Part 10

She obeyed, and when he returned after a few moments he found her on the threshold waiting for him, her beautiful, long hair blown loose by the fierce wind.

They stood side by side in the darkness for a few minutes, and then a torrent of rain dashed down upon the roof like tons of solid matter, which threatened to crush the building like an egg-shell. He pushed her back, and with a great effort managed to close the big sliding-door.

“We must keep the wind out,” he said. “If we don't the mill will be blown away.”

It was now too dark for them to see each other at all, and the roar of the storm rendered speech between them almost impossible. She suddenly felt his hands grasp hers, and then he shouted, as he held them in his tight clasp: “There is a big pile of fodder over there against the wall. Come, sit down. There is no telling how long this may last, and you are already fagged out.”

She offered no resistance, and he cautiously led her through the darkness till he felt the fodder under his feet. Then he bent down and raked a quantity of it together and again took her hand.

“Sit here,” he said, gently pushing her downward. “It is dry and warm.”

He was right. The soft bed of sweet-smelling corn leaves felt very comfortable to the tired girl. He laughed out impulsively as he pulled a quantity of the fodder near to her and sat down on it, locking his arms over his knees. “This isn't so very bad, after all,” he said. “You know, it might have been a great deal worse. Jack's well housed, and this old mill has withstood a thousand storms.”

She said nothing, and he leaned nearer till his lips almost touched her ear.

“Why are you so silent?” he asked. “Are you still afraid?”

“No, but I was wondering what my mother will think,” Cynthia said. “She'll be sure we have been killed.”

“Don't worry about that,” Floyd said, cheerfully. “I gave Pole my last match, or I'd take a smoke.

“Why, Cynthia, you don't know when you are in luck. I feel like Providence is good to me. I've not really had you much to myself all the afternoon, _anyway_, along with the tiresome preaching, singing, shouting, and the fast riding in the dark, and now--” He reached out and took her hand. She made an effort to withdraw it, but he laughed and held it firmly.

“Don't be afraid of me, dear,” he said. And then, as in a flash, a picture stood before him. He saw Pole Baker at his rough bench kneeling in the straw. He had another vision. It was the gaunt farmer as he stalked forward to shake hands with the preacher. Then Floyd, as it were, stood facing the mountaineer, and, above the thunder of the raging tempest without, Pole's grim warning broke upon the ears of his soul. Floyd sat staring into the darkness. He saw a white dove fluttering in a grassy spot before a coiled snake, with eyes like living diamonds. A shudder passed over him, and raising Cynthia's hand to his lips he kissed it lightly, respectfully, and released it.

“Perhaps you'd rather have me stay near the door, little girl,” he said, in a tone he had never used to her before. “You were thrown here with me against your will, and I shall not force my attentions upon you. Don't be afraid. I'm going to the door and sit down. I can see the road from there, and as soon as the storm is over I'll come for you.”

She made no response, and, rising, he moved away, taking an armful of the corn-blades with him. He found a place against the wall, near the door, and throwing the fodder down he rested upon it, his long legs stretched out upon the floor.

“Thank God!” he said. “Pole Baker has shot more manhood into my dirty carcass to-day than it ever held before. I'll take care of your little sister, Pole. She's a sweet, dear, noble, brave little woman. There is not another such a one on earth. Good God! what must a sensitive, refined creature like she is think of an affair like that Jeff Wade business?” He shuddered. Pushing some of the fodder under his head, he reclined at full length. Something Pole had said to him once while they were on the river-bank fishing came to him. “I believe,” the mountaineer had said, with his eyes on his line, “that the Almighty made women weak in their very sweetness an' purity an' men strong in evil. An' He lets two of 'em come together in this life, an' stand side by side, an' ef the man is good enough, they will grow together an' work fer good an' perfect happiness. But ef he's evil, he kin put out his slimy arms an' draw her into his own cesspool like a water-moccasin coiled round a pond-lily. It is with the man to make or damn his chances of contentment in life, an' when he's soaked in evil he not only damns hisse'f but all he touches.”

Floyd closed his eyes. His admiration for Pole Baker had never been so intense. For perhaps the first time in his life he felt the sting of the hot blood of shame in his face.

“I'll take care of your little sister, Pole,” he said. “I'll do it--I'll do it!”

He closed his eyes. The storm was beating more steadily now. His thoughts became a delicious blur.

