“An’ de next’ frawg dat houn’ pup seen, he pass him by wide.”
The house, which had hung upon every word, roared with laughter,
and shook with a storming volley of applause. Gideon bowed to
right and to left, low, grinning, assured comedy obeisances; but
as the laughter and applause grew he shook his head, and signaled
quietly for the drop. He had answered many encores, and he was an
instinctive artist. It was part of the fuel of his vanity that his
audience had never yet had enough of him. Dramatic judgment, as
well as dramatic sense of delivery, was native to him, qualities
which the shrewd Felix Stuhk, his manager and exultant discoverer,
recognized and wisely trusted in. Off stage Gideon was watched
over like a child and a delicate investment, but once behind the
footlights he was allowed to go his own triumphant gait.
It was small wonder that Stuhk deemed himself one of the cleverest
managers in the business; that his narrow, blue-shaven face was
continually chiseled in smiles of complacent self-congratulation.
He was rapidly becoming rich, and there were bright prospects of
even greater triumphs, with proportionately greater reward. He had
made Gideon a national character, a headliner, a star of the first
magnitude in the firmament of the vaudeville theater, and all in
six short months. Or, at any rate, he had helped to make him all
this; he had booked him well and given him his opportunity. To be
sure, Gideon had done the rest; Stuhk was as ready as any one to do
credit to Gideon’s ability. Still, after all, he, Stuhk, was the
discoverer, the theatrical Columbus who had had the courage and the
vision.
A now-hallowed attack of tonsilitis had driven him to Florida,
where presently Gideon had been employed to beguile his
convalescence, and guide him over the intricate shallows of that
long lagoon known as the Indian River in search of various fish.
On days when fish had been reluctant Gideon had been lured into
conversation, and gradually into narrative and the relation of
what had appeared to Gideon as humorous and entertaining; and
finally Felix, the vague idea growing big within him, had one day
persuaded his boatman to dance upon the boards of a long pier where
they had made fast for lunch. There, with all the sudden glory of
crystallization, the vague idea took definite form and became the
great inspiration of Stuhk’s career.
Gideon had grown to be to vaudeville much what _Uncle Remus_ is to
literature: there was virtue in his very simplicity. His artistry
itself was native and natural. He loved a good story, and he told
it from his own sense of the gleeful morsel upon his tongue as
no training could have made him. He always enjoyed his story and
himself in the telling. Tales never lost their savor, no matter how
often repeated; age was powerless to dim the humor of the thing,
and as he had shouted and gurgled and laughed over the fun of
things when all alone, or holding forth among the men and women and
little children of his color, so he shouted and gurgled and broke
from sonorous chuckles to musical, falsetto mirth when he fronted
the sweeping tiers of faces across the intoxicating glare of the
footlights. He had that rare power of transmitting something of his
own enjoyments. When Gideon was on the stage, Stuhk used to enjoy
peeping out at the intent, smiling faces of the audience, where
men and women and children, hardened theater-goers and folk fresh
from the country, sat with moving lips and faces lit with an eager
interest and sympathy for the black man strutting in loose-footed
vivacity before them.
“He’s simply unique,” he boasted to wondering local
managers—“unique, and it took me to find him. There he was, a
little black gold-mine, and all of ’em passed him by until I came.
Some eye? What? I guess you’ll admit you have to hand it some to
your Uncle Felix. If that coon’s health holds out, we’ll have all
the money there is in the mint.”
That was Felix’s real anxiety—“If his health holds out.” Gideon’s
health was watched over as if he had been an ailing prince. His
bubbling vivacity was the foundation upon which his charm and his
success were built. Stuhk became a sort of vicarious neurotic,
eternally searching for symptoms in his protégé; Gideon’s tongue,
Gideon’s liver, Gideon’s heart were matters to him of an unfailing
and anxious interest. And of late—of course it might be imagination
—Gideon had shown a little physical falling off. He ate a bit less,
he had begun to move in a restless way, and, worst of all, he
laughed less frequently.
