Part 11

He was a slender, undersized man, not more than thirty years old; but mental and physical suffering had drawn deep lines upon his thin, sallow face, and sprinkled threads of gray in his hair. His features would have looked hard and forbidding had they not been softened by the strong, patient endurance religion had brought to him. Throughout the length and breadth of Laurel Cove he was respected and loved. He belonged to the Cove; the encircling chain of mountains marked the boundaries of his life; for he was a hopeless cripple, walking ever with slow, halting steps, and with a staff to aid him. He had never been a lusty, vigorous youth, but one of unusual intelligence and ambition. It was a grievous blow to all his plans of life when a falling tree lamed him. It was a long time before he could walk, even with a crutch, and years before he laid the crutch aside for a stick. Active labor would never again be possible for him; but not liking to be dependent on his neighbors for charity, he plied the trade of a shoe-mender, and while he worked he read and meditated on the Bible--the only book he possessed, except a Webster's _Speller_ and a small arithmetic. It was no wonder that so much reading and solitary thinking on religious themes should inspire him with the desire to preach. His tongue seemed loosened; he rose in "meetin'," and exhorted the people. His eloquence amazed them; his fervor, his deep sincerity impressed even the callous-hearted.

His physical infirmity also appealed to them, and it was not long before he became the pastor of the church in Laurel Cove. He had no more education than his parishioners, so far as text-books were concerned: but his spiritual discernment gave him a power marvelous to them. He did a great deal of good, but one thing he had set his heart on he failed to do; he could not make peace between the Hurds and the Hardings. Both men sat under his teachings in church and listened to his exhortations outside, and both loved him; but they would not be friends with each other. When Sam Harding died Sile tried to influence old Killus Hurd to extend the hand of peace to the widow; but he stubbornly refused, and the preacher gave it up. Now that a fresh quarrel had come he knew not what to say or do, particularly as his own feelings were so deeply involved. He had watched Sarah Betsy bloom into womanhood, delighting in her beauty and even admiring the girlish coquetry of her ways. He had never cherished any definite hopes of marrying her; what woman would like a cripple for a husband? but as long as she did not show any preference among her beaux he was satisfied. Now he knew why she smiled on all alike. It was because she secretly loved John Hurd, and not because she was heart-free. A cruel, jealous pang pierced the heart of the preacher, and a wave of rebellion, savage in its fierceness, swept over him. Why could he not have the love of this girl? It would be only a just compensation for the loss of his physical strength, and with it all he had hoped to be. For a moment he loathed his own body: his spirit panted to rush forth upon the air, freed from all its trammels of flesh. He was not conscious of a temptation to commit suicide; but for an instant the vistas of Heaven seemed to open on his longing eyes, the perplexities and sorrows of life to roll away. Death would be a sweet, a lovely friend to him, not the grisly terror that so many shrank from. He knew every nook and fastness of Bush Mountain, having spent many of the idle days of his boyhood in roaming over it, and now it was a favorite refuge when he wished to think out his sermons, or to wrestle in prayer over some wayward soul gone astray. It was a fair sight to look down on Laurel Cove from the heights, and see its freshly plowed fields and blossoming orchards. The settlers in that fertile region were more industrious and thrifty than their neighbors over the mountains, and they were unusually quiet and law-abiding. Very few moonshiners were to be found in Laurel Cove, and not a distillery. Those were hidden in remote and secret places on the mountains. Let it be said to the enlightenment of Sile Ed'ards, that he was bold enough to preach against the making of illicit whiskey, as against all manner of evil, and many listened and heeded his words. But while he climbed the heights that day, seeking solitude and God, in Laurel Cove things were going very wrong.

It was past the noon hour, and at the Hardings all evidences of the midday meal had been cleaned away. The boys had gone back to the fields, Mrs. Harding raked the garden beds preparatory to seed sowing, and Sarah Betsy had returned to her weaving. She had been through a trying interview with her mother, listening to scolding and reproaches in silence, and promising only one thing; to wait awhile before seeing John Hurd again.

"I can't promise _never_ to see him ag'in," she said, half in tears.

