"I hid and watched her leave," I whispered.
Again he screeched.
"You're a durned wise 'n'!" he said, presently. "S'firy's sot ag'in yo'
somehow, but I's jok'n' w'en I said I'd 'low she'd 'vite yo' back to
Baldy. She wouldn't do sich a vi'lent thin' as that, see'n' as how she's
got no airthly complaint ag'in yo', 'cep'n' you're a young man 'n'
good-look'n', 'n'"--lowering his voice and nodding toward the Dryad, who
sat apparently absorbed in her copybook--"she don't 'low to ever let no
man make love to that gal, 'n' she's skeerd o' yo' on that 'count--see?"
"Gran'fer, I smell some'n' burnin'!" called Celeste.
The old man turned with a trembling, low-voiced "Good God!" and bolted
into the house, and instantly I heard a tin cover clatter on the kitchen
floor.
"Whut'd you tell Gran'fer w'en you took 'im over there?" asked Eve, when
I was again beside her.
"The truth," I replied, not altogether relishing a like confession to
her.
"Tell me, too!" she demanded, at once.
"Suppose I won't?" I parried, grasping the opportunity offered to weigh
her character in different scales.
She thought a moment, with a queer little squinting of the eyes.
"Well, if you won't--I don't keer!"
It was not pique, but perfect candor.
"I told him that I waited down yonder in the woods until Granny went to
church," I said.
She smiled, and spread the copybook out afresh.
"You needn't 'a' done that. I've had a talk with Granny, 'n' she's goin'
to let you come, same as she does Buck ... I p'suaded 'er."
"Bless your heart, Dryad! How did you manage it?"
"Granny'll do mos' anything for me," she answered, simply. "I tol' 'er
that you jes' wanted to learn me, 'n' that I wanted to learn--so bad;
'n' that it wouldn't cost nothin'. So she ast Father John, 'n' he said
it'd be all right. He said he knowed you."
"Yes, I've met Father John--and his niece."
"I don't like her," said Celeste, turning the leaves idly.
"Why don't you like her, Dryad?"
"'Cause--'cause--oh, jes' 'cause!"
She pouted her lips slightly, and shook her head.
So she, too, had that unanswerable reason which all women can claim.
"I feel sorry for her, because I don't think she has been happy. She has
lived in cities all her life, and the cities have taken something from
her they can never give back."
"Whut?"
"All things which you, living here in the hills, possess, and which are
a woman's most precious gifts; purity, innocence, womanhood."
"I don't know 'zackly whut you mean."
"I shan't try to put it into simpler words just now, Dryad. But in the
eyes of all true people you are worth more than a thousand Beryl
Dranes."
She pursed her lips and gave a whistle of astonishment.
"Has Buck been here lately?" I asked.
"Not since I seen--I saw you on the log bridge."
Then for a time we remained silent. The day was intensely hot. The
encroaching sun burned the yellow dog which had been lying in the yard,
and he arose reluctantly and slouched over into the deeper shade by the
foundation of the house--into a dusty hole which no doubt he had
previously dug in a search for coolness. There, after gnawing his ribs,
his black nose wrinkling oddly as he did so, he dropped his chin upon
the ground and slowly closed his eyes. A rigor passed over the side
where the uncaptured flea still lingered, then, with a sigh, the dog
slept. A brown hen, wings outheld from her body and bill agape, strolled
dazedly through the shimmering air, singing that dolorous, unmusical,
droning song begotten by the temperature. I have never heard that song
from a hen's throat with the thermometer under ninety. It must have been
an effect of the heat. Beyond, the green vastitudes stretched
endlessly--away to where the big wicked world throbbed and seethed and
strove. All these externals passed before my vision in a twinkling, and
then my gaze was back on the girl sitting quietly by me, looking with
eyes which sent no message to her brain upon the curving lines which
meant knowledge. Her hair was up again to-day--for bodily comfort, I
judge--and damp, curled strands clung flat to her milk-white neck. Below
these, tiny drops of moisture stood, like baby pearls upon porcelain. I
could not grow accustomed to the dazzling effect produced by her
piled-up tresses. I could see neither comb, barette, nor pins, but no
doubt a number of the "invisible" variety of the last were tucked away
somewhere in the intricacies of that matchless coronet.
I asked if there were pen and ink on the place. She thought there was,
and directly returned with both. Then the need arose for something
suitable to hold the copybook while she traced her first letters. I knew
there must be a table in the dining room, but I much preferred to remain
where we were.
How I ever thought of such a thing I cannot guess, but I suggested the
ironing board, and in another minute it was across each of our knees,
and I was twisting the pen-staff about in Celeste's warm fingers to the
proper angle. Her forefinger persisted in bending in at the first joint,
and I as diligently straightened the contrary digit, not minding the
task at all, for some occult reason. Naturally a huge blot was the first
result, and the Dryad was for licking it off, as she had seen Gran'fer
do once upon a time. I told her that wasn't nice, and laid the ink in
the sun to dry, no blotting paper being available. When she finally got
a start the girl did remarkably well. It was quite plain she had talent
in this direction. I permitted her to rewrite the model line half way
down the page, then told her lessons were over for the day. Nor did I
neglect to bestow some well deserved compliments upon her aptness.