He was asleep. Several hours must have passed. He waked, sat up, and looked about him; it was not so dark now, and while it was still raining, the noise of the falling drops was not so loud. He stood up and stretched himself. From the stiffness of his limbs he knew he had slept a long time.

“Cynthia!” he called out, but there was no reply. “Cynthia!” he called again, but still only his own voice rang out above the falling rain and whistling wind. He groped forward. In the darkness he saw her white dress like a drift of snow against the pile of fodder. He bent over her and touched her. She sat up with a start.

“You've been asleep, too,” he laughed.

“Oh, have I?” she exclaimed. “I--I--forgot where I was, and I was so tired. Is--is the rain over? Can we go on now?”

“Not yet, I'm afraid, Cynthia,” he said, consolingly. “If you don't object to staying here alone, I'll go outside and look around. I want to see if we can cross the mill creek. Sometimes it gets very high.”

“Oh, I'm not afraid,” she assured him. “There's nothing here to be afraid of.”

“Some women would imagine the mill was full of tramps or escaped negro convicts,” he laughed, “but you are different, little girl. You are plucky. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

He returned very soon, stamping his wet boots on the mill steps. “The rain is about over,” he told her. “The sky in the east is clearing up; in fact, it is almost daybreak. Cynthia, we have both, slept longer than we had any idea of. But the worst part of the business is that the creek is out of its banks and we can't get across till it runs down; but that won't take long. We can start for home about sunrise, and then we can go like the wind. Jack will want his breakfast.”

She said nothing, but he fancied he heard her sigh. She started to rise and he put out his hand. She gave him hers with a strange, new show of confidence that touched him, thrilled him, and sent a flush of vague gratification over him.

“You are disappointed,” he said, tentatively. With her hand still in his they walked to the door and looked out towards the pale sky in the east.

“I was wondering what my mother will think,” she said. “She won't like this at all. But you know, Nel--you know, Mr. Floyd, that I couldn't help it.”

“Of course not,” he said, frowning darkly. “Stopping here really saved our lives. She'll have to see that. You can make her see it, Cynthia.”

“She's very peculiar,” Cynthia sighed. “The smallest things almost drive her insane. The rain is over; don't you think we could go some other way and avoid the creek?”

“Why, yes, we could drive back to the Hillcrest road, but it would take two hours longer.”

“Well, we would have to wait here that long wouldn't we?”

“Yes, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other,” he smiled. “If you'd rather be in the buggy and on the move, why, we can start.”

“I think I had,” she said.

“All right; you are the doctor,” he laughed. “I'll get Jack out and have him hitched to the buggy in a minute.”

XVII

THE sun--and it had never seemed to shine so brightly before--had been up about half an hour when the couple drove up to Porter's gate.

“There's mother at the window now,” Cynthia said, as she got out of the buggy. “I can see that she's angry even from here.”

“I'll hitch Jack and go in and explain,” offered Floyd.

“Oh no, don't!” Cynthia said, quickly. “I'll tell her all about it. Go on. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, then,” Floyd said, and he drove on to the village.

But Mrs. Porter did not come to the door to meet her as Cynthia expected. The girl found her alone in the sitting-room seated sulkily at the fireplace, where a few sticks of damp wood were burning gloomily.

“Well, where did you spend the night?” the old woman asked, icily.

Cynthia stood before her, withered to her soul by the tone in which her mother's question had been asked.

“You are not going to like it a bit, mother,” the girl said, resignedly. “The storm overtook us just as we got to Long's mill. The horse was frightened and about to run away and the road was awfully dangerous. There was nothing for us to do but to go in.”

“Long's mill! Oh, my God! there is no one living there, nor in miles of it!”

“I know it, mother.”

Mrs. Porter buried her pale, wrinkled face in her hands and leaned forward in her chair, her sharp elbows on her knees.

“I'm never going to get over this!” she groaned--“never--never; and you are my _only_ child!”

“Mother!” Cynthia bent down and almost with anger drew the old woman's hand from her face. “Do you know what you are saying? Do you know that--that you may drive me from home with that insinuation?”

Mrs. Porter groaned. She got up stiffly, and, like a mechanical thing moved by springs, she caught her daughter's wrist and led her to a window, sternly staring at her from her great, sunken eyes. “Do you mean to tell me that you and _that_ man sat together all the live-long night in that mill?”