"I don't, fer the life o' me, understan' how you could 'a' tuk such a fancy to him, when there's plenty o' better-lookin', pearter boys for you to 'a' liked," exclaimed Mrs. Harding, despairingly.

"I've never seen the man he couldn't equal," Sarah Betsy murmured; and with a shake of her head Mrs. Harding went away.

Sarah Betsy was thinking it all over as she stood by the loom, putting a quill of thread in the shuttle, when a shadow fell athwart the door and a man's voice, softened and eager, exclaimed:

"Sarah Betsy, Sarah Betsy!"

She turned quickly, troubled joy breaking through the enforced stillness of her face; but she did not speak. The young man boldly entered.

"I 'lowed I must come to see you before I left the Cove," he said, in explanation and apology for his untimely visit.

"Air you goin' away, John?" Sarah Betsy asked, and laid the shuttle down for fear it would slip through her trembling fingers.

"Yes."

"Why? Where do you think o' goin'?"

"Over on Bush Mountain, to work in Aaron Brown's 'stillery," he said, answering her last question first.

"Don't do that!" the girl cried, in dismay. "Oh, please don't do that! Think how the revenue men has watched it; an' once, don't you know? they tuk the Brown boys off to jail."

"I don't keer," he muttered, sullenly. "Pa an' me's had a fallin' out. He lows we'll never marry if he can help it, an' I 'low we will." He crossed the floor and laid his hands gently on her shoulders. "Let 'em do an' say what they will, they can't come between us, honey, can they?" his voice sinking to a softer, tenderer key.

"I didn't 'low they'd keer so much," Sarah Betsy faltered, with downcast eyes, in which hot tears were swimming.

"You er not thinkin' o' goin' back on yer word to me, air you?" Hurd exclaimed, his face darkening.

"We must wait, John--we must wait."

"Yes, tel I can git a start," in a relieved tone.

"Tel my ma an' your pa air willin'," she said, taking up the shuttle.

"I care more for you th'n for what they may say, an' I 'lowed you did the same, or you wouldn't 'a' promised to marry me. I s'pose you didn't mean it."

"I did mean it; but it's more'n I can do to go ag'in' 'em so p'intedly all at once," she said, and turned from him to lean against the loom, love and duty struggling mightily together in her heart.

"Well, it ain't more'n I can do," he replied, grimly; "an' when I get settled I'm jest bound to keep you to yer promise."

He drew nearer to her, hesitated, then kissed her cheek.

"I love you Sarah Betsy--I love you, honey," he whispered, then turned quickly away.

She followed him to the door, and when he had disappeared from her sight she looked long and gravely at Bush Mountain, a vast pile rising against the sky, its rugged slopes softened by a hazy veil. It had been invested with new interest for her as the temporary home and refuge of her lover.

The outbreak of the old feud between the Hurds and the Hardings was soon known throughout the Cove, and discussed at every fireside. Bitter feelings were engendered between sympathizing friends of the two families, and the peaceful settlement was divided into factions. The Harding boys were too young to take much part in the wordy war, but Mrs. Harding did not lack chivalrous support from some of her neighbors, who loudly declared that no lone woman should be trampled upon. The women, at least the younger women, and those inclined to sentiment, expressed great sympathy for Sarah Betsy and John. It seemed hard that the lovers should be divided by a quarrel between the elder members of the families.

"It's best for 'em if they only knowed it," said one brown, withered old woman, shaking her head grimly and cynically over her pipe. "Neither life nor men air what we 'low they air, when we er young. These young fo'ks air separated while their love is warm an' frush, an' without discoverin' that it ain't goin' to last ferever, an' that no human creetur is without a mighty load o' faults. I can recollect more'n one couple that 'peared lack they'd die broken-hearted if they didn't git married, an' then in a little while, 'peared lack they'd die because they wus married. There ain't no countin' on human natur, I can tell you. It's about the oncertaintest thing in this world 'ceptin' death."

Sile Ed'ards had to learn a new lesson in this uncertain human nature that summer, when those who in former times seemed to care most for his counsel turned impatiently away from his entreaties for peace. His words fell to the ground, and he carried a sorely troubled and heavy heart about with him, and spent more time than ever in the solitude of Bush Mountain, fasting and praying for his erring flock, who seemed to enjoy the excitement of a quarrel far more than they did the peaceable worship of the Lord; who brought sounds of strife to the very altar rails, more than one meeting having ended in bitter words.

