vines were all astir as they clung about the little porch where Clarsie
was sitting now, idle at last. The rain clouds had disappeared, and
there bent over the dark, heavily wooded ridges a pale blue sky, with
here and there the crystalline sparkle of a star. A halo was shimmering
in the east, where the mists had gathered about the great white moon,
hanging high above the mountains. Noiseless wings flitted through the
dusk; now and then the bats swept by so close as to wave Clarsie's
hair with the wind of their flight. What an airy, glittering, magical
thing was that gigantic spider-web suspended between the silver moon
and her shining eyes! Ever and anon there came from the woods a
strange, weird, long-drawn sigh, unlike the stir of the wind in the
trees, unlike the fret of the water on the rocks. Was it the voiceless
sorrow of the sad earth? There were stars in the night besides those
known to astronomers: the stellular fireflies gemmed the black shadows
with a fluctuating brilliancy; they circled in and out of the porch,
and touched the leaves above Clarsie's head with quivering points of
light. A steadier and an intenser gleam was advancing along the road,
and the sound of languid footsteps came with it; the aroma of tobacco
graced the atmosphere, and a tall figure walked up to the gate.
"Come in, come in," said Peter Giles, rising, and tendering the guest
a chair. "Ye air Tom Pratt, ez well ez I kin make out by this light.
Waal, Tom, we hain't furgot ye sence ye done been hyar."
As Tom had been there on the previous evening, this might be considered
a joke, or an equivocal compliment. The young fellow was restless and
awkward under it, but Mrs. Giles chuckled with great merriment.
"An' how air ye a-comin' on, Mrs. Giles?" he asked propitiatorily.
"Jes' toler'ble, Tom. Air they all well ter yer house?"
"Yes, they're toler'ble well, too." He glanced at Clarsie, intending
to address to her some polite greeting, but the expression of her shy,
half-startled eyes, turned upon the far-away moon, warned him. "Thar
never war a gal so skittish," he thought. "She'd run a mile, skeered
ter death, ef I said a word ter her."
And he was prudently silent.
"Waal," said Peter Giles, "what's the news out yer way, Tom? Ennything
a-goin' on?"
"Thar war a shower yander on the Backbone; it rained toler'ble hard fur
a while, an' sot up the corn wonderful. Did ye git enny hyar?"
"Not a drap."
"'Pears ter me ez I kin see the clouds a-circlin' round Chilhowee, an'
a-rainin' on everybody's corn-field 'ceptin' ourn," said Mrs. Giles.
"Some folks is the favored of the Lord, an' t'others hev ter work fur
everything an' git nuthin'. Waal, waal; we-uns will see our reward in
the nex' worl'. Thar's a better worl' than this, Tom."
"That's a fac'," said Tom, in orthodox assent.
"An' when we leaves hyar once, we leaves all trouble an' care behind
us, Tom; fur we don't come back no more." Mrs. Giles was drifting into
one of her pious moods.
"I dunno," said Tom. "Thar hev been them ez hev."
"Hev what?" demanded Peter Giles, startled.
"Hev come back ter this hyar yearth. Thar's a harnt that walks
Chilhowee every night o' the worl'. I know them ez hev seen him."
Clarsie's great dilated eyes were fastened on the speaker's face. There
was a dead silence for a moment, more eloquent with these looks of
amazement than any words could have been.
"I reckons ye remember a puny, shriveled little man, named Reuben
Crabb, ez used ter live yander, eight mile along the ridge ter that
thar big sulphur spring," Tom resumed, appealing to Peter Giles. "He
war born with only one arm."
"I 'members him," interpolated Mrs. Giles, vivaciously. "He war a
mighty porely, sickly little critter, all the days of his life. 'Twar
a wonder he war ever raised ter be a man,--an' a pity, too. An' 'twar
powerful comical, the way of his takin' off; a stunted, one-armed
little critter a-ondertakin' ter fight folks an' shoot pistols. He hed
the use o' his one arm, sure."
