Part 15

“I see you don't understand me,” he went on. “The God's truth is that I hain't no hand to talk about delicate matters to a young gal, an' you above all, but I want to _know_--I want _some'n'_ to build on. I don't know how to put what I want to ax. Maybe I'm away--away off, an' will want to kill myse'f fer even dreamin' that--but--well, maybe you'll git at what I mean from this. You see, I run in the room on you an' my wife not long ago an' ketched Sally an' you a-cryin' over some'n' or other you'd confided to 'er, an' then other things of a like nature has crapped up lately, an'--”

“I don't understand you, Mr. Baker,” said Cynthia, anxiously, when she saw he was going no further. “I really don't. But I assure you, I'm ready to tell you anything.”

“Ah! Are you? Well, I started to say Sally don't cry over other folks' matters unless they are purty sad, an' you know at the time you refused to tell me what yore trouble was. Maybe you ain't ready yet, little sister. But could you tell me, right out plain, what ailed you that day?”

Cynthia stared and then dropped her glance to the ground.

“I don't see that it would help in the matter,” she said, awkwardly.

“Well, maybe it wouldn't,” he declared, in despair; “an' I reckon thar are things one woman would tell another woman that she wouldn't speak of to a man.”

“I guess that's so,” said Cynthia, still perplexed over the turn the conversation had taken and yet firm in her determination to say nothing that would involve Mrs. Baker's secret.

“Well, maybe you won't mind it much ef I put it this away,” Pole continued. “Now, remember, you don't have to say yes or no unless you want to. Little sister, I'll put it this away: ef Nelson Floyd was to never come back here again, could you, as--as a good, true woman--could you conscientiously marry another man? Could you with a clear conscience, I mean, before God, ever marry another man? Thar, it's out! Could you?”

Cynthia started. She looked down. She was silent. Her color rose.

“Now, mind,” Pole said, suddenly, “you don't _have_ to answer unless you want to. No man's got a right to hem a weak, excited woman up in a corner and get at her heart's secrets.”

“Would it do any good for you to know that, Mr. Baker?” the girl said, in a low voice.

“I think so, little sister.”

“Well, then”--she turned her face away--“I don't think I'd ever want to marry any other living man.”

“Oh, my God!” Pole averted his face, but not before she had seen its writhing torture. She stared at him in astonishment, and, to avoid her eyes, he lowered his head to his arms, which were folded on the top rail of the fence. Fully a minute passed; still he did not look up. She saw his broad shoulders rising and falling as if he were trying to subdue a torrent of emotion. She laid her hand firmly on his arm.

“Tell me what you mean,” she suddenly demanded. “I want to know. This has gone far enough. What do you mean?”

He raised a pair of great, blearing eyes to hers. He started to speak, but his voice hung in his throat. Tightening her clasp on his arm she repeated her demand.

“I see through it now,” he found voice to say, huskily. “I don't mean to say Nelson Floyd is afeard o' man, beast, nor devil when it comes to a _just_ encounter, but he knows now that ef me an' him was to come face to face one of us ud have to die, an' he's man enough not to want to kill me in sech a cause. I gave 'im due warnin'. I told 'im the day he drove you to bush-arbor meetin' that ef he tuck advantage o' you I'd kill 'im as shore as God give me the strength. I knowed whar that stormy night was spent, but I refused to believe the wust. I give 'im the benefit o' that doubt, but now since you tell me with your own lips that--”

“Oh! Oh! _Oh!_” The cry burst from her lips as if she were in sudden pain. “I don't mean _that_. Why, I'm a _good_ girl, Mr. Baker! I'm a good girl!”

Pole leaned over the fence and laid his big, quivering hands on her shoulders. “Thank God!” he gulped, his eyes flashing with joy. “Then I've still got my little sister an' I've got my friend. Thank God! thank God!”

Cynthia stood for a moment with hanging head, and then with a deep sigh she turned to go away. He climbed over the fence and caught up with her, the light of a new fear now in his eyes, its fire in his quickened pulse.

“I see you ain't never goin' to forgive me in the world fer sayin' what I did,” he said, humbly; “but God knows I wasn't thinkin' wrong o' you. It was him, damn 'im!--his hot-blooded natur', an' a lots o' circumstances that p'inted jest one way. I ain't more'n human, little sister, an' through that I've offended you beyond forgiveness.”

