Part 4

“Stop, I tell you, stop!” the girl stared at him with flashing eyes. “I am not going to have you talk to me as if I were a child. I know him as well as you do. You constantly preach that a person ought to be forgiven of his sins, and yet you want to load some people down with theirs--that is, when it suits you. He has as good a right to--to--to reform as any one, and I myself have heard you say that the vilest sin often purifies and lifts one up. Don't get warped all to one side, Mr. Hillhouse. I shall not respect your views any more if you do.”

The minister was white in the face and trembling helplessly.

“You are tying me hand and foot,” he said, with a sigh. “If I ever had a chance to gain my desires I am killing them, but God knows I can't help it. I am fighting for my life.”

“And behind another's back,” added the girl, bravely. “You've got to be fair to him. As for myself, I don't believe half the things that the busy-bodies have said about him. Let me tell you something.” They had come to a little brook which they had to cross on brown, almost submerged stepping-stones, and she paused, turned to him and laid her small hand on his arm, and said, portentously: “Nelson Floyd has been alone with me several times, and has never yet told me that he loved me.”

“I'm not going to say what is in my mind,” Hill-house said, with a cold, significant, even triumphant sneer on his white lip, as he took her hand and helped her across the stream.

“You say you won't?” Cynthia gave him her eyes, almost pleadingly.

“That is, not unless you will let me be plain with you,” Hillhouse answered, “as plain as I'd be to my sister.”

They walked on side by side in silence, now very near her father's house.

“You may as well finish what you were going to say,” the girl gave in, with a sigh of resignation not untinged with a curiosity which had devoured her precaution.

“Well, I was going to say that, if what I have gathered here and there is true, it is Nelson Floyd's favorite method to _look_, do you understand?--to _look_, not talk love to the girls he goes with. He has never, it seems, committed himself by a scratch of a pen or by word of mouth, and yet every silly woman he has paid attention to (before he began to go with you) has secretly sworn to herself that she was the world and all to him.”

Cynthia's face became grave. Her glance went down, and for a moment she seemed incapable of speech. Finally, however, her color rose, and she laughed defiantly.

“Well, here is a girl, Mr. Hillhouse, who will not be fooled that way, you may rely on that. So don't, worry about me. I'll take care of myself.”

“I've no doubt you will,” said the preacher, gloomily.

“Yes, you'll see that I can,” Cynthia declared, with animation. “There's mother on the porch. Good gracious! do change the subject. If she sets in on it, I'll not come to the table. Like you, she believes all she has heard against him. She likes you and hates the ground he walks on.”

“Perhaps that, too, will be my damnation,” Hill-house retorted. “I know something about human nature. I may see the day that I'd be glad of a doubtful reputation.”

He caught her reproachful glance at this remark as he opened the gate for her and followed her in. Porter sat on the porch in the shade reading a newspaper, and his wife stood in the door-way.

“Run in and take off your things, Cynthia,” Mrs. Porter said, with a welcoming smile. “Brother Hillhouse can sit with your pa till we call dinner. I want you to help me a little bit. Your grandmother is lying down, and doesn't feel well enough to come to the table.”

When the women had gone in, and the preacher had seated himself in a rough, hide-bottomed chair near his host, Porter, with a chuckle, reached down to the floor and picked up a short, smooth stick, to the end of which was attached a piece of leather about three inches wide and four inches long.

“That's an invention o' mine,” Porter explained, proudly, as he tapped his knee with the leather. “Brother Hillhouse, ef you was to offer me a new five-dollar note fer this thing, an' I couldn't git me another, I'd refuse p'int blank.”

“You don't say,” said Hillhouse, concentrating his attention to the article by strong effort; “what is it for?”

“I don't know any other name fer it than a 'fly-flap,'” said Porter. “I set here one day tryin' to read, an' the flies made sech a dead-set at my bald head that it mighty nigh driv' me crazy. I kept fightin' 'em with my paper an' knockin' my specks off an' losin' my place at sech a rate that I got to studyin' how to git out of the difficulty, fer thar was a long fly-spell ahead of us. Well, I invented this thing, an' I give you my word it's as good fun as goin' a-fishin'. I kin take it in my hand--this away--an' hold the paper, too, an' the minute one o' the devilish things lights on my scalp, I kin give a twist o' the wrist an' that fly's done fer. You see the leather is too flat an' saft to hurt _me_, an' I never seed a fly yit that was nimble enough to git out from under it. But my fun is mighty nigh over,” Porter went on. “Flies has got sense; they profit by experience the same as folks does; at any rate, they seem to know thar's a dead-fall set on my bald-spot, an' they've quit tryin' to lay the'r eggs in the root-holes o' my hair. Only now and then a newcomer is foolhardy and inclined to experiment. The old customers are as scared o' my head as they are of a spider-web.”

