AT one o'clock the following Sunday afternoon Nelson Floyd drove up
to Porter's gate in his new buggy, behind his spirited Kentucky
thorough-bred. Nathan Porter in his stockinged feet, for the day was
warm, stood on the porch, and as Floyd reined in, he walked down the
steps and out to the gate, leaning over it lazily, his slow, pleased
glance critically sweeping the horse from head to foot.
“You've got you a dandy at last,” was his observation. “I used to be
some'n' of a judge. Them's the slimmest legs fer sech a good stout
body I ever seed. He totes his head high without a check-rein, too, an'
that's purty. I reckon you come after Cynthia. She'll be out here in a
minute. She knows you've come; she kin see the road from the window o'
her room. An' I never knowed a woman that could keep from peepin' out.”
“Oh, I'm in no hurry at all,” Floyd assured him. “It's only ten miles,
and we can easily make it by the three o'clock service.”
“Oh, well, I reckon it don't make no odds to you whether you hold _yore_
meetin' in that hug-me-tight or under the arbor. I know my choice
'ud 'a' been jest one way when I was on the turf. Camp-meetin's an'
bush-arbor revivals used to be our hay-time. Us boys an' gals used to
have a great way o' settin' in our buggies, jest outside, whar we could
chat all we wanted to, jine in the tunes, an' at the same time git
credit fer properly observin' the day.”
“That's about the way the young people look at it now,” Floyd said, with
a smile.
“I reckon this is a sort o' picnic to you in more ways than one,” Porter
remarked, without a trace of humor in his tone, as he spat over the gate
and wiped his chin on his bare hand. “You ort to enjoy a day o' freedom,
after waitin' two hours at that spring fer Jeff Wade. Gee whiz! half o'
Springtown was behind barracks, sayin' prayers an' beggin' the Lord
to spare the town from flames. I didn't stay myself. I don't object
to watchin' a fisticuff match once in a while, but fellers in a
powder-and-ball battle like that seem to try to mow down spectators as
hard as they do the'r man. Then I don't like to be questioned in court.
A feller has to forgit so dern much, ef he stands to his friends.”
“No, we avoided trouble,” said Floyd, in evident aversion to a topic so
keenly personal. “So you like my horse! He is really the best I could
get at Louisville.”
“I reckon.” Porter spat again. “Well, as you say, Wade _will_ shoot an'
he kin, too. When he was in the war, they tell me his colonel wanted
some sharpshooters an' selected 'im to--but thar's that gal now. Gee
whiz! don't she look fluffy?”
For the most part, the drive was through the mountains, along steep
roads, past yawning gorges, and across rapid, turbulent streams. It was
an ideal afternoon for such an outing, and Cynthia had never looked so
well, though she was evidently fatigued. Floyd remarked upon this, and
she said: “I don't know why it was, but I waked at three o'clock this
morning, and could not get back to sleep before father called me at six.
Since then I have been hard at work. I'm afraid I shall feel very tired
before we get back.”
“You must try not to think of fatigue.” Floyd was admiring her color,
her hair, her eyes. “Then you ought to relax yourself. There is no use
sitting so erect; if you sit that way the jolting over this rough road
will break you all to pieces. Don't lean so far from me. I'm not going
to hurt you. I'm glad I beat Hillhouse to you. I saw him going to
your house the next morning. I know he asked you.”
“Yes, he asked me,” Cynthia said, “and I was sorry to disappoint him.”
Floyd laughed. “Well, the good and the bad are fighting over you, little
girl. One man who, in the eyes of the community, stands for reckless
badness, has singled you out, and thrown down the gauntlet to a man who
represents the Church, God, and morality--both are grimly fighting for
the prettiest human flower that ever grew on a mountain-side.”
“I don't like to hear you talk that way.” Cynthia looked him steadily in
the eyes. “It sounds insincere; it doesn't come from your heart. I don't
like your compliments--your open flattery. You say the same things to
other girls.”
“Oh no; I beg your pardon, but I don't. I couldn't. They don't inspire
them as you do. You--you tantalize me, Cynthia; you drive me crazy with
your maddening reserve--the way you have of thinking things no man could
read in your face, and above it all, through it all, your wonderful
beauty absolutely startles me--makes me at times unable to speak, clogs
my utterance, and fires my brain. I don't know--I can't understand it,
but you are in my mind all day long, and at night, after my work is
over, I want to wander about your house--not with the hope of having you
actually come out, you know, but to enjoy the mere fancy that you have
joined me.”
A reply was on her hesitating lips, but his ardor and impetuosity swept
it away, and she sat with lowered lashes looking into her lap. The horse
had paused to drink at a clear brook running across the road. All about
grew graceful, drooping willows. It was a lonely spot, and it seemed
that they were quite out of the view of all save themselves. Cynthia's
pink hand lay like a shell in her lap, and he took it into his. For an
instant it thrilled as if the spirit of resistance had suddenly waked in
it, and then it lay passive. Floyd raised it to his lips and kissed it,
once, twice, several times. He held it ecstatically in both his own, and
fondled it. Then suddenly an exclamation of surprise escaped Cynthia's
lips, and with her eyes glued on some object ahead, she snatched her
hand away, her face hot with blushes. Following her glance, Floyd saw
a man with his coat on his arm rising from the ground where he had been
resting on the moss. It was Pole Baker, and with his shaggy head down,
his heavy brows drawn together, he came towards them.
“I was jest waitin' fer somebody to pass an' give me a match,” he said
to Floyd, almost coldly, without a glance at Cynthia. “I'm dyin' to
smoke this cigar.”
“What are you doing out afoot?” Floyd asked, as he gave him several
matches.
“Oh, I'm goin' to meetin', too. I know a short foot-path through the
mountains. Sally an' the chil-dem didn't want to come, an' I'd a heap
ruther walk five miles than to ride ten over a road like this 'un. I'd
sorter be afeard of a mettlesome hoss like that'un. Ef he was to git
scared an' break an' run, neither one o' you'd escape among these cliffs
an' gullies.”
“Oh, I can hold him in,” Floyd said. “Well, we'd better drive on. Do you
think you can get there as soon as we do, Pole?”
“I won't miss it much,” said the farmer, and they saw him disappear in a
shaded path leading down the mountain-side.
“He puzzles me,” Floyd said, awkwardly. “For a minute I imagined he was
offended at something.”
“He saw you--holding my hand.” Cynthia would not say _kissing_. The word
had risen to her tongue, but she instinctively discarded it. “He's been
almost like a brother to me He has a strong character, and I admire him
very much. I always forget his chief weakness; he never seems to me to
be a drunkard. He has the highest respect for women of any man I ever
knew. I'm sorry--just now--”
“Oh, never mind Pole,” Floyd broke in, consolingly. “He's been a young
man himself, and he knows how young people are. Now, if you begin to
worry over that little thing, I shall be miserable. I set out to make
you have a pleasant drive.”