IV

Mrs. Jane Hemingway, Ann Boyd's long and persistent enemy, sat in the

passage which connected the two parts of her house, a big, earthernware

churn between her sharp knees, firmly raising and lowering the

bespattered dasher with her bony hands. She was a woman past fifty; her

neck was long and slender, and the cords under the parchment-like skin

had a way of tightening, like ropes in the seams of a tent, when she

swallowed or spoke. Her dark, smoothly brushed hair was done up in the

tightest of balls behind her head, and her brown eyes were easily

kindled to suspicion, fear, or anger.

Her brother-in-law, Sam Hemingway, called "Hem" by his intimates,

slouched in from the broad glare of the mid-day sun and threw his coat

on a chair. Then he went to the shelf behind the widow, and, pouring

some water into a tin pan from a pail, he noisily bathed his perspiring

face and big, red hands. As he was drying himself on the towel which

hung on a wooden roller on the weather-boarding of the wall, Virginia

Hemingway, his niece, came in from the field bringing a pail of freshly

gathered dewberries. In appearance she was all that George Wilson had

claimed for her. Slightly past eighteen, she had a wonderful complexion,

a fine, graceful figure, big, dreamy, hazel eyes, and golden-brown hair,

and, which was rare in one of her station, she was tastily dressed. She

smiled as she showed her uncle the berries and playfully "tickled" him

under the chin.

"See there!" she chuckled.

"Pies?" he said, with an unctuous grin, as he peered down into her pail.

"I thought of you while I was gathering them," she nodded. "I'm going to

try to make them just as you like them, with red, candied bars

criss-crossing."

"Nothing in the pie-line can hold a candle to the dewberry unless it's

the cherry," he chuckled. "The stones of the cherries sorter hold a

fellow back, but I manage to make out. I et a pie once over at Darley

without a stone in it, and you bet your life it was a daisy."

He went into his room for his tobacco, and Virginia sat down to stem her

berries. He returned in a moment, leaning in the doorway, drawing lazily

at his pipe. The widow glanced up at him, and rested her dasher on the

bottom of the churn.

"I reckon folks are still talking about Ann Boyd and her flouncing out

of meeting like she did," the widow remarked. "Well, that _was_ funny,

but what was the old thing to do? It would take a more brazen-faced

woman than she is, if such a thing exists, to sit still and hear all he

said."

"Yes, they are still hammering at the poor creature's back," said Sam,

"and that's one thing I can't understand, nuther. She's got dead loads

of money--in fact, she's independent of the whole capoodle of you women.

Now, why don't she kick the dust o' this spot off of her heels an' go

away whar she can be respected, an', by gosh! be let alone _one_ minute

'fore she dies. They say she's the smartest woman in the state, but that

don't show it--living on here whar you women kin throw a rock at her

every time she raises her head above low ground."

"I've wondered why she don't go off, too," the widow said, as she peered

down at the floating lumps of yellow butter in the snowy depths of her

vessel, and deftly twirled her dasher in her fingers to make them

"gather"; "but, Sam, haven't you heard that persons always want to be on

the spot where they went wrong? I think she's that way. And when the

facts leaked out on her, and her husband repudiated her and took the

child away, she determined to stay here and live it down. But instead of

calling humility and submission to her aid, she turned in to stinting

and starving to make money, and now she flaunts her prosperity in our

faces, as if _that_ is going to make folks believe any more in her.

Money's too easily made in evil ways for Christian people to bow before

it, and possessions ain't going to keep such men as Brother Bazemore

from calling her down whenever she puts on her gaudy finery and struts

out to meeting. It was a bold thing for her to do, anyway, after

berating him as she did when he went to her to get the use of her grove

for the picnic."

"They say she didn't know Bazemore was to preach that day," said Sam.

"She'd heard that the presiding elder was due here, and I'm of the

opinion that she took that opportunity to show you all she wasn't afraid

to appear in public."

