But apparently his promise amounted to very little, as Mr. Galer went on
maturing his plans, inviting young Black to his house, and sending away
to Atlanta for Pamela's wedding outfit. His conscience smote him for
his duplicity when the girl rapturously thanked him for his goodness; he
wondered what she would say when she discovered the trick played upon
her.
"Pshaw! she'll be glad enough for it when she comes to her senses.
Women are never sane when they fancy they are in love."
Mr. Williamson behaved in the most discreet and admirable manner,
showing only the interest of a familiar, elderly friend in Pamela's
approaching marriage; but Miss Jane went about in a nervous,
half-terrified way that attracted even her brother's attention.
"Any one would suppose that you were to be married, too!" he exclaimed
one day.
"Oh, Jabez!" she gasped, and fled from his presence, while he
contemptuously muttered: "What idiots women are!"
The morning of the wedding-day dawned at last; and while the dew still
hung heavy upon grass and flowers, Pamela declared that she must run
over to Roswell for a piece of white ribbon. Mr. Galer frowned a little
as he saw her hasten away in a crisp, white gown and a new calash, fair
as the morning itself; and he grumblingly wondered why he could not have
attended to the errand himself, unwilling to let her leave the place
until she was safely married. Mammy Susannah accompanied her, and the
two came back in a short time, Pamela flushed and trembling with an
inward glow of happiness. She ran to her grandfather and threw her arms
about his neck for a moment, the little package of ribbon unrolling
itself over his waistcoat; then she embraced and kissed Miss Jane, who
seemed no less agitated than she.
A great feast was spread that evening, and the wedding guests poured in
until the crowd overflowed from the parlor into the great wide hall.
Mr. Galer was a genial host, and even while he braced himself for the
inevitable scene with Pamela when Sim failed to appear--and he had
arranged with the town marshal that the young man should be detained--he
moved about among the guests talking in his most agreeable manner. It
was a little early, but the minister had already placed himself in
position for the ceremony. Mr. Galer laughed jovially.
"Plenty of time--plenty of time yet," he exclaimed. "Young folks are
never prompt;" but even as he spoke silence fell upon the company, as
through the doorway and down the room walked Mr. Josiah Williamson. But
who was it leaning upon his arm, her gray silk gown rustling softly, her
frightened face alternately flushing and paling like a girl's, her meek
eyes cast down? Mr. Galer fell back, fumbling for his glasses, doubting
the evidence of his natural vision. Could it be--could it be--yes, it
was Miss Jane. Then he saw Sim Black standing boldly in the doorway
with Pamela at his side, and the sight restored his speech and motion
and he strode across the floor to them, just as the minister concluded
the brief ceremony uniting the elderly couple, and laid his hand on the
girl's shoulder.
"I can at least have my say about _this_ part of the wedding."
But Sim clasped her hand in his, his black eyes, every feature of his
handsome, strong young face betraying his joy and triumph.
"You are too late, sir; she is my wife."
"We were married in Roswell this morning. Forgive us, grandpa," said
Pamela.
When he realized that he had been the one cheated, outwitted, his anger
knew no bounds. He refused to listen to explanation or excuse, but
turned everybody out of the house, gave the wedding supper to the
negroes, and shut himself into his own room. But he had been fairly
beaten at his own game, and in time he came to appreciate it, and to
look with pride on Sim Black's career, while he and Josiah Williamson
ended their years in brotherly love and peace.
*HOW THE QUARREL ENDED.*
When old Killus Hurd dismounted from his horse before the Hardings'
front gate one spring day, it was not to make a neighborly visit. The
flash of his eyes, the set of his mouth, boded no good and mild temper.
He was a strong, vigorous-looking man for his years, and larger than the
average mountaineer. He walked erect, his brown jeans and homespun
clothing fitting loosely, his gray hair falling from under a well-worn
broad-brimmed hat to his shoulders.
The Hardings lived on a settlement road at the foot of Bush Mountain, in
a weather-beaten old log-house, shaded by a fine chestnut-oak, and a
towering spruce pine. The widow Harding sat out on the low piazza
shelling seed corn into a small splint basket, and she stared at the
approaching visitor with surprise and displeasure. She was a
middle-aged woman, but looked older, with dust-colored hair, sallow,
sunken features, and faded blue eyes. Mrs. Long, a neighbor who had
dropped in to borrow some dye-stuff and to beg a few garden seed, sat
near her, rubbing snuff, and retailing the latest gossip circulating
through the settlement. At the sight of Mr. Hurd she paused in
astonishment.