“A woman learns to bear a great many things,” Cynthia said. “My mother and others have hardened me so that I scarcely feel what you said as any other pure-minded woman might. Then--then--” She faced him squarely, and her voice rang out sharply. “We don't know--you don't--I don't know whether he is alive or--” Her words failed her, a sob, dry and deep, shook her from head to foot. “Don't curse him as you did just now, Mr. Baker; you may be cursing a dead man who, himself, was only human. But I know what he was--I saw his real and higher nature, and, as it struggled for growth in good and bad soil, it was the most beautiful flower God ever made. He can't be dead--he _must_ not be dead. I--I could not bear that. Do you hear me? Call me what you will for my imprudent conduct with him, but don't admit that bare possibility for one instant--even in your thoughts. Don't do it, I say!”

Pole gulped down his tense emotion. “I'll tell you what I'll do, little sister,” he proposed. “Promise me you'll overlook what I said just now, an' I'll work these here hands”--he held them up in the starlight--“to the naked bone; I'll use this here brain”--he struck his broad brow with a resounding slap--“till it withers in the endeavor to fetch 'im back safe an' sound, ef you'll jest forgive me.”

“Forgive you!” She laughed harshly and tossed her head. “That's already done. More than that, I want to tell you that I've always looked on you as a brother. You made me love you a long time ago by your gentleness and respect for women.”

“Oh, little sister,” Pole cried, “I don't deserve that!”

“Yes, you do; but find him--find him, and bring him back.”

“All right, little sister; I'll do my best.”

He stood still and watched her hurry away through the darkness.

“Poor little trick,” he sighed. “I was countin' on that one thing to explain Nelson's absence. Since it ain't that, what the hell is it, unless he's been sandbagged down thar in Atlanta an' put out o' the way?”

XXVIII

IT was quite dark when Pole went into the cottage. There was a fire in the little sitting-room, and by its light he could see his wife through the open door of the next room as she quietly moved about. He paused in the door-way and whispered:

“Are the childern asleep, Sally?”

“Yes, an' tucked away.” She came to him with a cautious step, and looked up into his face trustingly. “Little Billy kept askin' fer papa, papa, papa! He said he jest wasn't goin' to sleep anywhar except in his own place in yore lap.”

Pole went to the children's bed, looked down at the row of yellow heads for a moment, then suddenly bent and took the eldest boy into his arms.

“You goose!” Mrs. Baker exclaimed. “I'm sorry I said what I did. You'll spile 'im to death. Thar, I knowed he'd wake up! It's jest what you wanted.”

“Did you want yore papa?” Pole said, in cooing tones of endearment. “Well, Billy-boy, papa's got you, an' he ain't a-goin' to let no booger git you, nuther. Thar now, go back to sleep.” And in a big arm-chair before the fire Pole sat and rocked back and forth with the child's head on his shoulder.

“Whar've you been, papa?” Billy asked, sliding his arm around Pole's rough, sunbrowned neck and pressing his face to his father's.

“To feed the hogs, Billy-boy.”

“But you never took so long before,” argued the child.

“I had to watch 'em eat, Billy-boy--eat, eat, eat, Billy-boy! They hadn't had anything since mom-in' except roots, an' snags, an' pusley weeds, an' it was a purty sight to watch 'em stick the'r snouts in that slop. Now, go to sleep. Here we go--here we go--across the bridge to Drowsy Town.”

In a moment the child was sleeping soundly and Pole bore him tenderly back to bed. As he straightened up in the darkened room his wife was beside him.

“I declare you are a _good_ man,” she said--“the best-hearted, tenderest man in the world, Pole Baker!”

He looked at her steadily for an instant, then he said:

“Sally, I want you to do me a special favor.”

“What is it, Pole?” Her voice was full of wonder.

“Sally, now don't laugh at me, but I want you to go put on a piece o' red ribbon, an' let yore hair hang down yore back loose like you used to. Fix it that away an' then come in to the fire.”

“Pole, yo're foolish!” Mrs. Baker was really pleased, and yet she saw no reason for his whim.

“You do as I ax you, an' don't be long about it, nuther.”

He turned back into the firelight, and, watching him cautiously from the adjoining room, Mrs.

Baker saw him straightening out his shirt and brushing his coarse hair. Then, to her further surprise, she saw him take down his best coat from its peg on the wall and put it on. This was followed by a dusting of his rough shoes with a soiled, red handkerchief. In great wonder, Sally, with her hair loose on her shoulders, looked into the room.

“You ain't in earnest about that--that red ribbon, are you, Pole?” she faltered.