Granny may have been gone three hours, but I was nevertheless amazed
when I saw her toiling up the winding path a short time later. Surely I
had not been there over thirty minutes, all told! Far off as she was
when I first sighted her, there seemed to be something menacing in the
very way she got over the ground. As she drew quickly nearer, I observed
that her round, red face was set in lines of furious anger, and she
opened and closed her mouth in gasps, as a fish does on land. In spite
of the assurance the Dryad had given me, a subtle sense told me that I
was the object of her rage. I turned to Celeste, to find wonder and
astonishment depicted on her countenance.
"Whut on earth ails Granny?" she whispered.
"God knows!--and we will too, now"; for the old lady had halted a man's
length away, a truly formidable spectacle.
Her emotion for the moment was actually so intense that she could not
speak. Her throat rolled red and fat over the collar of her dress, and
she was shaking visibly. I knew the storm would break presently, though
I was totally in the dark as to what I had done to arouse such a
tempest, so I gently lifted the ironing board from our laps, propped it
carefully against a post, and got up, that I might take the blast
standing. I gave no greeting, nor made any attempt at pacification. But
the breath almost left my body when the first vial was uncorked.
"_You_ sneak'n' fur'ner! Mak'n' love to Father John's niece, then try'n'
to fool 'n' ruin my Lessie!"
I fell back a step and threw up my hand, a deadly, numbing horror
spreading through me. Before I could recover enough for speech Granny's
needle-sharp tongue was going again.
"I know yo'! I've knowed yo' all 'long, but that daffy Jer-bome 'n' that
pore fool gal 'lowed I's wrong 'n' too hard on yo', I tol' 'em way back
yan whut yo' 's hang'n' 'bout fur--yo' _scamp_! W'en a w'ite-faced,
slick-tongued city feller comes spark'n' a gal whut lives whur this 'n'
does, yo' c'n put it down he 's a-doin' th' dev'l's work. I knowed it, I
tell yo', 'n' yo' didn't pull no wool over _my_ eyes! I've had
'sper'ence 'ith sich, 'n' onct in a lifetime 's 'nough, heav'n knows!
Now take yo' seff off, yo' hyp--hyp--yo' 'ceiv'n', 'ceptious vilyun, 'n'
never so much as lay eyes on my gal--my precious lam'--ag'in, ur I'll
_scratch_ 'em out o' yo' head!"
I paid little heed to this lurid denunciation. After the astounding
revelation of her first speech, I strove to get my mind in working
order, for it had suffered temporary paralysis. Before the voluble,
bitter flow of words had ceased, I knew what had happened, and my face
crimsoned with shame and anger. I dared not look at the girl at my feet
yet, to see how this harsh accusation had affected her. Granny saw the
red in my cheeks, and blazed out afresh.
"Yo' mought well blush, yo' blaggard; a-comin' 'ith yo' hellish notions
to do hurt 'n' harm to this motherless chil'! Yo'--"
"Hush!" I cried, drawing nearer the angered old woman in my deep
earnestness. "Don't say those things again in the presence of--her! They
are lies! Everything you have said is a black, cowardly lie!"
"Do yo' _dare_ to tell me that his rev'rence, that holy pries', lied to
me? Yo'--yo'--"
She thrust her hands toward my throat with her fingers working
convulsively.
I controlled myself, grasped her wrists and brought her arms down, then
looked hard into her eyes as I answered:
"No, Father John did not lie, but Beryl Drane did. I have never spoken a
word of love to her. I have seen her only twice. Once when I got her out
of the river when her boat upset, and a second time when I went to see
Father John. I believe I offended her, unintentionally, at that time,
but I have never made love to her for the best of reasons--I have no
feeling for her but that of pity. She told a dangerous, dastardly
falsehood when she declared to her uncle that I had spoken of love to
her. All of this I swear to be the truth; on the cross, on the Bible, on
my mother's sacred honor! And I respect and honor Lessie as I would my
own sister!"
Truth alone is a powerful weapon, and I could see that Granny was
impressed, though not convinced. She still viewed me in truculence and
disgust, but there was a subtle change in her demeanor. I could feel it
more than I could see it. I waited, knowing that I must not be too eager
in my disclaimers. Granny stood, plainly taken aback, and when she spoke
her voice had sunk to its natural compass.
"I dunno. It don't 'pear right to me.... Whut cause has a gal to make up
sich a yarn as this?--tell me that!"
She flung the question at me with a triumphant flare.
I hesitated. Should I tell the true reason? Should I tell how this girl
had tried to flirt with me, and then, when I had refused, had concocted
this devilish scheme which only a bad woman could have thought of? I
owed her nothing, not even consideration now, and she had made a bold
stroke to blacken me irretrievably in the eyes of Celeste. But something
held my tongue. I could not betray her baseness except as a last resort.
I stood with eyes down, thinking. The old beldam facing me deemed it was
from shame, and my inability to answer her question. I remained silent.
"Yo' 've lied to me!" came her voice, shrill again, and carrying a
victorious note. "Whut cause has she, I say? Yo' dunno. Cause 'nough, I
'low! 'N' yo' can't answer, git yo' gone frum these premises, 'n' never
sot yo' foot on 'em ag'in!"