"Lizy Ann Harding, thar comes Killus Hurd, ez I live!"
"I'm a-seein' him," said Mrs. Harding, her fingers trembling over the
yellow corn.
"Good-mornin', Mis' Harding; hope you air well as you wanter be, Mis'
Long," he said, walking up to the piazza step.
"Will you come in an' take a cheer?" said Mrs. Harding, the laws of
hospitality forcing her to be polite even to her enemy.
"Yes, for a minute or two, Mis' Harding," he replied, and sat down
opposite her, resting his hat on his knees.
Mrs. Long took a fresh dip of snuff, and hitched her chair a little
nearer, expectant and curious. A brief silence fell, but it was simply
the stillness forerunning a storm. The shrill voices of the boys at
work in the field below the house were distinctly audible, and from the
kitchen, at the edge of the back yard, sounded the steady click-clack of
a loom, plied by a strong, industrious hand.
A bitter feud existed between the Hurds and the Hardings. It dated back
to the days when Killus Hurd and Sam Harding were young, and sprang from
a dispute over some gold diggings. Unfilled trenches marked the spot
where they first quarreled, and as the years seemed to wear the earth
away into a deeper chasm, so the break between the two families widened
until it passed into history in the settlement. The men were members of
the same church, their farms adjoined, their homes were not over a mile
apart, but they would not be reconciled. At last death claimed Sam
Harding, and a new grave had to be made in the shadow of the
"meetin'-house," where the Hurds and the Hardings of a former generation
rested side by side in peace.
He had been dead two years, and all outward signs of hostility had
ceased; but the elder members of the families had not forgotten. And
when Mr. Hurd sat down before Mrs. Harding that morning, her thin cheeks
flushed, her faded eyes gathered fire; she had plenty of spirit.
"Mis' Harding, where is that daughter o' your'n?"
The mode of attack confused her for a moment.
"Do you mean Sarah Betsy?"
"Yes, I mean Sarah Betsy."
"She's in the kitchen a-weavin'."
"Yes; but where is she when outen your sight?"
"What's that to you, Mister Hurd?" straightening up, and looking
unflinchingly at him.
"Mebby you'll 'low it's a good deal when I tell you she's a-goin' to
meetin' with John, an' a-seein' him at singin's an' frolics an' such.
It's got to be stopped, Mis' Harding. God-a-mighty knows John's been
raised as he orter be, an' he ain't a-goin' to spile it all by keepin'
comp'ny with a Harding."
He stamped on the floor in mingled grief and rage, and Mrs. Long moved
her chair back a few inches. The widow Harding did not move, but a
curious tightness in her throat held her speechless for a moment. Could
it indeed be true Sarah Betsy had so deceived her? She would not
believe it.
"Mister Hurd, do you s'pose I'd 'low Sarah Betsy to keep comp'ny with
John?" she said, clearing her throat as she talked. "Sez Harding to me
when he lay a-dyin': 'I'm sorry to leave you, Lizy Ann, but it ain't to
be helped, fer it's the Almighty's will. Take keer o' the chillun an'
do the best you can for 'em;' an' now, ruther than see Sarah Betsy
a-throwin' herself away on a son o' your'n I'd be willin' to lay her
down 'longside her pa." Her voice trembled and softened. "She's always
been a good obejent child, an' I ain't afraid o' trustin' her."
"But ain't I been told p'intedly that they are courtin' on the sly, and
didn't John 'low to me this mornin' hisself that he'd marry Sarah Betsy
if he lived? Call her and we'll hear what she sez."
"To be sure," murmured Mrs. Long, while Mrs. Harding raised her voice in
a shrill call:
"Sarah Betsy! Sarah Bet-see!"
She came quickly from the kitchen and across the yard to the narrow
entry leading to the piazza, a rift of wind blowing her short dark hair
about her brow and white neck. Her face was sunburned and slightly
freckled, though smooth and fresh as a nineteen-year-old face should be.
Some day age, snuff-dipping and bad diet would probably make her as
yellow and shriveled as her mother, but now the potent charm of youth
gave her comeliness. Her brown checked homespun dress was neat, and its
primitive fashion but served to show the free grace of all her
movements.
"Did you call me, Ma?" in a soft, slow voice; then she saw Mr. Hurd and
paused.
"Sarah Betsy, Mr. Hurd 'lows John an' you has been a-keepin' comp'ny
unbeknownst to us," said her mother, looking seriously at her.
Sarah Betsy cast down her eyes and was silent.
