subtly aware of these things. He remembers how Trelawney is deceived,
and a remorse falls on him in the still darkness, and tears and mangles
him. And yet there are no words for confession,--there is nothing to
confess. Would his conjecture, his unsupported conviction, avail aught;
would it not be cruel to re-open old wounds with the sharp torture of
a doubt? And the daybreak finds him with these questions unsolved, and
his heart turning wistfully to that true and loyal friend, with his
faithful, unrequited love still lingering about the grave of the girl
who died with her love unrequited.
THE DANCIN' PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE.
"Fur ye see, Mis' Darley, them Harrison folks over yander ter the Cove
hev determinated on a dancin' party."
The drawling tones fell unheeded on old Mr. Kenyon's ear, as he sat
on the broad hotel piazza of the New Helvetia Springs, and gazed with
meditative eyes at the fair August sky. An early moon was riding, clear
and full, over this wild spur of the Alleghanies; the stars were few
and very faint; even the great Scorpio lurked, vaguely outlined, above
the wooded ranges; and the white mist, that filled the long, deep,
narrow valley between the parallel lines of mountains, shimmered with
opalescent gleams.
All the world of the watering-place had converged to that focus, the
ball-room, and the cool, moonlit piazzas were nearly deserted. The fell
determination of the "Harrison folks" to give a dancing party made no
impression on the preoccupied old gentleman. Another voice broke his
reverie,--a soft, clear, well-modulated voice,--and he started and
turned his head as his own name was called, and his niece, Mrs. Darley,
came to the window.
"Uncle Ambrose,--are you there? So glad! I was afraid you were down at
the summer-house, where I hear the children singing. Do come here a
moment, please. This is Mrs. Johns, who brings the Indian peaches to
sell,--you know the Indian peaches?"
Mr. Kenyon knew the Indian peaches, the dark crimson fruit streaked
with still darker lines, and full of blood-red juice, which he had
meditatively munched that very afternoon. Mr. Kenyon knew the Indian
peaches right well. He wondered, however, what had brought Mrs. Johns
back in so short a time, for although the principal industry of the
mountain people about the New Helvetia Springs is selling fruit to the
summer sojourners, it is not customary to come twice on the same day,
nor to appear at all after night-fall.
Mrs. Darley proceeded to explain.
"Mrs. Johns's husband is ill and wants us to send him some medicine."
Mr. Kenyon rose, threw away the stump of his cigar, and entered the
room. "How long has he been ill, Mrs. Johns?" he asked, dismally.
Mr. Kenyon always spoke lugubriously, and he was a dismal-looking old
man. Not more cheerful was Mrs. Johns; she was tall and lank, and with
such a face as one never sees except in these mountains,--elongated,
sallow, thin, with pathetic, deeply sunken eyes, and high cheek-bones,
and so settled an expression of hopeless melancholy that it must be
that naught but care and suffering had been her lot; holding out wasted
hands to the years as they pass,--holding them out always, and always
empty. She wore a shabby, faded calico, and spoke with the peculiar
expressionless drawl of the mountaineer. She was a wonderful contrast
to Mrs. Darley, all furbelows and flounces, with her fresh, smooth
face and soft hair, and plump, round arms half-revealed by the flowing
sleeves of her thin, black dress. Mrs. Darley was in mourning, and
therefore did not affect the ball-room. At this moment, on benevolent
thoughts intent, she was engaged in uncorking sundry small phials,
gazing inquiringly at their labels, and shaking their contents.
In reply to Mr. Kenyon's question, Mrs. Johns, sitting on the extreme
edge of a chair and fanning herself with a pink calico sun-bonnet,
talked about her husband, and a misery in his side and in his back,
and how he felt it "a-comin' on nigh on ter a week ago." Mr. Kenyon
expressed sympathy, and was surprised by the announcement that Mrs.
Johns considered her husband's illness "a blessin', 'kase ef he war
able ter git out'n his bed, he 'lowed ter go down ter Harrison's Cove
ter the dancin' party, 'kase Rick Pearson war a-goin' ter be thar, an'
hed said ez how none o' the Johnses should come."