“It certainly is a rare device,” said Hillhouse. “I don't know that I ever heard of one before.”

“I reckon not,” the farmer returned, placidly. “Somebody always has to lead out in matters of improvement. My wife an' daughter was dead-set agin me usin' it at fust. They never looked into the workin' of it close, an' thought I mashed my prey on my head, but thar never was a bigger mistake. The flap don't even puncture the skin, as tender as the'r hides are. I know it don't, beca'se they always fall flat o' the'r backs an' kick awhile before givin' up. I invented another thing that I value mighty nigh as high as I do this. I never have seed another one o' them in use, nuther. It's in my room in the bureau-drawer. It's a back-scratcher. It's got a long, white-oak handle, like this, an' a little, rake-shaped trick with hickory teeth at the end. Well, sir, you may not believe it, but I kin shove that thing down under my shirt an' hit a ticklin' spot before you kin bat yore eye, while I used to rub the bark off'n the trees, all about, in my effort to git bodily relief. You may 'a' seed me leave meetin' right in the middle o' some o' yore talks. Well, that's beca'se my wife an' Cynthia won't let me take it to church with me. They'd a thousand times ruther I'd go outside an' rub agin a tree like a razor-back shote than have me do a thing that the Prices an' Duncans hain't accustomed to. Sech folks are agin progress.”

Hillhouse laughed obligingly, his mind on what Cynthia had said to him, and then Mrs. Porter came to the door and announced that dinner was served.

V

POLE BAKER decided to give the young people of the neighborhood a “corn-shucking.” He had about fifty bushels of the grain which he said had been mellowing and sweetening in the husk all the winter, and, as the market-price had advanced from sixty to seventy-five cents, he decided to sell.

Pole's corn-shuckings were most enjoyable festivities. Mrs. Baker usually had some good refreshments and the young people came for miles around. The only drawback about the affairs was that Pole seldom had much corn to husk, and the fun was over too soon. The evening chosen for the present gathering was favored with clear moonlight and delightfully balmy weather, and when Nelson Floyd walked over after working an hour on his books at the store, he found a merry group in Pole's front-yard.

“Yo're jest in time,” Pole called out to him, as he threw the frail gate open for the guest to pass through. “I was afeared thar was a few more petticoats than pants to string around my pile o' corn, an' you'll help even up. Come on, all of you, let's mosey on down to the barn. Sally,” he called out to his wife, a sweet-faced woman on the porch, “put them childern to sleep an' come on.”

With merry laughter the young men and girls made a rush in the direction of the barn. Nelson Floyd, with a sudden throbbing of the heart, had noticed Cynthia Porter in the group, and as he and Baker fell in behind he asked: “Who came with Cynthia Porter, Pole?”

“Nobody,” said Baker. “She come over jest 'fore dark by the short-cut through the meadow. I'll bet a hoss you are thinkin' o' galavantin' 'er back home.”

“That's what I came for,” said Floyd, with a smile.

“Well, I'm sorry, fer this once,” said Pole; “but I cayn't alter my plans fer friend or foe. I don't have but one shuckin' a year, an' on that occasion I'm a-goin' to be plumb fair to all that accept my invite. You may git what you want, but you'll have to stand yore chance with the balance. I'll announce my rules in a minute, an' then you'll understand what I mean.”

They had now reached the great cone of com heaped up at the door of the barn, and the merrymakers were dancing around it in the moonlight, clapping their hands and singing.

“Halt one minute!” Pole called out peremptorily, and there was silence. “Now,” he continued, “all of you set down on the straw an' listen to my new rules. I've been studyin' these out ever since my last shuckin', an' these will beat all. Now listen! Time is a great improver, an' we all don't have to-shuck corn jest like our granddaddies did. I want to make this thing interest you, fer that pile o' corn has to be shucked an' throwed into the barn 'fore you leave yore places.”