“Yes, I am,” he answered, without lifting his eyes from the fire. “I mean exactly what I say.”

“All right, then, I'll do it, but I don't see a bit o' sense in it,” she retorted. “It's about our bedtime, an' I know in reason that we ain't a-goin' nowhar at this time o' night an' leave the childem by the'r-selves.”

Still Pole did not look up.

“You go an' do as I tell you,” he repeated, a flush of growing embarrassment on his face.

Presently Mrs. Baker came in, even redder and more confused than he.

“Pole, what in the name o' common-sense--”

But he was gallantly placing a chair for her in front of the fire near his own. “Take a seat,” he said, bowing and motioning downward with his hands. “When you stood in the door jest then, lookin' fer all the world like you did away back in our courtin'-day, I come as nigh as peas callin' you 'Miss Sally.' Gee whiz! It's Mrs. Baker now--ain't it? How quar that sounds when a body looks back!”

“Pole,” she asked, as she sat down wonderingly, “are you goin' some'rs at this time o' night?”

“No, it ain't that,” he said, awkwardly--“it ain't that, Sally. It ain't meetin', nor singin'-school, nor a moonlight buggy-ride.'Tain't none o' them old, old things.” Pole crossed his long legs and leaned back in his chair. “I know in reason that you are a-goin' to laugh at me, an' say I'm plumb crazy, but it's this away, Sally: some'n's jest happened that's set me to thinkin', an' it occurred to me that I wasn't half thankful enough to the Almighty fer all His many blessin's, an'--”

“Pole”--Mrs. Baker was misled as to his meaning--“somebody's been talkin' religion to you. You want to begin holdin' family prayer ag'in, I reckon. Now, looky' here, ef you do, I want you to keep it up. I feel wuss ever'time you start in an' break off.”

“'Tain't that, nuther,” Pole said, eying the red chunks under the fire-logs. “Sally, thar ortn't to be no secret betwixt man an' wife. I had a talk with Cynthia Porter out at the hog-pen jest now about Nelson Floyd, an' the way she talked an' acted worked on me powerful. Seein' the way she feels about her sweetheart started me to thinkin' how awful I'd feel without you. An' with that come the feelin' that, somehow--somehow or other, Sally--me'n' you ain't jest pine-blank the way we used to be, an' I believe thar's a screw loose. I'd liter'ly die ef I didn't have you, an' I've been spittin' in the face o' Providence by the careless way I've been actin'. Now, Sally, I want you jest to set right thar, an' let's forget about them towheads in the next room, an' try an' forget all I've made you suffer fust an' last, an' let's git back--let's git back, Sally, to the old sweetheart-time. I know I'm tough, an' a sorry cuss before God an' man, but I've got the same heart a-beatin' in me to-night that was in me away back on Holly Creek. In this firelight you look as plump an' rosy an' bright-eyed as you did then, an' with that red ribbon at yore neck, an' yore hair down yore back, I feel--well, I feel like gittin' down on my knees an' beggin' you, like I did that time, not to take Jim Felton, but to give me a showin'. I wonder”--Pole's voice broke, and he covered his mouth impulsively with his hand--“I wonder ef it's too late to ax you to give me a chance to prove myself a good husband an' a father to them thar childern.”

“Oh, Pole, stop!” Mrs. Baker cried out, as if in pain. “I won't let you set thar an' run yorese'f down, when you are the best-hearted man in this state. What is a little spree now an' then compared to the lot o' some pore women that git kicked an' cuffed, with never a tender word from the'r husbands. Pole, as the Lord is my judge, I kin honestly say that I--I almost want you _jest like you are_. Some men don't drink, but they hain't got yore heart an' gentle way, an' ef I had to take my choice over an' over ag'in, I'd choose a man like you every time.”

She rose suddenly, and with a face full of pent-up emotion she left the room. She returned in a moment.

“I thought I heard the baby wakin',” she said.

He caught her hand and pulled her gently down into her chair. “Yo're a liar, Sally,” he said, huskily. “You know yo're a-lyin'. You went out to wipe yore eyes. You didn't want me to see you cry.”

She made no denial, and he put his rough hand, with a reverent touch, on her hair.