Virginia Hemingway threw a handful of berry-stems out into the sunshine

in the yard. "She's a queer woman," she said, innocently, "like a

character in a novel, and, somehow, I don't believe she is as bad as

people make her out. I never told either of you, but I met her yesterday

down on the road."

"_You_ met her!" cried Mrs. Hemingway, aghast.

"Yes, she was going home from her sugar-mill with her apron full of

fresh eggs that she'd found down at her hay-stacks, and just as she got

close to me her dress got caught on a snag and she couldn't get it

loose. I stopped and unfastened it, and she actually thanked me, though,

since I was born, I've never seen such a queer expression on a human

face. She was white and red and dark as a thunder-cloud all at once. It

looked like she hated me, but was trying to be polite for what I'd

done."

"You had no business touching her dirty skirt," the widow flared up.

"The next thing you know it will go out that you and her are thick. It

would literally ruin a young girl to be associated with a woman of that

stamp. What on earth could have possessed you to--"

"Oh, come off!" Sam laughed. "Why, you know you've always taught Virgie

to be considerate of old folks, and she was just doing what she ought to

have done for any old nigger mammy."

"I looked at it that way," said the girl, "and I'm not sorry, for I

don't want her to think I hate her, for I don't. I think she has had a

hard life, and I wish it were in my power to help her out of her

trouble."

"Virginia, what are you talking about?" cried Mrs. Hemingway. "The idea

of your standing up for that woman, when--"

"Well, Luke King used to defend her," Virginia broke in, impulsively,

"and before he went away you used to admit he was the finest young man

in the county. I've seen him almost shed tears when he'd tell about what

she'd done for him, and how tender-hearted and kind she was."

"Tender-hearted nothing!" snapped Mrs. Hemingway, under a deep frown.

"Luke King was the only person that went about her, and she tried to

work on his sympathies for some purpose or other. Besides, nobody knows

what ever become of him; he may have gone to the dogs by this time; it

looks like somebody would have heard of him if he had come to any good

in the five years he's been away."

"Somehow, I think she knows where he is," Virginia said, thoughtfully,

as she rose to put her berries away.

When she had gone, Sam laughed softly. "It's a wonder to me that Virgie

don't know whar Luke is, _herself_," he said. "I 'lowed once that the

fellow liked her powerful; but I reckon he thought she was too young, or

didn't want to take the matter further when he was as poor as Job's

turkey and had no sort of outlook ahead."

"I sort o' thought that, too," the widow admitted, "but I didn't want

Virginia to encourage him when he was accepting so much from that

woman."

Sam laughed again as he knocked the ashes from his pipe and cleaned the

bowl with the tip of his finger. "Well, '_that woman_,' as you call her,

is a power in the land that hates her," he said. "She knows how to hit

back from her fortress in that old farm-house. George Wilson knows what

it means not to stand by her in public, so does Abe Longley, that has to

drive his cattle to grass two miles over the mountains. Jim Johnston,

who was dead sure of renting her northeast field again next year, has

been served with a notice to vacate, and now, if the latest news can be

depended on, she's hit a broad lick at half the farmers in the valley,

and, while I'm a sufferer with the balance, I don't blame her one bit.

I'd 'a' done the same pine-blank thing years ago if I'd stood in her

shoes."

"What's she done _now_?" asked the woman at the churn, leaning forward

eagerly.

"Done? Why, she says she's tired o' footing almost the entire

wheat-threshing bill for twenty measly little farmers. You know she's

been standing her part of the expenses to get the Empire Company to send

their steam thresher here, and her contribution amounted to more than

half. She's decided, by hunky, to plant corn and cotton exclusively next

year, and so notified the Empire Company. They can't afford to come

unless she sows wheat, and they sent a man clean from Atlanta to argue

the matter with her, but she says she's her own boss, an' us farmers who

has land fittin' for nothing but wheat is going to get badly left in the

lurch. Oh, Bazemore opened the battle agin her, and you-uns echoed the

war-cry, an' the battle is good on. I'll go without flour biscuits and

pie-crust, but the fight will be interesting. The Confed' soldiers made

a purty good out along about '61, an' they done it barefooted an' on

hard-tack an' water. If you folks are bent on devilling the hide off of

the most influential woman in our midst, just because her foot got

caught in the hem of her skirt an' tripped her up when she was a

thoughtless young girl, I reckon us men will have to look on an' say

nothing."