“Well, I wouldn't preach a sermon fust,” laughed Mrs. Baker, as she appeared suddenly. “Boys an' gals that git together fer a good time don't want to listen to an old married man talk.”

“But one married man likes to listen to _that woman_ talk, folks,” Pole broke in, “fer her voice makes sweet music to his ear. That's a fact, gentlemen an' ladies; here's one individual that could set an' listen to that sweet woman's patient voice from dark to sun-up, an' then pray fer more dark, an' more talk. I hain't the right sort of a man to yoke to, but she is the right sort of a woman. They hain't all that way, though, boys, an' I'd advise you that are worthy of a good helpmate to think an' look before you plunge into matrimony. Matrimony is like a sheet of ice, which, until you bust it, may cover pure, runnin' water or a stagnant mud-hole. Before marriage a woman will say yes an' no, as meek as that entire bunch of females. Sugar wouldn't melt in 'er mouth, but when she hooks her fish she'll do her best to make a sucker out'n it ef it's a brook trout at the start. I mean a certain _kind_ of a woman, now; but thank the Lord, He made the other sort, too, an' the other sort, boys, is what you ort to look fer. I heard a desperate old bach say once that he believed he'd stand a better chance o' gittin' a good female nature under a homely exterior than under a pretty one, an' he was on the rampage fer a snaggle tooth; but I don't know. A nature that's made jest by a face won't endure one way or another long. Thar's my little neighbor over thar, ef she don't combine both a purty face an' a sweet, patient nature I'm no judge.”

“Hush, Pole, Cynthia don't want you to single her out in public that away,” protested Mrs. Baker.

“He's simply bent on flattering more work out of me,” responded Cynthia, quite adroitly, Floyd thought, as he noted her blushes in the moonlight. “We are waiting for your rules, Mr. Baker.”

“Yes,” spoke up Floyd, “give us the rules, and let us go to work, and then you can talk all you want to.”

“All right, here goes. Well, you are all settin' about the same distance from the pile, an' you've got an equal chance. Now, the fust man or woman who finds a red ear of corn must choose a partner to work with, an', furthermore, it shall be the duty o' the man to escort the girl home, an' in addition to that the winnin' man shall be entitled to kiss any girl in the crowd, an' she hereby pledges herself to submit graceful. It's a bang-up good rule, fer them that want to be kissed kin take a peep at the ear 'fore it's shucked, an' throw it to any man they like, an' them that don't kin hope fer escape by blind luck from sech an awful fate.”

“I think, myself, that it would be an awful fate to be kissed by a man you didn't care for,” laughed Mrs. Baker. “Pole has made his rules to suit the men better than the women.”

“The second rule is this,” added Pole, with a smile, “an' that is, that whoever finds a red ear, man or woman, I git to kiss my wife.”

“Good, that's all right!” exclaimed Floyd, and everybody laughed as they set to work. Pole sat down near Floyd, and filled and lighted his pipe. “I used to think everything was fair in a game whar gals was concerned,” he said in an undertone. “I went to a shuckin' once whar they had these rules an' I got on to exactly what I see you are on to.”

“Me? What do you mean?” asked Floyd. “Why, you sly old dog, you are not shuckin' more than one ear in every three you pick up. You are lookin' to see ef the silk is dark. You have found out that a red ear always has dark silk.” Floyd laughed. “Don't give me away, Pole. I learned that when old man Scott used to send me out on a frosty morning to feed the cattle.”

“Well, I won't say nothin',” Pole promised. “Ef money was at stake, it 'ud be different, but they say all's fair whar wine an' women is concerned. Besides, the sharper a man is the better he'll provide fer the wife he gits, an' a man ought to be allowed to profit by his own experience. You go ahead; ef you root a red ear out o' that pile, old hog, I'll count you in.” Pole rose and went round the other side of the stack. There was a soft rustling sound as the husks were torn away and swept in rising billows behind the workers, and the steady thumping of the ears as they fell inside the barn.

