THE CALL OF THE SOUTH
Brilliant morning sunlight flooded the dingy kitchen-dining-living-room
of the Oaks house. Late though the season was, the southward-rising sun
now lit up the interior more clearly than it ever had in mid-summer;
for its slanting rays, instead of sinking into green ground and
foliage, now ricocheted upward from a thin earth-blanket of snow.
That snow was two days old, and the latest of three light falls which
had come since the night when Snake Sanders and his last victim passed
out. The other two had speedily melted, and even this one had shrunk
noticeably in an ensuing thaw. But to-day the air was keen and the
white coverlet hard.
Snow and cold, however, meant little to the eight gathered in that
room. In the cheery warmth radiating from the mud-colored old stove
four of them crouched or lay in the sleepy contentment of full
stomachs, while the other four sat pensively on chairs or sofa. The
floor-hugging contingent comprised the Oaks felines--Spit and Spat and
Fit and Fat. The folks above them were Marion, Steve, Douglas, and
Uncle Eb.
Beside the outer door stood two guns--one, an old, rust-pitted
muzzle-loader; the other a clean, graceful hammerless--and a
blanket-pack, to which a smaller bundle had been lightly corded. To a
contemplative eye those insensate things would have told a story of
double trust: that, as the guns stood side by side, so would their
owners stand shoulder to shoulder; and that the man who presently would
carry that pack would bear also the light burden of a woman who had
faith in him--for that small package was unmistakably a thin dress,
within which probably were wrapped a few other articles of clothing.
“Wal,” barked Uncle Eb, shattering a thoughtful silence, “ye might say
this was the endin’ an’ the beginnin’. Nat an’ ’Lizy an’ Snake an’
Lou are all into their graves, an’ them detective fellers are so long
gone I ’most forgot they ever was into here, an’ Steve’s back onto
his legs, an’ Marry an’ Hammerless are a-goin’ out. An’ that’s the
endin’. But then ag’in, Steve’s a-comin’ to live ’long o’ me, an’ if
old Ninety-Nine’s Mine ain’t lost ag’in by next spring we’ll see what
we can make outen it; an’ Marry’s a-startin’ into that thar art-school
ye told about, Hamp; an’ ye say ye’re a-goin’ to quit driftin’ round
an’ git into a reg’lar business down to the city--sellin’ bonds, did ye
say? An’ so that’s the beginnin’. Now all I’m bothered ’bout is how I’m
a-goin’ to keep these cats to my house. They’ll run right back here, I
bet ye.”
“When they see ther’ ain’t nothin’ to eat here they’ll come a-scootin’
up the hill ag’in, don’t worry,” predicted Steve, a saturnine smile
crooking his pale mouth. “Ther’ won’t be nobody livin’ into here,
’less’n Marry gits homesick an’ wants to come back. Anybody else that
tries movin’ in will move out ag’in quick’s I can git to him. Marry,
don’t ye kind o’ hate to go?”
“I--dunno,” she slowly answered. “It’s the onliest home I ever knowed,
but--but it ain’t the same now. No! I--I _couldn’t_ live here! Now that
I know who my real daddy was, and--and I’ve got a chance to draw real
pictures and--and _be_ somebody ’sides ‘Nigger Nat’s girl’ and ‘that
red-headed catamount’ and all----”
She paused, her eyes shining as the misty portal of Dreams swung back
and gave her a vision of what lay beyond. The three men nodded; Douglas
understandingly, Uncle Eb decisively, Steve sombrely.
“That’s right,” Douglas agreed. “You’ve been underground long enough,
and now you must blossom out into the sun. It’s your daddy’s blood that
has driven you to draw and dream, and he’d tell you now to go out and
develop your talent. That’s his heritage to you--that urge to draw--and
you owe it to him to make something of it. It means work, but it’s
worth while.”
“Oh, I can work--won’t I work, though! And--and some day I’m comin’
back up here and draw that hole in the crick that’s bothered me so
long--and paint it, too--and make it right!”
Her slender fingers closed and her cheeks flushed in joyous enthusiasm.
Steve eyed her soberly, then nodded again.
“Yas, tha’s right, I reckon,” he sighed. “It’s a-goin’ to be awful
lonesome ’thout ye, Marry gal, but mebbe ye won’t forgit us. I--I----”
He stopped abruptly and gulped.
“Why--why, Stevie!” She sprang up and stroked his hair. “I won’t never
forgit you, never! You’ve always been good to me--stood up for me like
a real brother many’s the time--it ’most broke my heart when they sent
you away. And when the noo-mony got you jest lately I----”
“Don’t say no more,” he broke in huskily. “Ye’ve stood up for me too,
an’ ye pulled me through that noo-mony, an’ I couldn’t ask no more. But
I got to tell ye, Marry--I ain’t ’shamed to say it right out front of
everybody--I got thinkin’ mebbe sometime we might--might git married,
all reg’lar, with a ring an’ everythin’, I hadn’t no right to, but I
couldn’t help it. But then I see it warn’t no use. I done a lot o’
thinkin’, up thar into my hole into the ground, an’ I could see plain
ye was ’way over my head.”
