Part 21

“_Yes_-sum!” said Clem, eagerly awaiting a pause that he might interject this earnestly acquiescent formula. For all his bashfulness, he scarcely withdrew his eyes from her face. His manner, too, was sufficiently assured, but in every word he manifested his reverent humility, and his timidity, and his earnest repudiation of any sentiment or opinion, however dear, that might not coincide with hers. He would have found it hard, so beset was he by doubt and fear, to put his fate to the test at any time. But to go through all the decorous preliminaries of asking her hand and heart, without disclosing that he had been prompted by the encouragement which he had had from Andy Longwood’s report, was beginning to seem inconceivably hazardous to a transparent soul, who had never hidden an emotion in his life, or known a secret that he did not tell. He was wrestling with the anxiety of the consciousness of her preference and the necessity to make her suppose he knew nothing of it, when she suddenly spoke again. The mention of the guinea-hens reminded her of their donor, and of her ruse to take his weapon that he might do no harm. “Hev ye seen Andy Longwood ter-day?” she asked casually, seeking to know how far she had been successful.

It seemed to him in the moment that she had opened a way for him. “Yes-sum. That’s why I kem hyar,—straight, straight ez I hearn it. I felt so happy,—an’ yit I war ’feard ’twarn’t true. ’Twar true, Marcelly? ’Twar true, though?”

She looked up at him, startled and amazed at his vehemence; her eyes dilated, wonder in every eloquent trait. “What’s kem over ye, Clem Sanders? Air _what_ true?” she asked bluntly.

“Marcelly,” he replied, his voice trembling, “don’t git mad at me, no matter what happens; ye know I ain’t school-larned like yer dad.” This was merely a fortuitous stroke of policy, for his simple nature was not capable of attempting genuine strategy. “I dunno ef ye hev furgot, but Andy Longwood said ez ye ’lowed ter him ye war goin’ ter marry me; an’ the Lord knows I hev lived an’ breathed jes’ in that hope, ’pears ter me, ever sence I war alive’ but”—He stopped precipitately.

Her face was scarlet; her eyes flashed with a fire that seemed to scorch him.

“Did ye b’lieve _that_?” she cried contemptuously. “Did ye b’lieve I’d ’low sech ez that?—an’ I never did, ’ceptin’ ter nod my head when dad said ez much, kase the doctor ’lowed we mustn’t argufy an’ cross dad, an’ git him sot catawampus in his temper. Did ye ’low I’d say in earnest I’d marry a man ez never axed me?”

For once in his life Clem spoke to her with eager and decisive opposition. But even then it was prefaced with his suave “Yes-sum.” “But, shucks, Marcelly! Talk about axin’! Ye know I’d hev axed enny day in the year ez I warn’t afeard ter. Ye air obleeged ter know ’twar jes’ kase I war afeard ye’d say no. I kep’ a-puttin’ it off, ’lowin’ mebbe suthin’ mought happen ter make ye think mo’ of me.”

She was not appeased. “Waal,” she observed calmly, “I warn’t in earnest. I never thunk about marryin’ ye. An’ I won’t.”

“Yes-sum,” said Clem, crestfallen. “But ye’ll never git nobody, Marcelly, ez would try harder ter do jes’ like ye wanted him ter. I wouldn’t cross yer notions no way ye could fix ’em. These other boys in the Cove, ef ye air thinkin’ ’bout choosin’ one out’n Brumsaidge”—

“I don’t _choose_ folks. I ’lowed I hed tole ye that,” she responded, holding her head very high on her fine and delicate neck, and looking at him with her definite straight eyebrows frowningly meeting above her dark eyes, that seemed to him unnaturally clear and brilliant.

“Yes-sum. But howsomdever these other boys air powerful set in thar way, an’ some o’ thar ways ain’t pritty ones.” This as closely approached slander as the good Clem Sanders could compass. “They air toler’ble good boys,” he felt constrained to qualify, “but they wouldn’t be good fur ye ter marry. I tell ye, now, Marcelly, ye mought find a smarter man mos’ ennywhar,—though not a better blacksmith,—but ye’ll never find nobody ez loves ye like I do, an’ would take the pains ter please ye like I would, ef ye war ter marry me.”