As a matter of fact, there was ground for Stuhk’s apprehension. It
was not all a matter of managerial imagination: Gideon was less
himself. Physically there was nothing the matter with him; he could
have passed his rigid insurance scrutiny as easily as he had done
months before, when his life and health had been insured for a sum
that made good copy for his press-agent. He was sound in every
organ, but there was something lacking in general tone. Gideon
felt it himself, and was certain that a “misery,” that embracing
indisposition of his race, was creeping upon him. He had been fed
well, too well; he was growing rich, too rich; he had all the
praise, all the flattery that his enormous appetite for approval
desired, and too much of it. White men sought him out and made much
of him; white women talked to him about his career; and wherever he
went, women of color—black girls, brown girls, yellow girls—wrote
him of their admiration, whispered, when he would listen, of their
passion and hero-worship. “City niggers” bowed down before him;
the high gallery was always packed with them. Musk-scented notes
scrawled upon barbaric, “high-toned” stationery poured in upon
him. Even a few white women, to his horror and embarrassment,
had written him of love, letters which he straightway destroyed.
His sense of his position was strong in him; he was proud of it.
There might be “folks outer their haids,” but he had the sense to
remember. For months he had lived in a heaven of gratified vanity,
but at last his appetite had begun to falter. He was sated; his
soul longed to wipe a spiritual mouth on the back of a spiritual
hand, and have done. His face, now that the curtain was down and he
was leaving the stage, was doleful, almost sullen.
Stuhk met him anxiously in the wings, and walked with him to his
dressing-room. He felt suddenly very weary of Stuhk.
“Nothing the matter, Gideon, is there? Not feeling sick or
anything?”
“No, Misteh Stuhk; no, seh. Jes don’ feel extry pert, that’s all.”
“But what is it—anything bothering you?”
Gideon sat gloomily before his mirror.
“Misteh Stuhk,” he said at last, “I been steddyin’ it oveh, and I
about come to the delusion that I needs a good po’k-chop. Seems
foolish, I know, but it do’ seem as if a good po’k-chop, fried jes
right, would he’p consid’able to disumpate this misery feelin’
that’s crawlin’ and creepin’ round my sperit.”
Stuhk laughed.
“Pork-chop, eh? Is that the best you can think of? I know what you
mean, though. I’ve thought for some time that you were getting a
little overtrained. What you need is—let me see—yes, a nice bottle
of wine. That’s the ticket; it will ease things up and won’t do you
any harm. I’ll go, with you. Ever had any champagne, Gideon?”
Gideon struggled for politeness.
“Yes, seh, I’s had champagne, and it’s a nice kind of lickeh sho
enough; but, Misteh Stuhk, seh, I don’ want any of them high-tone
drinks to-night, an’ ef yo’ don’ mind, I’d rather amble off ’lone,
or mebbe eat that po’k-chop with some otheh cullud man, ef I kin
fin’ one that ain’ one of them no-’count Carolina niggers. Do you
s’pose yo’ could let me have a little money to-night, Misteh Stuhk?”
Stuhk thought rapidly. Gideon had certainly worked hard, and he was
not dissipated. If he wanted to roam the town by himself, there
was no harm in it. The sullenness still showed in the black face;
Heaven knew what he might do if he suddenly began to balk. Stuhk
thought it wise to consent gracefully.
“Good!” he said. “Fly to it. How much do you want? A hundred?”
“How much is coming to me?”
“About a thousand, Gideon.”
“Well, I’d moughty like five hun’red of it, ef that’s ’greeable to
yo’.”
Felix whistled.
“Five hundred? Pork-chops must be coming high. You don’t want to
carry all that money around, do you?”
Gideon did not answer; he looked very gloomy.
Stuhk hastened to cheer him.
“Of course you can have anything you want. Wait a minute, and I
will get it for you.
“I’ll bet that coon’s going to buy himself a ring or something,” he
reflected as he went in search of the local manager and Gideon’s
money.
But Stuhk was wrong. Gideon had no intention of buying himself
a ring. For the matter of that, he had several that were amply
satisfactory. They had size and sparkle and luster, all the diamond
brilliance that rings need to have; and for none of them had he
paid much over five dollars. He was amply supplied with jewelry in
which he felt perfect satisfaction. His present want was positive,
if nebulous; he desired a fortune in his pocket, bulky, tangible
evidence of his miraculous success. Ever since Stuhk had found him,
life had had an unreal quality for him. His Monte Cristo wealth
was too much like a fabulous, dream-found treasure, money that
could not be spent without danger of awakening. And he had dropped
into the habit of storing it about him, so that in any pocket into
which he plunged his hand he might find a roll of crisp evidence of
reality. He liked his bills to be of all denominations, and some
so large as exquisitely to stagger imagination, others charming by
their number and crispness—the dignified, orange paper of a man
of assured position and wealth-crackling greenbacks the design of
which tinged the whole with actuality. He was specially partial
to engravings of President Lincoln, the particular savior and
patron of his race. This five hundred dollars he was adding to an
unreckoned sum of about two thousand, merely as extra fortification
against a growing sense of gloom. He wished to brace his flagging
spirits with the gay wine of possession, and he was glad, when the
money came, that it was in an elastic-bound roll, so bulky that it
was pleasantly uncomfortable in his pocket as he left his manager.