The material prosperity of Laurel Cove was not in the least affected by the evil spirit apparently ruling the people. The corn-fields promised an abundant harvest, and the orchards were rich in fruits.

Mrs. Harding was an industrious woman, toiling early and late, and her hours of repose were, in the main, peaceful, though she rose sometimes in the middle of the night and crept softly to Sarah Betsy's bed to see that she also slept; for her heart yearned secretly over this disobedient daughter who had lost her bright, cheerful ways since John Hurd went away from the Cove. She suffered almost as much as the girl, though they said little to each other about it. Once Mrs. Harding did attempt to reason with Sarah Betsy, but she turned and said:

"Didn't you love Pa?"

"Didn't I? There wusn't many men to equal your pa."

"In your eyes, Ma, but maybe not in the eyes o' them what didn't love him. Love makes a mighty difference in the way we look at fo'ks. I 'low ever' woman thinks the man she loves is the best in the world."

Her mother said no more; but she ceased not to muse on the mystery and power of love. One morning she had started to the cow lot with a milk pail on her arm, when she saw a woman coming slowly through the sparse timber in the rear of the barn, a sunbonnet pulled closely over her head and face. It was very early. Deep Cimmerian shadows still obscured the low country, though the crimson light of dawn was spreading upward from the east, and a fading spectral moon sank slowly behind the western mountains. The morning star hung over the crest of Bush Mountain, heralding the day, and fine elusive mists rolled away from the Cove into the hollows and ravines of the guarding ranges.

A ghostly stillness seemed to hang over the world, and Mrs. Harding could hear the dry twigs crackling sharply under the feet of the slowly approaching woman. She went on into the lot and poured some bran and peas into the feeding-trough, and softly called the cow, standing in a distant corner. The stranger walked timidly up to the bars, and pushed back her sunbonnet. She was a small, meek-faced old woman, withered and gray.

"Good-mornin', Mis' Harding."

Mrs. Harding stiffened rigidly, and stared coldly at her, not recognizing her until she had spoken.

"You air out early, Mis' Hurd."

"Yes. I don't know what Hurd would do or say, if he knowed it; but he started to mill 'fore daylight, an' I crope out, 'lowin' it 'ud be a good time fer seein' you." She paused, absently untied her bonnet-strings, passed a trembling hand over her gray hair, then looked wistfully at Mrs. Harding.

"Mis' Harding, has Sarah Betsy heard anything from John lately?"

"Heard from John!" with a flash of indignation. "Didn't I tell Mister Hurd you needn't be a pest'rin' 'bout Sarah Betsy? It 'pears to me--"

"It's all 'long o' me bein' so troubled about him that I asked," said the old woman, hastily. "One o' the Brown boys wus down in the Cove t'other day an' he 'lowed John was sick, an' yesterday I begged his pa to go over there an' see 'bout him, but he 'lowed it wusn't no use; if John thought he could take keer o' hisself, let him do it. Men fo'ks, Mis' Harding, hain't got the feelin's o' women. There is such a weight here," laying one hard, withered hand on her breast, "that sometimes it 'pears to me I can't git my breath. If he hadn't a-gone off to the 'stillery. Them revenue officers will git him, shore, an' he'll die in jail; for he never could bear to be shut up. Why, he always sleeps with the door o' his room open. I hain't got nothin' ag'in' Sarah Betsy, Mis' Harding. I'd much ruther John an' her would marry th'n fer him to go off."

Her shrunken lips trembled piteously; some large tears rolled down her face. The frigidness of Mrs. Harding's attitude relaxed. She moved nearer the bars.

