Part 10

Mr. Josiah Williamson came a-wooing that evening just as twilight fell and the whippoorwill began his plaintive serenade. The negroes understood his errand, from the groom, who put up his horse, to the pickaninny peeping around the corner of the house; and there were nods and winks exchanged as he came nimbly up the piazza steps arrayed in his finest broadcloth and newest, tightest neck-stock.

He and Mr. Galer sat on the piazza and chatted awhile of plantation affairs, of the latest news from Washington, and of a public sale of slaves which had recently occurred in Roswell; and Miss Jane sat in the candle-lit parlor, knitting; but Pamela had disappeared.

"Can I--ahem--speak to Miss Permely, this evening?" Mr. Williamson at last inquired. "Your note led me to hope so."

"Yes; I want that matter settled. I'll see if she's with her aunt."

But Miss Jane mused solitarily over the stocking heel, a great white winged moth circling about her meek head or diving ever and anon toward the flame of the candle.

"Where is Permely?" Mr. Galer inquired, frowning.

She dropped one of the long, shining needles with a clinking sound, and stooped to grope around the edge of her skirts for it.

"Why, Jabez, I don't know; I thought--"

"Leave your thoughts out of the question, Jane, and go call her. She is hiding somewhere about the house."

Miss Jane stood up and faced him, nerved to a fleeting courage.

"Brother, don't try to force the child into a loveless marriage. Think how young she is; think--"

"Do as I tell you, Jane; I know what is best for Permely;" and she silently obeyed.

But Mammy Susannah, hovering in the shadow of the stairway, had already slipped out into the garden. It was a beauty's bower. The rising moon shone on beds of tulip and mignonette, on rows of flaunting hollyhocks, blue larkspur and yellow marigolds, on sweet pinks standing thickly in the border of the walks, and roses bending earthward under the weight of their own rich bloom and fragrance; its silvered light fell on the althea hedge with its white and purple flowers, and on Pamela and her lover slowly pacing the walk beyond.

"Miss Pemely, honey!" Susannah called, low and cautiously.

She hurriedly withdrew her hand from Sim's clasp.

"I must go; grandpa wants me."

But he threw his arms about her to detain her a moment longer, loth to part from her so quickly. Their two young faces were almost on a level; for Black was short and dark, though strongly built, and square-shouldered, with keen black eyes, and a handsome, clean-shaven face. His eyes were alight with love's soft fire as they rested on her face.

"I cannot let you go so soon, beloved," he protested, tenderly.

"Ah, but think of grandpa's anger, should he find you here."

"It would take a stout heart to face it, I acknowledge," he said laughing. Then he took her face between his hands: "You'll not let them take you from me, Pamela?"

"Indeed I will not, Sim."

Her sweet eyes and mouth were kissed, and then Black vaulted over the low garden fence, while she hastened to the house, her light skirts brushing the tell-tale dew from flower and seeded grass, her fine, soft hair hanging damply around her throat and delicate ears.

It is not the purpose of this chronicle to give a minute account of Mr. Josiah Williamson's wooing, nor of its failure. Mr. Galer lived in a state of vexation from morning until night. He was nearly beside himself with baffled rage when he found that with characteristic family spirit Pamela declined to be cajoled or coerced into obedience. All his ambitious plans threatened a total collapse; and that the obstinacy of a slim young girl should be the cause made it all the more aggravating. He thought of a hundred schemes by which he might overcome her contrary spirit, but only one appeared feasible. He chuckled grimly over it, and sent for Mr. Williamson to unfold his plan to him.

"I'll pretend to give my consent to her marriage with Black, set the day, invite the guests, and then contrive to have Sim detained over in Roswell, put in jail if it's necessary, but let Permely think he's changed his mind. Girls are touchy creatures, and Permely is so proud that she would marry you in a minute rather than not have a wedding at all."

It was not a situation to Mr. Williamson's liking. He wanted no unwilling bride; and Pamela had shown her aversion for him so plainly that he was entirely disenchanted. But he dared not sav so. Like all of Mr. Galer's friends, he stood in wholesome fear of that gentleman's temper.