As he turned into the brilliantly lighted street from the somber
alleyway of the stage entrance, he paused for a moment to glance
at his own name, in three-foot letters of red, before the doors
of the theater. He could read, and the large block type always
pleased him. “THIS WEEK: GIDEON.” That was all. None of the fulsome
praise, the superlative, necessary definition given to lesser
performers. He had been, he remembered, “GIDEON, America’s Foremost
Native Comedian,” a title that was at once boast and challenge.
That necessity was now past, for he was a national character;
any explanatory qualification would have been an insult to the
public intelligence. To the world he was just “Gideon”; that was
enough. It gave him pleasure, as he sauntered along, to see the
announcement repeated on window cards and hoardings.
Presently he came to a window before which he paused in delighted
wonder. It was not a large window; to the casual eye of the
passer-by there was little to draw attention. By day it lighted
the fractional floor space of a little stationer, who supplemented
a slim business by a sub-agency for railroad and steamship lines;
but to-night this window seemed the framework of a marvel of
coincidence. On the broad, dusty sill inside were propped two
cards: the one on the left was his own red-lettered announcement
for the week; the one at the right—oh, world of wonders!—was a
photogravure of that exact stretch of the inner coast of Florida
which Gideon knew best, which was home.
There it was, the Indian River, rippling idly in full sunlight,
palmettos leaning over the water, palmettos standing as irregular
sentries along the low, reeflike island which stretched away out of
the picture. There was the gigantic, lonely pine he knew well, and,
yes—he could just make it out—there was his own ramshackle little
pier, which stretched in undulating fashion, like a long-legged,
wading caterpillar, from the abrupt shore-line of eroded coquina
into deep water.
He thought at first that this picture of his home was some new
and delicate device put forth by his press-agent. His name on
one side of a window, his birthplace upon the other—what could
be more tastefully appropriate? Therefore, as he spelled out
the reading-matter beneath the photogravure, he was sharply
disappointed. It read:
Spend this winter in balmy Florida.
Come to the Land of Perpetual Sunshine.
Golf, tennis, driving, shooting, boating, fishing, all of
the best.
There was more, but he had no heart for it; he was disappointed
and puzzled. This picture had, after all, nothing to do with him.
It was a chance, and yet, what a strange chance! It troubled and
upset him. His black, round-featured face took on deep wrinkles of
perplexity. The “misery” which had hung darkly on his horizon for
weeks engulfed him without warning. But in the very bitterness of
his melancholy he knew at last his disease. It was not champagne
or recreation that he needed, not even a “po’k-chop,” although his
desire for it had been a symptom, a groping for a too homeopathic
remedy: he was homesick.
Easy, childish tears came into his eyes, and ran over his shining
cheeks. He shivered forlornly with a sudden sense of cold, and
absently clutched at the lapels of his gorgeous, fur-lined ulster.
Then in abrupt reaction he laughed aloud, so that the shrill,
musical falsetto startled the passers-by, and in another moment
a little semicircle of the curious watched spellbound as a black
man, exquisitely appareled, danced in wild, loose grace before the
dull background of a somewhat grimy and apparently vacant window. A
newsboy recognized him.
He heard his name being passed from mouth to mouth, and came partly
to his senses. He stopped dancing, and grinned at them.
“Say, you are Gideon, ain’t you?” his discoverer demanded, with a
sort of reverent audacity.
“Yaas, _seh_,” said Gideon; “that’s me. Yo’ shu got it right.” He
broke into a joyous peal of laughter—the laughter that had made him
famous, and bowed deeply before him. “Gideon—posi-_tive_-ly his
las’ puffawmunce.” Turning, he dashed for a passing trolley, and,
still laughing, swung aboard.
