Indian summer came again to Misery, flaunting woodland banners of
crimson and scarlet and orange, but to Sally the season brought only
heart-achy remembrances of last autumn, when Samson had softened his
stoicism as the haze had softened the horizon. He had sent her a few
brief letters--not written, but plainly printed. He selected short
words--as much like the primer as possible, for no other messages could
she read. There were times in plenty when he wished to pour out to her
torrents of feeling, and it was such feeling as would have carried
comfort to her lonely little heart. He wished to tell frankly of what a
good friend he had made, and how this friendship made him more able to
realize that other feeling--his love for Sally. There was in his mind
no suspicion--as yet--that these two girls might ever stand in conflict
as to right-of-way. But the letters he wished to write were not the
sort he cared to have read to the girl by the evangelist-doctor or the
district-school teacher, and alone she could have made nothing of them.
However, "I love you" are easy words--and those he always included.
The Widow Miller had been ailing for months, and, though the local
physician diagnosed the condition as being "right porely," he knew that
the specter of tuberculosis which stalks through these badly lighted
and ventilated houses was stretching out its fingers to touch her
shrunken chest. This had meant that Sally had to forego the evening
hours of study, because of the weariness that followed the day of
nursing and household drudgery. Autumn seemed to bring to her mother a
slight improvement, and Sally could again sometimes steal away with her
slate and book, to sit alone on the big bowlder, and study. But,
oftentimes, the print on the page, or the scrawl on the slate, became
blurred. Nowadays, the tears came weakly to her eyes, and, instead of
hating herself for them and dashing them fiercely away, as she would
have done a year ago, she sat listlessly, and gazed across the flaring
hills.
Even the tuneful glory of the burgundy and scarlet mountains hurt her
into wincing--for was it not the clarion of Beauty that Samson had
heard--and in answer to which he had left her? So, she would sit, and
let her eyes wander, and try to imagine the sort of picture those same
very hungry eyes would see, could she rip away the curtain of purple
distance, and look in on him--wherever he was. And, in imagining such a
picture, she was hampered by no actual knowledge of the world in which
he lived--it was all a fairy-tale world, one which her imagination
shaped and colored fantastically. Then, she would take out one of his
occasional letters, and her face would grow somewhat rapt, as she
spelled out the familiar, "I love you," which was to her the soul of
the message. The rest was unimportant. She would not be able to write
that Christmas. letter. There had been too many interruptions in the
self-imparted education, but some day she would write. There would
probably be time enough. It would take even Samson a long while to
become an artist. He had said so, and the morbid mountain pride forbade
that she should write at all until she could do it well enough to give
him a complete surprise. It must be a finished article, that letter--or
nothing at all!
One day, as she was walking homeward from her lonely trysting place,
she met the battered-looking man who carried medicines in his
saddlebags and the Scriptures in his pocket, and who practised both
forms of healing through the hills. The old man drew down his nag, and
threw one leg over the pommel.
"Evenin', Sally," he greeted.
"Evenin', Brother Spencer. How air ye?"
"Tol'able, thank ye, Sally." The body-and-soul mender studied the girl
awhile in silence, and then said bluntly:
"Ye've done broke right smart, in the last year. Anything the matter
with ye?"
She shook her head, and laughed. It was an effort to laugh merrily,
but only the ghost of the old instinctive blitheness rippled into it.
"I've jest come from old Spicer South's," volunteered the doctor.
"He's ailin' pretty consid'able, these days."
"What's the matter with Unc' Spicer?" demanded the girl, in genuine
anxiety. Every one along Misery called the old man Unc' Spicer.
"I can't jest make out." Her informer spoke slowly, and his brow
corrugated into something like sullenness. "He hain't jest to say sick.
Thet is, his organs seems all right, but he don't 'pear to have no
heart fer nothin', and his victuals don't tempt him none. He's jest
puny, thet's all."
"I'll go over thar, an' see him," announced the girl. "I'll cook a
chicken thet'll tempt him."
The physician's mind was working along some line which did not seem to
partake of cheerfulness. Again, he studied the girl, still upright and
high-chinned, but, somehow, no longer effervescent with wild, resilient
strength.
