that summer, when those who in former times seemed to care most for his
counsel turned impatiently away from his entreaties for peace. His
words fell to the ground, and he carried a sorely troubled and heavy
heart about with him, and spent more time than ever in the solitude of
Bush Mountain, fasting and praying for his erring flock, who seemed to
enjoy the excitement of a quarrel far more than they did the peaceable
worship of the Lord; who brought sounds of strife to the very altar
rails, more than one meeting having ended in bitter words.
The material prosperity of Laurel Cove was not in the least affected by
the evil spirit apparently ruling the people. The corn-fields promised
an abundant harvest, and the orchards were rich in fruits.
Mrs. Harding was an industrious woman, toiling early and late, and her
hours of repose were, in the main, peaceful, though she rose sometimes
in the middle of the night and crept softly to Sarah Betsy's bed to see
that she also slept; for her heart yearned secretly over this
disobedient daughter who had lost her bright, cheerful ways since John
Hurd went away from the Cove. She suffered almost as much as the girl,
though they said little to each other about it. Once Mrs. Harding did
attempt to reason with Sarah Betsy, but she turned and said:
"Didn't you love Pa?"
"Didn't I? There wusn't many men to equal your pa."
"In your eyes, Ma, but maybe not in the eyes o' them what didn't love
him. Love makes a mighty difference in the way we look at fo'ks. I
'low ever' woman thinks the man she loves is the best in the world."
Her mother said no more; but she ceased not to muse on the mystery and
power of love. One morning she had started to the cow lot with a milk
pail on her arm, when she saw a woman coming slowly through the sparse
timber in the rear of the barn, a sunbonnet pulled closely over her head
and face. It was very early. Deep Cimmerian shadows still obscured the
low country, though the crimson light of dawn was spreading upward from
the east, and a fading spectral moon sank slowly behind the western
mountains. The morning star hung over the crest of Bush Mountain,
heralding the day, and fine elusive mists rolled away from the Cove into
the hollows and ravines of the guarding ranges.
A ghostly stillness seemed to hang over the world, and Mrs. Harding
could hear the dry twigs crackling sharply under the feet of the slowly
approaching woman. She went on into the lot and poured some bran and
peas into the feeding-trough, and softly called the cow, standing in a
distant corner. The stranger walked timidly up to the bars, and pushed
back her sunbonnet. She was a small, meek-faced old woman, withered and
gray.
"Good-mornin', Mis' Harding."
Mrs. Harding stiffened rigidly, and stared coldly at her, not
recognizing her until she had spoken.
"You air out early, Mis' Hurd."
"Yes. I don't know what Hurd would do or say, if he knowed it; but he
started to mill 'fore daylight, an' I crope out, 'lowin' it 'ud be a
good time fer seein' you." She paused, absently untied her
bonnet-strings, passed a trembling hand over her gray hair, then looked
wistfully at Mrs. Harding.
"Mis' Harding, has Sarah Betsy heard anything from John lately?"
"Heard from John!" with a flash of indignation. "Didn't I tell Mister
Hurd you needn't be a pest'rin' 'bout Sarah Betsy? It 'pears to me--"
"It's all 'long o' me bein' so troubled about him that I asked," said
the old woman, hastily. "One o' the Brown boys wus down in the Cove
t'other day an' he 'lowed John was sick, an' yesterday I begged his pa
to go over there an' see 'bout him, but he 'lowed it wusn't no use; if
John thought he could take keer o' hisself, let him do it. Men fo'ks,
Mis' Harding, hain't got the feelin's o' women. There is such a weight
here," laying one hard, withered hand on her breast, "that sometimes it
'pears to me I can't git my breath. If he hadn't a-gone off to the
'stillery. Them revenue officers will git him, shore, an' he'll die in
jail; for he never could bear to be shut up. Why, he always sleeps with
the door o' his room open. I hain't got nothin' ag'in' Sarah Betsy, Mis'
Harding. I'd much ruther John an' her would marry th'n fer him to go
off."
Her shrunken lips trembled piteously; some large tears rolled down her
face. The frigidness of Mrs. Harding's attitude relaxed. She moved
nearer the bars.