"What, Rick Pearson, that terrible outlaw!" exclaimed Mrs. Darley,
with wide open blue eyes. She had read in the newspapers sundry
thrilling accounts of a noted horse thief and outlaw, who with a gang
of kindred spirits defied justice and roamed certain sparsely-populated
mountainous counties at his own wild will, and she was not altogether
without a feeling of fear as she heard of his proximity to the
New Helvetia Springs,--not fear for life or limb, because she was
practical-minded enough to reflect that the sojourners and employés of
the watering-place would far outnumber the outlaw's troop, but fear
that a pair of shiny bay ponies, Castor and Pollux, would fall victims
to the crafty wiles of the expert horse thief.
"I think I have heard something of a difficulty between your people and
Rick Pearson," said old Mr. Kenyon. "Has a peace never been patched up
between them?"
"No-o," drawled Mrs. Johns; "same as it always war. My old man'll
never believe but what Rick Pearson stole that thar bay filly we lost
'bout five year ago. But I don't believe he done it; plenty other
folks around is ez mean ez Rick, leastways mos' ez mean; plenty mean
enough ter steal a horse, ennyhow. Rick _say_ he never tuk the filly;
say he war a-goin' ter shoot off the nex' man's head ez say so. Rick
say he'd ruther give two bay fillies than hev a man say he tuk a horse
ez he never tuk. Rick say ez how he kin stand up ter what he does do,
but it's these hyar lies on him what kills him out. But ye know, Mis'
Darley, ye know yerself, he never give nobody two bay fillies in this
world, an' what's more he's never goin' ter. My old man an' my boy
Kossute talks on 'bout that thar bay filly like she war stole yestiddy,
an' 't war five year ago an' better; an' when they hearn ez how Rick
Pearson hed showed that red head o' his'n on this hyar mounting las'
week, they war fightin' mad, an' would hev lit out fur the gang sure,
'ceptin' they hed been gone down the mounting fur two days. An' my son
Kossute, he sent Rick word that he had better keep out 'n gunshot o'
these hyar woods; that he didn't want no better mark than that red head
o' his'n, an' he could hit it two mile off. An' Rick Pearson, he sent
Kossute word that he would kill him fur his sass the very nex' time he
see him, an' ef he don't want a bullet in that pumpkin head o' his'n
he hed better keep away from that dancin' party what the Harrisons
hev laid off ter give, 'kase Rick say he's a-goin' ter it hisself,
an' is a-goin' ter dance too; he ain't been invited, Mis' Darley, but
Rick don't keer fur that. He is a-goin' ennyhow, an' he say ez how he
ain't a-goin' ter let Kossute come, 'count o' Kossute's sass an' the
fuss they've all made 'bout that bay filly that war stole five year
ago,--'t war five year an' better. But Rick say ez how he is goin', fur
all he ain't got no invite, an' is a-goin' ter dance too, 'kase you
know, Mis' Darley, it's a-goin' ter be a dancin' party; the Harrisons
hev determinated on that. Them gals of theirn air mos' crazed 'bout a
dancin' party. They ain't been a bit of account sence they went ter
Cheatham's Cross-Roads ter see thar gran'mother, an' picked up all
them queer new notions. So the Harrisons hev determinated on a dancin'
party; an' Rick say ez how he is goin' ter dance too; but Jule, _she_
say ez how she know thar ain't a gal on the mounting ez would dance
with him; but I ain't so sure 'bout that, Mis' Darley; gals air cur'ous
critters, ye know yerself; thar's no sort o' countin' on 'em; they'll
do one thing one time, an' another thing nex' time; ye can't put no
dependence in 'em. But Jule say ef he kin git Mandy Tyler ter dance
with him, it's the mos' he kin do, an' the gang'll be no whar. Mebbe he
kin git Mandy ter dance with him, 'kase the other boys say ez how none
o' them is a-goin' ter ax her ter dance, 'count of the trick she played
on 'em down ter the Wilkins settlemint--las' month, war it? no, 't war
two month ago, an' better; but the boys ain't forgot how scandalous she
done 'em, an' none of 'em is a-goin' ter ax her ter dance."
"Why, what did she do?" exclaimed Mrs. Darley, surprised. "She came
here to sell peaches one day, and I thought her such a nice, pretty,
well-behaved girl."