"Well, what do you say?" his friend impatiently demanded.

"It seems a little--er--don't you think--"

"Oh, if you don't wish to marry my grand-daughter, pray say so."

"But I do, I do," said Mr. Williamson, feeling himself a miserable coward for not protesting against deceiving the girl.

When he went away it was with the understanding that the whole matter must be kept a secret between them. But as he rode dejectedly around the corner of the garden, who should step out in front of him but Miss Jane Galer, such a sparkle of indignation in her eyes, such a flush on her delicate face, that she looked positively young and pretty. He stared at her, and she, without so much as a polite good-morning, said:

"I want to know, Josiah Williamson, if you are not ashamed of yourself for plotting against a young girl's happiness?"

"Blame your brother, Miss Jane--blame your brother," he said, in self-defense, having the grace to look very much ashamed of himself, though.

"You know he'd almost sell his own soul for the privilege of having his way; but you--I think you ought to have more pride than to want to marry Permely through fraud. What peace or pleasure do you think there would be in it?"

"Not much for me, I'll allow," he said, flicking the willow switch he carried at the flies swarming about his horse's head. "Miss Permely hasn't shown her best temper to me lately, and I don't know as I care to marry her at all. I want somebody that'll take life quietly and gently."

He looked down again at Miss Jane. She smoothed out her black silk apron, still trembling with indignation.

"No better-tempered girl lives than Permely Galer; but think of the sore trial of being pestered all the time about marrying one man while she is in love with another. I heard all that brother Jabez said to you, and if you don't give up the idea of this marriage I'll tell Permely and Sim, and, more than that, I'll do all I can to help them if they want to run away."

Mr. Williamson was fascinated by her unexpected fire and spirit.

"I didn't know you were so spunky, Jane," he said, admiringly. "We used to go to school together, do you remember?"

"Why yes," she replied, surprised at the turn of his thoughts.

"You were a gentle little thing, but you had temper enough then. You look, for all the world, as you did the day Eben Sanders gave me such a thrashing."

She smiled faintly at the recollection. There were others hidden deep in her heart. Nobody knew that in those school days she had cherished many romantic fancies about Josiah Williamson, or what a blow it was to her when he went off and married a girl from another settlement. She had been on friendly terms with his wife, and had so far overcome her own feelings as to feel deeply, sincerely grieved when she died. Mr. Williamson dismounted and stood at her side.

"I don't know as I'd tell Jabez I overheard his plans if I were you. Maybe we can fix up the matter without that," he said, persuasively.

"I cannot have Permely cheated out of her happiness," she said.

"She shall not be cheated, I promise you."

But apparently his promise amounted to very little, as Mr. Galer went on maturing his plans, inviting young Black to his house, and sending away to Atlanta for Pamela's wedding outfit. His conscience smote him for his duplicity when the girl rapturously thanked him for his goodness; he wondered what she would say when she discovered the trick played upon her.

"Pshaw! she'll be glad enough for it when she comes to her senses. Women are never sane when they fancy they are in love."

Mr. Williamson behaved in the most discreet and admirable manner, showing only the interest of a familiar, elderly friend in Pamela's approaching marriage; but Miss Jane went about in a nervous, half-terrified way that attracted even her brother's attention.

"Any one would suppose that you were to be married, too!" he exclaimed one day.

"Oh, Jabez!" she gasped, and fled from his presence, while he contemptuously muttered: "What idiots women are!"

The morning of the wedding-day dawned at last; and while the dew still hung heavy upon grass and flowers, Pamela declared that she must run over to Roswell for a piece of white ribbon. Mr. Galer frowned a little as he saw her hasten away in a crisp, white gown and a new calash, fair as the morning itself; and he grumblingly wondered why he could not have attended to the errand himself, unwilling to let her leave the place until she was safely married. Mammy Susannah accompanied her, and the two came back in a short time, Pamela flushed and trembling with an inward glow of happiness. She ran to her grandfather and threw her arms about his neck for a moment, the little package of ribbon unrolling itself over his waistcoat; then she embraced and kissed Miss Jane, who seemed no less agitated than she.