“I hev got no sort’n notion o’ doin’ it,—never hed,” she declared bluntly.

“Yes-sum,” said Clem, infinitely cast down.

“I dunno ez I hev got ter marry enny o’ the boys in the Cove. I dunno ez I hev got ter marry ennybody,” she said loftily. “Some folks don’t.”

“Yes-sum; but didn’t they always ’pear ter you-uns ter be powerful lonesome?” he suggested humbly.

This did not altogether fail to take effect. She pondered silently for a time on this phase of a single life. Presently she remarked:—

“I wouldn’t be no lonesomer single ’n I’d be married ter _some_ folks.”

He interpreted this as a thrust at his own lack of certain congenial and companionable qualities which she esteemed essential.

“Yes-sum,” he replied, more cut down still.

Perhaps she felt some pang of pity for his disappointment; perhaps she was not now so angry as at first, because of his very natural mistake, and thought it the least brutal method of disposing of his superfluous heart to argue the uncongeniality of his interests and pursuits.

“An’ air yer ways so powerful pritty, Clem?” she demanded. “Cornsiderin’ how close we neighbor the forge, an’ hear the dancin’, an’ the fiddlin’, an’ the wrastlin’, an’ laffin’ ez goes on thar of a evenin’, I never expected ter live ter hear yer ways called pritty ones.”

“Yes-sum,” said Clem. “But ef ye’d marry me I’d stay home of a evenin’, an’ that thar forge would be dark an’ still enough I’ll be bound.”

“Waal, yer wife, whoever she’ll be, won’t want sech fiddlin’, an’ dancin’, an’ singin’ round her in her house of a evenin’ ez ye hev been useter, Clem. I can’t think o’ ye no ways but ez cavortin’,—though ye air mighty peaceable an’ quiet, an’ _kin_ behave some similar ter a mouse whenst ye kem visitin’ the gals.”

“Yes-sum,” said poor Clem. “But I don’t visit no gals but you-uns.”

“Laws-a-massy! An’ jes’ think how Is’bel an’ granny hev been gin over ter pride, bein’ ez they ’lowed ye kem a-visitin’ them!” There was a wicked gleam in her eye as she sped this dart. “Naw, naw! everybody knows the name that thar forge hev got!”

“Yes-sum.” He hesitated for a moment; then he said, looking at her, his jaw growing square and determined, his expression changing with this infusion of more mundane matters into his thoughts, “Thar ain’t a-goin’ ter be enny mo’ o’ them queer midnight goin’s-on at the forge, Marcelly, arter this,—ye mark my words.” Then, as if he fancied he had spoken too roughly, he hastened to say, apropos of nothing, “Yes-sum,” and cleared his throat.

Marcella sat feeling stunned for a moment. Could he have known, in some inexplicable way, of the discovery that she had made at the forge in the wild, stormy midnight? Was he indeed aware of the intrusion of Jake Baintree and the stranger, who worked the bellows, and wielded the hammer and sledge, and were frightened when interrupted, and who came forth only to give aid for humanity’s sake? She would not forget that they gave aid, whatever might happen, she said to herself.

He did not interpret her expression aright; he only saw that she was at a loss.

“Hain’t ye never hearn what happened at the forge arter Pa’son Donnard ’lowed he seen the devil thar?”

“Naw,” she said, fixing her eyes gravely on him.

Her interest in the subject emboldened him to sit beside her on the log, but as he bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at her, he only saw her profile; for she listened silently, flattering him with her air of attention, but did not turn her head.