"Waal, she hev got mighty quiet say-nuthin' sort'n ways, Mis' Darley,
but that thar gal do behave _re_diculous. Down thar ter the Wilkins
settlemint,--ye know it's 'bout two mile or two mile'n a half from
hyar,--waal, all the gals walked down thar ter the party an hour
by sun, but when the boys went down they tuk thar horses, ter give
the gals a ride home behind 'em. Waal, every boy axed his gal ter
ride while the party war goin' on, an' when 't war all over they all
set out fur ter come home. Waal, this hyar Mandy Tyler is a mighty
favo_rite_ 'mongst the boys,--they ain't got no sense, ye know, Mis'
Darley,--an' stiddier one of 'em axin' her ter ride home, thar war
five of 'em axed her ter ride, ef ye'll believe me, an' what do ye
think she done, Mis' Darley? She tole all five of 'em yes; an' when the
party war over, she war the last ter go, an' when she started out'n
the door, thar war all five of them boys a-standin' thar waitin' fur
her, an' every one a-holdin' his horse by the bridle, an' none of 'em
knowed who the others war a-waitin' fur. An' this hyar Mandy Tyler,
when she got ter the door an' seen 'em all a-standin' thar, never said
one word, jest walked right through 'mongst 'em, an' set out fur the
mounting on foot with all them five boys a-followin' an' a-leadin' thar
horses an' a-quarrelin' enough ter take off each others' heads 'bout
which one war a-goin' ter ride with her; which none of 'em did, Mis'
Darley, fur I hearn ez how the whole lay-out footed it all the way ter
New Helveshy. An' thar would hev been a fight 'mongst 'em, 'ceptin'
her brother, Jacob Tyler, went along with 'em, an' tried ter keep the
peace a-twixt 'em. An' Mis' Darley, all them married folks down thar at
the party--them folks in the Wilkins settlemint is the biggest fools,
sure--when all them married folks come out ter the door, an' see the
way Mandy Tyler hed treated them boys, they jest hollered and laffed
an' thought it war mighty smart an' funny in Mandy; but she never say
a word till she kem up the mounting, an' I never hearn ez how she say
ennything then. An' now the boys all say none of 'em is a-goin' ter ax
her ter dance, ter pay her back fur them fool airs of hern. But Kossute
say he'll dance with her ef none the rest will. Kossute he thought
't war all mighty funny too,--he's sech a fool 'bout gals, Kossute
is,--but Jule, she thought ez how 't war scandalous."
Mrs. Darley listened in amused surprise; that these mountain wilds
could sustain a first-class coquette was an idea that had not hitherto
entered her mind; however, "that thar Mandy" seemed, in Mrs. Johns's
opinion at least, to merit the unenviable distinction, and the party
at Wilkins settlement and the prospective gayety of Harrison's Cove
awakened the same sentiments in her heart and mind as do the more
ambitious germans and kettledrums of the lowland cities in the heart
and mind of Mrs. Grundy. Human nature is the same everywhere, and the
Wilkins settlement is a microcosm. The metropolitan centres, stripped
of the civilization of wealth, fashion, and culture, would present
only the bare skeleton of humanity outlined in Mrs. Johns's talk of
Harrison's Cove, the Wilkins settlement, the enmities and scandals
and sorrows and misfortunes of the mountain ridge. As the absurd
resemblance developed, Mrs. Darley could not forbear a smile. Mrs.
Johns looked up with a momentary expression of surprise; the story
presented no humorous phase to her perceptions, but she too smiled a
little as she repeated, "Scandalous, ain't it?" and proceeded in the
same lack-lustre tone as before.
"Yes,--Kossute say ez how he'll dance with her ef none the rest will,
fur Kossute say ez how he hev laid off ter dance, Mis' Darley; an'
when I ax him what he thinks will become of his soul ef he dances, he
say the devil may crack away at it, an' ef he kin hit it he's welcome.
Fur soul or no soul he's a-goin' ter dance. Kossute is a-fixin' of
hisself this very minit ter go; but I am verily afeard the boy'll be
slaughtered, Mis' Darley, 'kase thar is goin' ter be a fight, an' ye
never in all yer life hearn sech sass ez Kossute and Rick Pearson done
sent word ter each other."
Mr. Kenyon expressed some surprise that she should fear for so young a
fellow as Kossuth. "Surely," he said, "the man is not brute enough to
injure a mere boy; your son is a mere boy."