"I hain't nothin' ag'in' John, either, but Mister Hurd--"
"Is terribly sot in his ways, I know; but he don't mean to do wrong. He
jest thinks he knows what is best for ever'body," said Mrs. Hurd,
loyally. "John was always the sweetest, lovin'est child," returning to
the subject absorbing her, "an' he never wus one to stay away from home
much, even when he'd growed up. I never keered fer no better comp'ny
than his'n; an' if a good son makes a good husband, then any girl might
be proud to git him. It's turrible lonesome 'thout him ever comin' in
or goin' out. Hurd says nothin' 'bout it, an' 'pears to sleep like a
log; but I'm pestered at all hours o' the night, an' git up to look in
John's room, an' when I see the bed all white an' smooth I feel like
he's dead."
The cow ate up her food and went browsing along the fence corners again.
Mrs. Harding's heart waxed soft within her. What religion failed to do,
human sympathy accomplished. By her own experiences of motherhood she
could understand the yearning and heartache of this other woman. It
created a bond between them far easier of comprehension to her than the
spiritual tie the preacher talked about. That seemed a mere cold
abstraction--this a warm, living thing.
"I'm real sorry Sarah Betsy hain't heard nothin' from him," she said
softly.
"I 'lowed maybe she would. Well, well, I won't pester you any longer."
Involuntarily their hands met through the bars in a quick close grip.
"I'm in hopes there ain't no bad news a-waitin' fer you, Mis' Hurd."
"I hope so; but a scritch owl lit nigh the door last night an' wouldn't
hardly be driv' off, an' that's a bad sign, you know," she said
mournfully, and turned to retrace her steps along the path through the
woods, the dawn shining fair upon her bent gray head and slight figure.
Mrs. Harding stood by the bars and watched her with a mingling of
perplexity and compassion. She heard the voices of her own sons at the
house, and sighed.
"It 'ud go mighty hard with me if they wus tuk away. I hain't nothin'
ag'in' Mis' Hurd nor John, but old Killus would rile the angel Gabr'el
hisself." She finally stooped and picked up her milk pail. "It ain't
fer me to fergit my pride an' be crowed over by him."
Mrs. Hurd went on her way home. As she passed through a laurel brake,
absorbed in her sad thoughts, she came face to face with Sile Ed'ards.
He looked worn and hollow-eyed, as though he, too, had passed through
sleepless nights and troubled days; but she was too preoccupied to be
very observant. A minister must ever be ready to comfort and counsel
his flock, no matter what his own feelings may be, so Mrs. Hurd poured
out the story of her anxiety, and Ed'ards said what he could to reassure
her.
"I'm goin' up to Bush Mountain, an' I'll see if I can hear anything o'
John for you," he said kindly.
He did not tell her that he would see the young man and talk with him,
but that was what he purposed doing as he slowly climbed the great
mountain. He spent the morning in visiting one or two of his
parishioners who lived on the mountain, then went on his way to Aaron
Brown's house, a low cabin near the summit of the peak. There he
learned that John Hurd had returned to work again, but Mrs. Brown shook
her head over the state of his health.
"He's peaked, an' ain't got no appetite, an' I tell Brown it's all 'long
o' his frettin' 'bout the quarrel with his pa an' the fo'ks in the Cove.
He ain't fittin' fer the 'stillery work, nuther. It don't agree with him
to al'ays have to be on the watch an' ready to run if a twig snaps, or a
breath rustles the leaves." She sighed. "My old man an' the boys don't
keer. Brown is as cunnin' as the fox that's had experience hidin' from
the hounds, an' he's brought up the boys to be like him. Come back an'
spend the night," she called after the preacher when he started on.
"You ain't fittin' to be takin' such walks as this, nohow."
He winced, her blunt speech, the pitying glance she gave him, touching
his pride. Nevertheless he accepted her invitation, then pressed onward
toward the still, following a narrow trail down into a wild ravine.
Night had fallen, and the deepest solitude surrounded Ed'ards, but he
felt no fear. Now and then a gleam of starlight shone across his way,
or rustling leaves betrayed the presence of animals abroad for prey.
The distillery was located in an excavation under a ledge of rock, the
upper entrance only a hole an ordinary sized man could crawl through,
and cunningly concealed by a network of laurel, the lower one away down
where a little stream trickled out between the roots of a gnarled old
tree. Nature had helped the mountaineer to evade the law in giving him
such places of concealment.
Ed'ards approached the spot with that caution inherent in almost all the
people of that region, no matter what their calling may be. He was
within a few yards of the opening of the still when he ran into the very
arms of a man, and felt himself surrounded by a party, although it was
too dark to see anything distinctly. He could not tell whether they
were friends or foes in that first moment, but instinct warned him to
still be cautious.