“Waal, arter the pa’son seen the devil thar I felt toler’ble tormented, an’ sorter kep’ a lookout on the forge; an’ one night, ’bout midnight” (Marcella’s foot stirred uneasily amongst the pine cones; her face was a trifle paler than its wont; her lips were slightly compressed), “I hearn the hammer an’ the sledge a-poundin’ an’ the bellows a-roarin’, an’ fur all ’twar a moonlight night”—

“Oh, moonlight!” exclaimed Marcella with a note of relief.

“Yes-sum, bright moonlight—but I could see the forge fire a-flarin’ through the chinkin’. Waal, I dunno what got inter me, but I felt obligated ter know ef that thar dead Clem Sanders—Ye hearn’ bout _him_, didn’t ye, what pa’son purtended ter see?” He spoke with acerbity and a curling lip.

Marcella nodded.

“I wanted ter see ef _he_ war thar agin, with the devil mebbe a-strikin’ fur him. Waal, I war so darned clumsy an’ awk’ard I fell down flop agin the window-shutter; an’ I hev got purty fur ter fall, an’ thar’s a heap o’ me ter topple, an’ I like ter hev busted the side o’ the house down. An’ when I got up thar war no light, nor sound, nor nuthin’; jes’ a leetle mite o’ a live-coal on the ha’th, an’ the anvil a-singin’. Waal, I lowed ’twar Satan, till Jube Donnard—ye know, the pa’son’s son, a darned tattler!—he went an’ tole it all ter his dad. An’ ef ye’ll b’lieve me, that thar godly old man did go an’ prop hisself on the side o’ the mounting ter git a view o’ Satan,—wanted ter see him!”

“The pa’son!” exclaimed Marcella, vaguely scandalized.

“Yes-sum, the pa’son! An’ I tole Jube I would never listen ter him preach no mo’—enny godly man ez hankered ter view the devil agin, arter hevin’ viewed him wunst! An’ a-skitterin’ out in the middle o’ the night, like he war one o’ the boys, along with that thar caper-y Jube! Sometimes I feel like _I_ be too pious _myself_ ter ’sociate with the pa’son’s son. An’ Jube up-ed an’ ’lowed ez he didn’t keer whether I went ter hell through neglectin’ means o’ grace an’ the pa’son’s sermons or jes’ from active wickedness, an’ ez his fambly hed no contrac’, ez he knowed on, ter land _me_ on the golden shore! Jube say him an’ his mam ain’t the pa’son, an’ nuthin’ like it, an’ the congregation hain’t got a mortgage on nare hair o’ thar heads, though the pa’son ’lows ez his flock owns him.”

Clem repeated the sharp retort of his friend without any show of temper, as if he were merely interested in setting the purport of the conversation before Marcella. She kept quite still, her hands holding the bunch of herbs, her eyes meditative and yet attentive. She seemed to pursue a definite train of thought, which she in some sort modified and adjusted in reference to his disclosure. He had never talked so much in all his life. He found a new and unique pleasure in sitting beside Marcella, feeling liberated in some sort, since Mrs. Strobe’s sarcasms no longer paralyzed his simple modes of thought, nor Isabel’s pert interruptions embarrassed him and cut him short. Marcella seemed willing, nay, eager, to hear, and how glad he was to tell! Always afterward he associated the place with that happy hour: the drear season of autumn seemed the choicest time of the year. How should he take heed now that the splendor of the turn of the leaf was but a hectic red and presage of death; that the sun would be but a cold glitter for a time; that snows were garnering somewhere; and many things light and blithe—that bird in its poise on the golden-rod, the squirrel frisking along the tree, even a deer of which they had a sudden glimpse, approaching in a silent interval, thrusting out its graceful head, with startled lustrous eyes, from the laurel not twenty yards away, and disappearing at the sight of them—all should die under the rigors of the hard winter coming. He saw only how Marcella’s hair waved, how fair of face she was, how the sunlight crept to her feet and crouched there, like a tame thing, casting a yellow brilliancy into her brown eyes as she looked down. It was an undreamed-of delight, this choice confidence, and she might be sure of hearing all to which she would listen; he had forgotten the doubtful past and his fears for the future in the rich flavor of the exquisite present.