"Waal," said Tom, "his house ain't thar now, 'kase Sam Grim's brothers
burned it ter the ground fur his a-killin' of Sam. That warn't all that
war done ter Reuben fur killin' of Sam. The sheriff run Reuben Crabb
down this hyar road 'bout a mile from hyar,--mebbe less,--an' shot him
dead in the road, jes' whar it forks. Waal, Reuben war in company with
another evil-doer,--_he_ war from the Cross-Roads, an' I furgits what
he hed done, but he war a-tryin' ter hide in the mountings, too; an'
the sheriff lef' Reuben a-lying thar in the road, while he tries ter
ketch up with the t'other; but his horse got a stone in his hoof, an'
he los' time, an' hed ter gin it up. An' when he got back ter the forks
o' the road whar he had lef' Reuben a-lyin' dead, thar war nuthin' thar
'ceptin' a pool o' blood. Waal, he went right on ter Reuben's house,
an' them Grim boys hed burnt it ter the ground; but he seen Reuben's
brother Joel. An' Joel, he tole the sheriff that late that evenin' he
hed tuk Reuben's body out'n the road an' buried it, 'kase it hed been
lyin' thar in the road ever sence early in the mornin', an' he couldn't
leave it thar all night, an' he hedn't no shelter fur it, sence the
Grim boys hed burnt down the house. So he war obleeged ter bury it. An'
Joel showed the sheriff a new-made grave, an' Reuben's coat whar the
sheriff's bullet hed gone in at the back an' kem out'n the breast.
The sheriff 'lowed ez they'd fine Joel fifty dollars fur a-buryin' of
Reuben afore the cor'ner kem; but they never done it, ez I knows on.
The sheriff said that when the cor'ner kem the body would be tuk up
fur a 'quest. But thar hed been a powerful big frishet, an' the river
'twixt the cor'ner's house an' Chilhowee couldn't be forded fur three
weeks. The cor'ner never kem, an' so thar it all stayed. That war four
year ago."
"Waal," said Peter Giles, dryly, "I ain't seen no harnt yit. I knowed
all that afore."
Clarsie's wondering eyes upon the young man's moonlit face had elicited
these facts, familiar to the elders, but strange, he knew, to her.
"I war jes' a-goin' on ter tell," said Tom, abashed. "Waal, ever sence
his brother Joel died, this spring, Reuben's harnt walks Chilhowee.
He war seen week afore las', 'bout daybreak, by Ephraim Blenkins,
who hed been a-fishin', an' war a-goin' home. Eph happened ter stop
in the laurel ter wind up his line, when all in a minit he seen the
harnt go by, his face white, an' his eye-balls like fire, an' puny an'
one-armed, jes' like he lived. Eph, he owed me a haffen day's work; I
holped him ter plow las' month, an' so he kem ter-day an' hoed along
cornsider'ble ter pay fur it. He say he believes the harnt never seen
him, 'kase it went right by. He 'lowed ef the harnt hed so much ez cut
one o' them blazin' eyes round at him he couldn't but hev drapped dead.
Waal, this mornin', 'bout sunrise, my brother Bob's little gal, three
year old, strayed off from home while her mother war out milkin' the
cow. An' we went a-huntin' of her, mightily worked up, 'kase thar hev
been a b'ar prowlin' round our corn-field twict this summer. An' I went
to the right, an' Bob went to the lef'. An' he say ez he war a-pushin'
'long through the laurel, he seen the bushes ahead of him a-rustlin'.
An' he jes' stood still an' watched 'em. An' fur a while the bushes war
still too; an' then they moved jes' a little, fust this way an' then
that, till all of a suddint the leaves opened, like the mouth of hell
mought hev done, an' thar he seen Reuben Crabb's face. He say he never
seen sech a face! Its mouth war open, an' its eyes war a-startin' out'n
its head, an' its skin war white till it war blue; an' ef the devil hed
hed it a-hangin' over the coals that minit it couldn't hev looked no
more skeered. But that war all that Bob seen, 'kase he jes' shet his
eyes an' screeched an' screeched like he war _de_stracted. An' when he
stopped a second ter ketch his breath he hearn su'thin' a-answerin' him
back, sorter weak-like, an' thar war little Peggy a-pullin' through
the laurel. Ye know she's too little ter talk good, but the folks down
ter our house believes she seen the harnt, too."
