The Re-Creation of Brian Kent
by Harold Bell Wright · English · Gutenberg #3265 · 395,205 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Re-Creation of Brian Kent
Author: Harold Bell Wright
Release date: June 3, 2006 [eBook #3265]
Most recently updated: March 16, 2018
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3265
Credits: Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT ***
Produced by Donald Lainson
THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT
By Harold Bell Wright
DEAR AUNTIE SUE:
I have wondered many times, while writing this simple story of life and
love, if you would ever forgive me for putting you in a book. I hope you
will, because if you do not, I shall be heartbroken, and you wouldn't
want me that way, would you, Auntie Sue?
I fancy I can hear you say: “But, Harold, how COULD you! You know I
never did the things you have made me do in your story. You know I never
lived in a little log house by the river in the Ozark Mountains! What in
the world will people think!”
Well, to tell the truth, dear, I don't care so very much what people
think if only they will love you; and that they are sure to do,
because,--well, just because--You must remember, too, that you will
be eighty-seven years old the eighteenth of next November, and it is
therefore quite time that someone put you in a book.
And, after all, Auntie Sue, are you very sure that you have never lived
in a little log house by the river,--are you very sure, Auntie Sue?
Forgive my impertinence, as you have always forgiven me everything;
and love me just the same, because I have written only in love of the
dearest Auntie Sue in the world!
Signature [Harold]
The Glenwood Mission Inn, Riverside, California, April 30, 1919.
“And see the rivers, how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,--
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep
Like human life to endless sleep!”
John Dyer--“Grongar Hill.”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A REMARKABLE WOMAN
II. THE MAN IN THE DARK
III. A MISSING LETTER
IV. THE WILL OF THE RIVER
V. AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN
VI. IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER
VII. OFFICERS OF THE LAW
VIII. THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW
IX. AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION
X. BRIAN KENT DECIDES
XI. RE-CREATION
XII. AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE
XIII. JUDY TO THE RESCUE
XIV. BETTY JO CONSIDERS
XV. A MATTER OF BUSINESS
XVI. THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE
XVII. AN AWKWARD SITUATION
XVIII. BETTY JO FACES HERSELF
XIX. JUDY'S CONFESSION
XX. BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE
XXI. THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW
XXII. AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK
XXIII. IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS
XXIV. JUDY'S RETURN
XXV. THE RIVER
ILLUSTRATIONS
BETTY JO
“LOOK, JUDY! LOOK!”
AUNTIE SUE SAID, SOFTLY, “SHE DID NOT UNDERSTAND, BRIAN.”
...SHE MADE THE LITTLE BOOK OF PAINFUL MEMORIES A BOOK OF JOYOUS
PROMISE.
THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT
CHAPTER I.
A REMARKABLE WOMAN.
I remember as well as though it were yesterday the first time I met
Auntie Sue.
It happened during my first roaming visit to the Ozarks, when I had
wandered by chance, one day, into the Elbow Rock neighborhood. Twenty
years it was, at least, before the time of this story. She was standing
in the door of her little schoolhouse, the ruins of which you may still
see, halfway up the long hill from the log house by the river, where the
most of this story was lived.
It was that season of the year when the gold and brown of our Ozark
Hills is overlaid with a filmy veil of delicate blue haze and the world
is hushed with the solemn sweetness of the passing of the summer. And as
the old gentlewoman stood there in the open door of that rustic temple
of learning, with the deep-shadowed, wooded hillside in the background,
and, in front, the rude clearing with its crooked rail fence along which
the scarlet sumac flamed, I thought,--as I still think, after all these
years,--that I had never before seen such a woman.
Fifty years had gone into the making of that sterling character which
was builded upon a foundation of many generations of noble ancestors.
Without home or children of her own, the life strength of her splendid
womanhood had been given to the teaching of boys and girls. An old-maid
schoolteacher? Yes,--if you will. But, as I saw her standing there that
day,--tall and slender, dressed in a simple gown that was fitting to her
work,--there was a queenly dignity, a stately sweetness, in her bearing
that made me feel, somehow, as if I had come unexpectedly into the
presence of royalty. Not the royalty of caste and court and station with
their glittering pretenses of superiority and their superficial claims
to distinction,--I do not mean that; I mean that true royalty which
needs no caste or court or station but makes itself felt because it IS.
She did not notice me at first, for the noise of the children at play in
the yard covered the sound of my approach, and she was looking far, far
away, over the river which lay below at the foot of the hill; over the
forest-clad mountains in the glory of their brown and gold; over the
vast sweep of the tree-crowned Ozark ridges that receded wave after wave
into the blue haze until, in the vastness of the distant sky, they were
lost. And something made me know that, in the moment's respite from her
task, the woman was looking even beyond the sky itself.
Her profile, clean-chiselled, but daintily formed, was beautiful in its
gentle strength. Her hair was soft and silvery like the gray mist of the
river in the morning. Then she turned to greet me, and I saw her eyes.
Boy that I was then, and not given overmuch to serious thought, I knew
that the high, unwavering purpose, the loving sympathy, and tender
understanding that shone in the calm depth of those eyes could belong
only to one who habitually looks unafraid beyond all earthly scenes.
Only those who have learned thus to look beyond the material horizon of
our little day have that beautiful inner light which shone in the eyes
of Auntie Sue--the teacher of a backwoods school.
Auntie Sue had come to the Elbow Rock neighborhood the summer preceding
that fall when I first met her. She had grown too old, she said, with
her delightful little laugh, to be of much use in the larger schools of
the more thickly populated sections of the country. But she was still
far too young, she stoutly maintained, to be altogether useless.
Tom Warden, who lived just over the ridge from the schoolhouse, and
who was blessed with the largest wife, the largest family, and the most
pretentious farm in the county, had kinsfolk somewhere in Illinois.
Through these relatives of the Ozark farmer Miss Susan Wakefield had
learned of the needs of the Elbow Rock school, and so, finally, had
come into the hills. It was the influential Tom who secured for her the
modest position. It was the motherly Mrs. Tom who made her at home in
the Warden household. It was the Warden boys and girls who first called
her “Auntie Sue.” But it was Auntie Sue herself who won so large a place
in the hearts of the simple mountain folk of the district that she
held her position year after year, until she finally gave up teaching
altogether.
Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know in detail the history of
this remarkable woman's life. It was known in a general way that she
was born in Connecticut; that she had a brother somewhere in some
South-American country; that two other brothers had been killed in the
Civil War; that she had taught in the lower and intermediate grades of
public schools in various places all the years of her womanhood. Also,
it was known that she had never married.
“And that,” said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion,
of the countryside, “is a doggone funny thing and plumb unnatural,
considerin' the kind of woman she is.”
To which Lem Jordan,--who was then living with his fourth wife, and
might therefore be held to speak with a degree of authority,--added:
“Hit sure is a dad burned shame, an' a plumb disgrace to the men of this
here country, when you come to look at the sort of wimmen most of 'em
are a marryin' most of the time.”
Another matter of universal and never-failing interest to the mountain
folk was the unprecedented number of letters that Auntie Sue received
and wrote. That some of these letters written by their backwoods teacher
were addressed to men and women of such prominence in the world that
their names were known even to that remote Ozark district was a source
of no little pride to Auntie Sue's immediate neighbors, and served to
mark her in their eyes with no small distinction.
It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of this
story,--as I recall time,--that Auntie Sue invested the small savings
of her working years in the little log house by the river and the eighty
acres of land known as the “Old Bill Wilson place.”
The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a lean-to kitchen,
and a porch overlooking the river. The log barn, with “Prince,” a gentle
old horse, and “Bess,” a mild-mannered, brindle cow, completed the
modest establishment. About thirty acres of the land were cleared and
under cultivation of a sort. The remaining acreage was in timber.
The price, under the kindly and expert supervision of Tom Warden, was
fifteen dollars an acre. But Auntie Sue always laughingly insisted that
she really paid fifty cents an acre for the land and fourteen dollars
and a half an acre for the sunsets.
The tillable land, except for the garden, she “let out on shares,”
always under the friendly guardianship of neighbor Tom; while Tom's boys
cared for the little garden in season, and saw to it that the woodpile
was always ample and ready for the stove. And, in addition to these
fixed and regular homely services, there were many offerings of helpful
hands whenever other needs arose; for, as time passed, there came to be
in all the Elbow Rock district scarce a man, young or old, who did not
now and then honor himself by doing some little job for Auntie Sue;
while the women and girls, in the same neighborly spirit, brought from
their own humble households many tokens of their loving thoughtfulness.
And never did one visit that little log house by the river without
the consciousness of something received from the silvery-haired old
teacher--a something intangible, perhaps, which they could not have
expressed in words, but which, nevertheless, enriched the lives of
those simple mountain people with a very real joy and a very tangible
happiness.
For six years, Auntie Sue continued teaching the Elbow Rock
school;--climbing the hill in the morning from her log house by the
river to the cabin schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side
above; returning in the late afternoon, when her day's work was over,
down the winding road to her little home, there to watch, from the porch
that overlooked the river, the sunset in the evening. And every year the
daily climb grew a little harder; the days of work grew a little longer;
she went down the hill in the afternoon a little slower. And every year
the sunsets were to her eyes more beautiful; the evening skies to her
understanding glowed with richer meaning; the twilight hours filled her
heart with a deeper peace.