“Ye see, Marcelly, Jube air one o’ them boys ez tell all they know, an’ ain’t got no sort’n jedgmint; though he’s good-hearted, Jube is, an’ him an’ me useter play roun’ the wood-pile in the chips tergether ’fore we-uns could walk. An’ so we be toler’ble friendly. An’ though Jube tells on me ter the pa’son, he kems back an’ tells on the pa’son ter me.”

His eyes twinkled, for he thought that, having little to lose, he might endure Jube’s frankness better than the parson, who must be flawless. Then his face grew grave with a certain reflective intentness; a prescient excitement was kindling in his eye.

“Waal, Jube say that night whilst him an’ the pa’son roosted like two demented tur-rkey gawblers up thar on them big bluffs right above my forge, they seen no devils, but about midnight two men kem along the road,—powerful dark night it war; they kem gingerly along, an’ Jube say they stopped right thar in front o’ the door o’ the shop. Jube say he knows, kase he hearn one o’ ’em rattlin’ the latch I put on them big doors ter keep ’em from blowin’ open in the wind. An’ then Jube, stiddier waitin’ fur ’em ter go in an’ see what they’d do, jes’ ’lowed he’d skeer ’em, an’ he flapped his arms an’ crowed—Ye ever hear Jube crow?” he demanded suddenly, breaking off.

She shook her head slowly from side to side, although she refrained from saying that she did not covet the privilege in future.

“Yes-sum. Waal, sir,” continued Clem in pride, “he kin crow like a sure-enough, reg’lar rooster,—ye’d think ’twar haffen a dozen poultry. Skeered the pa’son, sir, bein’ so onexpected, mighty nigh ter death. Jube can’t keep from laffin’ now whenst he tells ’bout’n it, though he say he knows the devil will burn him well fur laffin’ at his dad. An’ them men, they hollered an’ runned a leetle way. An’ then they stopped an’ hailed Jube. An’ all of a suddenly the sheet-lightning flickered up, broad an’ steady, an’ he seen who ’twar.”

Marcella’s cheek was burning; her excited bright eyes were still cast down, and how the sunlight at her feet flared luminously into their limpid depths! She could hardly wait to hear, although she knew before she heard.

Clem lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “’Twar Jake Baintree, one of ’em,” he said. “An’ the t’other Jube hed never seen afore,—dressed diffe’nt, some similar ter town folks, some o’ the boys say, from what Jube tells: tall, with sandy whiskers, an’ light, an’ quick-steppin’. Oh, Jube will know him agin, ef ever he gits a show at him!”

There was a sort of savage exultation in his voice, and in his face as he nodded his head to one side with a burly gesture of triumphant forecast.

Marcella felt a sudden cold thrill. She turned her head, and her eyes met his. “How does Jube expec’ ter see him agin? What’s he contrivin’ ter do?”

Even Clem Sanders hesitated, conscious that in this lure of happiness he had been led too far. The secret he would not have deemed safe with any woman. Had she been the wife that he wished to make her, he might have contrived to shift, to evade, to postpone. She was not married to him, and he could deny her nothing.

“Yes-sum,” he began, with polite preface; “but don’t let them boys know ez I hev tole ye, Marcelly, else they’d string me up ter a tree. Thar’s a lot of ’em a-layin’ fur Jake an’ that strange man.”

“What air they a-goin’ ter do ter ’em?” Her voice had risen from its mellow contralto tones into a husky shrillness that was a note of fear, presaging horror.

Clem Sanders’s sensibilities were not acute, and he did not recognize its meaning.

“That depends on what sort’n account they kin gin o’ tharselves.”

He was flattering himself that he had succeeded in so interesting her, and as he looked at her his long and narrow eyes smiled brightly, in the full faith of pleasing her.