It was not a fair game he was playing, and yet Nelson Floyd cared little for that. Even as it was, it was growing monotonous. He had come there to see Cynthia, and Pole's new rule was not what he had counted on. There was a lull in the merriment and general rustle, and Floyd heard Hattie Mayhew say in a clear tone: “I know why Cynthia is so quiet. It's because there wasn't somebody here to open with prayer.”

Floyd was watching Cynthia's face, and he saw it cloud over for a moment. She made some forced reply which he could not hear. It was Kitty Welborn's voice that came to him on her merry laugh.

“Oh, yes, Cynthia has us all beaten badly!” said that little blonde. “We worked our fingers to the bones fixing up his room. Cynthia didn't lay her hand to it, and yet he never looks at any one else while he is preaching, and as soon as the sermon is over he rushes for her. They say Mr. Porter thinks Mr. Hillhouse is watching him, and has quit going to sleep.”

“That's a fact,” said Fred Denslow, as he aimed a naked ear of corn at the barn-door and threw it. “The boys say Hillhouse will even let 'em cuss before him, just so they will listen to what he says about Miss Cynthia.”

“That isn't fair to Miss Cynthia,” Nelson Floyd observed, suddenly. “I'm afraid you are making it pretty hot for her on that side, so I'm going to invite her over here. You see I have found the first red ear of corn, and it's big enough to count double.”

There was a general shout and clapping of hands as Floyd held it up to view in the moonlight. He put it into the pocket of his coat, as he rose and moved round towards Cynthia. Bending down to her, he said: “Come on, you've got to obey the rules of the game, you know.”

She allowed him to draw her to her feet.

“Now fer the fust act?” Pole Baker cried out. “I hain't a-goin' to have no bashful corn-shuckers. Ef you balk or kick over a trace, I'll leave you out next time, shore.”

“You didn't make a thoroughly fair rule, Pole,” said Floyd. “The days of woman slavery are past. I shall not take advantage of the situation, for I know Miss Cynthia is praying for mercy right now.” Everybody laughed as Floyd led the girl round to his place and raked up a pile of shucks for her to sit on.

“Well, there ought to have been another rule,” laughed Fred Denslow, “an' to the effect that if the winning man, through sickness, lack of backbone, or sudden death, was prevented from takin' the prize, somebody else ought to have had a chance. Here I've been workin' like a corn-field negro to win, and now see the feller Heaven has smiled on throwin' that sort of a flower away. Good gracious, what's the world comin' to?”

“Well, I'll have _mine_, anyway,” Pole Baker was heard to say, and he took his little wife in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

VI

REFRESHMENTS had been served, the last ear of com husked and thrown into the bam, and they had all risen to depart, when Hillhouse hurried down the path from the cottage. He was panting audibly, and had evidently been walking fast. He shook hands perfunctorily with Pole and his wife, and then turned to Cynthia.

“I'm just from your house,” he said, “and I promised your mother to come over after you. I was afraid I'd be late. The distance round by the road is longer than I thought.”

“I'm afraid you _are_ too late,” said Floyd, with a polite smile. “I was lucky enough to find the first red ear of corn, and the reward was that I might take home any one I asked. I assure you I'll see that Miss Cynthia is well taken care of.”

“Oh! I--I see.” The preacher seemed stunned by the disappointment. “I didn't know; I thought--”

“Yes, Floyd has won fast enough,” said Pole. “An' he's acted the part of the gentleman all through.” Pole explained what Floyd had done in excusing Miss Cynthia from the principal forfeit he had won.

But Hillhouse seemed unable to reply. The young people were moving towards the cottage, and he fell behind Floyd and his partner, walking along with the others and saying nothing.

It was a lonely, shaded road which Floyd and his companion traversed to reach her home.

“My luck turned just in the nick of time,” he said, exultantly. “I went there, Cynthia, especially to talk with you, and I was mad enough to fight when I saw how Pole had arranged everything. Then, by good-fortune and cheating, I found that red ear; and, well, here we are. You have no idea how pretty you look, with your hair--”

“Stop, don't begin that!” Cynthia suddenly commanded, and she turned her eyes upon him steadily.

“Stop? Why do you say that?”

“Because you talk that way to all the girls, and I don't want to hear it.”

Floyd laughed. “I declare you are a strange little creature. You simply won't let me be nice to you.”

“Well, I'm sure I don't like you when you speak that way,” the girl said, seriously. “It sounds insincere--it makes me doubt you more than anything else.”