A great feast was spread that evening, and the wedding guests poured in until the crowd overflowed from the parlor into the great wide hall. Mr. Galer was a genial host, and even while he braced himself for the inevitable scene with Pamela when Sim failed to appear--and he had arranged with the town marshal that the young man should be detained--he moved about among the guests talking in his most agreeable manner. It was a little early, but the minister had already placed himself in position for the ceremony. Mr. Galer laughed jovially.

"Plenty of time--plenty of time yet," he exclaimed. "Young folks are never prompt;" but even as he spoke silence fell upon the company, as through the doorway and down the room walked Mr. Josiah Williamson. But who was it leaning upon his arm, her gray silk gown rustling softly, her frightened face alternately flushing and paling like a girl's, her meek eyes cast down? Mr. Galer fell back, fumbling for his glasses, doubting the evidence of his natural vision. Could it be--could it be--yes, it was Miss Jane. Then he saw Sim Black standing boldly in the doorway with Pamela at his side, and the sight restored his speech and motion and he strode across the floor to them, just as the minister concluded the brief ceremony uniting the elderly couple, and laid his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"I can at least have my say about _this_ part of the wedding."

But Sim clasped her hand in his, his black eyes, every feature of his handsome, strong young face betraying his joy and triumph.

"You are too late, sir; she is my wife."

"We were married in Roswell this morning. Forgive us, grandpa," said Pamela.

When he realized that he had been the one cheated, outwitted, his anger knew no bounds. He refused to listen to explanation or excuse, but turned everybody out of the house, gave the wedding supper to the negroes, and shut himself into his own room. But he had been fairly beaten at his own game, and in time he came to appreciate it, and to look with pride on Sim Black's career, while he and Josiah Williamson ended their years in brotherly love and peace.

*HOW THE QUARREL ENDED.*

When old Killus Hurd dismounted from his horse before the Hardings' front gate one spring day, it was not to make a neighborly visit. The flash of his eyes, the set of his mouth, boded no good and mild temper. He was a strong, vigorous-looking man for his years, and larger than the average mountaineer. He walked erect, his brown jeans and homespun clothing fitting loosely, his gray hair falling from under a well-worn broad-brimmed hat to his shoulders.

The Hardings lived on a settlement road at the foot of Bush Mountain, in a weather-beaten old log-house, shaded by a fine chestnut-oak, and a towering spruce pine. The widow Harding sat out on the low piazza shelling seed corn into a small splint basket, and she stared at the approaching visitor with surprise and displeasure. She was a middle-aged woman, but looked older, with dust-colored hair, sallow, sunken features, and faded blue eyes. Mrs. Long, a neighbor who had dropped in to borrow some dye-stuff and to beg a few garden seed, sat near her, rubbing snuff, and retailing the latest gossip circulating through the settlement. At the sight of Mr. Hurd she paused in astonishment.

"Lizy Ann Harding, thar comes Killus Hurd, ez I live!"

"I'm a-seein' him," said Mrs. Harding, her fingers trembling over the yellow corn.

"Good-mornin', Mis' Harding; hope you air well as you wanter be, Mis' Long," he said, walking up to the piazza step.

"Will you come in an' take a cheer?" said Mrs. Harding, the laws of hospitality forcing her to be polite even to her enemy.

"Yes, for a minute or two, Mis' Harding," he replied, and sat down opposite her, resting his hat on his knees.

Mrs. Long took a fresh dip of snuff, and hitched her chair a little nearer, expectant and curious. A brief silence fell, but it was simply the stillness forerunning a storm. The shrill voices of the boys at work in the field below the house were distinctly audible, and from the kitchen, at the edge of the back yard, sounded the steady click-clack of a loom, plied by a strong, industrious hand.

A bitter feud existed between the Hurds and the Hardings. It dated back to the days when Killus Hurd and Sam Harding were young, and sprang from a dispute over some gold diggings. Unfilled trenches marked the spot where they first quarreled, and as the years seemed to wear the earth away into a deeper chasm, so the break between the two families widened until it passed into history in the settlement. The men were members of the same church, their farms adjoined, their homes were not over a mile apart, but they would not be reconciled. At last death claimed Sam Harding, and a new grave had to be made in the shadow of the "meetin'-house," where the Hurds and the Hardings of a former generation rested side by side in peace.

