The girl's anger, which had been kindling against her gossiping
fellows, blazed out against Raines.
You've been watchin' me," she said, angrily. "Who give ye the right
to do it? What call hev ye to come hyar and tell me whut folks is
asayin'? Is it any o' yo' business? I want to tell ye, Sherd
Raines"-her utterance grew thick-" that I kin take keer o' myself;
that I don't keer what folks say; 'n' I want ye to keep away from me.
'N' ef I sees ye a-hangin' round 'n' a-spyin', ye'll be sorry fer it." Her
eyes blazed, she had risen and drawn herself straight, and her
hands were clinched.
The mountaineer stood motionless. " Thar's another who's seed
ye," he said, quietly-" up thar," pointing to a wooded mountain, the
top of which was lost in mist. The girl's attitude changed instantly
into - vague alarm, and her eyes flashed upon Raines as though
they would sear their way into the meaning hidden in his quiet
face. Gradually his motive seemed to become clear, and she
advanced a step toward him.
"So you've found out whar dad is a-hidin'?" she said, her voice
tremulous with rage and scorn. N' ye air mean and sorry enough
to some hyeh 'n' tell me ye'll give him up to the law ef I don't
knuckle down 'n' do what ye wants me?
She paused a moment. Was her suspicion correct? Why did he not
speak? She did not really believe what she said. Could it be true?
Her nostrils quivered; she tried to speak again, but her voice was
choked with passion. With a sudden movement she snatched her
rifle from its place, and the steel flashed in the moonlight and
ceased in a shining line straight at the mountaineer's breast.
"Look hyeh, Sherd Raines," she said, in low, unsteady tones, " I
know you air religious, 'n' I know as how, when y'u give yer word,
you'll do what you say. Now, I want ye to hold up yer right hand
and sw'ar that you'll never tell a livin' soul that you know whar dad
is a-hidin'."
Raines did not turn his face, which was as emotionless as stone.
Air ye goin' to sw'ar? " she asked, with fierce impatience. Without
looking at her, he began to speak-very slowly:
"Do ye think I'm fool enough to try to gain yer good-will by
a-tellin' on yer dad? We were on the mountains, him 'n' me, we
seed you 'n' the furriner. Yer dad thought hit was a spy, 'n' he
whipped up his gun 'n' would 'a' shot him dead in his tracks ef I
hadn't hindered him.
Does that look like I wanted to hurt the 'furriner? I hev knowed
yer dad was up in the mountains all the time, 'n' I hev been a-totin'
things fer him to eat. Does that look like I wanted to hand him
over to the law?"
The girl had let the rifle fall. Moving away, she stood leaning on it
in the shadow, looking down.
"You want to know what call I hev to watch ye, 'n' see that no harm
comes to ye. Yer dad give me the right. You know how he hates
furriners, 'n' whut he would do ef he happened to run across this
furriner atter he has been drinkin'. I'm a-meddlin' because I hev
told him that I am goin' to take keer o' ye, 'n' I mean to do it-ef ye
hates me fer it. I'm a-watchin' ye, Easter," he continued, " 'n' I want
ye to know it. I knowed the furriner begun comm' here cause ye
air not like gals in the settlemints. Y'u air as cur'us to him as one o'
them bugs an' sich-like that he's always a-pickin' up in the woods.
I hevn't said nuthin' to yer dad, fer fear o' his harmin' the furriner;
but I hev seed that ye like him, an' hit's time now fer me to meddle.
Ef he was in love with ye, do ye think he would marry ye? I hev
been in the settle-mints. Folks thar air not as we citizens air. They
air bigoted 'n' high-heeled, 'n' they look down on us. I tell ye, too-
'n' hit air fer yer own good-he air in love with somebody in the
settlemints. I hev heerd it, 'n' I hev seed him a-lookin' at a picter in
his room ez a man don't look at his sister. They say hit's her.
