"I's hongry onct--belly hongry--'n' yo' give me good grub. Now yo're
hongry--heart hongry--'n' I'm a-goin' to fill yo' plum' up!"
I essayed to cross my knees to assure myself that I was actually all
right, but something went wrong with my lifted leg. It fell short, slid
down my other shin, and lodged on the instep in a most unique twist. I
let it remain. Bemused as I was almost to the point of helplessness, I
yet knew that the Satyr had far greater control of his faculties than
myself, despite the enormous quantity of poison he had consumed. I could
listen acutely, however, if my speech was difficult.
"Go on," I encouraged, doing the two monosyllables without a hitch.
"Th' gal lied to th' pries' 'n' th' pries' tol' Granny, didn't he?"
This abrupt and startling declaration almost dazed me.
"Howje know?"
"I's to th' P'int t'other day; jes' drapped 'roun' 'n' heerd d'rec'ly
thur'd ben a tur'ble stew. Granny tol' me 'bout it, 'n' how she'd druv
yo' off on 'count o' whut th' pries's niece tol' 'im. She lied, though,
sho!"
"Howje know?"
"Granny 'lowed yo' said so, but I knowed it w'en it hap'n'd, 'cus I'm
al'ays perk'n' 'roun' in onexpected places. I wander consid'ble."
"Whurruz zhe?"
"That vine-house ain't fur frum th' hedge, 'n' I jes' hap'n'd to be
layin' 'long t'other side 'n' heerd all yo' said. So I ups 'n' 'lows to
Granny 'n' Lessie that you tol' th' truth 'n' th' gal lied, 'cus I heerd
ever'thin'."
"Whusshe do?"
"She sot thur lak a mud woman, a-wink'n' 'n' a-swaller'n', her mouth
hung open lak a dead fish's--"
"Whus _she_ do?--Lesshe?"
"She hugged Granny, 'n' she hugged Gran'fer, 'n' she hugged me, 'n' ez
she's hugg'n' me she tol' me we'd go runnin' that night, jes' on 'count
o' th' good news I'd brung."
"I shaw you."
"Huh?"
"I shaw you--called--wouldn't stop. Why didn't yo' stop?"
"Never heerd yo'; we's runnin'."
The Satyr's recital was not given with the lucidity of my transcription.
It was halting, stammering, uncertain in places, but it imparted a
glorious truth which rolled a stone from my breast. Even in the depths
of my state of inebriety I was uplifted. I saw the light of day once
more, who had been following paths of gloom and horror. I remember that
I arose with the intention of grasping his hand to thank him, then a
veil dropped before my eyes and my mind went blank.
I awoke this morning with my head splitting and every joint stiff. I had
spent the remaining hours of night upon the floor. My first thought was
of my visitor. I sat up and looked around, but he was gone. All of this
day I have been trying to get myself together. I was never drunk
before--beastly drunk. I never shall be again. It is not the physical
discomfort which causes me to make this declaration. That is bad enough,
but I am no cringing coward, and am ready to pay the penalty for any
conscious misdemeanor. It is the shame of it which makes me say it.
When a man sets out to tell the whole truth about himself he has a task
before him. Willingly would I have omitted this scandalous episode; not
willingly, but gladly. I feel humiliated; I feel unworthy of that great
joy which surely will be mine as soon as I can see my Dryad. True, it
was for her I did it. I had to humor that antic creature to worm his
secret from him. My soul is at peace to-night despite the misery of my
mistreated body. Now I must go to bed, and I believe I can sleep.
To-morrow--to-morrow--oh, my brothers! did you ever go to bed in the
firm belief that to-morrow heaven's gate would open for you?