"Jest speak out, Sarah Betsy," said Mr. Hurd, grimly; "your ma don't
'pear to believe me."
"No; for I 'lowed that you had always been a good child an' wouldn't go
ag'in' me."
A quiver of strongly repressed emotion passed over the girl's face.
"Oh, Ma, it couldn't be helped!"
Mrs. Harding rose up, then sat down again, scattering the corn right and
left in her agitation, while Mrs. Long shook her head compassionately,
and old Killus Hurd looked sternly triumphant.
"Do you mean to tell me Sam Harding's daughter has plum' forgot all her
pa's teachin's?" the widow demanded, sternly.
"Ma, it ain't that. I didn't 'low to keer fer John, an' he didn't 'low
to keer fer me, but it jest gradually crope up on us," said the girl in
a faltering tone, her face deeply red. She looked appealingly from Mr.
Hurd to her mother. "Don't turn ag'in' us. We lowed it wusn't right
not to tell you, but--"
"It ain't no use to be a-palaverin' with your ma, Sarah Betsy Harding,"
said Killus Hurd, standing up to his full height, and eying her sternly.
"It's me you've got to listen to, an' if there is a spark o' pride or
feelin' in your heart, it's bound to be teched. John's the last child,
out'n nine, that's been left to me an' his ma; but I'll turn him out o'
doors, I'll drive him plum' from the country before he shall marry you,
an' the curse o' the Almighty shall foller him."
"It ain't for human creeturs to say who the Almighty's wrath must be
turned against," said a mild, rebuking voice; and there at the piazza
step stood Sile Ed'ards, the preacher, leaning on his stout stick, his
deep-set gray eyes fixed gravely upon the angry neighbors.
A short embarrassed silence followed his unexpected appearance. Sarah
Betsy retreated to the doorway, and Mrs. Long laughed awkwardly.
"You must 'a' jes' crope up, Brother Ed'ards," she said, with an attempt
at lightness.
"Come in an' take a seat, won't you?" said Mrs. Harding, recovering
herself.
"Not to-day, Sister Harding. I'm goin' up on Bush Mount'in, an' I 'low
to salt Dave Martin's cattle while there."
Mr. Hurd put on his hat. "I'll jest be goin', Mis' Harding," he said,
coldly.
"Won't you stay a minute?" asked the preacher in his mild, slow voice.
"If it ain't puttin' nobody out, I'd like to know what's the matter."
The enemies each hastened to give an account of the renewed quarrel, and
its cause. Sarah Betsy hung her head, and uttered not a word, though
conscious that more than once Sile Ed'ards's deep grave eyes turned
toward her. The story seemed to agitate him greatly. He grew pale, and
gripped his stick with trembling fingers. He sighed deeply.
"It's a serious question; but it 'pears to me love might solve it. If
the Almighty wants to bring you all together ag'in in peace by unitin'
John an' Sarah Betsy I don't think you ought to rebel against his will.
The Scripters say--"
"It ain't to be argued out on Scripter, Sile," interrupted Mr. Hurd,
stubbornly. "I ain't thinkin' hard o' you or blamin' you for feelin'
that way; it's nachel, seein' as you've been called to preach; but the
Scripters don't fit ever' time."
"They will if we'll only 'low 'm to."
"Mis' Harding an' Sarah Betsy know what I've said."
"I ain't apt to forgit some o' the hard things you've said, Mister
Hurd," the widow remarked, in a tone trembling with indignation.
Ed'ards continued to argue and plead with them. The woman he might have
softened, but he found himself powerless before hard, stern old Killus
Hurd, nursing the concentrated wrath and bitterness of years.
"'Tain't no use, Sile--'tain't no use," he said, moving away to his
horse.
"Them that forgives air to be forgiven," said the preacher.
But the old man silently mounted and rode away. Mrs. Long was also
ready to depart, being eager to spread the news of the quarrel
throughout the settlement.
Ed'ards leaned against the rough sapling post supporting the piazza,
with head dejectedly drooped. Mrs. Harding wiped her eyes, and looked
furtively at him. "Wouldn't you like to take a cheer an' rest, Brother
Ed'ards?" she said, gently. "I know it's sinful to carry on the way
we've been a-doin' this mornin', but them Hurds are that mean an' no
'count--" she paused, then hurriedly changed the subject. "I'm most
obleeged to take this corn down to the fields."
"Don't let me hinder you then, for I must soon be gittin' on my way. I
must ask wisdom 'fore I say any more to you an' Brother Hurd--and I must
git strength for myself," he concluded, half under his breath. When
left alone, he sat down on the edge of the piazza a few minutes, then
walked slowly around the house to the kitchen-door to speak a few words
to Sarah Betsy.