"That's so," Mrs. Johns drawled. "Kossute ain't more 'n twenty year
old, an' Rick Pearson is double that ef he is a day; but ye see it's
the fire-arms ez makes Kossute more 'n a match fur him, 'kase Kossute
is the best shot on the mounting, an' Rick knows that in a shootin'
fight Kossute 's better able ter take keer of hisself an' hurt somebody
else nor ennybody. Kossute 's more likely ter hurt Rick nor Rick is
ter hurt him in a shootin' fight; but ef Rick did n't hurt him, an' he
war ter shoot Rick, the gang would tear him ter pieces in a minit; and
'mongst 'em I'm actially afeard they 'll slaughter the boy."
Mr. Kenyon looked even graver than was his wont upon receiving this
information, but said no more; and after giving Mrs. Johns the
febrifuge she wished for her husband, he returned to his seat on the
piazza.
Mrs. Darley watched him with some little indignation as he proceeded to
light a fresh cigar. "How cold and unsympathetic uncle Ambrose is," she
said to herself. And after condoling effusively with Mrs. Johns on her
apprehensions for her son's safety, she returned to the gossips in the
hotel parlor, and Mrs. Johns, with her pink calico sun-bonnet on her
head, went her way in the brilliant summer moon light.
The clear lustre shone white upon all the dark woods and chasms and
flashing waters that lay between the New Helvetia Springs and the wide,
deep ravine called Harrison's Cove, where from a rude log hut the
vibrations of a violin, and the quick throb of dancing feet, already
mingled with the impetuous rush of a mountain stream close by and the
weird night-sounds of the hills,--the cry of birds among the tall
trees, the stir of the wind, the monotonous chanting of frogs at the
water-side, the long, drowsy drone of the nocturnal insects, the sudden
faint blast of a distant hunter's horn, and the far baying of hounds.
Mr. Harrison had four marriageable daughters, and had arrived at the
conclusion that something must be done for the girls; for, strange as
it may seem, the prudent father exists even among the "mounting folks."
Men there realize the importance of providing suitable homes for their
daughters as men do elsewhere, and the eligible youth is as highly
esteemed in those wilds as is the much scarcer animal at a fashionable
watering-place. Thus it was that Mr. Harrison had "determinated on
a dancin' party." True, he stood in bodily fear of the judgment day
and the circuit-rider; but the dancing party was a rarity eminently
calculated to please the young hunters of the settlements round about,
so he swallowed his qualms, to be indulged at a more convenient
season, and threw himself into the vortex of preparation with an ardor
very gratifying to the four young ladies, who had become imbued with
sophistication at Cheatham's Cross-Roads.
Not so Mrs. Harrison; she almost expected the house to fall and crush
them, as a judgment on the wickedness of a dancing party; for so
heinous a sin, in the estimation of the greater part of the mountain
people, had not been committed among them for many a day. Such trifles
as killing a man in a quarrel, or on suspicion of stealing a horse, or
wash-tub, or anything that came handy, of course, does not count; but a
dancing party! Mrs. Harrison could only hold her idle hands, and dread
the heavy penalty that must surely follow so terrible a crime.
It certainly had not the gay and lightsome aspect supposed to be
characteristic of such a scene of sin: the awkward young mountaineers
clogged heavily about in their uncouth clothes and rough shoes, with
the stolid-looking, lack-lustre maids of the hill, to the violin's
monotonous iteration of The Chicken in the Bread-Trough, or The Rabbit
in the Pea-Patch,--all their grave faces as grave as ever. The music
now and then changed suddenly to one of those wild, melancholy strains
sometimes heard in old-fashioned dancing tunes, and the strange
pathetic cadences seemed more attuned to the rhythmical dash of the
waters rushing over their stone barricades out in the moonlight yonder,
or to the plaintive sighs of the winds among the great dark arches
of the primeval forests, than to the movement of the heavy, coarse
feet dancing a solemn measure in the little log cabin in Harrison's
Cove. The elders, sitting in rush-bottomed chairs close to the walls,
and looking on at the merriment, well-pleased despite their religious
doubts, were somewhat more lively; every now and then a guffaw mingled
with the violin's resonant strains and the dancers' well-marked pace;
the women talked to each other with somewhat more animation than was
their wont, under the stress of the unusual excitement of a dancing
party, and from out the shed-room adjoining came an anticipative
odor of more substantial sin than the fiddle or the grave jiggling
up and down the rough floor. A little more cider too, and a very bad
article of illegally-distilled whiskey, were ever and anon circulated
among the pious abstainers from the dance; but the sinful votaries of
Terpsichore could brook no pause nor delay, and jogged up and down
quite intoxicated with the mirthfulness of the plaintive old airs and
the pleasure of other motion than following the plow or hoeing the corn.