“Gin an account o’ tharselves?” she murmured ponderingly. She remembered how fragmentary and indefinite had been their explanation of their intrusion at the forge and of the stranger’s presence in the mountains. This, she was sure, would fail to satisfy aught but gratitude that in its fullness was content to abate even curiosity. How should it satisfy antagonistic, suspicious, even cruel men, who had set themselves to spy, to judge, to punish? The rough habits of the region, the lawless justice sometimes meted out by the arbitrary tribunals who claimed the preservation of local morals as within their exclusive jurisdiction, were only too familiar to her. She realized with a quick throb of the heart that these men were in danger. They had involved themselves in mystery; their midnight intrusions at the forge could hardly be easily explained and innocently accounted for, or they would not have been secret. She was aware, too, of that insurmountable inequality which character creates in equal conditions. Had it been Bassett and Jube Donnard who, for secret purposes of their own, had invaded the smith’s forge and cloaked their comings and goings in mystery, it would have been hard to rouse Broomsedge Cove to any sense of wrong that the owner might have sustained, or any threatened security of the public peace and honor. Far less leniently regarded would be the same deeds wrought in the same way by Jake Baintree, who according to public opinion had escaped the gallows by a technicality, and this stranger, a physician, a learned man, lurking in his company, probably seeking to evade the vengeance of the law for some dark deed that she shuddered to more definitely imagine. Doubtless they were in danger.

She had strong nerves. There was nothing partisan in her manner as she said, “How do ye know they ever war in the forge a-workin’ an’ sech? Ez ter Jube, I don’t set no store by Jube’s seein’. He kin see ennything he air a mind ter,—or else _say_ he hev seen it. Mought be Satan, sure enough.”

“Yes-sum,” acquiesced Clem. “It air somebody ez ain’t used ter the blacksmithin’ business, fur no good smith would hev let that thar leetle bend in my leetle tongs git bruk off that-a-way, an’ then botch it a-mendin’ it. That hurt my feelin’s wuss ’n all,—the way he done the work.” He shook his head, grieved at the artificer’s incapacity. “But sence Jube knowed ez ’twar Jake Baintree at the latch, the boys don’t b’lieve in the devil no mo’,—leastwise not at the forge, ’thout it’s him along o’ Jake. Jake’s ekal ter ennythin’. Ye know he killed Sam’l Keale.”

“He never!” Marcella burst forth suddenly. “_Dad_ say he never!”

“Yes-sum.” Clem made haste to agree. “Ye know, though, that’s what them fellers up an’ down declar’.”

Marcella was silent for a moment, regretting her display of feeling, but Clem, alarmed for the progress which he fancied he had made in her good graces, proceeded with the subject in which she so evidently felt an interest.

“They—whoever they air—hain’t been ter the forge more ’n a few times, an’ that’s a fac’,—the night whenst I saw it lighted up, an’ the time when they tried ter git in, an’ Jube skeered ’em off; arter that the boys began ter set up reg’lar fur ’em.”

“Whar?” she exclaimed, aghast; then recollecting herself, she asked more calmly, “Wharbouts, Clem?”

“At my house. Night arter night ’bout ten of ’em hev kem thar with thar rifles, an’ watched that thar forge fur a glimge o’ light through the chinkin’, an’ listened fur the hammer an’ sledge. But them two hevn’t never lit up the forge but twict,—the time I seen it, an’ Gid Dake seen it wunst afore that. Though some say they b’lieve ’twar lighted that night o’ the big storm; the boys kem ter watch, but it ’peared so durned rainy they ’lowed ’twarn’t no use.”

So the vigilantes had nodded while she made her perilous journey to the forge, that terrible night, and brought help thence. She trembled to think how slight a thing had saved the two intruders.

“They hain’t done much harm,—jes’ three times sence the first of August, an’ this air deep in the fall o’ the year,” she commented.

“Yes-sum,” assented Clem. “But nobody knows what harm they air doin’, an’ what mo’ they air goin’ ter do. Ef it’s good, ’tain’t apt ter be hid.”

