"shir-r-r-r." The men did not seem to notice it, but Mrs. Upchurch
moved uneasily, for neither religion nor common sense could rid her of
the superstitious feeling that it meant bad luck. That night her short,
simple, but earnest prayers included the poor wanderer, and also an
entreaty that no bad luck might come to any of them.
On Sunday morning the wagon was brought around, and all the family came
out in their "go-ter-meetin'" clothes.
Ab declined accompanying them, although he had partially recovered from
the fatigue of the day before, and he obstinately refused to allow one
of the family to remain at home with him, to his sister's distress. She
would gladly have remained, for there were still many things she wished
to talk over with him, but he would not hear to it.
"I make no pretensions, Peggy, but neither am I goin' ter keep them
erway that does," he said more decidedly than she had yet heard him
speak.
He was sitting on the fence whittling a stick, and many were the curious
glances directed toward the shabby, stooping figure, as the country
people passed on their way to Ebenezer.
It was soon known throughout the settlement that Ab Dyer, Peggy
Upchurch's brother had come, and the women discovered they owed Peggy a
visit, and the men dropped in to see Upchurch, or to borrow some farming
tool. Ab did not impress the visitors very favorably. Some regarded
him suspiciously, others with more or less contempt.
"He's shore to be crazy," said old Miss Davis confidentially to Sally
Gancey.
"You reckon?" in a shocked tone.
"Yes, an' er tramp, too. Won't you take er dip?" producing the little
black snuff-box her grandfather had bequeathed to her.
"B'lieve I will. Po' Mis' Upchurch! how she mus' feel!"
"Law, it ain't no new thing. I knowed Ab Dyer when he wasn't much
bigger'n er woodpeck, an' he never was right bright. He ain't 'walked
fur with Solomon,' I kin tell you," rolling her eyes knowingly.
So the bit of gossip went from house to house, and hints of it reached
the Upchurches; but if the poor wanderer ever heard of it, he made no
sign. Yet it cut Peggy Upchurch to the heart, and she strove, by
additional tenderness and consideration, to make up to him for all he
had lost in not gaining the good will of the neighbors.
"I've always noticed that them that's talked erbout is apt ter be better
than them that does the talkin'," she said privately to Upchurch.
But once she ventured to gently remonstrate with Ab about the palpable
lack of pride in his personal appearance.
"'Tain't no use, Peggy. I wanted ter be somethin' an' I tried, but
ever'thing went ag'in' me."
"You mus'n't be mad erbout that, Ab. It was the Almighty's doin's,
though I ain't one er them that lays ever'thing ter Providence. Mebby
you didn't start right."
"Mebby I didn't," he replied, spiritlessly, and with a fit of coughing.
He sat on the door-step in the sunshine, his shoulders bent over, his
chin almost touching his knees, as much of a vagabond as the day on
which he walked up the road, seeking the last of his kith and kin.
"It pesters me to see you so down in the mouth. I'm all the time
a-wantin' ter see you pearten up. Don't that fat light'ood-splinter tea
help yer cough?"
"No; but don't you be a-botherin' erbout me, Peggy. 'Tain't no use."
"Ah, that sayin' o' yourn, ''Tain't no use,' has done a sight er harm in
this world. Too many folks says it fer their own good," said Mrs.
Upchurch solemnly.
"That may be so, but I ain't been no use ter myself nor nobody else."
"Well, I say you have. Don't forgit yer young days an' the time you run
between me an' old Miss Whitlock's mad dog. I remember it, an' I'll
keep on rememberin' it till I die."
"Lor'! that wasn't nothin'," he said, moving uneasily, a sort of flush
passing over his face.
"Yet if you hadn't 'a' done it, I might not 'a' been here now,"
impressively, and with the feeling that she must ever hold him lovingly
and gratefully in her heart, no matter how idle and purposeless his life
might be--and one might better have been dead than lazy in that
community.
"Mebby if the little un had 'a' lived--" he muttered, but leaving the
sentence unfinished, he hastily rose and walked away toward the lot.