"Ha! we have caught one of them," muttered a voice, and then he knew
that he was in the hands of the revenue officers.
Who shall say what thoughts passed through his mind in that moment? He
could proclaim his vocation, purchase his own release by pointing out
the hiding-place of the moonshiners, could send John Hurd away to
prison. He stood still and speechless in the midst of the party.
"The 'stillery is not far away," said one.
"Hush," said another, warningly; "perhaps this fellow's friends are
lurking near."
"They are," cried Ed'ards, and broke through the group so swiftly, so
unexpectedly that he fairly slipped from their hands, free.
He stumbled pantingly over stones and underbrush, lost his stick, and
then crawled along the ground, shouting at the top of his voice to those
in the underground workroom. The officers Came thrashing through the
brush after him, and he felt the sting of a bullet as it entered his
side. They had fired several shots, and one had been correctly aimed in
spite of the darkness. He fell across the mouth of the cave just as
those within fled down the passageway and out into the woods beyond.
Laurel Cove was shaken from center to circumference by the tragical
death of the preacher. That he, the most innocent and God-fearing man
in the community, should die like a common outlaw, seemed the crudest,
unjustest trick of fate. But deep in the consciousness of the
sober-minded lurked the thought that he had been sacrificed by his own
people; that the revenue officers were less to blame than his
parishioners. It was old Killus Hurd who had the courage to acknowledge
this feeling the day Sile Ed'ards was buried. It transpired that he had
also gone to the 'stillery that day; that he fled with his son and the
others when that warning cry, those pistol shots, came. He assumed all
the blame, for had he not quarreled with the Hardings and then with his
son?--but it was over. Peace should henceforth reign in his own
household and in the household of his neighbor. He said this holding out
his hand to Mrs. Harding, and weepingly she took it, for she also felt
conscience-smitten for what had happened. The younger people were
happier, for youth cannot feel as the sober middle-aged, and they were
once more together. Sarah Betsy never knew that Ed'ards had loved her,
but secretly cherished his memory with tender gratitude for being the
means of giving back her lover to her.
But while they extolled his virtues and grieved for his sad fate, making
peace with each other as they heaped the moist earth upon his grave, who
shall say that his glad spirit was not soaring away to realms where
neither infirmity of body nor sorrow of heart dwells?
*THE CRUCIAL TEST.*
It was down on the Altamaha. The Dugarres always spent the summers in
their large, old-fashioned mansion, on their own plantation, coming out
from Savannah in May and returning in November. It was a picturesque
house, with its wide halls, its piazzas, and its white columns that a
man's arms could not reach more than half around. It had withstood the
changes of time, and war, and the passing away of several generations.
It was a landmark of the old South, and though the row of cabins in the
rear still had a few dusky occupants, they were farm-laborers, hired to
work by the day.
The Dugarres were famous for their hospitality, and entertained guests
from all parts of the Union. An unusually large party lounged on the
shady piazza one hot, languid summer afternoon, representing Charleston,
Atlanta, and even New York, not to speak of the fair Savannahians, and
of Valentine Dugarre, all the way from Brazil. It was too warm for
exertion; all quiet amusements had flagged, and even conversation had
become a stupid effort, when Edward Dugarre brought out a dusty old
_Century_ and read Stedman's poem "Hebe." It roused both the lazy and
the meditative to lively comments, all agreeing in their condemnation of
Fiorina's revenge, so summary and so terrible. Did I say all? There
was one exception--Valentine Dugarre. But some of them looked upon her
as half savage, because of her Brazilian birth and her perfectly frank
way of speaking out her thoughts and feelings. The Dugarres themselves
were half afraid of her and rejoiced when she became engaged to Frank
Black, a handsome young Savannahian of good family but of rather weak,
unstable nature. She had been sent up to them to have an American
finish put to her education and manners; but alien blood flowed in her
veins, and she had been worshiped and spoiled in her own home until she
had become as imperious and exacting as princesses are supposed to be.
She could do the rashest, most unheard-of things when enraged, or when
in a generous mood--such, for instance, as taking a ring from her finger
and giving it to a ragged beggar when he asked her for five cents. When
scolded for it by her shocked aunt she impatiently exclaimed:
"Can't you see that he is starving? What real need have I for the
thing? Let it go, if it can be the means of bringing him food and
clothing. I do not care to be rich, to wear jewels, while others are
perishing with hunger."
