not many of the Starbucks, that's a fact--none, come to think of
it 'cept yo' cousin Jim, the preacher, and he believes that the Lord
made all things for a purpose."
"Yes, he believes that God made the devil."
Peters laughed as if he really enjoyed her contempt of him. He pulled at
his whiskers, cleared his throat, took a turn about the room and looking
at her again, he appeared as if he had attempted to soften his
countenance with a sentiment urgently summoned. "Yes, that is all true,
I reckon. And now let me tell you. I mout not look like it--like I'm
hard to please, but I am. Thar ain't one woman out of a hundred that can
make me wake up when I'm sleepy and think about her, but you can. And
ever sense you was a child I've said I'd never marry till I could git
you." He saw the anger in her eyes and hesitated. "Ah, you may not think
very much of me now," he continued, "but that can all be changed. A
woman's like a mornin' glory flower--always a changing; an' I know you
could learn to love me."
"Oh, you do. Well, what you know and what's the truth won't never know
each other well enough to shake hands."
Peters smiled upon her, "Wall, if nuthin' else did, that of itself would
prove you air old Jasper's daughter."
Margaret Starbuck came in, with a pan of turnips. Peters bowed to her.
"Er good mornin', ma'm."
She put the pan on the table and giving him an unconscious grace bade
him good morning. "Is mammy done ironin'?" she asked, speaking to Lou.
"Yes'm, I reckon so." Then she added, speaking to Peters, "Is there
anythin' else you wanted?"
"Why, Lou," Margaret spoke up, "is that the way to talk?"
"Yes'm, sometimes," and nodding at Peters she added: "And this is one of
them." She laughed, turned away and sat down with her elbows resting on
a battered old melodeon.
"Oh, she's jest a jokin' with me ma'm," said Peters. "I wanted to see
yo' husband. Reckon he's out some whar on the place."
"I think so," Margaret replied, peeling the turnips. "I heard him
calling the hogs just now."
Lou looked at Peters and said: "Then why don't you go?"
"Why, daughter," exclaimed Margaret, "you musn't talk that way. Mr.
Peters is in yo' house."
She came forward and to the visitor bowed with mock humility. "I beg
your pardon, Mr. Peters--"
"Oh, that's all right, Miss Lou."
"For bein' honest with you."
Peters cleared his throat. She returned to the melodeon and sat down
with her back toward him. Peters started out but halted and spoke to
Margaret. "Suthin' I have been workin' fur a long time is about to
come--an app'intment I've been tryin' to git, and when I git it there
air folks that ought to be skeered."
Lou glanced round at him and replied, "And then again, there are folks
that won't be."
"Ah," said Peters, "an' them that won't be air them that ought to be."
And then to Margaret he added: "If I don't find Jasper I'll be back.
When he comes tell him I want to see him. Good day."
When he had gone out into the road Margaret inquired of her daughter
what he had said to give such offense.
"He said I could learn to love him. And I as much as told him he was a
liar."
"But, daughter, you musn't talk like that. You'll have to be more
careful with him, for in some way he's got the upper hand of yo'
father."
"Well, I don't envy him his job."
"Hush," said Margaret. "Here come the folks."