"Thar's one thing more, Easter," he concluded, as he stepped from
the porch. "He is a-goin' away. I heard him say it yestiddy. What
will ye do when he's gone ef ye lets yerself git to thinkin' so much
of him now? I've warned ye now, Easter, fer yer own good, though
ye mought think I'm a-workin' fer myself. But I know I hev done
whut I ought. I've warned ye, 'n' ye kin do whut ye please, but I'm
a-watchin' ye."
The girl said nothing, but stood rigid, with eyes wide open and
face tense, as the mountaineer's steps died away. She was
bewildered by the confused emotions that swayed her. Why had
she not indignantly denied that she was in love with the "furriner"?
Raines had not hinted it as a suspicion. He had spoken it outright
as a fact, and he must have thought that her silence confirmed it.
He had said that the "furriner" cared nothing for her, and had dared
to tell her that she was in love with him. Her cheeks began to bum.
She would call him back and tell him that she cared no more for
the "furriner " than she did for him. She started from the steps, but
paused, straining her eyes through the darkness. It was too late,
and, with a helpless little cry, she began pacing the porch. She had
scarcely heard what was said after the mountaineer's first
accusation, so completely had that enthralled her mind; now
fragments came back to her. There was something about a
picture-ah! she remembered that picture. Passing through the
camp one afternoon, she had glanced in at a window and had seen
a rifle once her own. Turning in rapid wonder about the room, her
eye lighted upon a picture on a table near the window. She had
felt the refined beauty of the girl, and it had impressed her with the
same timidity that Clayton had when she first knew him.
Fascinated, she had looked till a - movement in the room made her
shrink away. But the face had clung in her memory ever since, and
now it came before her vividly. Clayton was in love with her.
Well, what did that matter to her?
There was more that Raines said. "Goin' away." Raines meant the
" furriner," of course. How did he know? Why had Clayton not told
her? She did not believe it. But why not? He had once told her
that he would go away some time; why not now? But why-why did
not Clayton tell her? Perhaps he was going to her. She almost
stretched out her hands in a sudden, fierce desire to clutch the
round throat and sink her nails into the soft flesh that rose before
her mind. She had forgotten that he had ever told her that he must
go away, so little had it impressed her at the time. She had never
thought of a possible change in their relations or in their lives. She
tried to think what her life would be after he was gone, and she
was frightened; she could not imagine her old life resumed. When
Clayton came, it was as though she had risen from sleep in a
dream, and had lived in it thereafter without questioning its reality.
Into his hands she had delivered her life and herself with the
undoubting faith of a child. She had never thought of their
relations at all. Now the awakening had come. The dream was
shattered. For the first time her eye was turned inward, where a
flood of light brought into terrible distinctness the tumult that
began to rage so suddenly within.
One hope only flashed into her brain-perhaps Raines was
mistaken. But even then, if he were, Clayton must go some time;
he had told her that. On this fact every thought became centred. It
was no longer how he came, the richness of the new life he had
shown her, the barrenness of the old, Raines's accusation, the
shame of it-the shame of being pointed out and laughed at after
Clayton's departure; it was no longer helpless wonder at the fierce
emotions racking her for the first time: her whole being was
absorbed in the realization which slowly forced itself into her heart
and brain-some day he must go away; some day she must lose him.
She lifted her hands to her head in a dazed, ineffectual way. The
moonlight grew faint before her eyes; mountain, sky, and mist
were in-distinguishably blurred; and the girl sank down upon her
trembling knees, down till she lay crouched on the floor with her
tearless face in her arms.
The moon rose high above her and sank down the west. The
shadows shortened and crept back to the woods, night noises grew
fainter, and the mists floated up from the valley and Clung around
the mountain-tops; but she stirred only when a querulous voice
came from within the cabin.
"Easter," it said, " ef Sherd Raines air gone, y'u better come in to
bed. Y'u've got a lot o' work to do to-morrer."
The voice called her to the homely duties that had once filled her
life and must fill it again. It was a summons to begin anew a life
that was dead, and the girl lifted her haggard face in answer and
rose wearily.