He had been dead two years, and all outward signs of hostility had ceased; but the elder members of the families had not forgotten. And when Mr. Hurd sat down before Mrs. Harding that morning, her thin cheeks flushed, her faded eyes gathered fire; she had plenty of spirit.

"Mis' Harding, where is that daughter o' your'n?"

The mode of attack confused her for a moment.

"Do you mean Sarah Betsy?"

"Yes, I mean Sarah Betsy."

"She's in the kitchen a-weavin'."

"Yes; but where is she when outen your sight?"

"What's that to you, Mister Hurd?" straightening up, and looking unflinchingly at him.

"Mebby you'll 'low it's a good deal when I tell you she's a-goin' to meetin' with John, an' a-seein' him at singin's an' frolics an' such. It's got to be stopped, Mis' Harding. God-a-mighty knows John's been raised as he orter be, an' he ain't a-goin' to spile it all by keepin' comp'ny with a Harding."

He stamped on the floor in mingled grief and rage, and Mrs. Long moved her chair back a few inches. The widow Harding did not move, but a curious tightness in her throat held her speechless for a moment. Could it indeed be true Sarah Betsy had so deceived her? She would not believe it.

"Mister Hurd, do you s'pose I'd 'low Sarah Betsy to keep comp'ny with John?" she said, clearing her throat as she talked. "Sez Harding to me when he lay a-dyin': 'I'm sorry to leave you, Lizy Ann, but it ain't to be helped, fer it's the Almighty's will. Take keer o' the chillun an' do the best you can for 'em;' an' now, ruther than see Sarah Betsy a-throwin' herself away on a son o' your'n I'd be willin' to lay her down 'longside her pa." Her voice trembled and softened. "She's always been a good obejent child, an' I ain't afraid o' trustin' her."

"But ain't I been told p'intedly that they are courtin' on the sly, and didn't John 'low to me this mornin' hisself that he'd marry Sarah Betsy if he lived? Call her and we'll hear what she sez."

"To be sure," murmured Mrs. Long, while Mrs. Harding raised her voice in a shrill call:

"Sarah Betsy! Sarah Bet-see!"

She came quickly from the kitchen and across the yard to the narrow entry leading to the piazza, a rift of wind blowing her short dark hair about her brow and white neck. Her face was sunburned and slightly freckled, though smooth and fresh as a nineteen-year-old face should be. Some day age, snuff-dipping and bad diet would probably make her as yellow and shriveled as her mother, but now the potent charm of youth gave her comeliness. Her brown checked homespun dress was neat, and its primitive fashion but served to show the free grace of all her movements.

"Did you call me, Ma?" in a soft, slow voice; then she saw Mr. Hurd and paused.

"Sarah Betsy, Mr. Hurd 'lows John an' you has been a-keepin' comp'ny unbeknownst to us," said her mother, looking seriously at her.

Sarah Betsy cast down her eyes and was silent.

"Jest speak out, Sarah Betsy," said Mr. Hurd, grimly; "your ma don't 'pear to believe me."

"No; for I 'lowed that you had always been a good child an' wouldn't go ag'in' me."

A quiver of strongly repressed emotion passed over the girl's face.

"Oh, Ma, it couldn't be helped!"

Mrs. Harding rose up, then sat down again, scattering the corn right and left in her agitation, while Mrs. Long shook her head compassionately, and old Killus Hurd looked sternly triumphant.

"Do you mean to tell me Sam Harding's daughter has plum' forgot all her pa's teachin's?" the widow demanded, sternly.

"Ma, it ain't that. I didn't 'low to keer fer John, an' he didn't 'low to keer fer me, but it jest gradually crope up on us," said the girl in a faltering tone, her face deeply red. She looked appealingly from Mr. Hurd to her mother. "Don't turn ag'in' us. We lowed it wusn't right not to tell you, but--"

"It ain't no use to be a-palaverin' with your ma, Sarah Betsy Harding," said Killus Hurd, standing up to his full height, and eying her sternly. "It's me you've got to listen to, an' if there is a spark o' pride or feelin' in your heart, it's bound to be teched. John's the last child, out'n nine, that's been left to me an' his ma; but I'll turn him out o' doors, I'll drive him plum' from the country before he shall marry you, an' the curse o' the Almighty shall foller him."

