energetically in return until the road curved and he could see her no
longer. His tall hat was tightly on his head all this time; politeness
in the mountains is not a matter of hat. They were but half a mile from
Ellerby now, and the horses began to trot for the first time in eight
hours. Brother Bethuel turned himself, and met Wainwright's eyes. Now
those eyes of Wainwright were of a pale color, like the eyes of a fish;
but they had at times a certain inflexibility which harassed the
beholder, as, sometimes, one fish in an aquarium will drive a person
into nervousness by simply remaining immovable behind his glass wall,
and staring out at him stonily. Brother Bethuel, meeting Wainwright's
eyes, immediately began to talk:
"A fine young lady that: Miss Honor Dooris, niece of Colonel Eliot--the
low-country Eliots, you know, one of our most distinguished families. I
venture to say, sir, that strike at an Eliot, yes, strike at an Eliot,
and a thousand will rise to beat back the blow. It would be dangerous,
sir, most dangerous, to strike at that family."
"Are they troubled by--by strikers?" asked Stephen.
"Nobody ever harms anybody in this blessedly peaceful country of ours,"
said the little minister in a loud, chanting voice. Then he dropped to a
conversational tone again. "Miss Honor has been to the library; she is
writing some 'Reflections on the Book of Job,' and is obliged of course
to consult the authorities. You noticed the old library, did you
not?--that small building in the grove, opposite the mill; her father
was one of the trustees. The front steps are down, and she is obliged to
climb in by a back window--allowable, of course, to a trustee's
daughter--in order to consult the authorities."
"And on Job they are such as--?"
"Well, the dictionaries, I reckon," said Brother Bethuel, after
considering a moment. "She is not of my flock; the Eliots are, of
course, Episcopalians," he continued, with an odd sort of pride in the
fact. "But I have aided her--I have aided her."
"In the matter of Masters, perhaps?"
Brother Bethuel glanced at his companion quickly in the darkening
twilight. He caught him indulging in a long, tired yawn.
"I was about to say, general charity; but the matter of Masters will
do," he said carelessly. "The man is a poor fellow up in the mountains,
in whom Miss Dooris is interested. He is often ill and miserable, and
always very poor. She sends him aid when she can. I am to take a bundle
to-morrow."
"And she prays for him," said Wainwright, beginning to descend as the
stage stopped at the door of the village inn.
"She prays for all," replied Brother Bethuel, leaning over, and
following him down with the words, delivered in a full undertone.
Brother Bethuel had a good voice; he had preached under the open sky
among the great peaks too long to have any feeble tones left.
"I do not believe anybody ever prays for me," was Wainwright's last
thought before he came sharply into personal contact with the
discomforts of the inn. And, as his mother died when he was born,
perhaps he was right.
The next morning he wandered about and gazed at the superb sweep of the
mountains. Close behind him rose the near wall of the Blue Ridge; before
him stretched the line of the Alleghanies going down toward Georgia, the
Iron Mountains, the Bald Mountains, and the peaks of the Great Smoky,
purple and soft in the distance. A chain of giant sentinels stretched
across the valley from one range to the other, and on these he could
plainly see the dark color given by the heavy, unmixed growth of
balsam-firs around and around up to the very top, a hue which gives the
name Black Mountain to so many of these peaks.
It was Sunday, and when the three little church-bells rang, making a
tinkling sound in the great valley, he walked over to the Episcopal
church. He had a curiosity to see that girl's eyes again by daylight.