“It ain't quite as heavy as it was,” he said. “Nor so fluffy. I reckon that's beca'se you keep it bound up so tight. When I fust tuck a shine to you, you used to run about them old hills as wild as a deer, an' the wind kept it tousled. Do you remember the day it got full o' cockleburs an' I tried to git 'em out? La me! I was all of a tremble. The Lord knows I never thought then that sech a sweet, scared, rosy little thing ud ever keep house fer me an' cook my grub an' be a mother to my childern. I never dreamt, then, that instead o' bein' grateful fer the blessin', I'd go off weeks at a time an' lie in a gutter, leavin' you to walk the floor in agony--sometimes with a nursin' baby an' not a scrap to eat. No, I never--”

“Hush, Pole!” With a sob, half of joy, half of sadness, Mrs. Baker put her hand over his mouth and pressed her face against his. “Hush, hush, hush!”

“But, thank God, I hope that day is over,” he said, taking her hand from his lips. “I've passed through a great crisis, Sally. Some'n' you don't know about--some'n' you may _never_ know about--that happened right here in these mountains, but it may prove to be my turnin'-p'int.”

His wife looked uneasily at the fire. “It's gittin' late, Pole,” she said. “We'd better go to bed.”

XXIX

THE following evening was balmy and moonlit. Hillhouse was at Porter's just after supper, seated on the porch in conversation with Mrs. Porter.

“Yes, I believe I'd not ask her to see you to-night,” she was advising him. “The poor girl seems completely fagged out. She tries to do as much about the house as usual, but it seems to tire her more. Then she doesn't eat heartily, and I hear her constantly sighing.”

“Ah, I see,” Hillhouse said, despondently. “Yes,” the old woman pursued, “I suppose if you finally get her to marry you, you'll have to put up with the memory that she _did_ have a young girl's fancy for that man, Brother Hillhouse. But she wasn't the only one. The girls all liked him, and he did show a preference for her.”

“Has she--has she heard the latest news--the very latest?” Hillhouse asked, anxiously. “Has she heard the report that Henry A. Floyd told Mr. Mayhew he had met Nelson and revealed that awful news about his parentage?”

“Oh yes; Mrs. Snodgrass came in with that report this morning. She knew as well as anything that Cynthia was excited, and yet she sat in the parlor and went over and over the worst parts of it, watching the girl like a hawk. Cynthia got up and left the room. She was white as death and looked like she would faint. Mrs. Snodgrass hinted at deliberate suicide. She declared a young man as proud and high-strung as Nelson Floyd would resort to that the first thing. She said she wouldn't blame him one bit after all he's suffered. Well, just think of it, Brother Hillhouse! Did you ever hear of anybody being treated worse? He's been tossed and kicked about all his life, constantly afraid that he wasn't quite as respectable as other folks. And then all at once he was taken up and congratulated by the wealth and blood around him on his high stand--and then finally had to have this last discovery rammed in his face. Why, that's enough to drive any proud spirit to desperation! I don't blame him for getting drunk. I don't blame him, either, for not wanting to come back to be snubbed by those folks. But what I _do_ want is fer him not to drag me and mine into his trouble. When my girl marries, I want her to marry some man that will be good to her, and I want him to have decent social standing. Even if Floyd's alive, if I can help it, Cynthia shall never marry him--never!”

“Does Miss Cynthia believe,” ventured the preacher, “that Floyd has killed himself?”

“I don't think she believes that, _quite_,” was Mrs. Porter's reply; “but she doesn't seem to think he'll ever come back to Springtown. Don't you worry, Brother Hillhouse. She'll get over this shock after a while, and then she'll appreciate your worth and constancy. If I were you, I'd not press my claim right now.”

“Oh, I wouldn't think of such a thing!” Hillhouse stroked a sort of glowing resignation into his chin, upon which a two-days beard had made a ragged appearance. “I've been awfully miserable, Sister Porter, but this talk with you has raised my hopes.” Mrs. Porter rose with a faint smile. “Now, you go home and write another good sermon like that last one. I watched Cynthia out of the corner of my eye all through it. That idea of its being our duty to bear our burdens cheerfully--no matter how heavy they are--seemed to do her a lot of good.” The color came into Hillhouse's thin face, and his eyes shone. “The sermon I have in mind for next Sunday is on the same general line,” he said. “I'm glad she listened. I was talking straight at her, Sister Porter. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I've been unable to think of anything but her since--since Floyd disappeared.”

“You are a good man, Brother Hillhouse”--Mrs. Porter was giving him her hand--“and somehow I feel like you will get all you want, in due time, remember--in due time.”

“God bless you, sister,” Hillhouse said, earnestly, and, pressing the old woman's hand, he turned away.

XXX

WHEN Cynthia heard the gate close behind the preacher, and from the window of her room had seen him striding away, she put a shawl over her shoulder and started out.