"It ain't for human creeturs to say who the Almighty's wrath must be turned against," said a mild, rebuking voice; and there at the piazza step stood Sile Ed'ards, the preacher, leaning on his stout stick, his deep-set gray eyes fixed gravely upon the angry neighbors.

A short embarrassed silence followed his unexpected appearance. Sarah Betsy retreated to the doorway, and Mrs. Long laughed awkwardly.

"You must 'a' jes' crope up, Brother Ed'ards," she said, with an attempt at lightness.

"Come in an' take a seat, won't you?" said Mrs. Harding, recovering herself.

"Not to-day, Sister Harding. I'm goin' up on Bush Mount'in, an' I 'low to salt Dave Martin's cattle while there."

Mr. Hurd put on his hat. "I'll jest be goin', Mis' Harding," he said, coldly.

"Won't you stay a minute?" asked the preacher in his mild, slow voice. "If it ain't puttin' nobody out, I'd like to know what's the matter."

The enemies each hastened to give an account of the renewed quarrel, and its cause. Sarah Betsy hung her head, and uttered not a word, though conscious that more than once Sile Ed'ards's deep grave eyes turned toward her. The story seemed to agitate him greatly. He grew pale, and gripped his stick with trembling fingers. He sighed deeply.

"It's a serious question; but it 'pears to me love might solve it. If the Almighty wants to bring you all together ag'in in peace by unitin' John an' Sarah Betsy I don't think you ought to rebel against his will. The Scripters say--"

"It ain't to be argued out on Scripter, Sile," interrupted Mr. Hurd, stubbornly. "I ain't thinkin' hard o' you or blamin' you for feelin' that way; it's nachel, seein' as you've been called to preach; but the Scripters don't fit ever' time."

"They will if we'll only 'low 'm to."

"Mis' Harding an' Sarah Betsy know what I've said."

"I ain't apt to forgit some o' the hard things you've said, Mister Hurd," the widow remarked, in a tone trembling with indignation.

Ed'ards continued to argue and plead with them. The woman he might have softened, but he found himself powerless before hard, stern old Killus Hurd, nursing the concentrated wrath and bitterness of years.

"'Tain't no use, Sile--'tain't no use," he said, moving away to his horse.

"Them that forgives air to be forgiven," said the preacher.

But the old man silently mounted and rode away. Mrs. Long was also ready to depart, being eager to spread the news of the quarrel throughout the settlement.

Ed'ards leaned against the rough sapling post supporting the piazza, with head dejectedly drooped. Mrs. Harding wiped her eyes, and looked furtively at him. "Wouldn't you like to take a cheer an' rest, Brother Ed'ards?" she said, gently. "I know it's sinful to carry on the way we've been a-doin' this mornin', but them Hurds are that mean an' no 'count--" she paused, then hurriedly changed the subject. "I'm most obleeged to take this corn down to the fields."

"Don't let me hinder you then, for I must soon be gittin' on my way. I must ask wisdom 'fore I say any more to you an' Brother Hurd--and I must git strength for myself," he concluded, half under his breath. When left alone, he sat down on the edge of the piazza a few minutes, then walked slowly around the house to the kitchen-door to speak a few words to Sarah Betsy.

She sat on the bench before the loom, but the shuttles lay idle on the beam, while she leaned forward with her face hidden in her hands. So still and deep seemed her dejection he would not disturb her, but stood gazing on her drooped figure with yearning eyes. He had long secretly loved her, but had scarcely realized that he indulged the hope of winning her until he learned that her heart was given to John Hurd. He had been used to self-denial all his life, and after the first confused sensation of misery and loss, strove to put aside his own feelings, and desire only her happiness. He had sought her to speak some comforting words, but finding her in that attitude of silent grief turned away, and left her alone.