"She _did_ slip up, as you say," remarked the widow, "and she's been a

raging devil ever since."

"Ay! an' who made her one? Tell me that." Sam laughed. "You may not want

to hear it, Jane, but some folks hint that you was at the bottom of

it--some think lazy Joe Boyd would have stayed on in that comfortable

boat, with a firm hand like hern at the rudder, if you hadn't

ding-donged at him and told tales to him till he had to pull out."

"Huh! They say that, do they?" The widow frowned as she turned and

looked straight at him. "Well, let 'em. What do I care? I didn't want to

see as good-hearted a man as he was hoodwinked."

"I reckon not," Sam said, significantly, and he walked out of the

passage down towards the barn. "Huh!" he mused, as he strode along

crumbling leaf-tobacco of his own growing and filling his pipe. "I come

as nigh as pease tellin' the old woman some'n' else folks say, an' that

is that she was purty nigh daft about Joe Boyd, once upon a time, and

that dashing Ann cut her out as clean as a whistle. I'll bet that 'ud

make my sister-in-law so dern hot she'd blister from head to foot."

V

That afternoon Jane Hemingway went out to the barn-yard. For years she

had cultivated a habit of going thither, obviously to look after certain

hens that nested there, but in reality, though she would not have

admitted it even to herself, she went because from that coign of vantage

she could look across her enemy's fertile acres right into the lone

woman's doorway and sometimes catch a glimpse of Ann at work. There was

one unpleasant contingency that she sometimes allowed her mind to dwell

upon, and that was that Joe Boyd and his now grown daughter might,

inasmuch as Ann's wealth and power were increasing in direct ratio to

the diminution of their own, eventually sue for pardon and return. That

had become Jane's nightmare, riding her night and day, and she was not

going to let any living soul know the malicious things she had done and

said to thwart it. Vaguely she regarded the possible coming-back of the

father and daughter as her own undoing. She knew the pulse of the

community well enough to understand that nothing could happen which

would so soon end the war against Ann Boyd as such a reconciliation.

Yes, it would amount to her own undoing, for people were like sheep, and

the moment one ran to Ann Boyd's side in approval, all would flock

around her, and it would only be natural for them to turn against the

one woman who had been the primal cause of the separation.

Jane was at the bars looking out on a little, seldom-used road which ran

between her land and Ann's, when her attention was caught by a man with

a leather hand-bag strapped on his shoulders trudging towards her. He

was a stranger, and his dusty boots and trousers showed that he had

walked a long distance. As he drew near he took off his straw hat and

bowed very humbly, allowing his burden to swing round in front of him

till he had eased it down on the turf at his feet.

"Good-evening, madam," he said. "I'd like to show you something if

you've got the time to spare. I've made so many mountain folks happy,

and at such a small outlay, that I tell you they are glad to have me

come around again. This is a new beat to me, but I felt it my duty to

widen out some in the cause of human suffering."

"What is it you've got?" Jane asked, smiling at his manner of speaking,

as he deftly unlocked his valise and opened it out before her.

"It's a godsend, and that's no joke," said the peddler. "I've got a

household liniment here at a quarter for a four-ounce flask that no

family can afford to be without. You may think I'm just talking because

it's my business, but, madam, do you know that the regular druggists all

about over this country are in a combine not to sell stuff that will

keep people in good trim? And why? you may ask me. Why? Because, I say,

that it would kill the'r business. Go to one, I dare you, or to a doctor

in regular practice, and they will mix up chalk and sweetened water and

tell you you've got a serious internal complaint, and to keep coming day

after day till your pile is exhausted, and then they may tell you the

truth and ask you to let 'em alone. I couldn't begin, madam--I don't

know your name--I say I couldn't begin to tell you the wonderful cures

this liniment has worked all over this part of the state."