And the moon smiled right royally on her dominion: on the long, dark
ranges of mountains and mist-filled valleys between; on the woods and
streams, and on all the half-dormant creatures either amongst the
shadow-flecked foliage or under the crystal waters; on the long,
white, sandy road winding in and out through the forest; on the
frowning crags of the wild ravine; on the little bridge at the entrance
of the gorge, across which a party of eight men, heavily armed and
gallantly mounted, rode swiftly and disappeared amid the gloom of the
shadows.
The sound of the galloping of horses broke suddenly on the music and
the noise of the dancing; a moment's interval, and the door gently
opened and the gigantic form of Rick Pearson appeared in the aperture.
He was dressed, like the other mountaineers, in a coarse suit of brown
jeans somewhat the worse for wear, the trowsers stuffed in the legs of
his heavy boots; he wore an old soft felt hat, which he did not remove
immediately on entering, and a pair of formidable pistols at his belt
conspicuously challenged attention. He had auburn hair, and a long full
beard of a lighter tint reaching almost to his waist; his complexion
was much tanned by the sun, and roughened by exposure to the inclement
mountain weather; his eyes were brown, deep-set, and from under his
heavy brows they looked out with quick, sharp glances, and occasionally
with a roguish twinkle; the expression of his countenance was rather
good-humored,--a sort of imperious good-humor, however,--the
expression of a man accustomed to have his own way and not to be
trifled with, but able to afford some amiability since his power is
undisputed.
He stepped slowly into the apartment, placed his gun against the
wall, turned, and solemnly gazed at the dancing, while his followers
trooped in and obeyed his example. As the eight guns, one by one,
rattled against the wall, there was a startled silence among the pious
elders of the assemblage, and a sudden disappearance of the animation
that had characterized their intercourse during the evening. Mrs.
Harrison, who by reason of flurry and a housewifely pride in the
still unrevealed treasures of the shed-room had well-nigh forgotten
her fears, felt that the anticipated judgment had even now descended,
and in what terrible and unexpected guise! The men turned the quids
of tobacco in their cheeks and looked at each other in uncertainty;
but the dancers bestowed not a glance upon the new-comers, and the
musician in the corner, with his eyes half-closed, his head bent low
upon the instrument, his hard, horny hand moving the bow back and forth
over the strings of the crazy old fiddle, was utterly rapt by his own
melody. At the supreme moment when the great red beard had appeared
portentously in the door-way and fear had frozen the heart of Mrs.
Harrison within her at the ill-omened apparition, the host was in
the shed-room filling a broken-nosed pitcher from the cider-barrel.
When he re-entered, and caught sight of the grave sun-burned face with
its long red beard and sharp brown eyes, he too was dismayed for an
instant, and stood silent at the opposite door with the pitcher in
his hand. The pleasure and the possible profit of the dancing party,
for which he had expended so much of his scanty store of this world's
goods and risked the eternal treasures laid up in heaven, were a mere
phantasm; for, with Rick Pearson among them, in an ill frame of mind
and at odds with half the men in the room, there would certainly be
a fight, and in all probability one would be killed, and the dancing
party at Harrison's Cove would be a text for the bloody-minded sermons
of the circuit-rider for all time to come. However, the father of four
marriageable daughters is apt to become crafty and worldly-wise; only
for a moment did he stand in indecision; then, catching suddenly the
small brown eyes, he held up the pitcher with a grin of invitation.
"Rick!" he called out above the scraping of the violin and the clatter
of the dancing feet, "slip round hyar ef ye kin, I've got somethin' for
ye;" and he shook the pitcher significantly.
Not that Mr. Harrison would for a moment have thought of Rick
Pearson in a matrimonial point of view, for even the sophistication
of the Cross-Roads had not yet brought him to the state of mind to
consider such a half loaf as this better than no bread, but he felt
it imperative from every point of view to keep that set of young
mountaineers dancing in peace and quiet, and their guns idle and out
of mischief against the wall. The great red beard disappeared and
reappeared at intervals, as Rick Pearson slipped along the gun-lined
wall to join his host and the cider-pitcher, and after he had disposed
of the refreshment, in which the gang shared, he relapsed into silently
watching the dancing and meditating a participation in that festivity.