And that summer afternoon she sat among those people, listening in
silence to all their comments, and waiting until the last to have her
say about the matter.
She was an imperial-looking girl, dark, but with a faint, delicate bloom
on her cheeks, and the color of a rose on her lips. Her eyes were not
black but golden-brown, and her hair had the texture of silk. Her very
dress seemed to set her apart from the other women, who clothed
themselves according to the decrees of fashion. It was fine-woven
yellow linen, its full loose folds girdled in about the waist with a
broad band of silver, its sleeves open half way up, revealing beautiful
rounded arms. She set at open defiance all forms and rules, and laughed
contemptuously at the conventionalities of society.
"I quite approve of Fiorina's revenge," she said at last, "only I would
have killed the woman also;" then she smiled with scornful contempt to
see the blood forsaking Helen Lawrence's face. "Why do you turn pale,
Miss Lawrence?" she asked, leaning toward her with a gleam of mockery in
her eyes.
"I--because it is horrible to hear you talk so," said Miss Lawrence,
quickly recovering herself, for she shrank, if Valentine did not, from a
crossing of words, as it was known by all in the house that the young
Brazilian was jealous of her.
"Val does not mean it," said Edward, soothingly.
"I do mean it. What right had she to come between them--to use all her
smooth little ways and arts to make him faithless? Yes, by all means,
Hebe should have feasted upon her first."
She glanced at her lover, but he was looking intently across the sunlit
cotton-fields to the shining sweep of the river, apparently not in the
least interested in the conversation. Then she looked around on the
disapproving faces of the other women.
"You may all look shocked, but I am different from you only in the
expression of my thoughts. There is an untamed savage in every heart,
no matter how finely the owner of that heart may be civilized, how
highly polished."
"There is also a spirit of divinity, Miss Dugarre," said Mark
Livingston, the young Charleston lawyer, in his grave, calm voice.
"But in some unguarded moment, some crisis, the savage conquers all. It
is easy to be good until one is deceived or thwarted."
"But what cause have you to talk like a disappointed, soured woman of
the world, Valentine?" her cousin exclaimed, a little impatiently.
"Oh, none whatever, of course." But a note of bitterness thrilled her
sweet voice, and her jealous eyes saw the glance Helen Lawrence
exchanged with Frank Black. She bit her full under-lip, until the blood
almost started.
"You believe, then, that the evil in human nature is stronger than the
good?" said Livingston.
"I do; for is it not true that many a lifetime of noble deeds has been
wrecked in a moment of passion, the man stripped of his goodness, as of
a garment, leaving the naked savage, fierce, revengeful?"
"But if there are such instances, so we can as easily recall others,
where men and women, in moments of supreme sorrow or danger, have so far
risen above all personal feeling as to be willing, nay, eager, to help
their worst enemies."
She turned to her lover, "What do you think, Frank?"
"That it is too warm for argument, and that Ed might have selected less
tragical reading for our amusement."
He laughed a little as he spoke, to give a jesting turn to his words,
and, rising, walked away into the hall. Valentine's eyes flashed with
anger, but in a moment she rose and followed him into the cool, duskily
shadowed library.
"Dearest, did I disgust you with my savage talk?"
"I do not like such sentiments from you, Valentine. It does not sound
womanly, and those people criticise you severely enough as it is."
Her eyes darkened again; her lips curled.
"What do I care for their good opinion!"
"It is well for us to care for everybody's good opinion."
"Miss Lawrence has taught you that great and noble truth, has she? You
have grown very critical of my speech and manners yourself since she
came among us. Frank, Frank! what is it coming between us?" she cried,
in sudden, piteous entreaty.
"Your jealous imagination, Valentine. A man does not like to be
doubted, frowned upon, every time he speaks to, or looks at, another
woman."
"Is that all? Tell me, on your honor."
"Yes," he said; but his eyes shifted under her eager gaze, and a slight
flush rose to his face. But she was too anxious to believe him to heed
such fine changes of expression.
"I _am_ a miserable, jealous creature, all fire and wicked temper," she
humbly acknowledged. "I have tormented you, I know; but unfortunately
for me I love you with all my heart, instead of just a little bit of it,
and it is a great strong heart, dearest, if it is wayward and untamed."