"I hain't nothin' ag'in' John, either, but Mister Hurd--"

"Is terribly sot in his ways, I know; but he don't mean to do wrong. He jest thinks he knows what is best for ever'body," said Mrs. Hurd, loyally. "John was always the sweetest, lovin'est child," returning to the subject absorbing her, "an' he never wus one to stay away from home much, even when he'd growed up. I never keered fer no better comp'ny than his'n; an' if a good son makes a good husband, then any girl might be proud to git him. It's turrible lonesome 'thout him ever comin' in or goin' out. Hurd says nothin' 'bout it, an' 'pears to sleep like a log; but I'm pestered at all hours o' the night, an' git up to look in John's room, an' when I see the bed all white an' smooth I feel like he's dead."

The cow ate up her food and went browsing along the fence corners again. Mrs. Harding's heart waxed soft within her. What religion failed to do, human sympathy accomplished. By her own experiences of motherhood she could understand the yearning and heartache of this other woman. It created a bond between them far easier of comprehension to her than the spiritual tie the preacher talked about. That seemed a mere cold abstraction--this a warm, living thing.

"I'm real sorry Sarah Betsy hain't heard nothin' from him," she said softly.

"I 'lowed maybe she would. Well, well, I won't pester you any longer."

Involuntarily their hands met through the bars in a quick close grip.

"I'm in hopes there ain't no bad news a-waitin' fer you, Mis' Hurd."

"I hope so; but a scritch owl lit nigh the door last night an' wouldn't hardly be driv' off, an' that's a bad sign, you know," she said mournfully, and turned to retrace her steps along the path through the woods, the dawn shining fair upon her bent gray head and slight figure. Mrs. Harding stood by the bars and watched her with a mingling of perplexity and compassion. She heard the voices of her own sons at the house, and sighed.

"It 'ud go mighty hard with me if they wus tuk away. I hain't nothin' ag'in' Mis' Hurd nor John, but old Killus would rile the angel Gabr'el hisself." She finally stooped and picked up her milk pail. "It ain't fer me to fergit my pride an' be crowed over by him."

Mrs. Hurd went on her way home. As she passed through a laurel brake, absorbed in her sad thoughts, she came face to face with Sile Ed'ards. He looked worn and hollow-eyed, as though he, too, had passed through sleepless nights and troubled days; but she was too preoccupied to be very observant. A minister must ever be ready to comfort and counsel his flock, no matter what his own feelings may be, so Mrs. Hurd poured out the story of her anxiety, and Ed'ards said what he could to reassure her.

"I'm goin' up to Bush Mountain, an' I'll see if I can hear anything o' John for you," he said kindly.

He did not tell her that he would see the young man and talk with him, but that was what he purposed doing as he slowly climbed the great mountain. He spent the morning in visiting one or two of his parishioners who lived on the mountain, then went on his way to Aaron Brown's house, a low cabin near the summit of the peak. There he learned that John Hurd had returned to work again, but Mrs. Brown shook her head over the state of his health.

"He's peaked, an' ain't got no appetite, an' I tell Brown it's all 'long o' his frettin' 'bout the quarrel with his pa an' the fo'ks in the Cove. He ain't fittin' fer the 'stillery work, nuther. It don't agree with him to al'ays have to be on the watch an' ready to run if a twig snaps, or a breath rustles the leaves." She sighed. "My old man an' the boys don't keer. Brown is as cunnin' as the fox that's had experience hidin' from the hounds, an' he's brought up the boys to be like him. Come back an' spend the night," she called after the preacher when he started on. "You ain't fittin' to be takin' such walks as this, nohow."

He winced, her blunt speech, the pitying glance she gave him, touching his pride. Nevertheless he accepted her invitation, then pressed onward toward the still, following a narrow trail down into a wild ravine. Night had fallen, and the deepest solitude surrounded Ed'ards, but he felt no fear. Now and then a gleam of starlight shone across his way, or rustling leaves betrayed the presence of animals abroad for prey. The distillery was located in an excavation under a ledge of rock, the upper entrance only a hole an ordinary sized man could crawl through, and cunningly concealed by a network of laurel, the lower one away down where a little stream trickled out between the roots of a gnarled old tree. Nature had helped the mountaineer to evade the law in giving him such places of concealment.

Ed'ards approached the spot with that caution inherent in almost all the people of that region, no matter what their calling may be. He was within a few yards of the opening of the still when he ran into the very arms of a man, and felt himself surrounded by a party, although it was too dark to see anything distinctly. He could not tell whether they were friends or foes in that first moment, but instinct warned him to still be cautious.