"My Lord!" exclaimed Peter Giles. "I 'low I couldn't live a minit ef I
war ter see that thar harnt that walks Chilhowee!"
"I know _I_ couldn't," said his wife.
"Nor me, nuther," murmured Clarsie.
"Waal," said Tom, resuming the thread of his narrative, "we hev all
been a-talkin' down yander ter our house ter make out the reason why
Reuben Crabb's harnt hev sot out ter walk _jes' sence his brother Joel
died_,--'kase it war never seen afore then. An' ez nigh ez we kin make
it out, the reason is 'kase thar's nobody lef' in this hyar worl' what
believes he warn't ter blame in that thar killin' o' Sam Grim. Joel
always swore ez Reuben never killed him no more'n nuthin'; that Sam's
own pistol went off in his own hand, an' shot him through the heart
jes' ez he war a-drawin' of it ter shoot Reuben Crabb. An' I hev hearn
other men ez war a-standin' by say the same thing, though them Grims
tells another tale; but ez Reuben never owned no pistol in his life,
nor kerried one, it don't 'pear ter me ez what them Grims say air
reasonable. Joel always swore ez Sam Grim war a mighty mean man,--a
great big feller like him a-rockin' of a deformed little critter,
an' a-mockin' of him, an' a hittin' of him. An' the day of the fight
Sam jes' knocked him down fur nuthin' at all; an' afore ye could wink
Reuben jumped up suddint, an' flew at him like an eagle, an' struck him
in the face. An' then Sam drawed his pistol, an' it went off in his own
hand, an' shot him through the heart, an' killed him dead. Joel said
that ef he could hev kep' that pore little critter Reuben still, an'
let the sheriff arrest him peaceable-like, he war sure the jury would
hev let him off; 'kase how war Reuben a-goin ter shoot ennybody when
Sam Grim never left a-holt of the only pistol between 'em, in life,
or in death? They tells me they hed ter bury Sam Grim with that thar
pistol in his hand; his grip war too tight fur death to unloose it. But
Joel said that Reuben war sartain they'd hang him. He hedn't never seen
no jestice from enny one man, an' he couldn't look fur it from twelve
men. So he jes' sot out ter run through the woods, like a painter or
a wolf, ter be hunted by the sheriff, an' he war run down an' kilt in
the road. Joel said _he_ kep' up arter the sheriff ez well ez he could
on foot,--fur the Crabbs never hed no horse,--ter try ter beg fur
Reuben, ef he war cotched, an' tell how little an' how weakly he war. I
never seen a young man's head turn white like Joel's done; he said he
reckoned it war his troubles. But ter the las' he stuck ter his rifle
faithful. He war a powerful hunter; he war out rain or shine, hot or
cold, in sech weather ez other folks would think thar warn't no use in
tryin' ter do nuthin' in. I'm mightily afeard o' seein' Reuben, now,
that's a fac'," concluded Tom, frankly; "'kase I hev hearn tell, an' I
believes it, that ef a harnt speaks ter ye, it air sartain ye're bound
ter die right then."
"'Pears ter me," said Mrs. Giles, "ez many mountings ez thar air round
hyar, he mought hev tuk ter walkin' some o' them, stiddier Chilhowee."
There was a sudden noise close at hand: a great inverted splint-basket,
from which came a sound of flapping wings, began to move slightly
back and forth. Mrs. Giles gasped out an ejaculation of terror, the
two men sprang to their feet, and the coy Clarsie laughed aloud in an
exuberance of delighted mirth, forgetful of her shyness. "I declar' ter
goodness, you-uns air all skeered fur true! Did ye think it war the
harnt that walks Chilhowee?"
"What's under that thar basket?" demanded Peter Giles, rather
sheepishly, as he sat down again.
"Nuthin' but the duck-legged Dominicky," said Clarsie, "what air bein'
broke up from settin'." The moonlight was full upon the dimpling
merriment in her face, upon her shining eyes and parted red lips, and
her gurgling laughter was pleasant to hear. Tom Pratt edged his chair a
trifle nearer, as he, too, sat down.
"Ye oughtn't never ter break up a duck-legged hen, nor a Dominicky,
nuther," he volunteered, "'kase they air sech a good kind o' hen ter
kerry chickens; but a hen that is duck-legged an' Dominicky too oughter
be let ter set, whether or no."
Had he been warned in a dream, he could have found no more secure road
to Clarsie's favor and interest than a discussion of the poultry. "I'm
a-thinkin'," she said, "that it air too hot fur hens ter set now, an'
'twill be till the las' of August."
"It don't 'pear ter me ez it air hot much in June up hyar on
Chilhowee,--thar's a differ, I know, down in the valley; but till July,
on Chilhowee, it don't 'pear ter me ez it air too hot ter set a hen.
An' a duck-legged Dominicky air mighty hard ter break up."
"That's a fac'," Clarsie admitted; "but I'll hev ter do it, somehow,
'kase I ain't got no eggs fur her. All my hens air kerryin' of
chickens."
"Waal!" exclaimed Tom, seizing his opportunity, "I'll bring ye some
ter-morrer night, when I come agin. We-uns hev got eggs ter our house."
"Thanky," said Clarsie, shyly smiling.
This unique method of courtship would have progressed very prosperously
but for the interference of the elders, who are an element always more
or less adverse to love-making. "Ye oughter turn out yer hen now,
Clarsie," said Mrs. Giles, "ez Tom air a-goin' ter bring ye some eggs
ter-morrer. I wonder ye don't think it's mean ter keep her up longer'n
ye air obleeged ter. Ye oughter remember ye war called a merciful
critter jes' ter-day."
Clarsie rose precipitately, raised the basket, and out flew the
"duck-legged Dominicky," with a frantic flutter and hysterical
cackling. But Mrs. Giles was not to be diverted from her purpose; her
thoughts had recurred to the absurd episode of the afternoon, and with
her relish of the incongruity of the joke she opened upon the subject
at once.
"Waal, Tom," she said, "we'll be hevin' Clarsie married, afore long,
I'm a-thinkin'." The young man sat bewildered. He, too, had entertained
views concerning Clarsie's speedy marriage, but with a distinctly
personal application; and this frank mention of the matter by Mrs.
Giles had a sinister suggestion that perhaps her ideas might be
antagonistic. "An' who d'ye think hev been hyar ter-day, a-speakin'
of compli_mints_ on Clarsie?" He could not answer, but he turned his
head with a look of inquiry, and Mrs. Giles continued, "He is a mighty
peart, likely boy,--_he_ is."
There was a growing anger in the dismay on Tom Pratt's face; he leaned
forward to hear the name with a fiery eagerness, altogether incongruous
with his usual lack-lustre manner.
"Old Simon Burney!" cried Mrs. Giles, with a burst of laughter. "_Old
Simon Burney!_ Jes' a-speakin' of compli_mints_ on Clarsie!"
The young fellow drew back with a look of disgust. "Why, he's a old
man; he ain't no fit husband fur Clarsie."
"Don't ye be too sure ter count on that. I war jes' a-layin' off ter
tell Clarsie that a gal oughter keep mighty clar o' widowers, 'thout
she wants ter marry one. Fur I believes," said Mrs. Giles, with a wild
flight of imagination, "ez them men hev got some sort'n trade with the
Evil One, an' he gives 'em the power ter witch the gals, somehow, so's
ter git 'em ter marry; 'kase I don't think that any gal that's got
good sense air a-goin' ter be a man's second ch'ice, an' the mother
of a whole pack of step-chil'ren, 'thout she air under some sort'n
spell. But them men carries the day with the gals ginerally, an' I'm
a-thinkin' they're banded with the devil. Ef I war a gal, an' a smart,
peart boy like Simon Burney kem around a-speakin' of compli_mints_, an'
sayin' I war a merciful critter, I'd jes' give it up, an' marry him
fur second ch'ice. Thar's one blessin'," she continued, contemplating
the possibility in a cold-blooded fashion positively revolting to Tom
Pratt: "he ain't got no tribe of chil'ren fur Clarsie ter look arter;
nary chick nor child hev old Simon Burney got. He hed two, but they
died."
The young man took leave presently, in great depression of spirit,--the
idea that the widower was banded with the powers of evil was
rather overwhelming to a man whose dependence was in merely mortal
attractions; and after he had been gone a little while Clarsie ascended
the ladder to a nook in the roof, which she called her room.
For the first time in her life her slumber was fitful and restless,
long intervals of wakefulness alternating with snatches of fantastic
dreams. At last she rose and sat by the rude window, looking out
through the chestnut leaves at the great moon, which had begun to
dip toward the dark uncertainty of the western ridges, and at the
shimmering, translucent, pearly mists that filled the intermediate
valleys. All the air was dew and incense; so subtle and penetrating
an odor came from that fir-tree beyond the fence that it seemed as
if some invigorating infusion were thrilling along her veins; there
floated upward, too, the warm fragrance of the clover, and every
breath of the gentle wind brought from over the stream a thousand
blended, undistinguishable perfumes of the deep forests beyond. The
moon's idealizing glamour had left no trace of the uncouthness of the
place which the daylight revealed; the little log house, the great
overhanging chestnut-oaks, the jagged precipice before the door, the
vague outlines of the distant ranges, all suffused with a magic sheen,
might have seemed a stupendous alto-rilievo in silver repoussé. Still,
there came here and there the sweep of the bat's dusky wings; even they
were a part of the night's witchery. A tiny owl perched for a moment
or two amid the dew-tipped chestnut-leaves, and gazed with great round
eyes at Clarsie as solemnly as she gazed at him.
"I'm thankful enough that ye hed the grace not ter screech while ye war
hyar," she said, after the bird had taken his flight. "I ain't ready
ter die yit, an' a screech-ow_el_ air the sure sign."
She felt now and then a great impatience with her wakeful mood. Once
she took herself to task: "Jes' a-sittin' up hyar all night, the same
ez ef I war a fox, or that thar harnt that walks Chilhowee!"
And then her mind reverted to Tom Pratt, to old Simon Burney, and to
her mother's emphatic and oracular declaration that widowers are in
league with Satan, and that the girls upon whom they cast the eye of
supernatural fascination have no choice in the matter. "I wish I knowed
ef that thar sayin' war true," she murmured, her face still turned to
the western spurs, and the moon sinking so slowly toward them.
With a sudden resolution she rose to her feet. She knew a way of
telling fortunes which was, according to tradition, infallible, and she
determined to try it, and ease her mind as to her future. Now was the
propitious moment. "I hev always hearn that it won't come true 'thout
ye try it jes' before daybreak, an' a-kneelin' down at the forks of the
road." She hesitated a moment and listened intently. "They'd never git
done a-laffin' at me, ef they fund it out," she thought.
There was no sound in the house, and from the dark woods arose only
those monotonous voices of the night, so familiar to her ears that
she accounted their murmurous iteration as silence too. She leaned
far out of the low window, caught the wide-spreading branches of the
tree beside it, and swung herself noiselessly to the ground. The road
before her was dark with the shadowy foliage and dank with the dew;
but now and then, at long intervals, there lay athwart it a bright
bar of light, where the moonshine fell through a gap in the trees.
Once, as she went rapidly along her way, she saw speeding across the
white radiance, lying just before her feet, the ill-omened shadow of
a rabbit. She paused, with a superstitious sinking of the heart, and
she heard the animal's quick, leaping rush through the bushes near at
hand; but she mustered her courage, and kept steadily on. "'T ain't no
use a-goin' back ter git shet o' bad luck," she argued. "Ef old Simon
Burney air my fortune, he'll come whether or no,--ef all they say air
true."