He was naturally honest. In a land of easy morality his friends
had accounted him something of a paragon; nor had Stuhk ever had
anything but praise for him. But now he crushed aside the ethics
of his intent without a single troubled thought. Running away has
always been inherent in the negro. He gave one regretful thought to
the gorgeous wardrobe he was leaving behind him; but he dared not
return for it. Stuhk might have taken it into his head to go back
to their rooms. He must content himself with the reflection that he
was at that moment wearing his best.
The trolley seemed too slow for him, and, as always happened
nowadays, he was recognized; he heard his name whispered, and was
aware of the admiring glances of the curious. Even popularity
had its drawbacks. He got down in front of a big hotel and chose
a taxicab from the waiting rank, exhorting the driver to make
his best speed to the station. Leaning back in the soft depths
of the cab, he savored his independence, cheered already by the
swaying, lurching speed. At the station he tipped the driver in
lordly fashion, very much pleased with himself and anxious to give
pleasure. Only the sternest prudence and an unconquerable awe of
uniform had kept him from tossing bills to the various traffic
policemen who had seemed to smile upon his hurry.
No through train left for hours; but after the first disappointment
of momentary check, he decided that he was more pleased than
otherwise. It would save embarrassment. He was going South, where
his color would be more considered than his reputation, and on the
little local he chose there was a “Jim Crow” car—one, that is,
specially set aside for those of his race. That it proved crowded
and full of smoke did not trouble him at all, nor did the admiring
pleasantries which the splendor of his apparel immediately called
forth. No one knew him; indeed, he was naturally enough mistaken
for a prosperous gambler, a not unflattering supposition. In the
yard, after the train pulled out, he saw his private car under a
glaring arc light, and grinned to see it left behind.
He spent the night pleasantly in a noisy game of high-low-jack,
and the next morning slept more soundly than he had slept for
weeks, hunched upon a wooden bench in the boxlike station of a
North Carolina junction. The express would have brought him to
Jacksonville in twenty-four hours; the journey, as he took it,
boarding any local that happened to be going south, and leaving it
for meals or sometimes for sleep or often as the whim possessed
him, filled five happy days. There he took a night train, and dozed
from Jacksonville until a little north of New Smyrna.
He awoke to find it broad daylight, and the car half empty. The
train was on a siding, with news of a freight wreck ahead. Gideon
stretched himself, and looked out of the window, and emotion seized
him. For all his journey the South had seemed to welcome him, but
here at last was the country he knew. He went out upon the platform
and threw back his head, sniffing the soft breeze, heavy with
the mysterious thrill of unplowed acres, the wondrous existence
of primordial jungle, where life has rioted unceasingly above
unceasing decay. It was dry with the fine dust of waste places, and
wet with the warm mists of slumbering swamps; it seemed to Gideon
to tremble with the songs of birds, the dry murmur of palm leaves,
and the almost inaudible whisper of the gray moss that festooned
the live-oaks.
“Um-m-m,” he murmured, apostrophizing it, “yo’ ’s the right kind o’
breeze, yo’ is. Yo’-all’s healthy.” Still sniffing, he climbed down
to the dusty road-bed.
The negroes who had ridden with him were sprawled about him on
the ground; one of them lay sleeping, face up, in the sunlight.
The train had evidently been there for some time, and there were
no signs of an immediate departure. He bought some oranges of a
little, bowlegged black boy, and sat down on a log to eat them and
to give up his mind to enjoyment. The sun was hot upon him, and his
thoughts were vague and drowsy. He was glad that he was alive, glad
to be back once more among familiar scenes. Down the length of the
train he saw white passengers from the Pullmans restlessly pacing
up and down, getting into their cars and out of them, consulting
watches, attaching themselves with gesticulatory expostulation
to various officials; but their impatience found no echo in his
thought. What was the hurry? There was plenty of time. It was
sufficient to have come to his own land; the actual walls of home
could wait. The delay was pleasant, with its opportunity for drowsy
sunning, its relief from the grimy monotony of travel. He glanced
at the orange-colored “Jim Crow” with distaste, and inspiration,
dawning slowly upon him, swept all other thought before it in its
great and growing glory.
A brakeman passed, and Gideon leaped to his feet and pursued him.
“Misteh, how long yo’-all reckon this train goin’ to be?”
“About an hour.”
The question had been a mere matter of form. Gideon had made up his
mind, and if he had been told that they started in five minutes he
would not have changed it. He climbed back into the car for his
coat and his hat, and then almost furtively stole down the steps
again and slipped quietly into the palmetto scrub.