She sat on the bench before the loom, but the shuttles lay idle on the
beam, while she leaned forward with her face hidden in her hands. So
still and deep seemed her dejection he would not disturb her, but stood
gazing on her drooped figure with yearning eyes. He had long secretly
loved her, but had scarcely realized that he indulged the hope of
winning her until he learned that her heart was given to John Hurd. He
had been used to self-denial all his life, and after the first confused
sensation of misery and loss, strove to put aside his own feelings, and
desire only her happiness. He had sought her to speak some comforting
words, but finding her in that attitude of silent grief turned away, and
left her alone.
He was a slender, undersized man, not more than thirty years old; but
mental and physical suffering had drawn deep lines upon his thin, sallow
face, and sprinkled threads of gray in his hair. His features would
have looked hard and forbidding had they not been softened by the
strong, patient endurance religion had brought to him. Throughout the
length and breadth of Laurel Cove he was respected and loved. He
belonged to the Cove; the encircling chain of mountains marked the
boundaries of his life; for he was a hopeless cripple, walking ever with
slow, halting steps, and with a staff to aid him. He had never been a
lusty, vigorous youth, but one of unusual intelligence and ambition. It
was a grievous blow to all his plans of life when a falling tree lamed
him. It was a long time before he could walk, even with a crutch, and
years before he laid the crutch aside for a stick. Active labor would
never again be possible for him; but not liking to be dependent on his
neighbors for charity, he plied the trade of a shoe-mender, and while he
worked he read and meditated on the Bible--the only book he possessed,
except a Webster's _Speller_ and a small arithmetic. It was no wonder
that so much reading and solitary thinking on religious themes should
inspire him with the desire to preach. His tongue seemed loosened; he
rose in "meetin'," and exhorted the people. His eloquence amazed them;
his fervor, his deep sincerity impressed even the callous-hearted.
His physical infirmity also appealed to them, and it was not long before
he became the pastor of the church in Laurel Cove. He had no more
education than his parishioners, so far as text-books were concerned:
but his spiritual discernment gave him a power marvelous to them. He
did a great deal of good, but one thing he had set his heart on he
failed to do; he could not make peace between the Hurds and the
Hardings. Both men sat under his teachings in church and listened to
his exhortations outside, and both loved him; but they would not be
friends with each other. When Sam Harding died Sile tried to influence
old Killus Hurd to extend the hand of peace to the widow; but he
stubbornly refused, and the preacher gave it up. Now that a fresh
quarrel had come he knew not what to say or do, particularly as his own
feelings were so deeply involved. He had watched Sarah Betsy bloom into
womanhood, delighting in her beauty and even admiring the girlish
coquetry of her ways. He had never cherished any definite hopes of
marrying her; what woman would like a cripple for a husband? but as long
as she did not show any preference among her beaux he was satisfied.
Now he knew why she smiled on all alike. It was because she secretly
loved John Hurd, and not because she was heart-free. A cruel, jealous
pang pierced the heart of the preacher, and a wave of rebellion, savage
in its fierceness, swept over him. Why could he not have the love of
this girl? It would be only a just compensation for the loss of his
physical strength, and with it all he had hoped to be. For a moment he
loathed his own body: his spirit panted to rush forth upon the air,
freed from all its trammels of flesh. He was not conscious of a
temptation to commit suicide; but for an instant the vistas of Heaven
seemed to open on his longing eyes, the perplexities and sorrows of life
to roll away. Death would be a sweet, a lovely friend to him, not the
grisly terror that so many shrank from. He knew every nook and fastness
of Bush Mountain, having spent many of the idle days of his boyhood in
roaming over it, and now it was a favorite refuge when he wished to
think out his sermons, or to wrestle in prayer over some wayward soul
gone astray. It was a fair sight to look down on Laurel Cove from the
heights, and see its freshly plowed fields and blossoming orchards. The
settlers in that fertile region were more industrious and thrifty than
their neighbors over the mountains, and they were unusually quiet and
law-abiding. Very few moonshiners were to be found in Laurel Cove, and
not a distillery. Those were hidden in remote and secret places on the
mountains. Let it be said to the enlightenment of Sile Ed'ards, that he
was bold enough to preach against the making of illicit whiskey, as
against all manner of evil, and many listened and heeded his words. But
while he climbed the heights that day, seeking solitude and God, in
Laurel Cove things were going very wrong.