"Hit sometimes 'pears to me," he said, gruffly, "thet this here thing
of eddication costs a sight more than hit comes to."
"What d'ye mean, Brother Spencer?"
"I reckon if Samson South hadn't a-took this hyar hankerin' atter
larnin', an' had stayed home 'stid of rainbow chasin', the old man would
still be able-bodied, 'stid of dyin' of a broken heart--an' you----"
The girl's cheeks flushed. Her violet eyes became deep with a loyal
and defensive glow.
"Ye mustn't say things like them, Brother Spencer." Her voice was very
firm and soft. "Unc' Spicer's jest gettin' old, an' es fer me, I wasn't
never better ner happier in my life." It was a lie, but a splendid lie,
and she told herself as well as Brother Spencer that she believed it.
"Samson would come back in a minit ef we sent fer him. He's smart, an'
he's got a right ter l'arnin'! He hain't like us folks; he's a--" She
paused, and groped for the word that Lescott had added to her
vocabulary, which she had half-forgotten. "He's a genius!"
There rose to the lips of the itinerant preacher a sentiment as to how
much more loyalty availeth a man than genius, but, as he looked at the
slender and valiant figure standing in the deep dust of the road, he
left it unuttered.
The girl spent much time after that at the house of old Spicer South,
and her coming seemed to waken him into a fitful return of spirits. His
strength, which had been like the strength of an ox, had gone from him,
and he spent his hours sitting listlessly in a split-bottomed rocker,
which was moved from place to place, following the sunshine.
"I reckon, Unc' Spicer," suggested the girl, on one of her first
visits, "I'd better send fer Samson. Mebby hit mout do ye good ter see
him."
The old man was weakly leaning back in his chair, and his eyes were
vacantly listless; but, at the suggestion, he straightened, and the
ancient fire came again to his face.
"Don't ye do hit," he exclaimed, almost fiercely. "I knows ye means
hit kindly, Sally, but don't ye meddle in my business."
"I--I didn't 'low ter meddle," faltered the girl.
"No, little gal." His voice softened at once into gentleness. "I knows
ye didn't. I didn't mean ter be short-answered with ye neither, but
thar's jest one thing I won't 'low nobody ter do--an' thet's ter send
fer Samson. He knows the road home, an', when he wants ter come, he'll
find the door open, but we hain't a-goin' ter send atter him."
The girl said nothing, and, after awhile, the old man wait on:
"I wants ye ter understand me, Sally. Hit hain't that I'm mad with
Samson. God knows, I loves the boy.... I hain't a-blamin' him,
neither...."
He was silent for awhile, and his words came with the weariness of dead
hopes when he began again. "Mebby, I oughtn't ter talk about sech things
with a young gal, but I'm an old man, an' thar hain't no harm in hit....
From the time when I used ter watch you two children go a-trapsin' off
in the woods together atter hickory nuts, thar's been jest one thing
thet I've looked forward to and dreamed about: I wanted ter see ye
married. I 'lowed--" A mistiness quenched the sternness of his gray
eyes. "I 'lowed thet, ef I could see yore children playin' round this
here yard, everything thet's ever gone wrong would be paid fer."
Sally stood silently at his side, and her cheeks flushed as the tears
crept into her eyes; but her hand stole through the thick mane of hair,
fast turning from iron-gray to snow-white.
Spicer South watched the fattening hog that rubbed its bristling side
against the rails stacked outside the fence, and then said, with an
imperious tone that did not admit of misconstruction:
"But, Sally, the boy's done started out on his own row. He's got ter
hoe hit. Mebby he'll come back--mebby not! Thet's as the Lord wills.
Hit wouldn't do us no good fer him to come withouten he come willin'ly.
The meanest thing ye could do ter me--an' him--would be ter send fer
him. Ye mustn't do hit. Ye mustn't!"
"All right, Unc' Spicer. I hain't a-goin' ter do hit--leastways, not
yit. But I'm a-goin' ter come over hyar every day ter see ye."
"Ye can't come too often, Sally, gal," declared the old clansman,
heartily.