"Ha! we have caught one of them," muttered a voice, and then he knew that he was in the hands of the revenue officers.

Who shall say what thoughts passed through his mind in that moment? He could proclaim his vocation, purchase his own release by pointing out the hiding-place of the moonshiners, could send John Hurd away to prison. He stood still and speechless in the midst of the party.

"The 'stillery is not far away," said one.

"Hush," said another, warningly; "perhaps this fellow's friends are lurking near."

"They are," cried Ed'ards, and broke through the group so swiftly, so unexpectedly that he fairly slipped from their hands, free.

He stumbled pantingly over stones and underbrush, lost his stick, and then crawled along the ground, shouting at the top of his voice to those in the underground workroom. The officers Came thrashing through the brush after him, and he felt the sting of a bullet as it entered his side. They had fired several shots, and one had been correctly aimed in spite of the darkness. He fell across the mouth of the cave just as those within fled down the passageway and out into the woods beyond.

Laurel Cove was shaken from center to circumference by the tragical death of the preacher. That he, the most innocent and God-fearing man in the community, should die like a common outlaw, seemed the crudest, unjustest trick of fate. But deep in the consciousness of the sober-minded lurked the thought that he had been sacrificed by his own people; that the revenue officers were less to blame than his parishioners. It was old Killus Hurd who had the courage to acknowledge this feeling the day Sile Ed'ards was buried. It transpired that he had also gone to the 'stillery that day; that he fled with his son and the others when that warning cry, those pistol shots, came. He assumed all the blame, for had he not quarreled with the Hardings and then with his son?--but it was over. Peace should henceforth reign in his own household and in the household of his neighbor. He said this holding out his hand to Mrs. Harding, and weepingly she took it, for she also felt conscience-smitten for what had happened. The younger people were happier, for youth cannot feel as the sober middle-aged, and they were once more together. Sarah Betsy never knew that Ed'ards had loved her, but secretly cherished his memory with tender gratitude for being the means of giving back her lover to her.

But while they extolled his virtues and grieved for his sad fate, making peace with each other as they heaped the moist earth upon his grave, who shall say that his glad spirit was not soaring away to realms where neither infirmity of body nor sorrow of heart dwells?

*THE CRUCIAL TEST.*

It was down on the Altamaha. The Dugarres always spent the summers in their large, old-fashioned mansion, on their own plantation, coming out from Savannah in May and returning in November. It was a picturesque house, with its wide halls, its piazzas, and its white columns that a man's arms could not reach more than half around. It had withstood the changes of time, and war, and the passing away of several generations. It was a landmark of the old South, and though the row of cabins in the rear still had a few dusky occupants, they were farm-laborers, hired to work by the day.

The Dugarres were famous for their hospitality, and entertained guests from all parts of the Union. An unusually large party lounged on the shady piazza one hot, languid summer afternoon, representing Charleston, Atlanta, and even New York, not to speak of the fair Savannahians, and of Valentine Dugarre, all the way from Brazil. It was too warm for exertion; all quiet amusements had flagged, and even conversation had become a stupid effort, when Edward Dugarre brought out a dusty old _Century_ and read Stedman's poem "Hebe." It roused both the lazy and the meditative to lively comments, all agreeing in their condemnation of Fiorina's revenge, so summary and so terrible. Did I say all? There was one exception--Valentine Dugarre. But some of them looked upon her as half savage, because of her Brazilian birth and her perfectly frank way of speaking out her thoughts and feelings. The Dugarres themselves were half afraid of her and rejoiced when she became engaged to Frank Black, a handsome young Savannahian of good family but of rather weak, unstable nature. She had been sent up to them to have an American finish put to her education and manners; but alien blood flowed in her veins, and she had been worshiped and spoiled in her own home until she had become as imperious and exacting as princesses are supposed to be. She could do the rashest, most unheard-of things when enraged, or when in a generous mood--such, for instance, as taking a ring from her finger and giving it to a ragged beggar when he asked her for five cents. When scolded for it by her shocked aunt she impatiently exclaimed: