The Baptising
October had led forth her train across the Cumberlands. One night the
forest was fairly green, but early risers next morning found that in the
darkness while they slept the hickories had been touched to gold, the
oaks smitten with a promise of the glowing mahogany-red which was to be
theirs. Sourwood and sumach blazed; the woodbine flung its banner of
blood, chestnuts were yellow where the nuts dropped through them from
loosened burs. The varying dark greens of balsam and fir, pine and cedar,
heightened by contrast the glow of colour, while the dim blue sky above
set its note of tender distance and forgetfulness. On a thousand mountain
peaks smoked and smouldered, flared and flamed the altar fires of
autumn.
After that each day saw a deepening of the glory in the hills. It was
like a noble overture a multitudinous chorus made visible. The marvel of
it was that one sense should be so clamorously challenged while the other
was not addressed. The ear hearkened ever amid that grand symphony of
colour for some mighty harmony of sound. But even the piping song-birds
were gone, and the cry of a hawk wheeling high in the blue, the voice of
a woman calling her cow, these sounded loud in the autumnal hush.
The streams were shrunken to pools whose clear jade reaches reflected the
blazing banners above them, and offered mimic seas for the sailing of
painted argosies when the wind shook the leaves down. There was a fruity
odour of persimmon and wild grape forever in the air. The salmon-pink
globes stood defined against the blue on leafless twigs, while the frost
sweetened them to sugary jelly, and the black wild grape by the
water-courses yielded an odour that was only less material than the
flavour of its juices. Every angle of the rail fences became a parterre
with golden-rod, cat-brier, and the red-and-yellow pied leaves of
blackberries, while a fringe of purple and white asters thrust fragile
fingers through the rails below, or the stout iron-weed pushed its
purple-red blooms into view at the head of tall, lance-like stems.
Judith walking in the woods one day found a great nest of Indian pipe.
She bent listlessly to pick the waxen mystic blossoms, thinking to
herself that they were like some beautiful dead thing; and then she came
upon a delicate flush on the side of their clear, translucent pearl, and
wondered if it were an omen.
It was a gorgeous October Sabbath when the boys were baptised. Baptisms
always took place from Brush Arbour in a sizable pool of Lost Creek which
flows through one corner of the little valley that holds the church
building. The sward which ran down to its clear mirror was yet green, but
the maples and sourwoods above it were coloured splendidly. Among their
clamant red and yellow laurel and rhododendron showed glossy green, and
added to the gay tapestry. The painted leaves let go their hold on twig
or bough and dropped whispering into the water, like garlands flung to
dress the coming rite.
Morning meeting was over. The women-folks who had come far spread dinner
on the grass near the church, joining together occasionally, the children
wandering about in solemn delight with a piece of corn pone in hand,
whispering among the graves in the tiny God's acre, spelling out the
words upon some wooden head-board, or the rarer stone.
The Big Spring was the customary gathering place of the young people
before church, and during intermissions, about its clear basin, on the
slopes above the great rock from under which it issued, might be seen a
number of couples, the boys in Sunday best of jeans or store-bought
clothing, the girls fluttering in cheap lawns or calicoes, and wearing
generally hats instead of the more becoming sunbonnet. Judith had been
used to lead her following here, and the number of her swains would have
been a scandal in any one else: but there was a native dignity about
Judith Barrier that kept even rural gossip at bay. This morning, however,
when Elder Drane gave her the customary invitation to walk down there for
a drink, she refused, and all during the first service the widower had
sat tall and reproachful on the men's side and reminded her of past
follies. She was aware of his accusing eyes even when she did not look in
his direction, and uncomfortably aware too that others saw what she saw.
Throughout the pleasant picnic meal, shared with its group of neighbours,
the sight of Andy and Jeff with Cliantha and Pendrilla aggravated a dull
pain which dragged always in her heart, and when dinner was over and they
had packed the basket once more, and set it in the back of the waggon,
she left them, to wander by herself on the farther side of Lost Creek,
sitting down finally in the shade of a great sourwood, and looking
moodily at the water. All afternoon she sat there wrapt in her own
emotions, forgetful of time and place. The congregation straggled back
into the little log church, and the second service was begun. The
preacher's voice came floating out to her softened by distance, and with
it the sound of singing; as the meeting drew to its close an occasional
more vociferous "Amen!" or "Glory!" or "Praise God!" made itself heard.
The sun was beginning to slant well from the west when she got suddenly
to her feet with the startled realisation that afternoon preaching was
over, the people were pouring from the church door, streaming across the
green toward the baptising pool. They were in the middle of a hymn.
"Oh, wanderer return--return,"
came their musical tones across the water. The grey-haired old preacher
was in the lead, his black coat blowing about him, the congregation
spreading out fan-wise as they followed after, Andy and Jeff arm in arm,
the half-dozen others who were to be baptised walking with them.
Her fretted, pining spirit had no appreciation left for the appeal of the
picture. She gazed, and looked away, and groaned. "Oh, wanderer return,"
they sang--almost her heart could not bear the words.
She sighed. Ought she to cross the foot-log and be with them when the
boys were dipped? But while she hesitated the singers struck up a
different hymn, a louder, more militant strain. Brother Bohannon was at
the water; he was wading in; he was up to his knees now--up to his
waist.
"Send 'em in, Brother Drane," she heard him call. "This is about deep
enough. That's right--give me the young men first. When the others see
them dipped they'll have no fear."
Elihu Drane took Andy's arm, and another helper laid hold of Jeff.
"Sing--sing brethren and sisters," admonished the preacher. "Make a
joyful noise unto the Lord. This is the time for Hallelujahs. Ef ye don't
sing now, when will ye ever?"
Andy spoke low in the elder's ear, whereupon he was released, and turned
to his brother; hand-in-hand the two stepped into the water alone. Judith
saw the pale, boyish faces, strangely refined by the exaltation of spirit
which was upon them, as the twins waded out toward the preacher. Bohannon
called to Jeff, shook hands with him, shouted, "Praise God, brother.
Glory! Glory! Now--make yo'se'f right stiff. Let me have ye. Don't be
scared. I won't drop ye. I've baptised a many before you was born, son."
His right hand was lifted dripping above the dark head. "I baptise ye,
Thomas Jefferson Turrentine, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and
the Holy Ghost, Amen."
"Amen--Amen!" came the deep chorus from the bank, the high, plaintive
women's voices undertoned by the masculine bass.
The black coat sleeve went around the white-clad shoulders, the preacher
dropped his new convert gently backward into the shining water, dipped
him, and Jeff who was not an excellent swimmer for nothing, came up
quiet, smiling, and stood aside to wait for his brother.
"Sing--sing!" cried the preacher. "Here goes another soul on its way to
glory," and he reached forth to take Andy. A moment later he sent him,
drenched, but washed clean of his sins, so far as mountain belief goes,
after his twin. The hallelujahs burst forth to greet the boys: joyful
shouts, amens, and some sobbing when, hand-in-hand--even as they had gone
in--they came up out of the water.
"Mighty pretty to look at, ain't it?" said a voice at Judith's shoulder.
She turned to find Blatch Turrentine standing behind her.
"I reckon Andy and Jeff is goin' to be regular little prayin' Sammies
from this out," jeered the newcomer.
"Granny Lusk has given her consent for them and the gals to be wedded,"
remarked Judith softly. To her--and perhaps to Cliantha and Pendrilla
also--the main importance of the twins' conversion was in this
permission, which had been withheld so long as they were wild and had a
bad name.
"I heared of another weddin' that might interest ye," Blatch insinuated.
"Want to come and walk a piece over by the Big Spring, Judy?"
Judith turned uncertainly. The boys had passed on up to the sheds to get
on dry clothing. It was nearly time for her to be going back to the
waggon. Bohannon was dipping Doss Provine's sister Luna. A group of
trembling, tearful candidates, mostly young girls, were being heartened
and encouraged for the ordeal by the helpers on the bank.