“Then some things about me _don't_ make you doubt me,” he said, with tentative eagerness.

She was silent for a moment, then she nodded her head. “I'll admit that some things I hear of you make me rather admire you, in a way.”

“Please tell me what they are,” he said, with a laugh.

“I've heard, for one thing, of your being very good and kind to poor people--people who Mr. Mayhew would have turned out of their homes for debt if you hadn't interfered.”

“Oh, that was only business, Cynthia,” Floyd laughed. “I simply can see farther than the old man can--that's all. He thought those customers never would be able to pay, but I knew they would some day, and, moreover, that they would come up with the back interest.”

“I don't believe it,” the girl said, firmly. “Those things make me rather like you, while the others make--they make me--doubt.”

“Doubt? Oh, you odd little woman!” They had reached a spring which flowed from a great bed of rocks in the side of a rugged hill. He pointed to a flat stone quite near it. “Do you remember, Cynthia, the first time I ever had a talk with you? It was while we were seated on this very rock.”

She recalled it, but only nodded her head.

“It was a year ago,” he pursued. “You had on a pink dress and wore your hair like a little girl in a plait down your back. Cynthia, you were the prettiest creature I had ever seen. I could hardly talk to you for wondering over your dazzling beauty. You are even more beautiful now; you have ripened; you are the most graceful woman I ever saw, and your mouth!--Cynthia, I'll swear you have the most maddening mouth God ever made out of flesh, blood and--soul!” He caught her hand impulsively and sat down on the stone, drawing her steadily towards him.

She hesitated, looking back towards Baker's cottage.

“Sit down, little girl,” he entreated, “I'm tired. I've worked hard all day at the store, and that corn-shucking wasn't the best thing to taper off on.” She hesitated an instant longer, and then allowed him to draw her down beside him. “There, now,” he said. “That is more like it.” He still held her hand; it lay warm, pulsating and helpless in his strong, feverish grasp.

“Do you know why I did not kiss you back there?” he asked, suddenly.

“I don't know why you didn't, but it was good of you,” she answered.

“No, it wasn't,” he laughed. “I won't take credit for what I don't deserve. I simply put it off, Cynthia--put it off. I knew we would be alone on our way home, and that you would not refuse me.”

“But I shall!” she said, with a start. “I'm not going to let you kiss me here in--in this way.”

“Then you'll not pay the forfeit you owe,” he said, fondling her hand. “I've always considered you fair in everything, and, Cynthia, you don't know how much I want to kiss you. No, you won't refuse me--you can't.” His left arm was behind her, and it encircled her waist. She made an effort to draw herself erect, but he drew her closer to him. Her head sank upon his shoulder and lay there while he pressed his lips to hers.

Then she sat up, and firmly pushed his arm down from her waist.

“I'm sorry I let you do it,” she said, under her breath.

“But why, darling?”

“Because I've said a thousand times that I would not, but I have--I _have_, and I shall hate myself always.”

“When you have made me the happiest fellow in the state?” Floyd said, passionately. “Don't go,” he urged, for she had risen and drawn her hand from his and turned towards her home. He rose and stood beside her, suiting his step to hers.

“Do you remember the night we sat and talked in the grape-arbor behind your house?” he asked. “Well, you never knew it, but I've been there three nights within the last month, hoping that I'd get to see you by some chance or other. I always work late on my accounts, and when I am through, and the weather is fine, I walk to your house, climb over the fence, slip through the orchard, and sit in that arbor, trying to imagine you are there with me. I often see a light in your room, and the last time I became so desperate that I actually whistled for you. This way--” He put his thumb and little finger between his lips and made an imitation of a whippoorwill's call. “You see, no one could tell that from the real thing. If you ever hear that sound again in the direction of the grape-arbor you'll know I need you, little girl, and you must not disappoint me.”

“I'd never respond to it,” Cynthia said, firmly. “The idea of such a thing!”

“But you know I can't go to your house often with your mother opposing my visits as she does, and when I'm there she never leaves us alone. No, I must have you to myself once in a while, little woman, and you must help me. Remember, if I call you, I'll want you badly.” He whistled again, and the echo came back on the still air from a nearby hill-side. They were passing a log-cabin which stood a few yards from the road-side.