And so, at last, her teaching days were over; that is, she taught no
more in the log schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side. But
in her little home beside the river she continued her work; not from
text-books, indeed, but as all such souls must continue to teach, until
the sun sets for the last time upon their mortal days.
Work-worn, toil-hardened mountaineer mothers, whose narrow world denied
them so many of the finer thoughts and things, came to counsel with
this childless woman, and to learn from her a little of the art of
contentment and happiness. Strong men, of rude dress and speech, whose
lives were as rough as the hills in which they were reared, and whose
thoughts were often as crude as their half-savage and sometimes lawless
customs, came to sit at the feet of this gentle one, who received them
all with such kindly interest and instinctive understanding. And young
men and girls came, drawn by the magic that was hers, to confide in
this woman who listened with such rare tact and loving sympathy to their
troubles and their dreams, and who, in the deepest things of their young
lives, was mother to them all.
Nor were the mountain folk her only disciples. Always there were the
letters she continued to write, addressed to almost every corner of
the land. And every year there would come, for a week or a month, at
different times during the summer, men and women from the great world of
larger affairs who had need of the strength and courage and patience and
hope they never failed to find in that little log house by the river.
And so, in time, it came to be known that those letters written by
Auntie Sue went to men and women who, in their childhood school days,
had received from her their first lessons in writing; and that her
visitors, many of them distinguished in the world of railroads and
cities, were of that large circle of busy souls who had never ceased to
be her pupils.
Thus it came that the garden was made a little larger, and two rooms
were added to the house, with other modest improvements, to accommodate
Auntie Sue's grown-up boys and girls when they came to visit her. But
never was there a hired servant, so that her guests must do their own
household tasks, because, Auntie Sue said, that was good for them and
mostly what they needed.
It should also be said here that among her many pupils who lived beyond
the sky-line of the far, blue hills, not one knew more of the
real secret of Auntie Sue's life and character than did the Ozark
mountaineers of the Elbow Rock district, among whom she had chosen to
pass the evening of her day.
Then came one who learned the secret. He learned--but that is my story.
I must not tell the secret here.
CHAPTER II.
THE MAN IN THE DARK.
A man stood at a window, looking out into the night. There was no light
in the room. The stars were hidden behind a thick curtain of sullen
clouds.
The house was a wretchedly constructed, long-neglected building of
a type common to those old river towns that in their many years of
uselessness have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultant
squalor and filth have buried their self-respect. A dingy, scarcely
legible sign over the treacherous board walk, in front, by the sickly
light of a smoke-grimed kerosene lantern, announced that the place was a
hotel.
Dark as it was, the man at the window could see the river. The trees
that lined the bank opposite the town were mere ghostly shadows against
the gloomy masses of the low hills that rose from the water's edge,
indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the threatening sky. The higher
mountains that reared their crests beyond the hills were invisible. The
stream itself swept sullenly through the night,--a resistless flood of
dismal power, as if, turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes and
ruined dreams of men, it was fit only to bear vessels freighted with
sorrow, misfortune, and despair.
The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of the
melancholy scene were calling him. With head bowed, and face turned a
little to one side, he listened intently as one listens to voices that
are muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, and
with straining eyes tried to see more clearly the ghostly trees, the
sombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from the
window to pace to and fro in the darkened room, and every time his steps
brought him again to the casement, as if in obedience to some insistent
voice that summoned him. The fourth time, he turned from the window more
quickly, with a gesture of assenting decision.
The crackling snap of a match broke the dead stillness. The sudden flare
of light stabbed the darkness. As he applied the tiny, wavering flame
to the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old-fashioned bureau, the
man's hand shook until the chimney rattled against the wire standards of
the burner. Turning quickly from the lighted lamp, the man sprang again
to the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade. Facing about, he
stood with his back to the wall, searching the room with wide, fearful
eyes. His fists were clenched. His chest rose and fell heavily with his
labored breathing. His face worked with emotion. With trembling limbs
and twitching muscles, he crouched like some desperate creature at bay.
But, save for the wretched man himself, there was in that shabby,
dingy-papered, dirty-carpeted, poorly furnished apartment no living
thing.
Suddenly, the man laughed;--and it was the reckless, despairing laughter
of a soul that feels itself slipping over the brink of an abyss.
With hurried step and outstretched hands, he crossed the room to snatch
a bottle of whisky from its place beside the lamp on the bureau. With
trembling eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half-full of the red
liquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Drawing a deep breath, and
shaking his head with a wry smile, he spoke in hoarse confidence to the
image of himself in the dingy mirror: “They nearly had me, that time.”
Again, he poured, and drank.
The whisky steadied him for the moment, and with bottle and glass still
in hand, he regarded himself in the mirror with critical interest.
Had he stood erect, with the vigor that should have been his by right of
his years, the man would have measured just short of six feet; but his
shoulders--naturally well set--sagged with the weariness of excessive
physical indulgence; while the sunken chest, the emaciated limbs, and
the dejected posture of his misused body made him in appearance, at
least, a wretched weakling. His clothing--of good material and well
tailored--was disgustingly soiled and neglected;--the shoes thickly
coated with dried mud, and the once-white shirt, slovenly unfastened at
the throat, without collar or tie. The face which looked back from the
mirror to the man was, without question, the countenance of a gentleman;
but the broad forehead under the unkempt red-brown hair was furrowed
with anxiety; the unshaven cheeks were lined and sunken; the finely
shaped, sensitive mouth drooped with nervous weakness; and the blue,
well-placed eyes were bloodshot and glittering with the light of
near-insanity.
The poor creature looked at the hideous image of his ruined self as
if fascinated with the horror of that which had been somehow wrought.
Slowly, as one in a trance, he went closer, and, without moving his gaze
from the mirror, placed the bottle and tumbler upon the bureau. As if
compelled by those burning eyes that stared so fixedly at him, he leaned
forward still closer to the glass. Then, as he looked, the distorted
features twitched and worked grotesquely with uncontrollable emotions,
while the quivering lips formed words that were not even whispered. With
trembling fingers he felt the unshaven cheeks and touched the unkempt
hair questioningly. Suddenly, as if to shut out the horror of that which
he saw in the mirror, the man hid his face in his hands, and with a
sobbing, inarticulate cry sank to the floor.
Silently, with pitiless force, the river swept onward through the night,
following its ordained way to the mighty sea.
As if summoned again by some dark spirit that brooded over the sombre,
rushing flood, the man rose heavily to his feet. His face turned once
more toward the window. A moment he stood there, listening, listening;
then wheeling back to the whisky bottle and the glass on the bureau, he
quickly poured, and drank again.
Nodding his head in the manner of one reaching a conclusion, he looked
slowly about the room, while a frightful grin of hopeless, despairing
triumph twisted his features, and his lips moved as if he breathed
reckless defiance to an invisible ghostly company.
Moving, now, with a decision and purpose that suggested a native
strength of character, the man quickly packed a suit-case with various
articles of clothing from the bureau drawers and the closet. He was in
the act of closing the suit-case when he stopped suddenly, and, with
a shrug of his shoulders, turned away. Then, as if struck by another
thought, he stooped again over his baggage, and drew forth a fresh,
untouched bottle of whisky.
“I guess you are the only baggage I'll need where I am going,” he said,
whimsically; and, leaving the open suit-case where it lay, he crossed
the room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he unlocked and opened
the door. For a moment, he stood listening. Then, with the bottle hidden
under his coat, he stole softly from the room.
A few minutes later, the man stood out there in the night, on the bank
of the river. Behind him the outlines of the scattered houses that made
the little town were lost against the dusk of the hillside. From the
ghostly tree-shadows that marked the opposite bank, the solemn hills
rose out of the deeper darkness of the lowlands that edged the stream
in sombre mystery. There was no break in the heavy clouds to permit the
gleam of a friendly star. There was no sound save the soft swish of the
water against the bank where he stood, the chirping of a bird in the
near-by willows, and the occasional splash of a leaping fish or water
animal. But to the man there was a feeling of sound. To the lonely human
wreck standing there in the darkness, the river called--called with
fearful, insistent power.
From under the black wall of the night the dreadful flood swept out of
the Somewhere of its beginning. Past the man the river poured its mighty
strength with resistless, smoothly flowing, terrible force. Into the
darkness it swept on its awful way to the Nowhere of its ending. For
uncounted ages, the river had poured itself thus between those walls of
hills. For untold ages to come, until the end of time itself, the stream
would continue to pour its strength past that spot where the man stood.
Out of the night, the voice of the river had called to the man, as he
stood at the window of his darkened room. And the man had come, now, to
answer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward the edge of
the dark, swirling water. His purpose was unmistakable. Nor was there
any hint of faltering, now, in his manner. He had reached his decision.
He knew what he had come to do.
The man's feet were feeling the mud at the margin of the stream when his
legs touched something, and a low, rattling sound startled him. Then
he remembered. A skiff was moored there, and he had brushed against the
chain that led from the bow of the boat to the stump of a willow higher
up on the bank. The man had seen the skiff,--a rude, flat-bottomed
little craft, known to the Ozark natives as a John-boat,--just before
sunset that evening. But there had been no boat in his thoughts when he
had come to answer the call of the river, and in the preoccupation of
his mind, as he stood there in the night beside the stream, he had not
noticed it, as it lay so nearly invisible in the darkness. Mechanically,
he stooped to feel the chain with his free hand. A moment later, he had
placed his bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was loosing the
chain painter from the willow stump.