"What is it good for?" Jane Hemingway's face had grown suddenly serious.

The conversation had caused her thoughts to revert to a certain secret

fear she had entertained for several months.

"Huh--good for?--excuse me, but you make me laugh," the peddler said, as

he held a bottle of the dark fluid up before her; "it's good for so many

things that I could hardly get through telling you between now and

sundown. It's good for anything that harms the blood, skin, or muscles.

It's even good for the stomach, although I don't advise it taken

internally, for when it's rubbed on the outside of folks they have

perfect digestions; but what it is best for is sprains, lameness, or any

skin or blood eruption. Do you know, madam, that you'd never hear of so

many cancers and tumors, that are dragging weary folks to early graves

hereabouts, if this medicine had been used in time?"

"Cancer?" The widow's voice had fallen, and she looked towards Ann

Boyd's house, and then more furtively over her shoulder towards her own,

as if to be sure of not being observed. "That's what I've always

wondered at, how is anybody to know whether a--a thing is a cancer or

not without going to a doctor, and, as you say, even _then_ they may not

tell you the truth? Mrs. Twiggs, over the mountain, was never let know

she had her cancer till a few months before it carried her off. The

family and the doctor never told her the truth. The doctor said it

couldn't be cured, and to know would only make the poor thing brood over

it and be miserable."

"That's it, now," said the medicine-vender; "but if it had been taken at

the start and rubbed vigorously night and morning, it would have melted

away under this fluid like dirt under lye-soap and warm water. Madam, a

cancer is nothing more nor less than bad circulation at a certain point

where blood stands till it becomes foul and putrefies. I can--excuse me

if I seem bold, but long experience in handling men and women has learnt

me to understand human nature. Most people who are afraid they've got

cancers generally show it on their faces, an' I'll bet my hat and walk

bareheaded to the nighest store to get another that you are troubled on

that line--a little bit, anyway."

Jane made no denial, though her thin face worked as she strove

adequately to meet his blunt assertion. "As I said just now"--she

swallowed, and avoided his covetous glance--"how is a person really to

_know_?"

"It's a mighty easy matter for _me_ to tell," said the peddler, and he

spoke most reassuringly. "Just you let me take a look at the spot, if

it's no trouble to you, and I may save you a good many sleepless nights.

You are a nervous, broody sort of a woman yourself, and I can see by

your face that you've let this matter bother you a lots."

"You think you could tell if you--you looked at it?" Jane asked,

tremulously.

"Well, if I didn't it would be the first case I ever diagnosed

improperly. Couldn't we go in the house?"

Jane hesitated. "I think I'd rather my folks didn't know--that is, of

course, if it _is_ one. My brother-in-law is a great hand to talk, and

I'd rather it wasn't noised about. If there's one thing in the world I

don't like it's the pity and the curiosity of other folks as to just

about how long I'm going to hold out."

"I've seed a lots o' folks like you." The peddler smiled. "But, if you

don't mind tellin', where's the thing located?"

"It's on my breast," Jane gulped, undecidedly, and then, the first

bridge having been crossed, she unbuttoned her dress at the neck with

fumbling fingers and pulled it down. "Maybe you can see as well here as

anywhere."

"Oh yes, never was a better light for the business," said the vender,

and he leaned forward, his eyes fixed sharply on the spot exposed

between the widow's bony fingers. For a moment he said nothing. The

woman's yellow breast lay flat and motionless. She scarcely breathed;

her features were fixed by grim, fearful expectancy. He looked away from

her, and then stooped to his pack to get a larger bottle. "I'm glad I

happened to strike you just when I did, madam," he said. "Thar ain't no

mistaking the charactericstics of a cancer when it's in its first

stages. That's certainly what you've got, but I'm telling you God's holy

truth when I say that by regular application and rubbing this stuff in

for a month, night and morning, that thing will melt away like mist

before a hot sun."