He grew rather fond of Tempy, after a cautious, undemonstrative fashion.
His eyes would follow her in an absorbed, wistful way, for in her he
saw, as it were, a pale vision of his own child grown to womanhood--a
pale vision, for no girl could compare with what the reality would have
been in his eyes.
Tempy's wedding-day approached, and he astonished her with the gift of
ten dollars--all he had.
"Ter help buy yer fixin's," he said, and carefully restored the empty
leather purse to his pocket.
The days came and went, and the farmers worked from daylight till dark,
but Ab Dyer idled about the house or wandered aimlessly through the
woods with a gun. Sometimes he would bring home game, but oftener he
would come empty-handed.
"What ails him, Peggy?" Sam Upchurch inquired one evening, after Dyer
had gone off to bed. "There ain't nothin' to be got outen him."
"He's give up--that's what ails him, an' it's the worst thing a body
could do fer themselves. Ab always was easy to git down in the mouth,
an' it 'pears like he ain't a-goin' to git over the loss o' his fambly.
Poor fellow! he always was an onfortunit creetur," wiping her eyes on
her nightcap and sighing deeply.
The summer drew near its end, and one cloudy morning, late in August,
Sam Upchurch pulled out the buggy, harnessed his best horse to it, and
invited Ab to go with him over to Rockymount, to buy some things for
Tempy's wedding. It had rained torrents the night before, and Bear
Creek rushed along turbulent, muddy, and nearly up to the bridge.
"But we'll be all right, if it don't set in to rainin' ag'in," said
Upchurch, taking a sweeping glance at the clouds rolling so darkly above
them.
"An' ef it does?" Ab dryly inquired.
"Well, I reckon we will, ennyhow; the bridge is new," Sam easily and
carelessly replied.
It did rain again, heavy, flooding rains, and they were detained in town
until quite late. Indeed, they did not realize how swiftly the day
passed, until night was upon them.
"Better lie over in town to-night. Bear Creek ain't er pleasant sight
jes' now," said an acquaintance, who also lived beyond the creek. But
Sam Upchurch shook his head.
"No, Peggy'll be a-lookin' fer us, an' the bridge is strong. There
ain't no danger, ef the water does run over it."
"You don't know that. My old woman'll be a-lookin' fer me, too, but I
ain't a-goin' ter risk my life jes' fer that," muttered the other
countryman, shrugging his shoulders.
It was dark when the belated travelers reached the creek--not the gray
darkness of twilight, but the pitchy blackness of a clouded, stormy
night. They could hear the rush and roar of the stream, and the horse
trembled and shrank back from it in fear, but, urged on by his master's
voice, he ventured in. For many a day Sam Upchurch reproached himself
for that rash and foolhardy act, but he had such faith in the strength
of the bridge, that he did not think of danger until with a desperate
plunge they were floundering in the creek.
"Good God! the bridge is gone!" he groaned, and the next moment felt the
buggy swept away from him by the strong current.
"Ab!" he shouted loudly.
"Here I am. Can you swim, Sam?"
"Not much here," he cried hoarsely, realizing that only a bare chance of
life remained. A vision of his home rose up before him, and of his wife
and children; life never seemed so precious and desirable a thing as
when death stared him in the face. He groaned aloud; then he heard Ab's
voice close beside him--
"Ketch onter this limb."
It was a willow bough clipping into the water, a slender, flexible
thing, not strong enough to bear the weight of both men; but Upchurch
did not know that when he clutched so desperately at the frail chance of
salvation.
Ab loosened his grasp.
"What's the matter?" cried his brother-in-law in quick alarm, for the
poor fellow brushed against him as the strong, swift current carried him
away.
"Nothin'! Git home ter Peggy an' the chillun if you can. I'm
goin'"--but there his voice died away, was swallowed up in the confusion
of noises around them. Upchurch shouted himself hoarse, but no reply
came back to him, and chilled and stiffened he drew himself up out of
the water, realizing at last that Ab had given up to him the one chance
of life that lay between them.