“Why not?” he said to himself. “It will be easier in midstream,--and
more certain.”
Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed the
chain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it pointed out
into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little
craft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed
vigorously with his free foot against the bank and so was carried well
out from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong current
caught it and whirled it away down the river.
Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and working
the cork out with his pocketknife, drank long and deep.
Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. As
the man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream swung
his drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadful
mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very far
away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had
obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he
saw his empty boat swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would it
drift? To what port would the mysterious will of the river carry it? To
what end would it at last come in its helplessness?
And the man himself,--the human soul-craft,--what of him? As he had
pushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided and
helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of
all that men call life. Through what scenes would he drift? To what port
would the will of an awful invisible stream carry him? To what end would
he finally come, in his helplessness?
Again the man drank--and again.
And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed
aloud--laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and the
voices of the night were hushed and still.
The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell.
Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his clenched
fist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life he had left
behind.
The current whirled the boat around, and the man faced down the stream.
He laughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a reckless,
profane toast to the unknown toward which he was being carried by the
river in the night.
CHAPTER III.
A MISSING LETTER.
Auntie Sue's little log house by the river was placed some five
hundred yards back from the stream, on a bench of land at the foot
of Schoolhouse Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to the
river-bank, which, at this point, is sheer and high enough to be well
above the water at flood periods. The road, winding down the hill,
turns to the right at the foot of the steep grade, and leads away up the
river; and between the road and the river, on the up-stream side of the
house, was the garden.
At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the strong
current had cut a deep inward curve in the high shore-line, forming thus
an eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal stage of water, by
a narrow shelf of land between the water's edge and the foot of the
main bank. A flight of rude steps led down from the garden above to this
natural landing, which, for three miles up and down the river, was
the only point, on Auntie Sue's side of the stream, where one could go
ashore from a skiff.
From the porch of the house, one, facing up the river, looked over the
gently sloping garden, over the eddy lying under the high bank, and away
over a beautiful reach of water known as The Bend,--a wide, sweeping
curve which, a mile distant, is lost behind a wooded bluff where, at
times, during the vacation or hunting season, one might see the smoke
from the stone chimney of a clubhouse which was built and used by people
who lived in the big, noisy city many miles from the peaceful Ozark
scene. From the shore of The Bend, opposite and above Auntie Sue's
place, beyond the willows that fringe the water's edge, the low
bottom-lands extend back three-quarters of a mile to the foot of a
heavily timbered ridge, beyond which rise the higher hills. But directly
across from Auntie Sue's house, this ridge curves sharply toward the
stream; while less than a quarter of a mile below, a mighty mountain-arm
is thrust out from a shoulder of Schoolhouse Hill, as if to bar
the river's way. The high bluff thus formed is known to the natives
throughout all that region as Elbow Rock.
The quiet waters of The Bend move so gently on their broad course that
from the porch, looking up the stream, the eye could scarcely mark the
current. But in front of the little log house, where the restraining
banks of the river draw closer together, the lazy current awakens to
quickening movement. Looking down the stream, one could see the waters
leaving the broad and quiet reaches of The Bend above and rushing away
with fast increasing speed between the narrowing banks until, in all
their vicious might, they dashed full against the Elbow Rock cliff,
where, boiling and tossing in mad fury, they roared away at a right
angle and so around the point and on to another quiet stretch below. And
many were the tales of stirring adventure and tragic accident at this
dangerous point of the river's journey to the far-away sea. Skilled
rivermen, by holding their John-boats and canoes close to the far
shore, might run the rapids with safety. But no boat, once caught in the
vicious grip of the main current between the comparatively still waters
of The Bend and that wild, roaring tumult at Elbow Rock, had ever
survived.
It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Auntie Sue, as was
her custom, stood on the porch watching the sunset. In the vast field of
sky that arched above the softly rounded hills there was not a cloud.
No wind stirred the leaves of the far-reaching forests, or marred
the bright waters of the quiet Bend that mirrored back the green,
tree-fringed banks and blue-shadowed mountains. Faintly, through the
hush, from beyond the bottom-lands on the other side of the stream, came
the long-drawn “Wh-o-e-e! Wh-o-e-e!” of farmer Jackson calling his hogs.
From the hillside, back of the house, sounded the deep, mellow tones of
a cowbell, telling Auntie Sue that neighbor Tom's cattle were going home
from their woodland pastures. A company of crows crossed the river on
leisure wing, toward some evening rendezvous. A waterfowl flapped slowly
up the stream. And here and there the swallows wheeled in graceful
circles above the gleaming Bend, or dipped, flashlike, to break the
silvery surface. As the blue of the mountains deepened to purple, and
the rosy light from below the western hills flushed the sky, the silver
sheen of the quiet water changed with the changing tints above, and the
shadows of the trees along the bank deepened until the shore-line was
lost in the dusk of the coming night.
And even as the river gave back the light of the sky and the color of
the mountains, so the gentle face of the gray-haired woman, who watched
with such loving reverence, reflected the beauty of the scene. The peace
and quiet of the evening of her life was as the still loveliness of that
twilight hour.
And, yet, there was a suggestion of pathos in the loneliness of the
slender figure standing there. Now and again, she clasped her delicate
hands to her breast as if moved by emotions of a too-poignant sweetness,
while in her eyes shone the soft light of fondest memories and dearest
dreams. Several times she turned her head to look about, as if wishing
for some one to share with her the beauty that moved her so. At last,
she called; and her voice, low and pure-toned, had in it the quality
that was in the light of her eyes.
“Judy! Judy, dear! Do come and see this wonderful, wonderful sky!”
From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawling voice, so
characteristic of the Southern “poor-white” mountaineer, answered:
“Wha-a-t?”
A quick little smile deepened the crows'-feet at the corners of Auntie
Sue's eyes, as she called again with gentle patience: “Do come and see
the sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!” And, this time, in answer,
Judy appeared in the doorway.
From appearances, the poor creature's age might have been anywhere from
fifteen to thirty-five; for the twisted and misshapen body, angular and
hard; the scrawny, wry neck; the old-young face, thin and sallow, with
furtive, beady-black eyes, gave no hint of her years. As a matter of
fact, I happened to know that Judith Taylor, daughter of the notorious
Ozark moonshiner, Jap Taylor, was just past twenty the year she went to
live with Auntie Sue.
Looking obliquely at the old gentlewoman, with a curious expression of
mingled defiance, suspicion, and affection on her almost vicious face,
Judy drawled, “Was you-all a-yellin' for me?”
“Yes, Judy; I want you to help me watch the sunset,” Auntie Sue
answered, with bright animation; and, turning, she pointed toward the
glowing west,--“Look!”
Judy's sly, evasive eyes did not cease to regard the illumined face of
her old companion as she returned, in her dry, high-pitched monotone: “I
don't reckon as how you-all are a-needin' much help, seein' as how you
are allus a-watchin' hit. A body'd think you-all was mighty nigh old
'nough, by now, ter look at hit alone.”
Auntie Sue laughed, a low, musical, chuckling laugh, and, with a hint
of loving impatience in her gentle voice, replied to Judy's observation:
“But, don't you understand, child? It adds so to one's happiness
to share lovely scenes like this. It makes it all so much--so
much--well,--BIGGER, to have some one enjoy it with you. Come, dear!”
And she held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty, and a look
of yearning upon her dear old face that no human being could have
withstood.
Judy, still slyly watchful, went cautiously nearer; and Auntie Sue,
putting an arm lovingly about the crooked shoulders of the mountain
girl, pointed again toward the west as she said, in a low voice that
vibrated with emotion, “Look, Judy! Look!”
The black eyes shifted, and the old-young, expressionless face turned
toward the landscape, which lay before them in all its wondrous beauty
of glowing sky and tinted mountain and gleaming river. And there might
have been a faint touch of softness, now, in the querulous monotone
as Judy said: “I can't see as how hit could be ary bigger. Hain't ary
reason, as I kin see, why hit should be ary bigger if hit could. Lord
knows there's 'nough of hit as 't is; rough 'nough, too, as you-all 'd
sure know if you-all had ter trapse over them there hills all yer life
like I've had ter.”
“But, isn't it wonderful to-night, Judy? It seems to me I have never
seen it so perfect.”
“Hit's just like hit's allus been, so far as I kin see, 'ceptin'
that the river's higher in the spring an' more muddier,” returned
the mountain girl. “I was borned over there on yon side that there
flat-topped mountain, nigh the mouth of Red Creek. I growed up on the
river, mostly;--learned ter swim an' paddle er John-boat 'fore I kin
remember. Red Creek, hit heads over there behind that there long ridge,
in Injin Holler. There's a still--”
She checked herself suddenly, and shot a fearful sidewise look at Auntie
Sue; then turned and pointed in the opposite direction with a pretense
of excited interest. “Look down there, ma'm! See how black the old river
is where she smashes inter Elbow Rock, an' how white them waves be where
the water biles an' throws hitself. Hit'd sure git you if you was ter
git ketched in there with er John-boat, wouldn't hit? Listen, ma'm! You
kin hear hit a-roarin' like hit was mad, can't you?”
But the older woman turned to face, again, the quiet reaches of The
Bend.