“’Most made the mistake of ma life,” he chuckled, “stickin’ to that
ol’ train foheveh. ’Tisn’t the right way at, all foh Gideon to come
home.”
The river was not far away. He could catch the dancing blue of it
from time to time in ragged vista, and for this beacon he steered
directly. His coat was heavy on his arm, his thin patent-leather
ties pinched and burned and demanded detours around swampy places,
but he was happy.
As he went along, his plan perfected itself. He would get into
loose shoes again, old ones, if money could buy them, and old
clothes, too. The bull-briers snatching at his tailored splendor
suggested that.
He laughed when the Florida partridge, a small quail, whirred up
from under his feet; he paused to exchange affectionate mockery
with red squirrels; and once, even when he was brought up suddenly
to a familiar and ominous, dry reverberation, the small, crisp
sound of the rolling drums of death, he did not look about him for
some instrument of destruction, as at any other time he would have
done, but instead peered cautiously over the log before him, and
spoke in tolerant admonition:
“Now, Misteh Rattlesnake, yo’ jes min’ yo’ own business. Nobody’s
goin’ step on yo’, ner go triflin’ roun’ yo’ in no way whatsomeveh.
Yo’ jes lay there in the sun an’ git ’s fat ’s yo’ please. Don’ yo’
tu’n yo’ weeked li’l’ eyes on Gideon. He’s jes goin’ ’long home,
an’ ain’ lookin’ foh no muss.”
He came presently to the water, and, as luck would have it, to a
little group of negro cabins, where he was able to buy old clothes
and, after much dickering, a long and somewhat leaky rowboat rigged
out with a tattered leg-of-mutton sail. This he provisioned with
a jug of water, a starch box full of white corn-meal, and a wide
strip of lean razorback bacon.
As he pushed out from shore and set his sail to the small breeze
that blew down from the north, an absolute contentment possessed
him. The idle waters of the lagoon, lying without tide or current
in eternal indolence, rippled and sparkled in breeze and sunlight
with a merry surface activity, and seemed to lap the leaky little
boat more swiftly on its way. Mosquito Inlet opened broadly before
him, and skirting the end of Merritt’s Island he came at last into
that longest lagoon, with which he was most familiar, the Indian
River. Here the wind died down to a mere breath, which barely kept
his boat in motion; but he made no attempt to row. As long as he
moved at all, he was satisfied. He was living the fulfilment of his
dreams in exile, lounging in the stern in the ancient clothes he
had purchased, his feet stretched comfortably before him in their
broken shoes, one foot upon a thwart, the other hanging overside
so laxly that occasional ripples lapped the run-over heel. From
time to time he scanned shore and river for familiar points of
interest—some remembered snag that showed the tip of one gnarled
branch. Or he marked a newly fallen palmetto, already rotting in
the water, which must be added to that map of vast detail that
he carried in his head. But for the most part his broad black
face was turned up to the blue brilliance above him in unblinking
contemplation; his keen eyes, brilliant despite their sun-muddied
whites, reveled in the heights above him, swinging from horizon to
horizon in the wake of an orderly file of little bluebill ducks,
winging their way across the river, or brightening with interest at
the rarer sight of a pair of mallards or redheads, lifting with the
soaring circles of the great bald-headed eagle, or following the
scattered squadron of heron—white heron, blue heron, young and old,
trailing, sunlit, brilliant patches, clear even against the bright
white and blue of the sky above them.
Often he laughed aloud, sending a great shout of mirth across
the water in fresh relish of those comedies best known and best
enjoyed. It was as excruciatingly funny as it had ever been, when
his boat nosed its way into a great flock of ducks idling upon the
water, to see the mad paddling haste of those nearest him, the
reproachful turn of their heads, or, if he came too near, their
spattering run out of water, feet and wings pumping together as
they rose from the surface, looking for all the world like fat
little women, scurrying with clutched skirts across city streets.
The pelicans, too, delighted him as they perched with pedantic
solemnity upon wharf-piles, or sailed in hunched and huddled
gravity twenty feet above the river’s surface in swift, dignified
flight, which always ended suddenly in an abrupt, up-ended plunge
that threw dignity to the winds in its greedy haste, and dropped
them crashing into the water.
When darkness came suddenly at last, he made in toward shore,
mooring to the warm-fretted end of a fallen and forgotten landing.