They laid him down within the shadow of Ebenezer Church, along with the
other quiet sleepers who rested there, and no one ever again breathed
aught against the luckless vagabond; while in one household his memory
was gratefully and tenderly cherished. Never did a stormy night come,
but they would draw up around the flaming pine-knot fire thinking of
him, and Mrs. Upchurch would take one of Tempy's children on her knee,
to shield her tearful eyes from observation.
Then again she would sit in the entry on calm, clear summer days, with
her knitting and her snuff, just as she sat that day he came up the
road, footsore, and weary with his tramp, and, recalling all the trials
and failures of his life, she would far away toward those misty blue
mountains, softly murmuring:
"Poor Ab! He always was an onfortunit creetur."
*BET CROW.*
*A DIALECT STORY OF GEORGIA LIFE.*
Mr. Jesse Crow sat on the front fence with his feet comfortably resting
on the lower rail, whittling a stick. Crops had been "laid by," and he
felt that he could afford to sit on the fence and engage in the pleasing
recreation of whittling. But it was not, on this particular occasion,
enjoyed as heartily as usual. It seemed to be a mere mechanical
occupation to aid him in solving a knotty problem. He was a small,
wiry, mild-eyed man, with a deeply tanned complexion and a good-humored
expression. He was a prosperous farmer, and highly respected in the
settlement, where he had a good reputation for fair, honest dealing and
clear judgment, though often permitting his love of mercy to overrule
the rigid laws of justice.
"It ain't no use in bein' hard on enny creetur," he would say mildly.
"We ain't all been tried erlike, an' thar mought be extinguishin'
sarcums-tances ter jedge by if we could see 'em."
But this morning his brows were drawn together in a perplexed frown, and
he stared at the slowly sharpening splinter with abstracted eyes. The
steady, even fall of hoofs upon the hard, dry road roused him from his
reflections, and glancing up he saw Jim Edwards, his neighbor and crony,
approaching on his old gray mare. Mr. Jesse Crow hailed him with hearty
delight.
"Won't you 'light an' come in?" he asked hospitably.
"No, reckon not this mornin'. Nancy's in er pow'ful hurry fer some
truck, but I don't know as I min' a-jinin' you thar a little while."
He dismounted, threw the bridle over a low projecting limb of the great
chestnut-tree standing near the gate, and in a few minutes sat on the
fence by the side of his friend.
"You have heard erbout Tom Fannin a-takin' that money from Bill Sanders,
down whar they air a-workin' on the new railroad?" he said, fumbling for
his knife from mere force of habit, and settling himself for a little
gossip.
"Yes," said Mr. Crow, seriously, "an' I don't min' sayin' that I never
was more tuk down."
"Well, I thought better o' Tom than that myself, but you know what the
scripturs say 'bout Satan allus a-havin' work fer idle hands ter do, an'
it's purty well known Tom Fannin's as lazy as his hide kin hold."
"Yes, that's so," assented his companion.
Edwards stole a glance at him, shifted the tobacco around in his mouth,
and then--
"How does Bet take it?" he rather diffidently inquired.
"That's what's pesterin' me erbout the matter, Ed'ards," exclaimed Mr.
Crow, dropping the last sliver from his whittling, and turning toward
his companion. "Bet lows he didn't do it; she knows in reason he
didn't, an' ter that point she sticks."
"But, man alive, the money was found in his pocket! It was this way,
an' I hearn it from Bill hisself. Him an' Tom has been a-roomin'
together since Tom tuk an' started to work down thar, an' Bill one
mornin' put twenty dollars in the top er his trunk with nobody seein' it
but Tom. At dinner-time it wus gone. The men, black an' white, wus all
fer havin' their pockets searched, an' when they come ter Tom's coat
a-hangin' on er bush, thar wus the money stacked down in the little
pocket. Some er the boys say he turned mighty white, an' 'lowed he
didn't know 'twas thar, an' kep' on denyin' it, but the p'int is, how
did it come thar then?"