“Mother, I was completely tired out. There was some fodder on the floor. I sat down on it, and after a long time I dropped asleep. He did too. He was near the door, and I--”

Mrs. Porter extended the stiff fingers of her hand and plucked a piece of fodder from Cynthia's hair, and held it sneeringly up to the light. “It's a pity you didn't have a comb and brush with you,” she said. “You'd have been supplied at a hotel. Your hair is all in a mess. I'm going to keep this little thing. Light as it is, it has knocked life and hope out of me.”

Cynthia looked at her steadily for a moment, and then turned from the room. “I'm not going to defend myself against such suspicions as you have,” she said from the door. “I know what I am, if you don't.”

“I reckon this whole county will know what you are before many days,” snarled Mrs. Porter. “Minnie Wade had somebody in her family with enough manhood in 'im to want to defend her honor, but you haven't. Your sleepy-headed old father--” The girl was gone. For several minutes the old woman stood quivering in the warm sunlight at the window, and then she stalked calmly through the dining-room and kitchen and out to the barn. One of the stable-doors was open, and she could see her husband inside.

“Nathan Porter!” she called out--“you come here. I've got something to tell you.”

“All right,” he answered. “I'll be thar in a minute. Dern yore lazy soul, hain't I give you enough corn to eat without you havin' to chaw up a brand-new trough? I'm a good mind to take this curry-comb an' bust yore old head with it!”

“Nathan Porter, I say, come out here! Let that horse alone!”

“All right, I'm a-comin'. Now, I reckon I'll have to fetch a hammer an' saw an' nails an' buy planks to make another trough, jest fer you to chaw up into powder.”

“Nathan Porter, do you hear me?”

“Well, I reckon ef I don't, they do over at Baker's,” and the farmer, bareheaded and without his coat, came from the stable.

“That blasted hoss has deliberately set to work an' chaw--”

“Nathan Porter”--the old woman thrust her slim fingers into his face--“do you see that piece of fodder?”

“Yes, I see it. Is it a sample o' last year's crop? Are you buy in' or sellin'? You mought 'a' fetched a bundle of it. A tiny scrap like--”

“I got that out o' Cynthia's hair.”

“You don't say! It must be a new sort o' ornament! I wouldn't be surprised to see a woman with a bundle of it under each arm on the front bench at meetin' after seein' them Wilson gals t'other night ready fer the dance with flour in the'r hair an' the ace o' spades pasted on the'r cheeks.”

“Cynthia and Nelson Floyd stayed all night in Long's mill,” panted Mrs. Porter. “There wasn't another soul there nor in miles of it.”

“Huh, you don't say!” the farmer sniffed. “I reckon ef they had 'a' sent out a proclamation through the country that they was goin' to stay thar a lot o' folks would 'a' waded through the storm to be present.”

“I got this out of her hair, I tell you!” the old woman went on, fiercely. “Her head was all messed up, and so was her dress. If you've got any manhood in you, you'll go to town and call Nelson Floyd out and settle this thing.”

“Huh! Me go to his store on his busiest day an' ax 'im about a piece o' fodder no bigger'n a gnat's wing? He'd tell me I was a dern fool, an' I'd deserve it. Oh! see what you are a-drivin' at, an' I tell you it gits me out o' patience. You women are so dad blasted suspicious an' guilty at the bottom yorese'ves that you imagine bad acts is as plentiful as the leaves on the ground in the fall. Now, let me tell you, you hain't obeying the Scriptural injunction to judge not lest ye be judged accordin'ly. I want you to let that little gal an' her sweetheart business alone. You hain't a-runnin' it. You don't have to live with the feller she picks out, an' you hain't no say whatever in the matter. Nur you h'aint got no say, nuther, as to the way she does her particular courtin'. The Lord knows, nobody was kind enough to put in away back thar when you was makin' sech a dead set fer me. Folks talk a little about Floyd, but let me tell you my _own_ character them days wasn't as white as snow. I don't know many men wuth the'r salt that hain't met temptation. I sorter cut a wide swath 'fore I left the turf, an' you know it. Didn't I hear you say once that you reckoned you never would 'a' tuck me ef I'd 'a' been after you day an' night? You knowed thar was other fish in the sea, an' you didn't have any bait to speak of, with them Turner gals an' the'r nigger slaves an' plantations in the'r own right livin' next door to pa's. Yore old daddy said out open that you an' yore sister needn't expect a dollar from him; he'd educated you, an' that was all he could do. I hain't grumblin', mind you. I never cry over spilt milk; it hain't sensible. It don't help a body out of a bad matter into a better one.”