"So it really _is_ one!" Jane breathed, despondently.

"Yes, it's a little baby one, madam, but this will nip it in the bud and

save your life. It will take the dollar size, but you know it's worth

it."

"Oh yes, I'll take it," Jane panted. "Put it there in the fence-corner

among the weeds, and I'll come out to-night and get it."

"All right," and the flask tinkled against a stone as it slid into its

snug hiding-place among the Jamestown weeds nestling close to the

rotting rails.

"Here's your money. I reckon we'd better not stand here." And Jane gave

it to him with quivering fingers. He folded the bill carefully, thrust

it into a greasy wallet, and stooped to close his bag and throw the

strap over his shoulder.

"Now I'm going on to the next house," he said. "They tell me a curious

sort of human specimen lives over thar--old Ann Boyd. Do you know,

madam, I heard of that woman's tantrums at Springtown night before last,

and at Barley yesterday. Looks like you folks hain't got much else to do

but poke at her like a turtle on its back. Well, she must be a

character! I made up my mind I'd take a peep at 'er. You know a

travelling physician like I am can get at folks that sort o' hide from

the general run."

Jane Hemingway's heart sank. Why had it not occurred to her that he

might go on to Ann Boyd's and actually reveal her affliction? Such men

had no honor or professional reputation to defend. Suddenly she was

chilled from head to foot by the thought that the peddler might even

boast of her patronage to secure that of her neighbor--that was quite

the method of all such persons. It was on her tongue actually to ask him

not to go to Ann Boyd's house at all, but her better judgment told her

that such a request would unduly rouse the man's curiosity, so she

offered a feeble compromise.

"Look here," she said, "I want it understood between us that--that you

are to tell nobody about me--about my trouble. That woman over there is

at outs with all her neighbors, and--and she'd only be glad to--"

Jane saw her error too late. It appeared to her now in the bland twinkle

of amused curiosity in the stranger's face.

"I understand--I understand; you needn't be afraid of me," the man said,

entirely too lightly, Jane thought, for such a grave matter, and he

pushed back the brim of his hat and turned. "Remember the directions,

madam, a good brisk rubbing with a flannel rag--red if you've got

it--soaked in the medicine, twice a day. Good-evening; I'll be off. I've

got to strike some house whar they will let me stay all night. I know

that old hag won't keep me, from all I hear."

The widow leaned despondently against the fence and watched him as he

ploughed his way through the tall grass and weeds of the intervening

marsh towards Ann Boyd's house. The assurance that the spot on her

breast was an incipient cancer was bad enough without the added fear

that her old enemy would possibly gloat over her misfortune. She

remained there till she saw the vender approach Ann's door. For a moment

she entertained the mild hope that he would be repulsed, but he was not.

She saw Ann's portly form framed in the doorway for an instant, and then

the peddler opened the gate and went into the house. Heavy of heart, the

grim watcher remained at the fence for half an hour, and then the

medicine-vender came out and wended his way along the dusty road towards

Wilson's store.

Jane went into the house and sat down wearily. Virginia was sewing at a

western window, and glanced at her in surprise.

"What's the matter, mother?" she inquired, solicitously.

"I don't know as there is anything wrong," answered Jane, "but I am sort

o' weak. My knees shake and I feel kind o' chilly. Sometimes, Virginia,

I think maybe I won't last long."

"That's perfectly absurd," said the girl. "Don't you remember what Dr.

Evans said last winter when he was talking about the constitutions of

people? He said you belonged to the thin, wiry, raw-boned kind that

never die, but simply stay on and dry up till they are finally blown

away."

"He's not a graduated doctor," said Jane, gloomily. "He doesn't know

everything."