The serpentine road curved to the mountain's brink before it forked,
and there was again that familiar picture of precipice, and far-away
ridges, and shining mist, and sinking moon, which was visibly turning
from silver to gold. The changing lustre gilded the feathery ferns that
grew in the marshy dip. Just at the angle of the divergent paths there
rose into the air a great mass of indistinct white blossoms, which she
knew were the exquisite mountain azaleas, and all the dark forest was
starred with the blooms of the laurel.
She fixed her eyes upon the mystic sphere dropping down the sky,
knelt among the azaleas at the forks of the road, and repeated the
time-honored invocation:--
"Ef I'm a-goin' ter marry a young man, whistle, Bird, whistle. Ef I'm
a-goin' ter marry an old man, low, Cow, low. Ef I ain't a-goin' ter
marry nobody, knock, Death, knock."
There was a prolonged silence in the matutinal freshness and perfume
of the woods. She raised her head, and listened attentively. No chirp
of half-awakened bird, no tapping of woodpecker, or the mysterious
death-watch; but from far along the dewy aisles of the forest, the
ungrateful Spot, that Clarsie had fed more faithfully than herself,
lifted up her voice, and set the echoes vibrating. Clarsie, however,
had hardly time for a pang of disappointment. While she still knelt
among the azaleas her large, deer-like eyes were suddenly dilated
with terror. From around the curve of the road came the quick beat
of hastening footsteps, the sobbing sound of panting breath, and
between her and the sinking moon there passed an attenuated, one-armed
figure, with a pallid, sharpened face, outlined for a moment on its
brilliant disk, and dreadful starting eyes, and quivering open mouth.
It disappeared in an instant among the shadows of the laurel, and
Clarsie, with a horrible fear clutching at her heart, sprang to her
feet.
Her flight was arrested by other sounds. Before her reeling senses
could distinguish them, a party of horsemen plunged down the road. They
reined in suddenly as their eyes fell upon her, and their leader, an
eager, authoritative man, was asking her a question. Why could she not
understand him? With her nerveless hands feebly catching at the shrubs
for support, she listened vaguely to his impatient, meaningless words,
and saw with helpless deprecation the rising anger in his face. But
there was no time to be lost. With a curse upon the stupidity of the
mountaineer, who couldn't speak when she was spoken to, the party sped
on in a sweeping gallop, and the rocks and the steeps were hilarious
with the sound.
When the last faint echo was hushed, Clarsie tremblingly made her way
out into the road; not reassured, however, for she had a frightful
conviction that there was now and then a strange stir in the laurel,
and that she was stealthily watched. Her eyes were fixed upon the
dense growth with a morbid fascination, as she moved away; but she was
once more rooted to the spot when the leaves parted and in the golden
moonlight the ghost stood before her. She could not nerve herself to
run past him, and he was directly in her way homeward. His face was
white, and lined, and thin; that pitiful quiver was never still in
the parted lips; he looked at her with faltering, beseeching eyes.
Clarsie's merciful heart was stirred. "What ails ye, ter come back
hyar, an' foller me?" she cried out, abruptly. And then a great horror
fell upon her. Was not one to whom a ghost should speak doomed to
death, sudden and immediate?
The ghost replied in a broken, shivering voice, like a wail of pain, "I
war a-starvin',--I war a-starvin'," with despairing iteration.
It was all over, Clarsie thought. The ghost had spoken, and she was a
doomed creature. She wondered that she did not fall dead in the road.
But while those beseeching eyes were fastened in piteous appeal on
hers, she could not leave him. "I never hearn that 'bout ye," she said,
reflectively. "I knows ye hed awful troubles while ye war alive, but I
never knowed ez ye war starved."
Surely that was a gleam of sharp surprise in the ghost's prominent
eyes, succeeded by a sly intelligence.
"Day is nigh ter breakin'," Clarsie admonished him, as the lower rim of
the moon touched the silver mists of the west. "What air ye a-wantin'
of me?"