“Where on earth are you going?” her mother asked from the end of the porch, where she stood among the honeysuckle vines.

“I want to run across to Mrs. Baker's, just a minute,” Cynthia said. “I won't be long. I'll come right back.”

“I'd think you'd be afraid to do that,” her mother protested, “with so many stray negroes about. Besides, it's the Bakers' bedtime. Can't you wait till to-morrow?”

“No, I want to walk, anyway,” said Cynthia. “I feel as if it will do me good. I'm not afraid.”

“Well, I sha'n't go to bed till you come back,” Mrs. Porter gave in.

In a few minutes the girl was at the back-yard fence of Pole Baker's cottage. The door was open wide, and in the firelight Cynthia saw Mrs. Baker bending over the dining-room table.

“Oh, Mrs. Baker!” the girl called, softly.

“Who's that? Oh, it's you, Cynthia!” and the older woman came out into the moonlight, brushing her white apron with her hand. She leaned over the fence. “Won't you come in?”

“No, I promised mother I'd be right back. I thought maybe you could tell me if Mr. Baker had heard anything yet.”

“I'm sorry to say he hain't,” replied the little woman, sadly. “Him and Mr. Mayhew has been working all sorts of ways, and writing constant letters to detectives and the mayors of different cities, but everything has failed. He came in just now looking plumb downhearted.”

Cynthia took a deep breath. Her lips quivered as if she had started to speak and failed.

“But, la me! I haven't give up,” Mrs. Baker said, in a tone of forced lightness. “He'll come home all safe and sound one of these days, Cynthia. I have an idea that he's just mad at his ill-luck all round, and, right now, doesn't care what folks about here think. He'll git over all that in due time and come back and face his trouble like other men have done. It's a bitter pill fer a proud young man to swallow, but a body kin git used to most anything in time.”

“I'm afraid he's never coming home,” Cynthia said, in rigid calmness. “He once told me if he ever had any great trouble he would be tempted to drink again. Mr. Baker thinks he's been drinking, and in that condition there is no telling what has happened to him.”

“Well, let me tell you some'n'--let me give you a piece of sound advice,” said Mrs. Baker. “It's unaxed; but I'm a sufferin' woman, an' I'm a-goin' to advise you as I see fit, ef you never speak to me ag'in. Ef whiskey is keepin' Nelson Floyd away, an' he does come back an' wants to marry you, don't you take 'im. Tear 'im from yore young heart 'fore the roots o' yore love git too big an' strong to pull out. It may not be whiskey that's keepin' 'im away. He may 'a' taken a dram or two at the start an' be livin' sober somewhar now; or, then ag'in, as you say, some'n' may 'a' happened to 'im; but, anyhow, don't you resk livin' with 'im, not ef he has all the money on earth. Money won't stick to a drinkin' man no longer than the effects of a dram, an' in the mind of sech a fellow good intentions don't amount to no more than a swarm o' insects that are born an' die in a day. Of course, some men _do_ reform. I'm prayin' right now that the awful thing that happened t'other night to Pole will be his tumin'-p'int, but I dunno. I'll walk on thin ice over a lake o' fire till I kin see furder. Be that as it may, Cynthia, I can't stand by an' see another unsuspectin' woman start in on the road I've travelled--no, siree!”

“I think you are exactly right,” Cynthia said, under her breath, and then she sighed deeply. “Well, good-night. I must go.” She was turning away, when Mrs. Baker called to her.

“Stop, Cynthia!” she said. “You ain't mad at me, are you?”

“Not a bit in the world,” Cynthia answered. “In fact, I'm grateful for your advice. I may never have a choice in such a matter, but I know you mean it for my own good.”

As Cynthia entered the gate at home, her mother rose from a chair on the porch. “Now I can go to bed,” she remarked. “I have been awfully uneasy, almost expecting to hear you scream out from that lonely meadow.”

“There was nothing to be afraid of, mother,” and Cynthia passed on to her own room. She closed the door and lighted her lamp, and then took her Bible from the top drawer of her bureau and sat down at her table and began to read it. She read chapter after chapter mechanically, her despondent eyes doing work which never reached her throbbing brain. Presently she realized this and closed the book. Rising, she went to her window and looked across the grass-grown triangle to her mother's window. It was dark. All the other windows were so, too. The house was wrapped in slumber. She heard the clock strike nine. Really she must go to bed, and yet she knew she would not sleep, and the thought of the long, conscious hours till daybreak caused her to shudder.