“Oh, I wish you'd hush and listen to me.” Mrs. Porter had not heard half he had said. “I tell you Cynthia and that man stayed all night long in that lonely mill together, an' she came home at sunrise this morning all rumpled up and--”

“Now, you stop right thar! _You stop right thar!_” Porter said, with as much sternness as he could command. “As to stayin' in that mill all by the'rse'ves, I want you jest to put on yore thinkin'-cap, ef the old thing hain't wore clean to tatters or laid away till it's moth-et. Do you remember when that lonely old widder Pelham pegged out durin' our courtin'-time? You do? _Well!_ We went thar--you an' me did--expectin' to meet the Trabue crowd, an' that passle o' young folks from Hanson's, to set up with the corpse. Well, when me'n' you got thar about eight o'clock the Trabue crowd sent word that as long as the Hanson lay-out was comin', they believed they wouldn't drive so fur; an' right on top o' that come a message from the Hanson folks, sayin' that you an' me an' the Trabues was as many as the little house would hold, so they would stay away; an' thar you an' me was with nobody to make us behave but a dead woman, an' _her_ screwed down tight in a box. I remember as clear as day that you laughed an' said you didn't care, an' you set in to makin' coffee an' cookin' eggs an' one thing another to keep us awake an' make me think you was handy about a house. Well, now, here's the moral to that tale. The neighbors--tough as my record was--was kind enough not to say nasty things about us afterwards, an' it hain't Christian or motherly of you to start a tale about our gal when as big a storm as that driv' her an' her beau in out o' danger. Besides, I tell you, you are standin' in Cynthia's light. She's got as good a right to the best in the land as anybody, an' I believe Nelson Floyd is goin' to git married sooner or later. He's had a chance to look over the field, an' I hope she'll suit 'im. I never made money by marryin', myself, an' I sorter like the idea o' my child gittin' a comfortable berth. That gal hain't no common person nohow. She'll show off a fine house as well as any woman in this state. She's got sense, an' a plenty of it; folks say she's like me.”

“You don't know what you are talking about.” Mrs. Porter was looking at the ground. Her hard face had softened; she was drawn perforce to words at her husband's view of the matter. His rebuke rang harshly in her ears. She turned towards the house and took several steps, then she looked back. “I pray God you are right, Nathan,” she said. “Maybe all the worry I had through the night has made me unable to see the matter fairly.”

“That's it!” said Porter, as he leaned on the fence; “and let me tell you, if you don't quit makin' so many mountains out o' mole-hills, an' worryin' at sech a rate, you'll go like yore sister Martha did. Try worryin' about _yorese'f_ awhile; ef I thought as mean about my own child as you do I'd bother about the condition o' my soul.”

With her head hanging low, Mrs. Porter walked slowly to the house. Her view was more charitable and clearer, though she was so constituted that she could not at once obey her inclination to apologize to her daughter.

“I'm actually afraid I'm losing my mind,” she said. “I am acting exactly as Sister Martha did.”

XVIII

IT was a warm morning on the first day of June. Pole Baker lay on the thick grass, near the door of the court-house, talking to Jim Carden, a little shoemaker from Darley.

“Didn't Nelson Floyd go in the court-house jest now?” Pole asked.

“Yes,” said the shoemaker, in his high voice; “him an' Colonel Price was settin' here fer half an' hour 'fore you come, talkin' about a trade. Price is tryin' to sell 'im his plantation, an' that big house completely furnished. I'd rather see Floyd's eyes when he's on a trade than anything I ever looked at. They shine like twin stars. But I don't believe they'll trade. They are too far apart.”

“This section is chock full o' keen men, from the highest to the lowest,” remarked Pole. “Old settlers say that a long time ago seven Jews settled here, intendin' to git rich, an' that these mountain men got all they had, an' the Jews literally starved to death. Thar hain't been one in the county since.”

“Our folks certainly are hard to down,” said Carden. “Do you know that long, slim chap in front o' Floyd's store? That's one o' the Bowen boys, from Gilmer--I mean the feller at the covered wagon.”