“I think I like The Bend best, though, Judy. See how perfectly those
trees and hills are mirrored in the river; and how the water holds
the color of the sky. Don't you think God is good to make the world so
beautiful for us, child?”
“'Beautiful'!” cried poor, deformed Judy, in a voice that shrilled in
vicious protest. “If there is a God, like you-all are allus a-talkin'
'bout, an' if He sure 'nough made them things, like you-all sees 'em, He
sure hain't toted fair with me.”
“Hush, Judy!” pleaded Auntie Sue. “Please don't, child!”
But the mountain girl rebelliously continued: “Look at me! Just look at
me! If that there God of your'n is so all-fired good, what did He go an'
let my pap git drunk for, an' beat me like he done when I was a baby,
an' make me grow up all crooked like what I be? 'Good'? Hell! A dad
burned ornery kind of a God I call Him!”
For some time, Auntie Sue did not speak, but stood with her face
upturned to the sky. Then the low, gentle voice again broke the silence:
“See, Judy, dear; the light is almost gone now, and there is not a cloud
anywhere. Yesterday evening, you remember, we could not see the sunset
at all, the clouds were so heavy and solid. The moon will be lovely
to-night. I think I shall wait for it.”
“You-all best set down then,” said Judy, speaking again in her
querulous, drawling monotone. “I'll fetch a chair.” She brought a
comfortable rustic rocking-chair from the farther end of the porch; then
disappeared into the house, to return a moment later with a heavy shawl.
“Hit'll be a-turnin' cold directly, now the sun's plumb down,” she said,
“an' you-all mustn't get to chillin', nohow.”
Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, caught
the girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly arranging the wrap about the thin
old shoulders. “Won't you bring a chair for yourself, and sit with
me awhile, dear?” As she spoke, Auntie Sue patted the hard, bony hand
caressingly.
But Judy pulled her hand away roughly, saying: “You-all ain't got no
call ter do sich as that ter me. I'll set awhile with you but I ain't
a-needin' no chair.” And with that, she seated herself on the floor, her
back against the wall of the house.
The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft darkness of
a clear, star-light night lay over the land. A gentle breeze stole over
the mountains, rustled softly through the forest, and, drifting across
the river, touched Auntie Sue's silvery hair.
Judy was first to break the silence: “I took notice neighbor Tom brung
you-all a right smart bunch of letter mail this evenin',” she said,
curiously.
There was a troubled note in Auntie Sue's gentle voice as she returned,
“The letter from the bank did not come, Judy.”
“Hit didn't?”
“No; and, Judy, it is nearly four weeks, now, since I sent them that
money. I can't understand it.”
“I was plumb scared at the time, you oughten ter sent hit just in
er letter that a-way. Hit sure looked like a heap of money ter be
a-trustin' them there ornery post-office fellers with, even if hit was
funny, new-fangled money like that there was. Why, ma'm, you take old
Tod Stimson, down at the Ferry, now, an' that old devil'd steal anythin'
what warn't too much trouble for him ter lift.”
“Argentine notes the money was, Judy. I felt sure that it would be all
right because, you know, Brother John sent it just in a letter all the
way from Buenos Aires. And, you remember, I folded it up in extra heavy
paper, and put it in two envelopes, one over the other, and mailed it at
Thompsonville with my own hands.”
“Hit sure looks like hit ought ter be safe er nough, so long as hit
warn't mailed at the Ferry where old Stimson could git his hands on
hit,” agreed Judy.
Then, after a silence of several minutes, she added, in a more
reassuring voice: “I reckon as how hit'll be all right, ma'm. I wouldn't
worry myself, if I was you. That there bank-place, like as not, gits er
right smart lot of letters, an' hit stands ter reason the feller just
naturally can't write back ter ev'rybody at once.”
“Of course,” agreed Auntie Sue. “It is just some delay in their
acknowledgment, that is all. Perhaps they are waiting to find out if the
notes are genuine; or it may be that their letter to me went astray, and
will have to be returned to them, and then remailed all over again. I
feel sure I shall hear from them in a few days.”
So they talked until the moon appeared from behind the dark mountains
that, against her light, were silhouetted on the sky. And, as the old
gentlewoman watched the queen of the night rising higher and higher
on her royal course, and saw the dusky landscape transformed to a
fairy-scene of ethereal loveliness, Auntie Sue forgot the letter that
had not come.
With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the silvery-haired teacher
tried to give the backwoods girl a little of her wealth of vision. But
though they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of twenty could
not see that which was so clear to the eyes of seventy. Poor Judy! The
river, sweeping on its winding way through the hills, from the springs
of its far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor,--in all
its varied moods and changes,--in all its beauty and its irresistible
power,--the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue.
“Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin',” said the girl, at
last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with her
wry neck holding her head to one side. “Them there Jackson boys'll sure
be out.”
Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh.
From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-lands
across the river, came the baying of hounds. “There they be now,” said
Judy. “Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out,
too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're allus a-huntin' 'possum
an' 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish.
Well, I reckon I'll be a-goin' in, now, ma'm,” she concluded, with a
yawn. “Ain't no use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do
but ter sleep, as I kin see.”
With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's “Goodnight and sweet dreams,
dear,” the mountain girl went into the house.
For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her little
log house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. Nor did she
now, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companionship. In
spirit, she was far from all earthly needs or cares,--where no troubled
thoughts could disturb her serene peace and her dearest dreams were
real.
The missing letter was forgotten.
CHAPTER IV.
THE WILL OF THE RIVER.
Had Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that evening,
she might have seen an object drifting down the river, in the gentle
current of The Bend.
Swinging easily around the curve above the clubhouse, it would not have
been visible at first, because of the deep shadows of the reflected
trees and mountains. But, presently, as it drifted on into the broader
waters of The Bend, it emerged from the shadows into the open moonlit
space, and then, to any one watching from the porch, the dark object,
drawing nearer and nearer in the bright moonlight, would have soon
shaped itself into a boat--an empty boat, the watcher would have said,
that had broken from its moorings somewhere up the river;--and the
watcher would have heard, through the still, night air, the dull, heavy
roar of the mad waters at Elbow Rock.
Drifting thus, helpless in the grip of the main current, the little
craft apparently was doomed to certain destruction. Gently, it would
float on the easy surface of the quiet, moonlit Bend. In front of the
house, it would move faster and faster. Where the river narrows, it
would be caught as if by mighty hands hidden beneath the rushing flood,
and dragged onward still faster and faster. About it, the racing waters
would leap and boil in their furious, headlong career, shaking and
tossing the helpless victim of their might with a vicious strength from
which there would be no escape, until, in the climax of the river's
madness, the object of its angry sport would be dashed against the
cliff, and torn, and crushed, and hammered by the terrific weight of the
rushing flood against that rocky anvil, into a battered and shapeless
wreck.
The drifting boat drew nearer and nearer. It reached the point where the
curve of the opposite bank draws in to form the narrow raceway of the
rapids. It began to feel the stronger pull of those hidden hands
that had carried it so easily down The Bend. And then--and then--the
unguided, helpless craft responded to the gentle pressure of some swirl
or crosscurrent in the main flow of the stream, and swung a little
to one side. A few feet farther, and the new impulse became stronger.
Yielding easily to the current that drew it so gently across the
invisible dividing-line between safety and destruction, the boat
swung in toward the shore. A minute more, and it had drifted into that
encircling curve of the bank where the current of the eddy carried it
around and around.
The boat seemed undecided. Would it hold to the harbor of safety into
which it had been drawn by the friendly current? Would it swing out,
again, into the main stream, and so to its own destruction?
Three times the bow, pointing out from the eddy, crossed the
danger-line, and, for a moment, hung on the very edge. Three times, the
invisible hands which held it drew it gently back to safety. And so,
finally, the little craft, so helpless, so alone, amid the many currents
of the great river, came to rest against the narrow shelf of land at the
foot of the bank below Auntie Sue's garden.
The light in the window of Auntie Sue's room went out. The soft
moonlight flooded mountain and valley and stream. The mad waters at
Elbow Rock roared in their wild fury. Always, always,--irresistibly,
inevitably, unceasingly,--the river poured its strength toward the sea.
CHAPTER V.
AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN.
Before the sun was high enough to look over Schoolhouse Hill, the next
morning, Judy went into the garden to dig some potatoes.
Tom Warden's boys would come, some day before long, and dig them all,
and put them away in the cellar for the winter. But there was no need to
hurry the gathering of the full crop, so the boys would come when it was
most convenient; and, in the meantime, Judy would continue to dig from
day to day all that were needed for the kitchen in the little log house
by the river. In spite of her poor crooked body, the mountain girl was
strong and well used to hard work, so the light task was, for her, no
hardship at all.
As one will when first coming out of doors in the morning, Judy paused
a moment to look about. The sky, so clear and bright the evening before,
was now a luminous gray. The mountains were lost in a ghostly world of
fog, through which the river moved in stealthy silence,--a dull thing
of mystery, with only here and there a touch of silvery light upon its
clouded surface. The cottonwoods and willows, on the opposite shore,
were mere dreams of trees,--gray, formless, and weird. The air was
filled with the dank earth-smell. The heavy thundering roar of the
never-ending war of the waters at Elbow Rock came louder and more
menacing, but strangely unreal, as if the mist itself were filled with
threatening sound.