"Tell me here--cain't ye?" she said listlessly.
"I heared from a feller that got it from another feller," Blatch began
smilingly, "that Huldy Spiller an' Creed Bonbright was wedded and gone to
Texas. I reckon hit's true, becaze the man that told me was aimin' to buy
the Bonbright farm."
Judith did not cry out. She hoped her colour did not change very much,
for Blatch's eyes were on her face. After a while she managed to say in a
fairly steady voice,
"Does Wade know? Have ye sent any word to him?"
"No," drawled Blatch. "Unc' Jep aimed to break off with me, and he left
you the only one o' the family that dared speak with me. Mebbe you would
like to write an' tell Wade?"
"I don't know," sighed Judith hopelessly. "What's the use?"
"Farewell," said Blatch, using a common mountain form of adieu. "I reckon
Unc' Jep won't want to see me standin' around talkin' to ye. You tell
Wade," significantly. "The sooner he gets Huldy out of his head the
better for him. No use cryin' over spilt milk. They's as good fish in the
sea as ever come out of it."
He looked long at her downcast face.
"Jude, the man that told me that about Bonbright," he said, speaking
apparently on sudden impulse, "'lowed that the feller had left you--give
ye the mitten. You're a fool ef ye let that be said, when his betters is
wantin' ye."
Without another word, without a glance, he turned and slouched swiftly
away down the path behind the fringe of bushes by the creek side.
The baptising was over. Judith, crossing the stream, saw her uncle's
waggon, Beck and Pete already hitched to it, being loaded with Jim Cal
and his tribe. Andy and Jeff were horseback with the Lusk girls. She
hurried forward to join them and make ready for departure when, to her
dismay, she encountered Drane at the foot of the slope coming toward
her.
"Wasn't that thar Blatchley Turrentine?" inquired the elder.
The girl nodded.
"I didn't see him in the church," Drane pursued.
"I reckon he wasn't there," assented Judith lifelessly, making as though
to pass on.
"He jest came here to have speech with you, did he?" inquired the man,
nervously, brushing his sandy whiskers with unquiet fingers.
"I reckon he did," acknowledged Judith without coquetry, without
interest.
"Jude!" burst out the widower, "I promised you I never would again ax you
to wed; but I'm obliged to know ef you're studyin' about takin' that
feller."
"No," said Judith, resenting nothing, "I never did aim to wed Blatch
Turrentine, and I never will."
The elder stood directly in her path, blocking the way and staring down
at her miserably for a long minute.
"That's what you always used to tell me," he remarked finally with a
heavy sigh. "Back in them days when you let me hope that I'd see you
settin' by my fireside with my children on your knees, you always talked
thataway about Blatch--I reckon you talked thataway of me to him."
Judith's pale cheek slowly crimsoned. She looked upon the ground. "I'm
mighty sorry," she said slowly.
Elihu Drane's faded eyes lighted with fresh fires. He caught the hand
that hung by her side.
"Oh, Jude--do you mean it?" he cried. "Do you care? You don't know how
the chaps all love ye and want ye. That old woman I've got doin' for 'em
ain't fittin' to raise 'em. Everybody tells me I've got to marry and give
'em a mother, but I cain't seem to find nobody but you. If you feel
thataway--if you'll----"
Judith drew her hand away with finality, but her eyes were full of
pitying kindness. She knew now what she had done to this man. By the
revealing lamp of her own suffering she read his. Back in the old days
she had counted him only one more triumph in her maiden progress.
"No," she said gravely, "I ain't studyin' about marryin' anybody. I'm
mighty sorry that I done thataway. I'm sorry, and ashamed; but I have to
say no again, Elder Drane. There ain't never goin' to be no other
answer."
"Hit's that feller Bonbright," declared the elder sternly as he stood
aside to let her pass. "Good Lord, why ain't the man got sense enough to
come back and claim his own!"