She leaned toward him with luminous eyes, her beauty softened, as sweet
and gentle as that of any other woman. What man could resist her in
such a mood? He raised her arms to his neck, and kissed her on lips and
eyes.
"You love me, you do really love me?" she whispered.
"Love you! How can I help it, my princess?"
They had a little dance at Dugarre that night--a merry, informal party.
A large number of young people came out from the neighboring town, the
parlors were cleared, and Uncle 'Riah, the old white-haired fiddler, was
called in to play for them. It was a moonless night, and to add a
little to the picturesqueness of the fine old house and grounds the
negroes built a great bonfire on the lawn. It threw its ruddy light afar
under the trees, and a rain of glowing sparks fell here and there on the
grass, and some even floated away on wreaths of pearly smoke over the
roofs.
The ladies of the house were all in evening dress, but it was
acknowledged that Valentine Dugarre and Helen Lawrence carried off the
palm for beauty. Valentine appeared her loveliest and best. No
suggestion of scorn or anger marred her face. Her dress of thin, creamy
silk was Greek-like in its flowing lines and its full draperies, and her
throat and arms were bare. She wore no jewels, except her engagement
ring, and a single diamond star in her hair. She was radiant, yet so
sweet and gentle in all her ways, that those who thought they knew her
best wondered what new whim possessed her. She even smiled approval
when Black led Helen out on the floor and danced with her. If he had
stopped at that!--but he asked her after the dance to walk on the piazza
with him. She hesitated, cast a hurried glance about the room, saw
Valentine in a distant corner talking to Livingston, and consented.
They walked the length of the long piazza, and then Black drew Helen
into the deserted library. She took her hand from his arm, her usually
pale face burning with color, her calm eyes agitated. It was enough to
set his faithless heart aflame--to call forth treasonable words of love.
Curiously enough it was on the very spot where a few hours before he had
given Valentine such assurance of his love. The remembrance stung him to
shame, but it could not silence his tongue. His love for Valentine had
been an infatuation, but Helen held his heart. So he told himself, so
he had been telling himself for a month, though he had never before
confessed as much to Helen. Valentine was not the woman to make him
happy, with her jealous, tempestuous moods and passionate temper.
"But you, you are an angel of sweetness and goodness," he said, kissing
her hands, even the folds of her pale-blue silken sleeves.
Helen shivered a little as she listened to him, and cast uneasy glances
about the room, for there was a good deal of cowardice in her nature,
and she feared Valentine.
"What if she should hear you?" she said, trembling, yet leading him on
with her soft eyes, her half-yielding manner.
"Why speak of her, think of her, now?" he exclaimed, "My bondage is not
yet hopeless, and I--I cannot help not loving her."
"But you are engaged to her, and it is all wrong to talk so to me," she
said, tears starting suddenly to her eyes. What she had deliberately
begun as a flirtation had become as serious to her as to him. Her
emotion nearly distracted him. Still rasher words trembled on his lips,
when--
"Is this tableau for the benefit of the public, or only for your own
amusement?" a voice inquired near them, causing them to start guiltily
apart, for it was Valentine herself standing there, white as her dress,
and with eyes that were terrible in their rage and anguish. "Mr. Black
will be perfect in the art of love-making if he continues his present
role. You need not tremble and look as if you'd like to run away, Miss
Lawrence. There is no Hebe here to crunch your delicate bones, richly
as you deserve such a fate, and willingly as I would give you to it."
"Blame me for it all, Valentine, not her," exclaimed Black, feeling like
a craven between them.
"So you would protect and defend her! What a chivalrous gentleman! what
a man of honor! Do you think I have been blind and deaf to the sighs
and glances, to the thousand little arts she has used upon you--she, the
example that has been held up to me by my aunt as worthy of imitation?
Well, I congratulate her on the conquest she has made. Two months ago
you were ready to grovel at my feet, and to-day--yes, only a few hours
ago--you assured me that you were true, that you loved me; and I
believed you." Her passion rose again to violence. "I would like to
kill you both; yes, with my own hands!"
"Hush, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Black. "Do you want all those
people in here?"
"Oh, no! It doesn't, of course, make any difference if you break my
heart, but it would be shocking for the world to know it. I will hush,
and leave you to console and reassure Miss Lawrence; but do not expect
me to break our engagement. You shall never be free until I
die--never!"