But to Judy, the morning was only the beginning of another day;--she
looked, but did not see. To her, the many ever-changing moods of Nature
were without meaning. With her basket in hand, she went down to the
lower end of the garden, where she had dug potatoes the time before, and
where she had left the fork sticking upright in the ground.
A few minutes served to fill the basket; but, before starting back to
the house, the mountain girl paused again to look out over the river.
Perhaps it was some vague memory of Auntie Sue's talk, the night
before, that prompted her; perhaps it was some instinct, indefinite and
obscure;--whatever it was that influenced her, Judy left her basket, and
went to the brink of the high bank above the eddy for a closer view of
the water.
The next instant, with the quick movement of an untamed creature of her
native mountain forests, the girl sprang back, and crouched close to
the ground to hide from something she had seen at the foot of the bank.
Every movement of her twisted body expressed amazement and fear. Her
eyes were wild and excited. She looked carefully about, as if for
dangers that might be hidden in the fog. Once, she opened her mouth as
if to call. Half-rising, she started as if to run to the house. But,
presently, curiosity apparently overruled her fear, and, throwing
herself flat on the ground she wormed her way back to the brink of the
river-bank. Cautiously, without making a sound, she peered through the
tall grass and weeds that fringed the rim above the eddy.
The boat, which some kindly impulse of the river had drawn so gently
aside from the stronger current that would have carried it down the
rapids to the certain destruction waiting at Elbow Rock, still rested
with its bow grounded on the shore, against which the eddying water had
pushed it. But the thing that had so startled Judy was a man who was
lying, apparently unconscious, on the wet and muddy bottom-boards of the
little craft.
Breathlessly, the girl, looking down from the top of the bank, watched
for some movement; but the dirty huddled heap of wretched humanity
was so still that she could not guess whether it was living or dead.
Fearfully, she noted that there were no oars in the boat, nor gun, nor
fishing-tackle of any sort. The man's hat was missing. His clothing was
muddy and disarranged. His position was such that she could not see the
face.
Drawing back, Judy looked cautiously about; then, picking up a heavy
clod of dirt from the ploughed edge of the garden, and crouching again
at the brink of the bank, ready for instant flight, she threw the
clod into the water near the boat. The still form in the boat made no
movement following the splash. Selecting a smaller clod, the girl threw
the bit of dirt into the stern of the boat itself, where it broke in
fragments. And, at this, the figure moved slightly.
“Hit's alive, all right,” commented Judy to herself, with a grin of
satisfaction, at the result of her investigation. “But hit's sure time
he was a-gittin' up.”
Carefully selecting a still smaller bit of dirt, she deliberately tossed
it at the figure itself. Her aim was true, and the clod struck the
man on the shoulder, with the result that he stirred uneasily, and,
muttering something which Judy could not hear, half-turned on his back
so that the girl saw the haggard, unshaven face. She saw, too, that, in
one hand, the man clutched an empty whisky bottle.
At sight of the bottle, the mountain girl rose to her feet with an
understanding laugh. “Hell!” she said aloud; “drunk,--that's all--dead
drunk. I'll sure fetch him out of hit.” And then, grinning with
malicious delight, she proceeded to pelt the man in the boat with
clods of dirt until he scrambled to a sitting posture, and looked up in
bewildered confusion.
“If you please,” he said, in a hoarse voice, to the sallow, old-young
face that grinned down at him from the top of the bank, “which one of
the Devil's imps are you?”
As she looked into that upturned face, Judy's grin vanished. “I sure
'lowed as how you-all was dead,” she explained.
“Well,” returned the man in the boat, wearily, “I can assure you that
it's not in the least my fault if I disappoint you. I feel as bad about
it as you do. However, I don't think I am so much alive that it makes
any material difference.” He lifted the whisky bottle, and studied it
thoughtfully.
“You-all come dad burned near not bein' ary bit alive,” returned the
girl.
“Yes?” said the man, inquiringly.
“Yep; you sure did come mighty nigh hit. If your old John-boat had
a-carried you-all on down ter Elbow Rock, 'stead of bein' ketched in
the eddy here, you-all would sure 'nough been a-talkin' to the Devil by
now.”
The man, looking out over the river into the fog, muttered to himself,
“I can't even make a success of dying, it seems.”
Again, he regarded the empty bottle in his hand with studied interest.
Then, tossing the bottle into the river, he looked up, once more, to the
girl on the bank above.
“Listen, sister!” he said, nervously. “Is there any place around here
where I can buy a drink? I need something rather badly. Where am I,
anyway?”
“You-all are at Auntie Sue's place,” said Judy; “an' there sure ain't no
chance for you-all ter git ary licker here. Where'd you-all come from,
anyhow? How'd you-all git here 'thout no oars ner paddle ner nothin'?
Where was you-all aimin' ter go?”
“Your questions, my good girl, are immaterial and irrelevant,”
returned the man in the boat. “The all-important matter before us for
consideration is,--how can I get a drink? I MUST have a drink, I tell
you!” He held up his hands, and they were shaking as if with palsy. “And
I must have it damned quick!”
“You-all sure do talk some powerful big words,” said Judy, with critical
interest. “You-all sure must be some eddecated. Auntie Sue, now, she
talks--”
The man interrupted her: “Who is 'Auntie Sue'?”
“I don't know,” Judy returned; “she's just Auntie Sue--that's all I
know. She sure is--”
Again the man interrupted: “I think it would be well for me to
interview this worthy aunt of yours.” And then, while he raised himself,
unsteadily, to his feet, he continued, in a muttering undertone: “You
don't seem to appreciate the situation. If I don't get some sort of
liquor soon, things are bound to happen.”
He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability of
the light, flat-bottomed skiff, together with his own unsteady weakness,
combined to land him half in the water and half on the muddy bank where
he struggled helplessly, and, in his weakened condition, would have
slipped wholly into the river had not Judy rushed down the rude steps to
his assistance.
With a strength surprising in one of her apparent weakness, the mountain
girl caught the stranger under his shoulders and literally dragged
him from the water. When she had further helped him to his feet, Judy
surveyed the wretched object of her beneficence with amused and curious
interest.
The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, haggard face, bloodshot eyes,
and slovenly dishevelled dress, had appeared repulsive enough while in
the boat; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and covered with
mud, there was a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance that brought
a grin to the unlovely face of his rescuer, and caused her to exclaim
with unnecessary frankness: “I'll be dad burned if you-all ain't a thing
ter look at, mister!”
As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded the
twisted form, the wry neck, and the sallow, old-young face of the
girl, who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed in
his bloodshot eyes. “Thanks,” he said, huskily; “you are something of a
vision yourself, aren't you?”
The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the
cruel words. “I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty,” she
retorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. “But, I kin tell you-all one
thing, mister: Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what made
me ter look like I do. While you,--damn you!--you-all just naturally
made yourself what you be.”
At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, a
remarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His voice,
even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sincere
feeling as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous deference,
said: “I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You really should have
left me to the river.”
“You-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had,” she retorted, somewhat
mollified by the effect of her observation.
“Which,” he returned, “would have been so beautifully right and fitting
that it evidently could not be.” And with this cynical remark, his
momentary bearing of self-respect was gone.
“Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-all was a-wantin' ter drown?”
“Something like that,” he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness in
his voice and eyes, he rasped: “But, look here, girl! do you think I'm
going to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversation with
you? Where is this aunt of yours? Can't you see that I've got to have a
drink?”
He started uncertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the bank,
and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the steep way. A
part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he would
have fallen except for the girl's support. But, at last, they gained the
top, and stood in the garden.
“That there is the house,” said Judy, pointing. “But I don't reckon as
how you-all kin git ary licker there.”
The wretched man made no reply; but, with Judy still supporting him,
stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables.
The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch when
Auntie Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with the
potatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the presence of
the unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation of
pity, she hurried to meet them.
The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, did
not notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, and
raising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady.
“Why, Judy!” cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with gentle
concern. “What in the world has happened?”
With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his haggard
face, the man also turned to the mountain girl beside him.
“I found him in er John-boat what done come ashore last night, down
there in the eddy,” Judy explained to Auntie Sue. To the man, she said:
“This here is Auntie Sue, mister; but, I don't reckon as how she's got
ary licker for you.”
“'Liquor'?” questioned Auntie Sue. “What in the world do you mean,
child?” Then quickly to the stranger;--“My dear man, you are wringing
wet. You must have been in the river. Come, come right in, and let us do
something for you.” As she spoke, she went toward him with outstretched
hands.
But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear;--his
whole body shaking with emotion; his fluttering hands raised in a
gesture of imploring protest;--while the eyes that looked up at the
saintly countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soul
sunken in the deepest hell of shame and humiliation.
Shocked with pitying horror, Auntie Sue paused.
The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain of
his suffering. He bit his lips and fingered his quivering chin in a vain
effort at self-control; and then, as he looked up at her, the sunken,
bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tormented spirit had no power
to check.
And Auntie Sue turned her face away.
For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, the
stranger, with a supreme effort of his will, gained a momentary control
of his shattered nerves. Drawing himself erect and standing steady and
tall before her, he raised a hand to his uncovered head as if to remove
his hat. When his hand found no hat to remove, he smiled as if at some
jest at his own expense.