* * * * *
Wilfred Horton found himself that fall in the position of a man whose
course lies through rapids, and for the first time in his life his
pleasures were giving precedence to business. He knew that his
efficiency would depend on maintaining the physical balance of perfect
health and fitness, and early each morning he went for his gallop in
the park. At so early an hour, he had the bridle path for the most part
to himself. This had its compensations, for, though Wilfred Horton
continued to smile with his old-time good humor, he acknowledged to
himself that it was not pleasant to have men who had previously sought
him out with flatteries avert their faces, and pretend that they had
not seen him.
Horton was the most-hated and most-admired man in New York, but the
men who hated and snubbed him were his own sort, and the men who
admired him were those whom he would never meet, and who knew him only
through the columns of penny papers. Their sympathy was too remote to
bring him explicit pleasure. He was merely attempting, from within,
reforms which the public and the courts had attempted from without.
But, since he operated from within the walls, he was denounced as a
Judas. Powerful enemies had ceased to laugh, and begun to conspire. He
must be silenced! How, was a mooted question. But, in some fashion, he
must be silenced. Society had not cast him out, but Society had shown
him in many subtle ways that he was no longer her favorite. He had
taken a plebeian stand with the masses. Meanwhile, from various
sources, Horton had received warnings of actual personal danger. But at
these he had laughed, and no hint of them had reached Adrienne's ears.
One evening, when business had forced the postponement of a dinner
engagement with Miss Lescott, he begged her over the telephone to ride
with him the following morning.
"I know you are usually asleep when I'm out and galloping," he
laughed, "but you pitched me neck and crop into this hurly-burly, and I
shouldn't have to lose everything. Don't have your horse brought. I
want you to try out a new one of mine."
"I think," she answered, "that early morning is the best time to ride.
I'll meet you at seven at the Plaza entrance."
They had turned the upper end of the reservoir before Horton drew his
mount to a walk, and allowed the reins to hang. They had been galloping
hard, and conversation had been impracticable.
"I suppose experience should have taught me," began Horton, slowly,
"that the most asinine thing in the world is to try to lecture you,
Drennie. But there are times when one must even risk your delight at
one's discomfiture."
"I'm not going to tease you this morning," she answered, docilely. "I
like the horse too well--and, to be frank, I like you too well!"
"Thank you," smiled Horton. "As usual, you disarm me on the verge of
combat. I had nerved myself for ridicule."
"What have I done now?" inquired the girl, with an innocence which
further disarmed him.
"The Queen can do no wrong. But even the Queen, perhaps more
particularly the Queen, must give thought to what people are saying."
"What are people saying?"
"The usual unjust things that are said about women in society. You are
being constantly seen with an uncouth freak who is scarcely a
gentleman, however much he may be a man. And malicious tongues are
wagging."
The girl stiffened.
"I won't spar with you. I know that you are alluding to Samson South,
though the description is a slander. I never thought it would be
necessary to say such a thing to you, Wilfred, but you are talking like
a cad."
The young man flushed.
"I laid myself open to that," he said, slowly, "and I suppose I should
have expected it."
He knew her well enough to dread the calmness of her more serious
anger, and just now the tilt of her chin, the ominous light of her deep
eyes and the quality of her voice told him that he had incurred it.
"May I ask," Adrienne inquired, "what you fancy constitutes your right
to assume this censorship of my conduct?"
"I have no censorship, of course. I have only the interest of loving
you, and meaning to marry you."
"And I may remark in passing, that you are making no progress to that
end by slandering my friends."
"Adrienne, I'm not slandering. God knows I hate cads and snobs. Mr.
South is simply, as yet, uncivilized. Otherwise, he would hardly take
you, unchaperoned, to--well, let us say to ultra-bohemian resorts,
where you are seen by such gossip-mongers as William Farbish."
"So, that's the specific charge, is it?"
"Yes, that's the specific charge. Mr. South may be a man of unusual
talent and strength. But--he has done what no other man has done--with
you. He has caused club gossip, which may easily be twisted and
misconstrued."
"Do you fancy that Samson South could have taken me to the Wigwam Road-
house if I had not cared to go with him?"