His teeth set, and the hard lines around his mouth deepened. But he
drove himself on.
“An’ I see the kind of a feller ye’d oughter have was like Hamp, here.
An’ that’s mostly why I resked it to put that note under yer door,
Hamp, the night Nat come----”
“What! Was it you who did that?” exclaimed Douglas.
“Me. Snake an’ Nat was right close by my hole, never knowin’ I was into
it, an’ Snake was edgin’ Nat on to go down an’ do for ye. When they was
gone I wrote that warnin’ an’ snuck down ’long Dickabar an’ left it
for ye. I owed ye a good turn anyways, but I done it for Marry more’n
for you.”
A moment Douglas sat, realizing what the fugitive had risked in thus
issuing from his covert and threading a mile of detective-haunted
forest. Then he reached out and grasped the bony hand of the
convalescent.
“You’re a man!” he declared.
“I aim to be,” said Steve, with another gulp.
A short, awkward silence followed. Marion, sober-faced, tenderly
stroked the shaggy black hair until Steve dodged, as if the caress were
becoming torment. Uncle Eb glared fixedly at one of the cats. Douglas
looked at all three; then arose as if reaching a determination.
“This isn’t the way I’d thought of it, but it’s as good as any,” he
said quietly. “I had intended first, Marion, to take you to an elderly
friend of mine in town--Mrs. Wright, who takes a keen interest in young
artists and who undoubtedly would remember your father. She’s a dear
old soul, and I know she’d be only too glad to make everything easy for
you; she’s a patroness of that school I spoke of, and besides that she
could coach you on all those little things a lady of her type knows so
well--speech and manners and clothes and the other points you’ll have
to learn in order to ‘be somebody,’ as you say. And I’d rustle a job
down in the financial district and keep my promise to your mother--to
look out for you as if you were my sister. And when you’d had time
to see how you liked the change, and to find out what the city boys
looked like, and so on--then I’d ask you a question.
“I wanted to give you a fair chance--not to jump this question at you
before you fairly got your eyes open to this new world of yours. But
circumstances alter cases. I’ll take you to Mrs. Wright just the same,
but I’m going to ask the question now instead of later. Like Steve,
I’m not afraid to say it right out in front of everybody. What’s more,
Steve has the right to know what’s what. And----”
He paused. The wide gray eyes dwelt unwaveringly on his. So did the old
steel-blue eyes and the young brown ones.
“The first time we met,” he went on, with a little smile, “you said you
were ‘Marry for short.’ I’m asking you if you’ll make it ‘marry for
good.’ If so, we’ll hunt up a parson when we tramp into New Paltz, and
go down the river as Mr. and Mrs. Hampton.”
Steadfastly she regarded him a moment longer. Steve and Uncle Eb sat
breathless.
“Let me ask you somethin’,” she returned. “If Steve had got sent back
down-river you’d never have asked me this, would you?”
“Why--if I still thought you and he were sweethearts--probably not. It
wouldn’t be fair to either of you.”
“Was that what you meant when you spoke ’bout Steve--that day up the
crick?”
“Certainly. What did you think?”
“I thought all ’long you--didn’t want to git too thick with a girl
that was a--a half sister to a feller that had been into the pen! That
you couldn’t have enough respect for a girl like that to--to--you know.
And it--kind of hurt.”
“Good Lord! I never even knew you two were brought up under the same
roof, until the night your mother--that is, ’Liza Oaks--died. If I had,
maybe I’d have asked sooner!”
The cool gray eyes grew warm. The red lips curved in a dimpling smile.
But his question remained unanswered. Her gaze went to the waiting
packs and guns. Outside, a horse stamped impatiently.
“Ain’t it about time to be goin’?” she asked demurely. “That hoss of
Uncle Eb’s is gittin’ restless. Uncle Eb, you’d better git the cats
into the bags.”
“But ye ain’t told Hamp----” Steve protested.
“I know it, foolish! And I ain’t goin’ to tell him till I git ready.
It might be five minutes, or mebbe five years, he’ll have to wait; and
till he knows you won’t know either. And that’s all of that!”
Uncle Eb chuckled. Douglas spread his hands in resignation. Steve
glowered, then half grinned.
“Might a-knowed it,” he muttered. “Sassy as a red squir’l, ain’t ye? Ye
won’t never git no better.”
And with that the question was dropped. Ensued a scramble, ending in
the confinement in burlap sacks of four spitting, spatting felines; a
donning of hats and coats, a closing up of stove-draughts, and a wobbly
progress by Steve to Uncle Eb’s waiting wagon. There he was enwrapped
in a huge quilt. Uncle Eb clambered in and encased his legs in the
horse-blanket. The horse started at once. And up the road slowly
traveled the old man and his new foster-son, with dead Nigger Nat’s
muzzle-loader leaning stark and grim between them.
Behind them, swinging easily along the frozen road, walked the man and
the maid, their faces reddening under the sharp kiss of the wintry air.