A straggling orange-grove was here, broken lines of vanquished
cultivation, struggling little trees swathed and choked in the
festooning gray moss, still showing here and there the valiant
golden gleam of fruit. Gideon had seen many such places, had
seen settlers come and clear themselves a space in the jungle,
plant their groves, and live for a while in lazy independence;
and then for some reason or other they would go, and before they
had scarcely turned their backs, the jungle had crept in again,
patiently restoring its ancient sovereignty. The place was eery
with the ghost of dead effort; but it pleased him.
He made a fire and cooked supper, eating enormously and with
relish. His conscience did not trouble him at all. Stuhk and
his own career seemed already distant; they took small place in
his thoughts, and served merely as a background for his present
absolute content. He picked some oranges, and ate them in
meditative enjoyment. For a while he nodded, half asleep, beside
his fire, watching the darkened river, where the mullet, shimmering
with phosphorescence, still leaped starkly above the surface, and
fell in spattering brilliance. Midnight found him sprawled asleep
beside his fire.
Once he awoke. The moon had risen, and a little breeze waved the
hanging moss, and whispered in the glossy foliage of orange and
palmetto with a sound like falling rain. Gideon sat up and peered
about him, rolling his eyes hither and thither at the menacing
leap and dance of the jet shadows. His heart was beating thickly,
his muscles twitched, and the awful terrors of night pulsed and
shuddered over him. Nameless specters peered at him from every
shadow, ingenerate familiars of his wild, forgotten blood. He
groaned aloud in a delicious terror; and presently, still twitching
and shivering, fell asleep again. It was as if something magical
had happened; his fear remembered the fear of centuries, and yet
with the warm daylight was absolutely forgotten.
He got up a little after sunrise, and went down to the river to
bathe, diving deep with a joyful sense of freeing himself from the
last alien dust of travel. Once ashore again, however, he began to
prepare his breakfast with some haste. For the first time in his
journey he was feeling a sense of loneliness and a longing for his
kind. He was still happy, but his laughter began to seem strange to
him in the solitude. He tried the defiant experiment of laughing
for the effect of it, an experiment which brought him to his feet
in startled terror; for his laughter was echoed. As he stood
peering about him, the sound came again, not laughter this time,
but a suppressed giggle. It was human beyond a doubt. Gideon’s face
shone with relief and sympathetic amusement; he listened for a
moment, and then strode surely forward toward a clump of low palms.
There he paused, every sense alert. His ear caught a soft rustle, a
little gasp of fear; the sound of a foot moved cautiously.
“Missy,” he said tentatively, “I reckon yo’-all’s come jes ’bout ’n
time foh breakfus. Yo’ betteh have some. Ef yo’ ain’ too white to
sit down with a black man.”
The leaves parted, and a smiling face as black as Gideon’s own
regarded him in shy amusement.
“Who is yo’, man?”
“I mought be king of Kongo,” he laughed, “but I ain’t. Yo’
see befo’ yo’ jes Gideon—at yo’r ’steemed sehvice.” He bowed
elaborately in the mock humility of assured importance, watching
her face in pleasant anticipation.
But neither awe nor rapture dawned there. She repeated the name,
inclining her head coquettishly; but it evidently meant nothing to
her. She was merely trying its sound. “Gideon, Gideon. I don’ call
to min’ any sech name ez that. Yo’-all’s f’om up No’th likely.” He
was beyond the reaches of fame.
“No,” said Gideon, hardly knowing whether he was glad or sorry—“no,
I live south of heah. What-all’s yo’ name?”
The girl giggled deliciously.
“Man,” she said, “I shu got the mos’ reediculoustest name you eveh
did heah. They call me Vashti—yo’ bacon’s bu’nin’.” She stepped
out, and ran past him to snatch his skillet deftly from the fire.
“Vashti”—a strange and delightful name. Gideon followed her slowly.
Her romantic coming and her romantic name pleased him; and, too,
he thought her beautiful. She was scarcely more than a girl, slim
and strong and almost of his own height. She was barefooted, but
her blue-checked gingham was clean and belted smartly about a small
waist. He remembered only one woman who ran as lithely as she did,
one of the numerous “diving beauties” of the vaudeville stage.
She cooked their breakfast, but he served her with an elaborate
gallantry, putting forward all his new and foreign graces,
garnishing his speech with imposing polysyllables, casting about
their picnic breakfast a radiant aura of grandeur borrowed from
the recent days of his fame. And he saw that he pleased her, and
with her open admiration essayed still greater flights of polished
manner.