Even there, in that small house of God where so few strangers ever came,
he was hardly noticed. He took his seat on one of the benches, and
looked around. Colonel Eliot was there, in a black broadcloth coat
seventeen years old, but well brushed, and worn with an air of unshaken
dignity. The whole congregation heard him acknowledge every Sunday that
he was a miserable sinner; but they were as proud of him on his one leg
with his crutch under his arm as if he had been a perfected saint, and
they would have knocked down any man who had dared to take him at his
Sunday word. The Colonel's placid, dimpled wife was there, fanning
herself with the slowly serene manner of her youth; and two benches were
full of children. On the second bench was Honor, and the man of the
world watched her closely in his quiet, unobserved way. This was nothing
new: Wainwright spent his life in watching people. He had studied
hundreds of women in the same way, and he formed his conclusions with
minutest care. He judged no one by impulse or intuition, or even by
liking or disliking. What persons _said_ was not of the slightest
importance to him in any way: he noted what they _did_. The service was
in progress, and Honor was down upon her knees. He saw her confess her
sins; he saw her bow her head to receive the absolution; he saw her
repeat the psalms; he watched her through every word of the Litany; he
heard her sing; and he noted her clasped hands and strong effort of
recollection throughout the recital of the Commandments. Then he settled
himself anew, and began to watch her through the sermon. He had seen
women attentive through the service before now: they generally became
neutral during the sermon. But this girl never swerved. She sat with
folded arms looking at the preacher fixedly, a slight compression about
the mouth showing that the attention was that of determination. The
preacher was uninteresting, he was tautological; still the girl followed
him. "What a narrow little round of words and phrases it is!" thought
the other, listening too, but weary. "How can she keep up with him?" And
then, still watching her, he fell to noticing her dress and attitude.
Poor Honor wore a gown of limp black alpaca, faithful, long-enduring
servant of small-pursed respectability; on her head was a small black
bonnet which she had fashioned herself, and not very successfully. A
little linen collar, a pair of old gloves, and her prayer-book completed
the appointments of her costume. Other young girls in the congregation
were as poorly dressed as she, but they had a ribbon, a fan, an edge of
lace here and there, or at least a rose from the garden to brighten
themselves withal; this girl alone had nothing. She was tall and well
rounded, almost majestic, but childishly young in face. Her dark hair,
which grew very thickly--Wainwright could see it on the temples--seemed
to have been until recently kept short, since the heavy braid behind
made only one awkward turn at the back of the head. She had a boldly
cut profile, too marked for regular beauty, yet pleasant to the eye
owing to the delicate finish of the finer curves and the distinct arch
of the lips. Her cheeks were rather thin. She had no grace; she sat
stiffly on the bench, and resolutely listened to the dull discourse. "A
good forehead," thought Wainwright, "and, thank Fortune! not disfigured
by straggling ends of hair. 'Reflections on the Book of Job,' did he
say? Poor little soul!"
At last the service was ended, the sermon of dull paraphrases over; but
Wainwright did not get his look. Honor sat still in her place without
turning. He lingered awhile; but, as he never did anything, on
principle, that attracted attention, he went out with the last stray
members of the congregation, and walked down the green lane toward the
inn. He did not look back: certain rules of his he would not have
altered for the Queen of Sheba (whoever she was). But Brother Bethuel,
coming from the Methodist meeting-house, bore down upon him, and
effected what the Queen of Sheba could not have done: himself openly
watching the church-door, he took Wainwright by the arm, turned him
around, and, holding him by a buttonhole, stood talking to him. The red
wagon of the Eliots was standing at the gate; Mrs. Eliot was on the
front seat, and all the space behind was filled in with children. Black
Pompey was assisting his master into the driver's place, while Honor
held the crutch. A moment afterward the wagon passed them, Pompey
sitting at the end with his feet hanging down behind. Brother Bethuel
received a nod from the Colonel, but Madame Eliot serenely failed to see
him. The low-country lady had been brought up to return the bows and
salutations of all the blacks in the neighborhood, but whites below a
certain line she did not see.
Evidently Honor was going to walk home. In another moment she was close
to them, and Stephen was having his look. The same slight flush rose in
her face when she saw Brother Bethuel which had risen there the day
before; the same earnestness came into her eyes, and Stephen became
haunted by the desire to have them turned upon himself. But he was not
likely to have this good fortune; all her attention was concentrated
upon the little minister. She said she had the package ready; it would
be at the usual place. He would take it up, he replied, at sunset. She
hoped the moon would not be hidden by clouds. He hoped so too; but old
Marcher knew the way. She had heard that the East Branch was up. He had
heard so also; but old Marcher could swim very well. All this was
commonplace, yet it seemed to Wainwright that the girl appeared to
derive a certain comfort from it, and to linger. There was a pause.
"This is my friend," said Brother Bethuel at last, indicating Stephen
with a backward turn of his thumb; "Mr.--Mr.--"
"Wainwright," said Stephen, uncovering; then, with his straw hat in his
hand, he made her a low bow, as deliberate as the salutations in a
minuet, coming up slowly and looking with gravity full in her face. He
had what he wanted then--a look; she had never seen such a bow before.