Once, and once only, they paused to glance back at the abandoned house.
Then they trudged on, silent.
At length the wagon stopped. The Clove road had ended, and the horse
now stood in the true Traps road, heading westward. Up that way waited
Uncle Eb’s home. Eastward opened the Gap, and beyond lay the great
Outside. This was the parting of the ways.
And here Steve spoke out, man to man.
“Hamp, I’m a-trustin’ ye. But a feller never knows. If ever Marry
should come a-crawlin’ back into here, sorry an’ shamed, then look out!
I’ll be a-comin’ after ye wuss’n I ever went after Snake, an’ I’ll come
a-shootin’. Tha’s all. Good luck to the both o’ ye.”
“You won’t be coming after me, lad,” Douglas answered steadily. “We’ll
both be coming back to see you in the spring, whether Marion’s name
then is Dyke or Hampton. And I’m leaving with you, as a pledge and a
present--this.”
Into the space between the two riders he swung his shotgun. Then he
gripped Steve’s hand and stepped back. The youth stared at his new
gun as if the heavens had opened before him. Even when Marion climbed
up and kissed him farewell he seemed dazed by the wonder of actually
possessing such a weapon. Uncle Eb grinned dryly and gave Douglas an
approving nod.
The old man’s farewell was characteristically short. He gave each a
straight look, a lift of the walrus mustache, a paralyzing handshake.
Then----
“Luck to ye! G’yapalong!”
The wagon rolled away.
With a sigh and a smile, Douglas and Marion turned their faces
eastward. Steadily they swung along the hummocky track, climbing
upward, ever upward, by easy grade or steep slant, toward the Gap a
mile away. From time to time they glanced at each other, but they spoke
no word. The only sounds were the flapping of frozen leaves still
adhering to cold boughs, the crunch of snow under heel, the occasional
bay of a far-off hound.
So they came to the Jaws of the Traps, where the road sneaked between
towering ledges and then pitched down in swift-dropping zigzags to the
low hills of the Beyond. Out before them stretched a snowy panorama
through which, black and slow, meandered the serpentine Wallkill. Away
to the east, hidden behind intervening hills, flowed the wide Hudson.
Far to the south, that river rolled past the vast city of New York,
to be swallowed by the waiting ocean. But much nearer--only six miles
off--stood out clearly a little town where lived clergymen, and where a
wedding ring could be bought; the first town on their outward way: New
Paltz.
There between the crags they halted, poising on the brink between the
Traps and the World, the hard old life and the nebulous new. Still they
said nothing. His gaze dwelt on her, and hers on that town. Something
counseled him to keep silence.
Then into the stillness came a sound from the north: a sound new to
the man: a yapping confusion of noise suggesting the breathless chorus
of a pack of hard-running dogs. It grew in volume until it became like
the strident creak and groan of many rickety, unoiled wagons, full of
discordant undertones and overnotes. Yet it was not on the ground, but
in the air, somewhere beyond the northern cliff which blocked the view.
“Geese!” cried Marion. “I wondered why we hadn’t heard some. They’re
late. But they’re goin’ fast now. The lakes up north are froze, and
winter’s comin’ close. There they are!”
High up, a long wedge slid across the sky. Its lines wavered, bent, but
never broke. Along them winked an unceasing quiver of strong-beating
wings; from them fell the clamorous medley of voices old and young,
deep and shrill. Straight as their wild instinct could guide them,
straight as the man and the maiden below would speed down the river
when they should reach the railroad, the birds were flying south.
“Goin’ south--and so are we,” the girl softly echoed his own thought.
And they turned their eyes again to the roofs six miles away.
“Marion--dear--what is it to be?” he asked. “Let’s decide.”
A deeper color flowed into her cheeks, a roguish twinkle into her eyes.
Half shyly, she looked up at him.
“Ain’t you scairt to marry a red-headed catamount?” she demanded.
“They’re awful critters to git along with.”
“I never married one yet, but I’m not scared,” he smiled. “I’ve held my
own with every one I’ve met so far.”
Under the curving brows flamed a daring, tantalizing light.
“Seems to me you--you ain’t holdin’ your own right now,” she teased.
He blinked. Then light shot over his face. One stride, and his arms
were around her.
“Who says I’m not?” he challenged.
“That’s--that’s better!”
Her arms clasped tight around his neck. Her lips rose, tremulous,
questing, waiting. His head dropped, and his embrace tightened. And
then between the crusted crags there stood no longer a girl of the
hills and a man from outside. Lip to lip, heart to heart, soul to
soul--the twain had become one.
After a time his head lifted. Passive, clinging, trembling, she lay
back in his arms.
“Are you--sure we can find a--a parson down to Paltz?” she whispered.
He laughed, and drew her up to him again. Yielding lips stopped his
breath, and the laugh died. But faintly from the south sounded an echo
of his tender mirth--a bubbling, gabbling sound which in turn died out
and was gone: the honking hilarity of the sharp-eyed wild geese.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
The original book did not contain pages labelled 11 or 12. Original
pagination has been retained.