“I am so sorry, madam,” he said,--and his voice was musically clear and
cultured. “Please pardon me for disturbing you? I did not know. This
young woman should have explained. You see, when she spoke of 'Auntie
Sue,' I assumed, of course,--I mean,--I expected to find a native woman
who would--” He paused, smiling again, as if to assure her that he fully
appreciated the humor of his ridiculous predicament.
“But, my dear sir,” cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, “there is nothing to
pardon. Please do come into the house and let us help you.”
But the stranger drew back, shaking his head sadly. “You do not
understand, madam. It is not that my clothes are unpresentable,--it is
I, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less to enter
your house. I thank you, but I must go.”
He was turning away, when Auntie Sue reached his side and placed her
gentle old hand lightly on his arm.
“Please, won't you come in, sir? I shall never forgive myself if I let
you go like this.”
The man's voice was hoarse and shaking, now, as he answered: “For God's
sake, madam, don't touch me! Let me go! You must! I--I--am not myself!
You might not be safe with me! Ask her--she knows!” He turned to Judy.
“He's done said hit, ma'm,” said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue's
questioning look. “My pap, he was that way when he done smashed me up
agin the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me grow up
all crooked an' ugly like what I be now.”
With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked down
at the ground. His head drooped forward. His shoulders sagged. His whole
body seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he again started back toward
the river.
“Stop!” Auntie Sue's voice rang out imperiously.
The man halted.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with fine
spirit, now, but kindly still: “This is sheer nonsense, my boy. You
wouldn't hurt me. Why, you couldn't! Of course, you are not yourself;
but, do you think that I do not know a gentleman when I meet one?
Come--” She held out her hand.
A moment he stood, gazing at her in wondering awe. Then his
far-overtaxed strength failed;--his abused nerves refused to bear
more,--and he sank,--a pitiful, cowering heap at her feet. Hiding his
face in his shaking hands, he sobbed like a child.
CHAPTER VI.
IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER.
Those two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless stranger
into the house, where Auntie Sue, after providing him with nightclothes,
left by one of her guests, by tactful entreaty and judicial commands,
persuaded him to go to bed.
Then followed several days and nights of weary watching. There were
times when the man lay with closed eyes, so weak and exhausted that he
seemed to be drifting out from these earthly shores on the deep waters
of that wide and unknown sea into which all the streams of life finally
flow. But, always, Auntie Sue miraculously held him back. There were
other times when, by all the rules of the game, he should have worn a
strait-jacket;--when his delirium filled the room with all manner
of horrid creatures from the pit; when leering devils and loathsome
serpents and gibbering apes tormented him until his unnatural strength
was the strength of a fiend, and his tortured nerves shrieked in agony.
But Auntie Sue perversely ignored the rules of the game. And never did
the man, even in his most terrible moments, fail to recognize in the
midst of the hellish crew of his diseased imagination the silvery-haired
old teacher as the angel of his salvation. Her gentle voice had always
power to soothe and calm him. He obeyed her implicitly, and, like a
frightened child, holding fast to her hand would beg piteously for her
to protect and save him.
But no word of the man's low-muttered, broken sentences, nor of his
wildest ravings, ever gave Auntie Sue a clue to his identity. She
searched his clothes, but there was not a thing to give her even his
name.
And, yet, that first day, when Judy would have gone to neighbor Tom's
for help, Auntie Sue said “No.” She even positively forbade the girl to
mention the stranger's presence in the house, should she chance to talk
with passing neighbors. “The river brought him to us, Judy, dear,” she
said. “We must save him. No one shall know his shame, to humiliate and
wound his pride and drag him down after he is himself again. Until he
has recovered and is once more the man I believe him to be, no one must
see him or know that he is here; and no one must ever know how he came
to us.”
And late, one evening, when Judy was fast asleep, and the man was lying
very still after a period of feverish tossing and muttering, the dear
old gentlewoman crept quietly out of the house into the night. She was
gone some time, and when she returned again to the stranger's bedside
she was breathless and trembling as from some unusual exertion. And the
following afternoon, when Judy came to her with the announcement that
the boat which had brought the man to them was no longer in the eddy
below the garden, Auntie Sue said, simply, that she was glad it was
gone, and cautioned the girl, again, that the stranger's presence in the
house must not be made known to any one.
When the mountain girl protested, saying, “You-all ain't got no call ter
be a-wearin' yourself ter the bone a-takin' care of such as him,” Auntie
Sue answered, “Hush, Judy! How do you know what the poor boy really is?”
To which Judy retorted: “He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no 'count,
that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been a-floatin' 'round in that
there old John-boat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' lines, or hat even, ter
say nothin' of that there whisky bottle bein' plumb empty.”
Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summing-up of the
damning evidence against the stranger, but left her and went softly to
the bedside of their guest.
It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room,
happened upon a scene that caused her to stand as if rooted to the spot
in open-mouthed amazement.
The man was sleeping, and the silvery-haired old maiden-lady, seated
on the side of the bed, was bending over the unconscious stranger and
gently stroking his tumbled, red-brown hair, even as a mother might
lovingly caress her sleeping child. And then, as Judy watched,
breathless with wonder, the proud old gentlewoman, bending closer over
that still form on the bed, touched her lips--soft as a rose-petal--to
the stranger's brow.
When she arose and saw Judy standing there, Auntie Sue's delicate old
cheeks flushed with color, and her eyes were shining. With a gesture,
she commanded the girl to silence, and the two tiptoed from the room.
When they were outside, and Auntie Sue had cautiously closed the door,
she faced the speechless Judy with a deliciously defiant air that could
not wholly hide her lovely confusion.
“I--I--was thinking, Judy, how he--how he--might have been--my son.”
“Your 'son'!” ejaculated the girl. “Why, ma'm, you-all ain't never even
been married, as I've ever hearn tell, have you?”
Auntie Sue drew her thin shoulders proudly erect, and, lifting her fine
old face, answered the challenging question with splendid spirit: “No, I
have never been married; but I might have been; and if I had, I suppose
I could have had a son, couldn't I?”
The vanquished Judy retreated to the kitchen, where, in safety, she sank
into a chair, convulsed with laughter, which she instinctively muffled
in her apron.
Then came the day when the man, weak and worn with his struggle, looked
up at his gentle old nurse with the light of sanity in his deep
blue eyes. Very tired eyes they were, and filled with painful
memories,--filled, too, with worshipping gratitude and wonder.
She smiled down at him with delighted triumph, and drawing a chair close
beside the bed, seated herself and placed her soft hand on his where it
lay on the coverlid.
“You are much better, this morning,” she said cheerily. “You will soon
be all right, now.” And as she looked into the eyes that regarded hers
so questioningly, there was in her face and manner no hint of doubt, or
pretense, or reproach;--only confidence and love.
He spoke slowly, as if feeling for words: “I have been in Hell; and
you--you have brought me out. Why did you do it?”
“Because you are mine,” she answered, with her low chuckling laugh. It
was so good to have him able to talk to her rationally after those long
hours of fighting.
“Because I am yours?” he repeated, puzzling over her words.
“Yes,” she returned, with a hint of determined proprietorship in her
voice; “because you belong to me. You see, that eddy where your boat
landed is my property, and so anything that drifts down the river and
lodges there belongs to me. Whatever the river brings to me, is mine.
The river brought you, and so--” She finished with another laugh,--a
laugh that was filled with tender mother-yearning.
The blue eyes smiled back at her for a moment; then she saw them darken
with painful memories.
“Oh, yes; the river,” he said. “I wanted the river to do something for
me, and--and it did something quite different from what I wanted.”
“Of course,” she returned, eagerly, “the river is always like that. It
always does the thing you don't expect it to do. Just like life itself.
Don't you see? It begins somewhere away off at some little spring, and
just keeps going and going and going; and thousands and thousands of
other springs, scattered all over the country, start streams and creeks
and branches that run into it, and make it bigger and bigger, as it
winds and curves and twists along, until it finally reaches the great
sea, where its waters are united with all the waters from all the rivers
in all the world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that first
tiny spring to the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike.
In all the centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. An
infinite variety of days and nights--an infinite variety of skies and
light and clouds and daybreaks and sunsets--an infinite number and
variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots and
dangerous rapids and eddies--and, along its banks, an endless change
of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and farms and
cities--and--” She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak,
but only watched her, she continued: “Don't you see? Of course, the
river never could be what you expect, any more than life could be
exactly what you want and dream it will be.”
“Who in the world are you?” he asked, wonderingly. “And what in the
world are you doing here in the backwoods?”
Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: “I am Auntie Sue. I am
LIVING here in the backwoods.”
“But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how to
address you.”
“Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield--MISS Wakefield, if you please. I
shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And
you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'--just as every one else does.”
“Wakefield--Wakefield--where have I seen that name?” He wrinkled his
brow in an effort to remember. “Wakefield--I feel sure that I have heard
it, somewhere.”
“It is not unlikely,” she returned, lightly. “It is not at all an
uncommon name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't you
think--?”
He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, “My name is Brian Kent.”
“That is an Irish name,” she said quickly; “and that is why your hair is
so nearly red and your eyes so blue.”
“Yes,” he returned, “from my mother. And please don't ask me more now,
for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth.” And she saw,
again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes.
Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushed
back his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle as
she said: “My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought
you to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else,
just now. When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of your
future; but of your past, you--”
A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room.
“There is someone at the door,” she said hastily. “I must go. Lie still,
and go to sleep like a good boy; won't you?”