To tell the truth, neither had Stephen; he invented it for the occasion.
"Met him on the stage," said Brother Bethuel, "and, as he is a stranger,
I thought, perhaps, Miss Honor, the Colonel would let him call round
this afternoon; he'd take it as a favor, I know." There was a concealed
determination in his voice. The girl immediately gave Stephen another
look. "My uncle will be happy to see you," she said quickly. Then they
all walked on together, and Stephen noted, under his eyelashes, the
mended gloves, the coarse shoe, and the rusty color of the black gown;
he noted also the absolute purity of the skin over the side of the face
which was next to him, over the thin cheek, the rather prominent nose,
the little shell-like ear, and the rim of throat above the linen collar.
This clear white went down to the edge of the arched lips, and met the
red there sharply and decidedly; the two colors were not mingled at all.
What was there about her that interested him? It was the strong reality
of her religious belief. In the character-studies with which he amused
his life he recognized any real feeling, no matter what, as a rarity, a
treasure-trove. Once he had spent six weeks in studying a woman who
slowly and carefully planned and executed a revenge. He had studied what
is called religion enormously, considering it one of the great spiritual
influences of the world: he had found it, in his individual cases so
far, mixed. Should he study this new specimen? He had not decided when
they came to the porch of the inn. There was no hurry about deciding,
and this was his place to stop; he never went out of his way. But Honor
paused too, and, looking at him, said, with a mixture of earnestness and
timidity: "You will come and see uncle, I hope, Mr. Wainwright. Come
this afternoon." She even offered her hand, and offered it awkwardly. As
Wainwright's well-fitting, well-buttoned glove touched for an instant
the poor, cheap imitation, wrinkled and flabby, which covered her hand,
he devoutly hoped she would not see the contrast as he saw it. She did
not: a Dooris was a Dooris, and the varieties of kid-skin and rat-skin
could not alter that.
Brother Bethuel went on with Honor, but in the afternoon he came back to
the inn to pilot Stephen to the Eliot ravine. Stephen was reading a
letter from Adelaide Kellinger--a charming letter, full of society
events and amusing little comments, which were not rendered
unintelligible either by the lack of commas, semicolons, and
quotation-marks, and the substitution of the never-failing dash, dear to
the feminine pen. The sheets, exhaling the faintest reminiscence of
sandalwood, were covered with clear handwriting, which went straight
from page to page in the natural way, without crossing or doubling or
turning back. There was a date at the top; the weather was mentioned;
the exact time of arrival of Stephen's last letter told. It can be seen
from this that Adelaide was no ordinary correspondent.
Stephen, amused and back in New York, did not care much about the Eliot
visit; but Brother Bethuel cared, and so, with his usual philosophy,
Stephen went. They talked of the mountains, of the mountain-people, of
the villagers; then Brother Bethuel took up the subject of the Eliot
family, and declaimed their praises all the rest of the way. They were
extremely influential, they were excessively hot-tempered; the State was
in a peculiar condition at present, but the Eliots held still the old
wires, and it would be extremely dangerous to attack the family in any
way. Stephen walked along, and let the little man chant on. He had
heard, in this same manner, pages and volumes of talk from the persons
who insist upon telling you all about people in whom you have not the
remotest interest, even reading you their letters and branching off
farther and farther, until you come to regard those first mentioned as
quite near friends when the talker comes back to them (if he ever does),
being so much nearer than the outside circles into which he has tried to
convey you. Stephen never interrupted these talkers; so he was a
favorite prey of theirs. Only gradually did it dawn upon them that his
stillness was not exactly that of attention. The only interest he showed
now was when the minister got down to what he called the present
circumstances of the family. It seemed that they were very poor; Brother
Bethuel appeared determined that the stranger should know precisely how
poor. He brought forward the pathetic view.
"They have nothing to eat sometimes but corn-meal and potatoes," he
said. This made no impression.
"The brook rises now and then, and they live in a roaring flood; all the
small articles have more than once been washed away."
"Any of the children?" inquired Wainwright.
"Once, when the horses were lame, I saw Honor go to the mill herself
with the meal-sack."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, and carry it home again. And I have seen her scrubbing out the
kettles."