"I've tole Bet that, time an' ag'in, but every time she sez, 'Pa, I know
he didn't take it.'"
"How do you know?" says I.
"''Cause he sez so--' as if that kin clar up the matter. Thar ain't no
reasonin' with wimmen folks, Ed'ards."
"That's so, Jesse. If you ax 'em why they believe sech an' sech,
they'll apt ter say 'jes' 'cause,' an' that's all the sense you kin git
outen 'em."
"It ain't my fault Bet's been a-keepin' comp'ny long o' Tom Fannin--it's
er puzzlin' thing ter me how she kin like him, knowin' he is lazy an'
sorter triflin', but Bet's got er head of her own," with a sudden touch
of pride, and fumbling along the rail for another loose splinter.
"She's er likely gal, if I do say it ter you, Jesse Crow, an' I'd 'a'
been mighty glad if she'd 'a' tuk a likin' ter Pink. She knows how ter
work, an' she ain't afeerd ter put her hand tu it."
"Her ma hain't sp'ilt her, that's a fact," said Mr. Crow, modestly.
"Thar she comes now," he continued, raising his head, and glancing
across the road.
She had been to the spring, and walked briskly up the path and across
the dusty road, her sun-bonnet swinging from one hand, a pail of water
poised evenly on her head. Her black hair hung in a thick braid down
her back, the sun had tanned her skin to a fine brown, but there was a
ruddy glow in her cheeks, and full, firm lips. Her bright, steady eyes
were dark gray, and when she smiled two rows of even white teeth were
disclosed to view.
"A likely" girl indeed, dressed in a neat, clean cotton gown, its clumsy
folds not able to hide the graceful development of her figure. She was
Jesse Crow's only child, and he regarded her with a just feeling of
pride, and, though it had now taken a perplexing turn, felt secretly
pleased at her disposition and ability to have her own way. Edwards
nodded to her with a friendly smile.
"Mornin', Bet."
"Mornin' Mr. Ed'ards. How's Mis Ed'ards and the chillun?" she inquired
in a pleasant, soft-toned voice, pausing at the gate.
"'Bout as common, Bet."
She looked inquiringly at him. Mr. Edwards cleared his throat.
"Now, Bet, you ain't goin' ter be onreasonable 'bout this Fannin scrape,
air ye?"
A sudden flush passed over her face, and she lifted the brimming pail
from her head and placed it on the fence.
"Depends on what you mean by that, Mr. Ed'ards, hopin' you'll take no
offence a-talkin' so plain."
"I mean you ain't a-goin' ter hold up fer him ag'in everybody else, an'
pester yer ma an' pa."
Her lips trembled; she looked at her father.
"Pa knows I ain't a-meanin' ter pester him."
"Yes, honey, we know that," he said, her appealing glance melting his
heart to tenderness at once. When had he ever failed to respond to her
joy or sorrow?
"Now, that's Pink, an' Sile Jill, an' Bill Sanders, an'--"
"Don't be a-namin' Bill Sanders ter me, Mr. Ed'ards, if yer please," she
exclaimed quickly.
"But it ain't fair ter be a-blamin' him fer Tom Fannin's fault, Betsy,"
shaking his head reprovingly.
"How kin I help it, Mr. Ed'ards, when I feel an' know that in some way
or other he's the cause o' it?" she cried, with a passionate tremor in
her voice. "It ain't a-hurtin' nobody fer me ter b'lieve in Tom, spite
o' everything, an' please don't ax me not to, fer I must; I can't help
it."
She opened the gate, and took up the pail of water and went on into the
house, and a few minutes later the men heard the steady click-clack of
the loom.