He made vague plans for delaying his journey as they sat smoking
in pleasant conversational ease; and when an interruption came it
vexed him.
“Vashty! Vashty!” a woman’s voice sounded thin and far away.
“Vashty-y! Yo’ heah me, chile?”
Vashti rose to her feet with a sigh.
“That’s my ma,” she said regretfully.
“What do yo’ care?” asked Gideon. “Let her yell awhile.”
The girl shook her head.
“Ma’s a moughty pow’ful ’oman, and she done got a club ’bout the
size o’ my wrist.” She moved off a step or so, and glanced back at
him.
Gideon leaped to his feet.
“When yo’ comin’ back? Yo’—yo’ ain’ goin’ without——” He held out
his arms to her, but she only giggled and began to walk slowly
away. With a bound he was after her, one hand catching her lightly
by the shoulder. He felt suddenly that he must not lose sight of
her.
“Let me go! Tu’n me loose, yo’!” The girl was still laughing, but
evidently troubled. She wrenched herself away with an effort, only
to be caught again a moment later. She screamed and struck at him
as he kissed her; for now she was really in terror.
The blow caught Gideon squarely in the mouth, and with such force
that he staggered back, astonished, while the girl took wildly to
her heels. He stood for a moment irresolute, for something was
happening to him. For months he had evaded love with a gentle
embarrassment; now, with the savage crash of that blow, he knew
unreasoningly that he had found his woman.
He leaped after her again, running as he had not run in years,
in savage, determined pursuit, tearing through brier and scrub,
tripping, falling, rising, never losing sight of the blue-clad
figure before him until at last she tripped and fell, and he stood
panting above her.
He took a great breath or so, and leaned over and picked her up
in his arms, where she screamed and struck and scratched at him.
He laughed, for he felt no longer sensible to pain, and, still
chuckling, picked his way carefully back to the shore, wading deep
into the water to unmoor his boat. Then with a swift movement he
dropped the girl into the bow, pushed free, and clambered actively
aboard.
The light, early morning breeze had freshened, and he made out
well toward the middle of the river, never even glancing around at
the sound of the hallooing he now heard from shore. His exertions
had quickened his breathing, but he felt strong and joyful. Vashti
lay a huddle of blue in the bow, crouched in fear and desolation,
shaken and torn with sobbing; but he made no effort to comfort
her. He was untroubled by any sense of wrong; he was simply and
unreasoningly satisfied with what he had done. Despite all his
gentle, easy-going, laughter-loving existence, he found nothing
incongruous or unnatural in this sudden act of violence. He was
aglow with happiness; he was taking home a wife. The blind tumult
of capture had passed; a great tenderness possessed him.
The leaky little boat was plunging and dancing in swift ecstasy
of movement; all about them the little waves ran glittering in
the sunlight, plashing and slapping against the boat’s low side,
tossing tiny crests to the following wind, showing rifts of white
here and there, blowing handfuls of foam and spray. Gideon went
softly about the business of shortening his small sail, and came
quietly back to his steering-seat again. Soon he would have to be
making for what lea the western shore offered; but he was holding
to the middle of the river as long as he could, because with every
mile the shores were growing more familiar, calling to him to make
what speed he could. Vashti’s sobbing had grown small and ceased;
he wondered if she had fallen asleep.
Presently, however, he saw her face raised—a face still shining
with tears. She saw that he was watching her, and crouched low
again. A dash of spray spattered over her, and she looked up
frightened, glancing fearfully overside; then once more her eyes
came back to him, and this time she got up, still small and
crouching, and made her way slowly and painfully down the length of
the boat, until at last Gideon moved aside for her, and she sank in
the bottom beside him, hiding her eyes in her gingham sleeve.
Gideon stretched out a broad hand and touched her head lightly; and
with a tiny gasp her fingers stole up to his.
“Honey,” said Gideon—“Honey, yo’ ain’ mad, is yo’?”
She shook her head, not looking at him.
“Yo’ ain’ grievin’ foh yo’ ma?”
Again she shook her head.
“Because,” said Gideon, smiling down at her, “I ain’ got no beeg
club like she has.”
A soft and smothered giggle answered him, and this time Vashti
looked up and laid her head against him with a small sigh of
contentment.
Gideon felt very tender, very important, at peace with himself and
all the world. He rounded a jutting point, and stretched out a
black hand, pointing.