Wainwright gave an inward shudder. "Has she any education at all?" he
asked, with a feeling like giving her money, and getting away as fast as
possible: money, because he had for twenty-four hours made her in a
certain way a subject of study, and felt as if he owed her something,
especially if he went disappointed.
"Sir, she has a finished education," responded the little minister with
dignity; "she can play delightfully upon David's instrument, the harp."
At this moment they came to the plank and the ditch.
"I will go no farther," said Brother Bethuel, "and--and you need not
mention to the Colonel, if you please, that I accompanied you hither."
Then he stood on tiptoe, and whispered mysteriously into Stephen's ear:
"As to horses, remember to apply to me--Brother Head, Bethuel Head. A
note dropped into the post-office will reach me, a man on horseback
bringing the mail up our way twice each week. Bethuel Head--do not
forget." He struck himself on the breast once or twice as if to
emphasize the name, gave Stephen a wink, which masqueraded as knowing
but was more like entreaty, and, turning away, walked back toward the
village.
"An extraordinary little man," thought the other, crossing the plank,
and following the path up the ravine by the side of the brook.
The Colonel sat on his high, unrailed piazza, with the red wagon and a
dilapidated buggy drawn up comfortably underneath; Honor was with him.
He rose to greet his visitor, and almost immediately asked if he was
related to Bishop Wainwright. When Stephen replied that he was not, the
old gentleman sat down, and leaned his crutch against the wall, with a
good deal of disappointment: being a devoted churchman, he had hoped for
a long ecclesiastical chat. But, after a moment, he took up with good
grace the secondary subject of the mountains, and talked very well about
them. With the exception of the relationship to the Bishop, he, with
the courtesy of the South, did not ask his guest a single question:
Stephen could have been a peddler, a tenor-singer, a carpet-bag
politician, or a fugitive from justice, with perfect safety, as far as
questions were concerned.
Honor said nothing. It was refreshing to be with a girl who did not want
to go anywhere or do anything. She had really asked him to come, then,
merely to please the old Colonel. A girl of gold. But, alas! the girl of
gold proved herself to be of the usual metal, after all; for, when half
an hour had passed, she deliberately proposed to her uncle that she
should take their visitor up the hill to see the view. Now, Stephen had
been taken numerous times in his life to see views; the trouble was that
he always looked directly at the real landscape, whatever it was, and
found a great deal to say about it, to the neglect of the view nearer
his side. He did not think it necessary now to play his usual part of
responsive politeness to this little country-girl's open manoeuvre; he
could go if she insisted upon it, he supposed. So he sat looking down at
the brim of his hat; but noted, also, that even the Colonel seemed
surprised. Honor, however, had risen, and was putting on her ugly little
bonnet; she looked quietly determined. Stephen rose also, and took leave
formally; he would go homeward from the hill. They started, he by this
time weary of the whole State, and fast inclining toward departure early
the next morning.
He did not say much to her, or look at her; but, in truth, the path
through the corn was too steep and narrow for conversation: they were
obliged to walk in single file. When they had reached the summit, and
Stephen was gathering together his adjectives for his usual
view-remarks, he turned toward his companion, and was surprised to see
how embarrassed she appeared; he began to feel interested in her
again--interested in her timid, dark eyes, and the possibilities in
their depths. She was evidently frightened.
"If," she commenced once, twice--then faltered and stopped.
"Well?" said Stephen encouragingly: after all, she was very young.
"If you intend to stay in Ellerby any length of time--do you?"
"I really have not decided," said Stephen, relapsing into coolness.
"I was only going to say that if you _do_ stay, we, that is, I--we, I
mean--shall be happy to see you here often."
"Thanks."
"The view is considered fine," faltered the girl, pulling off her gloves
in desperate embarrassment, and putting them deep down in her pocket.
Stephen began his view-remarks.
"But what I was going to say," she continued, breaking in at the first
pause, "was, that if you should stay, and need--need _horses_, or
a--guide, I wish you would apply to Mr. Head."
"They are in a conspiracy against me with their horses," thought
Stephen. Then he threw a hot shot: "Yes; Mr. Head asked me the same
thing. He also asked me not to mention that he brought me here."
"No; pray do not," said Honor quickly.
He turned and looked at her: she began to blush--pink, crimson, pink;
then white, and a very dead white too.