All day she sat on the high bench, weaving steadily a stripe of blue and
a stripe of brown, counting the threads carefully; but her heart lay
heavy in her bosom, and her eyes were grave. She had been deeply
shocked at the charge against Tom Fannin, but her faith in his honesty
remained unshaken. She understood his faults, his weaknesses, but they
only appealed to her womanly tenderness. He was generous, honest, and
truthful, and if he was not so good-looking or so prosperous as
others--Pink Edwards and Bill Sanders, she loved him. The heart of
woman is past finding out. Bet Crow might have had pick and choice
among the beaux of the settlement, and instead of favoring the suit of
one of her smart, industrious lovers, she chose Tom Fannin, the poorest,
least fortunate young man in the county. He had a farm, but it did not
prosper, and his stock were neglected and shabby.
"He's shiftless," said his neighbors, and Bet knew it to be true, though
too loyal even to acknowledge it to any one but herself.
The shadows were growing long across the yard, and the soft lowing of
the cows, wending their way home, could be heard, when a step sounded in
the entry, and Tom Fannin himself walked into the room where Bet sat
weaving.
"Mis' Crow said 'Jest walk right in,'" he said, stopping near the door,
holding his hat awkwardly in his hands.
"Tu be shure, Tom," said the girl, feeling his new embarrassment
acutely, and longing to put him at his ease and make him understand that
story would not change her regard. "Jes' take er cheer."
She did not stop her work, and he drew a chair up near the bench, laid
his hat on the floor, and then for the first time looked straightly and
frankly at her. His eyes were clear and honest if not handsome. Bet
felt his steady look, and flushed, and the hand holding the shuttle
trembled slightly.
"You have heard?" he said at last, with a deep, dejected sigh.
"Yes," suddenly facing him and looking into his eyes. They did not
waver, though his sunburnt face flushed.
"It wus in my pocket, Bet, but if it's the las' word I'm ever ter say, I
don't know how it got thar," he said, solemnly.
"I know'd you didn't do it," she said with generous faith. "Bill
Sanders mus' be at the bottom o' it himself."
"I don't know--I don't know nothin' erbout the matter 't all. I can't
seem ter understan' why ennybody'd wanter spile my character, I've been
shiftless an' lazy, I'll 'low that," humbly, "an' I don't know as you
oughter 'a' put up with me, but I never tuk nothin' that didn't berlong
ter me, an' never lifted er finger to harm a human creetur."
His voice shook slightly, and he leaned his head upon the weaving bench,
his face hidden in a fold of Bet's dress.
She trembled in a passion of tender sympathy; tears filled her eyes, ran
down her face, but she would not let a single sob pass her quivering
lips. She laid her hand softly on his ruddy hair, and when she could
speak without crying, said:
"It'll never make enny difference with me, I don't care what they say."
"But the whole world'll be turnin' ag'in me now, Bet. I've come over to
tell you I won't think hard o' yer fer takin' back yer promises," he
said with an effort.
"Promises air promises, an' I never make 'em 'thout wantin' ter keep
'em," she said steadily.
He raised his head, he saw the tears on her face, the trembling of her
lips, and starting up threw one arm around her, and pressed her head
against him.
"God A'mighty bless yer, Bet, honey, for keerin' fer sech a poor creetur
as I, when you mought git the best. Ef I don't make somethin' o' myself
now arter this, I'll never ax yer to keep yer word," he whispered,
passionately pressing his rough cheek against her smooth, warm one.
For a moment the girl did not move, then she gently removed his arm, and
sitting upright began to look confusedly for her shuttle, flushing,
paling, not daring to meet her lover's eyes.
"Can't nothin' be done to clear up the matter?" she said finally in a
low tone.
Fannin shook his head sadly.
"Nothin'; it wus thar, an' I hain't no way o' provin' I didn't put it
thar."
That was true, and gossip was rife throughout the settlement, and the
members of Cool Spring Church met in solemn conclave to "deal" with the
erring young man, who persisted in denying his guilt, thereby adding the
sin of a lie to the sin of stealing. He lost his situation on the
railroad, he lost his friends, and seemed to sink to the lowest ebb of
fortune. But his trials put a new spirit into him, or else called forth
a great deal of latent strength, for he met the slights of his
associates and neighbors with quiet dignity and went to work
energetically on his farm.