“I dunno who sets them Brumsaidge boys up ter jedge,” she said angrily, abandoning argument for more facile depreciation.

“Yes-sum,” said Clem blandly. “But they ain’t the sort ter wait ter be set; they jes’ set tharse’fs up,—with thar rifles ter prop ’em,” he added, carrying out the figure.

There was a troubled restlessness in her anxious bright eyes, a pathetic droop in her red lips. She looked deeply thoughtful, careful, plotting, as she said:—

“I wonder at ye, Clem Sanders, knowin’ ez ye do ez sech ez that air agin the law, to capture them men; an’ ef thar ’count o’ tharselves don’t suit ye foolish Brumsaidge pates, a-shootin’ them two fellers, or stringin’ ’em up. An’ ye a-lettin’ them spies an’ lynchers ter meet at yer house ter watch an’ lie in wait!”

“Yes-sum. Laws-a-massy, Marcelly,” exclaimed Clem, enlightened and precipitate, “ef ye don’t want ’em ter kem ter my house an’ spy, I’ll run ’em every one off from thar,—every mother’s son of ’em, ef I hev ter shoot a hole through every man’s head ter git him started. Say the word, Marcelly!” he cried, in the enthusiasm of his prospective obedience. “Say the word!”

Marcella was mechanically tearing the herbs into bits in her trembling hands, as she sat and thought,—significant thoughts, since the lives of two men, perchance, hung upon them.

“That wouldn’t do no good,” she remarked presently. “They’d jes’ take tharselves ter watchin’ somewhar else.” After a moment she added bitterly, “Ye know how sech men be: gin ’em a notion arter blood, an’ it’s no mo’ use ter call ’em off ’n ’tis ter blow yer horn fur a hound ez air followin’ on a hot scent. Thar’s some hound an’ some painter an’ some fox in sech men,” the soft-faced young cynic declared.

“Yes-sum,” faltered Clem Sanders. He sat dumfounded for a moment, the significance of her troubled mien gradually dawning on his slow perceptions. “Laws-a-massy, Marcelly,” he cried, “ef ye want me ter, I’ll jes’ let them men work in my forge ez a constancy, scot-free. I won’t gredge ’em nuthin’, though they bruk up every tool in my shop, an’”—his face clouded—“mended ’em arterward. I will say I never see sech work,—the man oughter be ’shamed! I dunno whar in Kingdom Come he could hev larnt his trade,—sech larnin’ ez he hev got. But I’ll take Jake Baintree an’ that strange man, ef he war the devil, inter partnership, ef ’twill please you-uns. That’s all I live fur, Marcelly,—ter please you-uns. Ef ye will marry me,” he continued, leaning nearer to her,—“ef ye’ll marry me”—

“Oh,” exclaimed the girl, with a gesture of impatient repudiation, “Ye air so tormentin’ tiresome.”

“Yes-sum,” said Clem, drawing back, rebuked, but not alienated.

“Would enny other mortal on the yearth ’low I’d marry a man so ez ter git his cornsent fur two other idle idjits ter hev the run of his forge?”

Clem thought that it would be better for all concerned if the “other idjits” were idle, but he only murmured, “Naw’m,” and listened with respectful and earnest attention as she went on.

“I ain’t got no wish ’bout’n ’em, ’ceptin’ I don’t want ’em kilt nor hurted no ways,—jes’ fur thar sake, not mine; jes’ kase they air folks, an’ hev got a right ter live till thar Maker calls ’em. Takes a man ter expec’ ter git suthin’ fur hisself ter pay him fur every leetle favior he does fur other folks.”

She was fast becoming pessimistic under the stress of her fears, and her perplexities, and her consequent anxious irritation.

“Yes-sum,” said Clem in humble concession. Then plucking up, “I jes’ mean ter say, Marcelly, ez I would do ennything ter pleasure you-uns, an’ ef ye want them men ter work in my forge, they kin do it an’ welcome!”