"You think it strange?" she faltered.
"Not at all. Do not be disturbed, Miss Dooris; I never think anything."
"Mr. Head is poor, and--and tries to make a little money now and then
with his horses," she stammered.
"So I--judged."
"And I--try to help him."
"Very natural, I am sure."
He was beginning to feel sorry for the child, and her poor little
efforts to gain a few shillings: he had decided that the Colonel's old
horses were the wagon-team of this partnership, and "Marcher" the
saddle-horse.
"I shall certainly need horses," he said aloud.
"And you will apply to Mr. Head?"
She was so eager that he forgot himself, and smiled.
"Miss Dooris," he said, bowing, "I will apply to Mr. Head, and only to
him; I give you my word."
She brightened at once.
The golden shafts of the setting sun shone full in her face: her dark
eyes did not mind them; she did not put up her hand to shield herself,
but stood and looked directly into the glittering, brilliant western
sky. He put his quizzical expression back out of sight, and began to
talk to her. She answered him frankly. He tested her a little; he was an
old hand at it. Of coquetry she gave back not a sign. Gradually the
conviction came to him that she had not asked him up there for personal
reasons at all. It was, then, the horses.
When he had decided this, he sat down on a stump, and went on talking to
her with renewed interest. After a while she laughed, and there came
into her face that peculiar brilliancy which the conjunction of dark
eyes and the gleam of white, even teeth can give to a thin-cheeked
brunette. Then he remembered to look at her hands, and was relieved to
find them, although a little roughened by toil, charmingly shaped and
finely aristocratic--fit portion of the tall, well-rounded figure, which
only needed self-consciousness to be that of a young Diana. The girl
seemed so happy and radiant, so impersonal in the marked attention she
gave to him, which was not unlike the attention she might have given to
her grandfather, that Wainwright recognized it at last as only another
case of his being of no consequence, and smiled to himself over it.
Evidently, if he wanted notice, he must, as it were, mount the horses.
He had had no especial intention of making excursions among the
mountains; but that was, apparently, the fixed idea of these
horse-owners. They were, for some reason, pleased to be mysterious; he
would be mysterious also.
"I hope Mr. Head's horses are good ones?" he said confidentially; "I
shall need _very_ good horses."
All her color gone instantly, and the old cloud of anxiety on her face
again.
"Yes, they are good horses," she answered; and then her eyes rested upon
him, and he read trouble, fear, and dislike, succeeding each other
openly in their dark depths.
"Is it because I am a Northerner, Miss Dooris?" he said quietly. He had
made up his mind, rather unfairly, to break down the fence between them
by a close question, which so young a girl would not know how to parry.
She started, and the color rushed up all over her face again.
"Of course, it is all right," she answered hurriedly, in a low voice. "I
know that the laws must be maintained, and that some persons must do the
work that you do. People can not always choose their occupations, I
suppose, and no doubt they--no doubt you--I mean, that it can not be
helped."
"May I ask what you take me for?" said Wainwright, watching her.
"We saw it at once; Mr. Head saw it, and afterward I did also. But we
are experienced; others may not discover you so soon. Mr. Head is
anxious to pilot you through the mountains to save you from danger."
"He is very kind; disinterested, too."
"No," said Honor, flushing again; "I assure you he makes money by it
also."
"But you have not told me what it is you take me for, Miss Dooris?"
"It is not necessary, is it?" replied Honor in a whisper. "You are one
of the new revenue detectives, sent up here to search out the stills."
"An informer--after the moonlight whisky-makers, you mean?"
"Yes."
Wainwright threw back his head and laughed out loud, as he had not
laughed for years.
"I am not sure but that it is a compliment," he said at last; "no one
has ever taken me for anything particular before in all my life." Then,
when he was sober, "Miss Dooris," he said, "I am a man of leisure,
residing in New York; and I am sorry to say that I am an idle vagabond,
with no occupation even so useful as that of a revenue detective."
In spite of himself, however, a touch of contempt filtered into his
voice. Then it came to him how the club-men would enjoy the story, and
again he laughed uproariously. When he came to himself, Honor was
crying.
III.
Yes, Honor was crying. The dire mistake, the contempt, and, worse than
all, the laughter, had struck the proud little Southern girl to the
heart.