Swiftly, she leaned over, and, before he realized, he felt her lips
touch his forehead. Then she was gone, and Brian Kent's Irish eyes were
filled with tears. Turning to the wall, he hid his face in the pillow.
CHAPTER VII.
OFFICERS OF THE LAW.
As Auntie Sue was closing the door of her guest's room carefully behind
her, Judy came from the kitchen in great excitement, and the knocking at
the front door of the house was repeated.
“Hit's the Sheriff, ma'm,” whispered Judy. “I was just a-comin' ter tell
you. I seed 'em from the kitchen-winder. He's got two other men with
him. Their hosses is tied ter the fence in front. What in hell will we
do, now? They are after him in there, sure 's death!”
Auntie Sue's face was white, and her lips trembled,--but only for a
moment.
“Go back into the kitchen, Judy, and stay there,” she commanded, in a
whisper; and went to open the front door as calmly as if nothing unusual
had happened.
Sheriff Knox was a big man, with a bluff, kindly manner, and a voice
that made nothing of closed doors. He returned Auntie Sue's greeting
heartily, and, with one of his companions,--a quiet, business-looking
gentleman,--accepted her cordial invitation to come in. The third man of
the party remained near the saddle-horses at the gate.
“Well, Auntie Sue,” said the Sheriff, settling his ponderous bulk in one
of the old lady's rocking-chairs, which certainly was not built to carry
such a weight, “how are you? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. I'll
swear, though, you ain't a minute older than you was when you first
begun teachin' the little Elbow Rock school up there on the hill, are
you?”
“I don't know, Sheriff,” Auntie Sue returned, with a nervous little
laugh. “I sometimes think that I am a few days older. I have watched a
good many sunsets since then, you know.”
The big officer's laughter almost shook the log walls of the house. To
his quiet companion, who had taken a chair near the window, he said:
“I'll have to tell you, Ross, that Auntie Sue owns every sunset in these
Ozark Mountains. What was it you paid for them?” He turned again to
their smiling hostess. “Oh, yes; fifty cents an acre for the land and
fourteen dollars and a half for the sunsets. You'll have to be blamed
careful not to trespass on the sunsets in this neighborhood, Ross.”
Again, his hearty laugh roared out, while his chair threatened to
collapse with the quaking of his massive body.
The gentleman seated at the window laughed quietly, in sympathy.
“You'll be all right, though, Ross,” the Sheriff continued, “as long
as you're with me. Auntie Sue and me have been friends for about twenty
year, now. I always stop to see her whenever I'm passing through the
Elbow Rock neighborhood, if I ain't in too big a hurry. Stayed with her
a week, once, five years ago, when we was after that Lewis gang.
She knows I'd jail any man on earth that would even touch one of her
sunsets.”
Then, as if the jesting allusion to his office reminded him of his
professional duties, he added: “I plumb forgot, Auntie Sue, this
gentleman is Mr. Ross. He is one of William J. Burns's crack detectives.
Don't be scared, though, he ain't after you.”
Auntie Sue, while joining in the laughter, and acknowledging the
introduction, regarded the business-looking gentleman by the window with
intense interest.
“I think,” she said, slowly,--and the sweetness of her low, cultured
voice was very marked in contrast to the Sheriff's thundering tones,--“I
think, sir, that this is the first time in my life that I ever saw a
real detective. I have read about them, of course.”
Mr. Ross was captivated by the charm of this beautiful old gentlewoman,
who regarded him with such child-like interest, and who spoke with such
sweet frankness and dignity. Smilingly, he returned:
“I fear, madam, that you would find me very disappointing. No one that I
ever knew in my profession could hope to live up to the reputation
given us by the story-books. No secret service man living can remotely
approximate the deeds performed by the detectives of fiction. We are
very, very human, I can assure you.”
“I am sure that you, at least, must be very kind,” returned Auntie
Sue, gently. And the cheeks of the experienced officer flushed like the
cheeks of a schoolboy.
“Mr. Ross, Auntie Sue,” said the Sheriff, “is, as I was telling you, one
of William J. Burns's big men.”
Auntie Sue gave her attention to her big friend: “Yes?”
The Sheriff continued: “Now, the Burns people, you see, protect the
banks all over the country.”
“Yes?” came, again, in a tone so low and gentle that the monosyllable
was scarcely heard.
The officer's loud voice went on: “And Mr. Ross, here, works most of
his time on these bank cases. Just now, he is trailing a fellow that got
away with a lot of money from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, of
Chicago, about a month ago;--that is, the man disappeared about a month
ago. He had been stealing along from the bank for about a year,--worked,
for them, you see.”
“The Empire Consolidated Savings Bank!” Auntie Sue spoke the words in
a voice that was little more than a whisper. It was to the Empire
Consolidated Savings Bank that she had sent the money which she had
received from her brother in Buenos Aires; and Homer T. Ward, the
president of that bank, was one of her old pupils. Why, her stranger
guest, in the other room there, was that very moment wearing one of the
bank president's nightshirts.
“And do you”--Auntie Sue addressed the detective--“do you know the man's
name, Mr. Ross?”
“Oh, yes,” returned the officer, “his name is Brian Kent.”
Some source of strength, deep-hidden in her gentle nature, enabled
Auntie Sue to control her emotions, though her voice broke a little as
she slowly repeated the man's name, “Brian Kent. And do I understand,
sir, that you have traced the man to this--neighborhood?”
The detective was too skilled not to notice Auntie Sue's manner and the
break in her voice; but he never dreamed that this old gentlewoman's
agitation was caused by a deeper interest than a quite natural fear that
a dangerous criminal might be lurking in the immediate vicinity.
“Not exactly, Mrs.--ah--”
“Miss Wakefield,”--she supplied her name with a smile.
With a courteous bow, the detective continued: “We do not know for sure
that the man is in this neighborhood, Miss Wakefield. There is really no
cause for you to be alarmed. Even if he should call at your house, here,
you need not be frightened, for I assure you the man is not at all a
dangerous character.”
“I am glad,” said Auntie Sue; and she laughed a little with a relief
more genuine than her callers knew.
Detective Ross continued as if anxious to finish his unpleasant duty:
“It is too bad for us to be disturbing you with this business, Miss
Wakefield, and I hope you will forgive us; but, the case is like this:
We traced our man to the little town of Borden, some forty miles up the
river from here. He disappeared from the hotel one night, leaving his
suit-case and, apparently, everything he had with him, and not a
soul that we can find has seen him since. Of course, everybody says
'suicide.' He had been drinking heavily and acting rather queer the two
or three days he was at the hotel,--it seems. But I am not willing, yet,
to accept the suicide idea as final, because it would be too easy for
him to give things that appearance in order to throw us off; and I can't
get away from the fact that a John-boat that was tied to the bank near
the hotel managed to break loose and drift off down the river that same
night. Working on my theory, we are following down the river, trying
to get trace of either the boat or the man. So far, we haven't heard of
either, which rather strengthens me in my belief that the boat and the
man went away together. He is probably traveling nights, and lying up
under the willows in daylight. But he will be compelled to show himself
somewhere, soon, in order to get something to eat, for he couldn't have
taken much with him, trying, as he was, to create the impression that he
had committed suicide. You have a wonderful view of the river here, Miss
Wakefield.”
“Yes, sir; it is beautiful from the porch.”
“You spend a good deal of time on the porch, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you would be quite likely to notice any boat passing, wouldn't
you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you see a boat at night,--in the moonlight, I mean?”
“I could if it were well out in the middle of the stream, away from the
shadow of the trees, along the bank.”
“Have you seen any boats pass lately, Miss Wakefield?”
“No, sir; I haven't seen a boat on the river for a month, at least.”
“Dead certain about it, are you, Auntie Sue?” asked the Sheriff.
“Yes, sir; I am very sure,” she returned. “Judy and I were talking about
it yesterday.”
“Who is Judy?” asked the detective.
The Sheriff answered, “Just a girl that lives with Auntie Sue.”
And Auntie Sue added: “I know Judy has seen no boats passing, because,
as I say, we were talking about it.”
“I see,” said the detective. “And may I ask, Miss Wakefield, if any
one--any stranger, I mean--has called at the house lately, or if you
have seen any one in the vicinity?”
The gentle old lady hesitated.
The officers thought she was searching her memory to be sure before she
answered.
Then Auntie Sue said, deliberately: “No, sir; we have not seen a
stranger in this vicinity for several weeks. The last one was a
mule-buyer, who stopped to ask if he was on the right road to Tom
Warden's; and that must have been fully six weeks ago.”
The detective looked at Sheriff Knox.
“Well,” said the big officer, “I reckon we might as well push along.”
The two men arose.
“Oh, but surely you will stay for dinner,” said Auntie Sue, while her
dear heart was faint with fear lest they accept, and thus bring about
who could say what disastrous consequences through their meeting with
Judy.
“Not this time, Auntie Sue,” returned the Sheriff. “Mr. Ross is anxious
to get on down the river as fast as he can. He's got men on watch at
White's Crossing, and if our man ain't passed there, or if we don't
strike his trail somewhere before we get there, we will jump back on the
railroad, and get some boy to bring the horses through later.”
“I see,” returned Auntie Sue. And to the detective she added, smiling:
“I am sure it must be very difficult for any one to escape you, Mr.