"I 'lowed you 'ud be a-huntin' a new home," said one of his neighbors to
him, eying him curiously.
"No, I'm goin' ter stay right t' hum," he replied doggedly.
"He's er turrible sinner," said the gossips on learning his
determination to remain at his old home.
Those long summer days were wretched ones to Bet Crow. She devised a
thousand plans for clearing her lover, but they all came to naught. She
firmly believed Bill Sanders had caused the trouble, though why or how
she could not determine. He had been one of her most ardent admirers,
and betrayed as much anger as disappointment when she refused to "keep
cump'ny" with him, but she did not connect that with Tom's disgrace.
After that one afternoon visit her lover did not come again to see her,
and if they met accidentally at church or elsewhere, they only exchanged
the briefest and quietest greeting, but eyes may speak as well as lips,
and there were glances eloquent and sweet to both.
Bet did not parade her feelings, and people said she had come to her
senses at last, and had sent "that triflin' Tom Fannin erdrift."
One day Bill Sanders stepped boldly up and asked permission to walk home
from meeting with her. She curtly refused.
"What's the matter, Bet? It's onjest to treat me in sech er way 'thout
er cause," he said in wounded tones.
"You know I can't be a-wantin' enny o' yer comp'ny," she said, and
before the righteous anger of her eyes he shrank back abashed.
The summer passed slowly--dewy dawns, languid sunlit noons, and dusky
evenings. The corn ripened, and the cotton-fields promised a fair yield.
Tom Fannin worked steadily, early and late, as though finding in
constant occupation a panacea for his troubles.
"He'll soon git tired o' that; min' what I say," said one prophet, "an'
go ter idlin' round ag'in."
But he did not, growing thin and brawny with constant toil. But the
change had come too late. The charge of theft could neither be forgiven
nor forgotten in that community.
Farmer Crow carefully refrained from mentioning Tom Fannin's name to his
daughter since the morning he sat on the fence and talked with Mr. Jim
Edwards. But his shrewd, kindly eyes observed the young man's demeanor
with approval.
"He's got more grit than we calkerlated on," he mused.
At last he broached the subject to Bet.
"It's a pity Tom Fannin sp'ilt his fortune a-takin' that money; he's
a-doin' so mighty well now."
Bet looked reproachfully at him. "How do you know he took it, pa?"
"How do we know he didn't, Bet? Honey, don't be a-deceivin' yerself.
I'm mighty proud you have dropped his comp'ny."
"I hain't dropped it, pa. We er jest a-waitin'."
He sighed.
"You air pow'fully sot in yer ways, Bet, fer er young creetur."
"Pa, I mought as well give up livin' as ter give up Tom. You know how
'tis," her eyes traveling to the round, placid face of her mother
sitting out in the entry, knitting.
Her father's face softened.
"Well, well, honey, don't do nothin' you'll be sorry fer, that's all I
ax. Waitin' is sometimes a mighty tryin' thing."
"But it mus' be better'n not havin' anything ter wait fer," she said,
solemnly.
But as time passed monotonously, without bringing any vindication of her
lover's name, and hope died slowly and painfully, she learned the
bitterness of waiting.
It was "fodder-pullin'" time, and the farmers were out from dawn until
evening stripping the yellowing blades from the stalk, tying it, and
stacking it in the wide hot fields. The new railroad skirted the western
bounds of Mr. Jesse Crow's farm, and through the almost breathless
stillness could be heard the ring of hammer and steel from the bridge
building over Cool Spring Creek. Some of the strange workmen had a
reputation for lawlessness quite shocking to the simple, peaceable
country people.
It was about the middle of the afternoon, and Bet Crow was spinning
listlessly, while her mother carded the rolls for her. They were not
dreaming of any danger, when a man, coatless, hatless, covered with
dust, and panting heavily, leaped the fence and ran across the yard. It
was Bill Sanders.