The man shook his head.
"Certainly not! But the fact that you did care to go with him
indicates an influence over you which is new. You have not sought the
bohemian and unconventional phases of life with your other friends."
Adrienne glanced at the athletic figure riding at her side, just now
rather rigid with restraint and indignation, as though his vertebrae
were threaded on a ramrod, and her eyes darkened a little.
"Now, let it be thoroughly understood between us, Wilfred," she said
very quietly, "that if you see any danger in my unconventionalities, I
don't care to discuss this, or any other matter, with you now or at any
time." She paused, then added in a more friendly voice: "It would be
rather a pity for us to quarrel about a thing like this."
The young man was still looking into her eyes, and he read there an
ultimatum.
"God knows I was not questioning you," he replied, slowly. "There is
no price under heaven I would not pay for your regard. None the less, I
repeat that, at the present moment, I can see only two definitions for
this mountaineer. Either he is a bounder, or else he is so densely
ignorant and churlish that he is unfit to associate with you."
"I make no apologies for Mr. South," she said, "because none are
needed. He is a stranger in New York, who knows nothing, and cares
nothing about the conventionalities. If I chose to waive them, I think
it was my right and my responsibility."
Horton said nothing, and, in a moment, Adrienne Lescott's manner
changed. She spoke more gently:
"Wilfred, I'm sorry you choose to take this prejudice against the boy.
You could have done a great deal to help him. I wanted you to be
friends."
"Thank you!" His manner was stiff. "I hardly think we'd hit it off
together."
"I don't think you quite understand," she argued. "Samson South is
running a clean, creditable race, weighted down with a burdensome
handicap. As a straight-thinking sportsman, if for no better reason, I
should fancy you'd be glad to help him. He has the stamina and
endurance."
"Those," said Horton, who at heart was the fairest and most generous
of men, "are very admirable qualities. Perhaps, I should be more
enthusiastic, Drennie, if you were a little less so."
For the first time since the talk had so narrowly skirted a quarrel,
her eyes twinkled.
"I believe you are jealous!" she announced.
"Of course, I'm jealous," he replied, without evasion. "Possibly, I
might have saved time in the first place by avowing my jealousy. I
hasten now to make amends. I'm green-eyed."
She laid her gloved fingers lightly on his bridle hand.
"Don't be," she advised; "I'm not in love with him. If I were, it
wouldn't matter. He has,
"'A neater, sweeter maiden,
"'In a greener, cleaner land.'
"He's told me all about her."
Horton shook his head, dubiously.
"I wish to the good Lord, he'd go back to her," he said. "This
Platonic proposition is the doormat over-which two persons walk to
other things. They end by wiping their feet on the Platonic doormat."
"We'll cross that--that imaginary doormat, when we get to it," laughed
the girl. "Meantime, you ought to help me with Samson."
"Thank you, no! I won't help educate my successor. And I won't
abdicate"--his manner of speech grew suddenly tense--"while I can fight
for my foothold."
"I haven't asked you to abdicate. This boy has been here less than a
year. He came absolutely raw--"
"And lit all spraddled out in the police court!" Wilfred prompted.
"And, in less than a year, he has made wonderful advancement; such
advancement as he could not have made but for one thing."
"Which was--that you took him in hand."
"No--which is, that he springs from stock that, despite its hundred
years of lapse into illiteracy, is good stock. Samson South was a
gentleman, Wilfred, two hundred years before he was born."
"That," observed her companion, curtly, "was some time ago."
She tossed her head, impatiently.
"Come," she said, "let's gallop."
"No," protested Wilfred, his face becoming penitent. "Just a moment! I
retract. It is I who am the cad. Please, tell Mr. South just what we
have both said, and make my apologies if he'll accept them. Of course,
if you insist, I'll meet him. I suppose I'll have to meet him some day,
anyhow. But, frankly, Drennie, I hate the man. It will take a Herculean
effort to be decent to him. Still, if you say so--"
"No, Wilfred," she declined, "if you can't do it willingly, I don't
want you to do it at all. It doesn't matter in the least. Let's drop
the subject."