It was past the noon hour, and at the Hardings all evidences of the
midday meal had been cleaned away. The boys had gone back to the
fields, Mrs. Harding raked the garden beds preparatory to seed sowing,
and Sarah Betsy had returned to her weaving. She had been through a
trying interview with her mother, listening to scolding and reproaches
in silence, and promising only one thing; to wait awhile before seeing
John Hurd again.
"I can't promise _never_ to see him ag'in," she said, half in tears.
"I don't, fer the life o' me, understan' how you could 'a' tuk such a
fancy to him, when there's plenty o' better-lookin', pearter boys for
you to 'a' liked," exclaimed Mrs. Harding, despairingly.
"I've never seen the man he couldn't equal," Sarah Betsy murmured; and
with a shake of her head Mrs. Harding went away.
Sarah Betsy was thinking it all over as she stood by the loom, putting a
quill of thread in the shuttle, when a shadow fell athwart the door and
a man's voice, softened and eager, exclaimed:
"Sarah Betsy, Sarah Betsy!"
She turned quickly, troubled joy breaking through the enforced stillness
of her face; but she did not speak. The young man boldly entered.
"I 'lowed I must come to see you before I left the Cove," he said, in
explanation and apology for his untimely visit.
"Air you goin' away, John?" Sarah Betsy asked, and laid the shuttle down
for fear it would slip through her trembling fingers.
"Yes."
"Why? Where do you think o' goin'?"
"Over on Bush Mountain, to work in Aaron Brown's 'stillery," he said,
answering her last question first.
"Don't do that!" the girl cried, in dismay. "Oh, please don't do that!
Think how the revenue men has watched it; an' once, don't you know? they
tuk the Brown boys off to jail."
"I don't keer," he muttered, sullenly. "Pa an' me's had a fallin' out.
He lows we'll never marry if he can help it, an' I 'low we will." He
crossed the floor and laid his hands gently on her shoulders. "Let 'em
do an' say what they will, they can't come between us, honey, can they?"
his voice sinking to a softer, tenderer key.
"I didn't 'low they'd keer so much," Sarah Betsy faltered, with downcast
eyes, in which hot tears were swimming.
"You er not thinkin' o' goin' back on yer word to me, air you?" Hurd
exclaimed, his face darkening.
"We must wait, John--we must wait."
"Yes, tel I can git a start," in a relieved tone.
"Tel my ma an' your pa air willin'," she said, taking up the shuttle.
"I care more for you th'n for what they may say, an' I 'lowed you did
the same, or you wouldn't 'a' promised to marry me. I s'pose you didn't
mean it."
"I did mean it; but it's more'n I can do to go ag'in' 'em so p'intedly
all at once," she said, and turned from him to lean against the loom,
love and duty struggling mightily together in her heart.
"Well, it ain't more'n I can do," he replied, grimly; "an' when I get
settled I'm jest bound to keep you to yer promise."
He drew nearer to her, hesitated, then kissed her cheek.
"I love you Sarah Betsy--I love you, honey," he whispered, then turned
quickly away.
She followed him to the door, and when he had disappeared from her sight
she looked long and gravely at Bush Mountain, a vast pile rising against
the sky, its rugged slopes softened by a hazy veil. It had been
invested with new interest for her as the temporary home and refuge of
her lover.
The outbreak of the old feud between the Hurds and the Hardings was soon
known throughout the Cove, and discussed at every fireside. Bitter
feelings were engendered between sympathizing friends of the two
families, and the peaceful settlement was divided into factions. The
Harding boys were too young to take much part in the wordy war, but Mrs.
Harding did not lack chivalrous support from some of her neighbors, who
loudly declared that no lone woman should be trampled upon. The women,
at least the younger women, and those inclined to sentiment, expressed
great sympathy for Sarah Betsy and John. It seemed hard that the lovers
should be divided by a quarrel between the elder members of the
families.
"It's best for 'em if they only knowed it," said one brown, withered old
woman, shaking her head grimly and cynically over her pipe. "Neither
life nor men air what we 'low they air, when we er young. These young
fo'ks air separated while their love is warm an' frush, an' without
discoverin' that it ain't goin' to last ferever, an' that no human
creetur is without a mighty load o' faults. I can recollect more'n one
couple that 'peared lack they'd die broken-hearted if they didn't git
married, an' then in a little while, 'peared lack they'd die because
they wus married. There ain't no countin' on human natur, I can tell
you. It's about the oncertaintest thing in this world 'ceptin' death."