“Know 'im? I reckon I do,” Pole laughed, “That's Alf Bowen. I had a round with 'im one day. It was in the fall o' the year, an' they was so busy at Mayhew & Floyd's that they pulled me into service. I'm a purty good salesman when I'm about half loaded. Well, Alf come in leadin' his little gal by the hand, an' said he wanted to fit 'er out in a cloak. Joe Peters hung to 'im fer half an' hour, but everything he'd show the feller was too high, or not good enough, an Joe switched 'im off on me. Joe was afeard ef the skunk went out that some more that was with 'im would follow, an' _they_ was buyin' a little, now an' then. Well, do you know, Jim, I made up my mind I'd sell that feller a cloak ef I had to do it below cost an' make up the difference myself. Old Uncle Abner Daniel was thar settin' on a nail-keg, a-spittin' an' a-chawin' an' pokin' fun at me. As I was passin' 'im he cocked his eye up an' said, said he: 'Pole, I'll bet you a segar you cayn't sell 'im.' 'Done,' said I. 'I'll go you,' an' I set to work in earnest. Alf had sorter intimated that six dollars was his cloak-limit, an' I drawed Joe Peters round behind a stack o' boxes, an' axed 'im ef we had anything as low as that. Joe said no, we didn't, but, said he, 'sometimes when we git short, we run into Glenn's store next door an' take out an' article on trial, an' ef we sell it, we git it at cost.' Well, I happened to know that Glenn had some cloaks in, so I went back to my customer an' told 'im that we had jest got in a box o' cloaks the day before, but they was in the cellar unopened, an' ef he'd wait a minute, I'd bust the box an' see ef thar was any low-priced cloaks in the lot. Bowen's eyes sorter danced, an' he said he had plenty o' time. So I picked up a hammer an' run down in the cellar. I knocked at an empty box, an' kicked over a barrel or two, an' then scooted out at the back door an' round into Glenn's shebang. 'Sam,' said I, 'have you got a cloak that you kin let us have so we kin sell it at six dollars an' make any profit?' He studied a minute, an' then he said he 'lowed he had jest the thing, an' he went an' got one an' fetched it to me. 'This un,' said he, 'is all right except this little ripped place here under the arm, but any woman kin fix that in a minute. I kin let you have it, Pole, fer five-fifty.' Well, sir, I grabbed it an' darted back into our cellar, knocked once or twice more with the hammer, an' run up to Alf an' the gal. 'Here's one,' said I. 'It's an eight-dollar garment, but in drawin' it out o' the box jest now I ripped it a little, but any woman kin fix that in a minute. Now, bein' as it's _you_, Alf,' said I, 'an' we want yore trade, I'll make it to you at first cost without the freight from Baltimore. I kin give you this thing, Alf,' said I, fer six dollars.'

“Well, sir, I thought I had 'im, an' was winkin' at Uncle Ab, when Bowen sorter sniffed an' stuck his long finger through the hole. 'Shucks!' said he. 'Sam Glenn offered me that cloak fer four dollars an' a half two weeks ago. I could 'a' got it fer four, but I wouldn't have it. It's moth-et.'”

Carden threw himself back on the grass and laughed. “What the devil did you do?” he asked.

“Do?--nothin'. What could I do? I jest grinned an' acknowledged the corn. The joke was agin me. An' the funny part of it was the feller was so dead in earnest he didn't see anything to laugh at. Ef I'd a-been in his place I'd 'a' hollered.”

“Did you give Uncle Ab his cigar?” the shoemaker asked.

“I offered it to 'im, Jim, but he wouldn't take it. I axed 'im why. 'Beca'se,' said he, 'I was bettin' on a certainty.' 'How's that?' said I. 'Why,' said he, 'I seed Alf Bowen buy a cloak fer that gal at the fire sale over at Darley two weeks ago. He was just lookin' around to see ef he'd got bit.'”

Pole saw Floyd coming out of the court-house and went to him. “I understand you an' Price are on a deal,” he said.

“Yes, but we are far apart,” Floyd answered, pleasantly. “He offers me his entire two thousand acres and furnished house for twenty-five thousand. As I told him, Pole, I could draw the money out of other investments an' take the property, but I couldn't see profit in it above twenty thousand.”

“It's wuth all he asks fer it,” Pole said, wisely.

“I know it is, to any man who wants to live on it, but if I buy it, I'd have to hire a good man to manage it, and, altogether, I can't see my way to put more than twenty thousand in it. He's anxious to sell. He and his wife want to move to Atlanta, to be with their married daughter.”