BRIAN KENT DECIDES.
Brian had walked along the river-bank below the house to a spot just
above the point where the high bluff jutting out into the river-channel
forms Elbow Rock.
The bank here is not so high above the roaring waters of the rapids, for
the spur of the mountain which forms the cliff lies at a right angle to
the river, and the greater part of the cliff is thus on the shore, with
its height growing less and less as it merges into the main slope of
the mountain-side. From the turn in the road, in front of the house, a
footpath leads down the bank of the river to the cliff, and, climbing
stairlike up the face of the steep bluff, zigzags down the easier slope
of the down-river side, to come again into the road below. The
road itself, below Elbow Rock, is forced by the steep side of the
mountain-spur and the precipitous bluff to turn inland from the river,
and so, climbing by an easier grade up past Tom Warden's place, crosses
the ridge above the schoolhouse, and comes back down the mountain again
in front of Auntie Sue's place, to its general course along the stream.
The little path forms thus a convenient short cut for any one following
the river road on foot.
Brian, seated on the river-bank a little way from the path where it
starts up the bluff, was trying to decide whether it would be better
for him to follow his desire and stay with Auntie Sue for a few weeks
or months, or whether he should not, in spite of the land he might clear
for her, return to the world where he could more quickly earn the money
to pay back that which he had stolen.
And as he sat there, the man was conscious that he had reached one
of those turning-points that are found in every life where results,
momentous and far-reaching, are dependent upon comparatively unimportant
and temporary issues. He could not have told why, and yet he felt a
certainty that, for him, two widely separated futures were dependent
upon his choice. Nor could he, by thinking, discover what those futures
held for him, nor which he should choose. Even as his boat that night
had hung on the edge of the eddy,--hesitating on the dividing-line
between the two currents,--so the man himself now felt the pull of his
life-currents, and hesitated,--undecided.
Looking toward the house, he thought how like the life offered by Auntie
Sue was to the quiet waters of The Bend, and--his mind finished the
simile--how like the life to which he would go was to the rapids at
Elbow Rock; and, yet, he reflected, the waters could never reach the
sea without enduring the turmoil of the rapids. And, again, the thought
came, “The Bend is just as much the river as the troubled passage around
the rock.”
When he had given up life, and, to all intent and purpose, had left life
behind him, the river, without his will or knowledge, had mysteriously
elected to save him from the death he had chosen as his only refuge from
the utter ruin that had seemed so inevitable. As the currents of the
river had carried his boat to the eddy at the foot of Auntie Sue's
garden, the currents of life had mysteriously brought him to the saving
influence of Auntie Sue herself. Should he push out again into the
stream to face the danger he knew beset such a course? or should he wait
for a season in the secure calm of the harbor she offered until he were
stronger? Brian Kent knew, instinctively, that there was in the wisdom
and love of Auntie Sue's philosophy and faith a strength that would, if
he could make it his, insure his safe passage through every danger of
life, and yet--The man's meditations were interrupted by a chance look
toward the bluff which towered above him.
Judy was climbing the steep trail.
Curiously, Brian watched the deformed mountain girl as she made her way
up the narrow, stairlike path, and her cutting words came back to him:
“God-A'mighty and my drunken pap made me like I am. But you,--damn
you!--you made yourself what you be.” And Auntie Sue had said that
the all-important thing in life was not to DO something, but to BE
something.
The girl, who had gained a point halfway to the top of the bluff, paused
to look searchingly about, and Brian, who was half-hidden by the bushes,
started to call to her, thinking she might be looking for him; but some
impulse checked him and he remained silently watching her. Climbing
hurriedly a little higher up the path Judy again stopped to look
carefully around, as if searching the vicinity for some one. Then, once
more, she went on until she stood on top of the cliff; and now, as she
looked about over the surrounding country, she called: “Mr. Burns! Oh,
Mr. Burns! Who-o-e-e! Mr. Burns!”
Brian's lips were parted to answer the call when something happened on
top of the bluff which held him for the moment speechless.
From beyond where Judy stood on the brink of the cliff, a man's head
and shoulders appeared. Brian saw the girl start and turn to face the
newcomer as if in sudden fear. Then she whirled about to run. Before she
could gain the point where the path starts down from the top, the man
caught her and dragged her roughly back, so that the two disappeared
from Brian's sight. Brian was halfway up the bluff when he heard the
girl's shrill scream.
There was no sign of weakness, now, in the man that Judy had dragged
from the river. He covered the remaining distance to the top in a
breath. From among the bushes, a little way down the mountainside, came
the sound of an angry voice mingled with Judy's pleading cries.
An instant more, and Brian reached the spot where poor Judy was
crouching on the ground, begging the brute, who stood over her with
menacing fists, not to hit her again.
The man was a vicious-looking creature, dressed in the rough garb of
the mountaineer; dirty and unkempt, with evil, close-set eyes, and a
scraggly beard that could not hide the wicked, snarling mouth.
He stood for a second looking at Brian, as if too surprised by the
latter's sudden appearance to move; then he went down, felled by as
clean a knockout as was ever delivered by an Irish fist.
“Are you hurt, Judy?” demanded Brian, as he lifted the girl to her feet.
“Did he strike you?”
“He was sure a-fixin' ter lick me somethin' awful when you-all put in,”
returned the poor girl, trembling with fear. “I know, 'cause he's done
hit to me heaps er times before. He's my pap.”
“Your father!” exclaimed Brian.
Judy nodded;--then screamed: “Look out! He'll git you, sure!”
Judy's rescuer whirled, to see the man on the ground drawing a gun. A
vigorous, well-directed kick, delivered in the nick of time, sent the
gun whirling away into the bushes and rendered the native's right arm
useless.
“Get up!” commanded Brian.
The man rose to his feet, and stood nursing his damaged wrist and
scowling at Judy's companion.
“Are you this girl's father?”
“I reckon I am,” came the sullen reply. “I'm Jap Taylor, an' you-all
are sure goin' to find that you can't come between a man an' his lawful
child in these here mountains, mister,--if you-all be from the city.”
“And you will find that you can't strike a crippled girl in my presence,
even if she is your daughter,--in these mountains or anywhere else,”
retorted Brian. “What are you trying to do with her, anyway?”
“I aim ter take her back home with me, where she belongs.”
“Well, why didn't you go to the house for her like a man, instead of
jumping on her out here in the woods!”
“Hit ain't none of your dad burned business as I can see,” came the
sullen reply.
“I am making it my business, just the same,” returned Brian.
He turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little behind him. “Judy,”
he said, kindly, “I think perhaps you better tell me about this.”
“Pap, he was a-layin' for me in the bresh 'cause he dassn't come to the
house ter git me,” said the girl, fearfully.
“But, why does he fear to come to the house?” persisted Brian.
“'Cause he done give me ter Auntie Sue.”
“Gave you to Auntie Sue?” repeated the puzzled Brian.
Jap Taylor interrupted with, “I didn't sign ary paper, an'--”
“Shut up, you!” snapped Brian. “Go on, Judy.”
“Hit was a year last corn-plantin',” explained the girl. “My maw, she
died. He used ter whip her, too. An' Auntie Sue was there helpin' weuns;
an' Tom Warden an' some other folks they was there, too; an' they done
fixed hit so that I was ter go an' live with Auntie Sue; an' pap, he
give me ter her. He sure did, Mr. Burns, an' I ain't a-wantin' ter go
with him, no more.”
The poor girl's shrill monotone broke, and her twisted body shook with
her sobs.
“I didn't sign ary paper,” repeated Judy's father, with sullen
stubbornness. “An' what's more, I sure ain't a-goin' ter. I 'lows as how
she'll just go home an' work for me, like she ort, 'stead of livin' with
that there old-maid schoolma'am. I'm her paw, I am, an' I reckon I got
rights.”
He started toward the girl, who drew closer to Brian, and begged
piteously: “Don't let him tech me! 'Fore God, Mr. Burns, he'll kill me,
sure!”
Brian drew the girl behind him as he faced the father with a brief, “Get
out!”
The mountaineer hesitated.
Brian went one step toward him: “Do you hear? Get out! And if you ever
show your dirty face in this vicinity again, I'll not leave a whole bone
in your worthless carcass!”
And Jap Taylor saw something in those Irish blue eyes that caused him to
start off down the mountain toward the river below Elbow Rock.
When he had placed a safe distance between himself and the man who
appeared so willing and able to make good his threat, Judy's father
turned, and, shaking his uninjured fist at Brian, delivered a volley
of curses, with: “I'll sure git you-all for this! Jap Taylor ain't
a-lettin' no man come between him an' his'n. I'll fix you, an' I'll fix
that there schoolma'am, too! She's nothin' but a damned old--”
But Brian started toward him, and Jap Taylor beat a hasty retreat.
“Never mind, Judy,” said Brian, when the native had disappeared in the
brush and timber that covered the steep mountain-side. “I'll not let
him touch you. Come, let us sit down and talk a little until you are
yourself again. Auntie Sue must not see you like this. We don't want to
let her know anything about it. You won't tell her, will you?”
“I ain't aimin' ter tell nobody,” said Judy, between sobs. “I sure ain't
a-wantin' ter make no trouble,--not for Auntie Sue, nohow. She's been
powerful good ter me.”
When they were seated on convenient rocks at the brink of the cliff
overlooking the river, Judy gradually ceased crying, and presently said,
in her normal, querulous monotone: “Did you-all mind what pap 'lowed
he'd do ter Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns?”
“Yes, Judy; but don't worry, child. He is not going to harm any one
while I am around.”
“You-all are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful glad,” said
Judy, simply.
Brian started. A new factor had suddenly been injected into his problem.
“I was powerful scared you-all was aimin' ter go away,” continued Judy.
“Hit was that I was a-huntin' you-all to tell you 'bout, when pap he
ketched me.”
“What were you going to tell me, Judy?”
“I 'lowed ter tell you-all 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be powerful mad
if she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you, but she's a-needin' somebody
like you ter help her, mighty bad. She--she's done lost a heap of money,
lately: hit was some she sent--”
Brian interrupted: “Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me anything
about Auntie Sue's private affairs; you must not tell any one. Anything
she wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you understand?” he finished
with a reassuring smile.
“Yes, sir; I reckon you-all are 'bout right, an' I won't tell nobody
nothin'. But 'tain't a-goin' ter hurt none ter say as how you-all ort
ter stay, I reckon.”
“And why do you think I ought to stay, Judy?”
“'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for you-all,--a-nursin' you when you
was plumb crazy an' plumb dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' like she
did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man,” returned Judy
stoutly; “an' 'cause she's so old an' is a-needin' you-all ter help her;
an' 'cause she is a-lovin' you like she does, an' is a-wantin' you-all
ter stay so bad hit's mighty nigh a-makin' her plumb sick.”
Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed to him
the selfishness of his own consideration of his problem so clearly that
he was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, remembered the dear old
gentlewoman who had saved him from a shameful death?
Judy went on: “Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got ter
take care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All her whole life she's a-been
takin' care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just like she tuck
you-all, besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's so old and mighty
nigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit was time somebody was
a-fixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what I was a-huntin' you-all
ter tell you when pap ketched me, Mr. Burns.”
“I am glad you told me, Judy;--very glad. You see, I was not thinking of
things in just that way.”
“I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't.”
“But it's all right, now!” Brian cried heartily. “You have settled it.
I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue,--you and I, Judy. Come on,
now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't say anything
about your father, Judy;--that would only make her unhappy; and we must
never make Auntie Sue unhappy--never.” He was as eager and enthusiastic,
now, as a schoolboy.
“'Course,” said Judy, solemnly; “'course you just naturally got ter stay
an' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do.”
“Yes, Judy; I've just naturally got to stay,” returned Brian.
Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little log
house by the river to announce Brian's decision to Auntie Sue. They
found the dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch overlooking
the river.
“Why, of course you will stay,” she returned, when Brian had told her.
“The river brought you to me, and you know, my dear boy, the river is
never wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are cross-currents and crooked spots
and sand-bars and rocks and lots of places where it SEEMS to us to be
wrong. But, just the same, it all goes on, all the time, toward the sea
for which it starts when it first begins at some little spring away
over there somewhere in the mountains. Of course you will stay with me,
Brian,--until the river carries you on again.”