Ross. I have read such wonderful things about Mr. Burns and the work
of his organization; and now that I have met you,--a real live
detective,--I shall be very careful, indeed, about what I do in the
future. I shouldn't want to have you on my track, I assure you.”
The two men laughed heartily, and the detective, as he extended his hand
in farewell, returned: “I count it a great privilege to have met you,
Miss Wakefield; and if you will promise to do one thing for me, I'll
agree to be very lenient with you if I am ever assigned to a case in
which you are to be brought to justice.”
“I promise,” returned the old lady, quickly. “I really wouldn't dare to
refuse under the circumstances, would I? What do you want me to do, Mr.
Ross?”
“If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, will
you get a message as quickly as possible, at any cost, to Sheriff Knox?”
“Why, of course,” agreed Auntie Sue. “But you have not yet told me what
the man looks like, Mr. Ross.”
“He is really a fine looking chap,” the detective answered. “Thirty
years old--fully six feet tall--rather slender, but well built--weighs
about one hundred fifty--a splendid head--smooth shaven--reddish
hair--dark blue eyes--and a high, broad forehead. He is of
Irish extraction--is cultured--very courteous in his manner and
speech--dresses well--and knows a lot about books and authors and such
things.”
“I would surely know him from that description,” said Auntie Sue,
thinking of the wretched creature who had fallen, sobbing, at her feet
so short a time before. “But, you do not make him seem like a criminal
at all. It is strange that a man such as you describe should be a
fugitive from the law, is it not?”
“We come in contact with many strange things in our business, Miss
Wakefield,” the Burns operative answered--a little sadly, Auntie Sue
thought. “Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in your
quiet retreat, here, can scarcely find it so.”
“Indeed, I find life very wonderful, Mr. Ross, even here in my little
house by the river,” she answered, slowly.
Sheriff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue: “Just happened to
remember that I had it in my pocket,” he said. “It gives a pretty full
account of this fellow Kent's case. You will notice there is a big
reward offered for his capture. If you can catch him for us, you'll make
enough money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of your life.” And
the officer's great laugh boomed out at the thought of the old
school-teacher as a thief-catcher.
“By the way, Sheriff,” said Auntie Sue, as they were finally saying
good-bye at the door, “you didn't happen to ask at Thompsonville for my
mail, did you, as you came through?” Her voice was trembling, now, with
eagerness and anxiety.
“I'm plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn't. You see, we were so busy
on this job, I clean forgot about stopping here; and, besides, we might
have caught our man before we got this far, you see.”
“Of course,” returned Auntie Sue, “I should have thought of that; but
I have been rather anxious about an important letter that seems to have
been delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going to the office
to-day, though. Good-bye! You know you are always welcome, Sheriff; and
you, too, Mr. Ross, if you should ever happen to be in this part of the
country again.”
“A wonderful old woman, Ross,” commented Sheriff Knox as they were
riding away. And the quiet, business-looking detective, whose life
had been spent in combating crime and deception, answered, as he waved
farewell to Auntie Sue, who watched them from the door of the little log
house by the river, “A very wonderful woman, indeed,--the loveliest old
lady I have ever met,--and the most remarkable.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW.
When she had watched Sheriff Knox and his two companions ride out of
sight, Auntie Sue turned slowly back into the house to face Judy, who
stood accusingly in the kitchen doorway.
For what seemed a long time, the old gentlewoman and the deformed
mountain girl stood silently looking at each other. Then Auntie Sue
nervously crossed the room to lay the newspaper, which the Sheriff had
given her, on the table beside her basket of sewing.
Without speaking, Judy followed her, watching every movement intently.
Turning to face her companion again, Auntie Sue stood, still speechless,
clasping and unclasping her thin old hands.
Judy spoke in her shrill, drawling monotone: “You-all have sure fixed
hit this here time, hain't you? Can't you-all see what a hell of a hole
you've done got us inter?”
When Auntie Sue apparently could not reply, Judy continued: “Just as if
hit wasn't more 'n enough for you-all ter go an' wear yourself plumb out
a-takin' keer of that there ornery, no-'count feller, what I never ought
ter dragged out of the river nohow. An', now, you-all got ter go
an' just naturally lie like you did ter the Sheriff an' that there
deteckertive man. I was plumb scared to death a-listenin' ter you
through the crack in the kitchen door. I 'lowed every minute they'd
ketch you, sure. My Lord-A'mighty! ma'm, can't you-all figger what'll
happen ter weuns if they ever finds out that weuns done had him hid
right here in this here house all the time? I never heard tell of such
dad burned, fool doin's in all my born days! I sure wish ter God that
there old John-boat had a-tuck him off down the river an' smashed him
up agin Elbow Rock, like hit ort, an' not a-fetched him ter our door ter
git weuns in jail for savin' his worthless, no-'count hide,--I sure do!”
“But, Judy, I never in all my life did such a thing before,” said Auntie
Sue in a tremulous whisper, too overwrought to speak aloud.
“You-all ain't a-needin' ter do hit but onct, neither. Onct is sure a
heap plenty for that there big Sheriff man. Just look what he did ter
my pap! He's jailed pap seven times, that I kin rec'lect. God-A'mighty
knows how many times he ketched him 'fore I was borned. An' pap, he
didn't do so mighty much ary time, neither.”
“I just had to do it, Judy, dear,” protested Auntie Sue. “It seemed as
if I simply could not tell the truth: something wouldn't let me.”
Judy, unheeding her companion's agitation, continued reviewing the
situation: “An' just look at all the money you-all done lost!”
“Money?” questioned Auntie Sue.
“Yep, 'money:'--that there reward what they'd a-paid you-all if you-all
hadn't a-lied like you did. I reckon as how there'd a-been as much,
maybe, as what was in that there letter you-all done sent ter the bank
an' ain't never heard tell of since. Hit's most likely clean gone by
now, an' here you done gone an' throw'd this other away,--plumb throw'd
hit away!”
At this, Auntie Sue's spirit suddenly flashed into fiery indignation.
“Judith Taylor,” she said sharply, “how can you suggest such a wicked
thing? Why, I would--I would--DIE before I would accept a penny for
doing such a thing!”
And it was Judy, now, who stood silent and abashed before the aroused
Auntie Sue.
“Don't ever speak of such a thing again!” continued the old lady.
“And remember, we must be more careful than ever, now, not to let any
one--not a soul--know that Mr.--Mr.--Burns is in the house, or that we
ever saw him!”
“That there deteckertive man said as how the feller's name was Brian
Kent, didn't be?” muttered the sullen Judy.
“I don't care what the detective man said!” retorted Auntie Sue. “I am
telling you that his name is Brian Burns, and you had better remember
it! You had better remember, too, that if anybody ever finds out the
truth about him, you and I will go right along to jail with him!”
“Yes, ma'm; I sure ain't aimin' ter forgit that,” replied the humbled
Judy; and she slouched away to the kitchen.
Auntie Sue went to the door of Brian Kent's room. But, with her
hand outstretched toward the latch, she hesitated. Had he heard? The
Sheriff's voice had been so loud. She feared to enter, yet she knew that
she must. At last, she knocked timidly, and, when there was no answer,
knocked again, louder. Cautiously, she opened the door.
The man lay with his face to the wall,--to all appearances fast asleep.
She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the stranger
for whom, without a shadow of reason,--one would have said,--she had
violated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her seventy years.
To Auntie Sue, daughter of New England Puritanism, and religious to
the deeps of her being, a lie was abhorrent,--and she had
lied,--deliberately, carefully, and with painstaking skill she had lied.
She had not merely evaded the truth; she had lied,--and that to save a
man of whom she knew nothing except that he was a fugitive from the law.
And the strangest thing about it was this, that she was glad. She could
not feel one twinge of regret for her sin. She could not even feel that
she had, indeed, sinned. She had even a feeling of pride and triumph
that she had lied so successfully. She was troubled, though, about this
new and wholly unexpected development in her life. It had been so easy
for her. She had lied so naturally, so instinctively.
She remembered how she had spoken to Brian Kent of the river and of
life. She saw, now, that the river symbolized not only life as a whole,
with its many ever-changing conditions and currents, amid which the
individual must live;--the river symbolized, as truly, the individual
life, with its ever-changing moods and motives,--its ever-varying and
often-conflicting currents of instinct and training,--its infinite
variety of intellectual deeps and shallows,--its gentle places of
spiritual calm,--and its wild and turbulent rapids of dangerous passion.
“What hitherto unsuspected currents in her life-river,” she asked
herself, “had carried her so easily into falsehood? What strange forces
were these,” she wondered, “that had set her so suddenly against honesty
and truthfulness and law and justice? And this stranger,--this wretched,
haggard-faced, drunken creature, who had been brought by the mysterious
currents of life to her door,--what was there in him that so compelled
her protecting interest? What was it within him, deeply hidden under
the repellent exterior of his being, that had so awakened in her that
strange feeling of possession,--of motherhood?”
It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual extremity, the dear
old gentlewoman's life-long habit should lead her to kneel beside
the stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. It was
significant that she did not ask her God to forgive the lie.
And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. Then
a hand lightly touched her hair. She remained very still for a
little,--her head still bowed. The hand that touched so reverently the
silvery gray hair trembled a little. Slowly, the old teacher raised her
face to look at him; and the Irish blue eyes of Brian Kent were wide
with wondering awe and glowing with a light that warmed her heart and
strengthened her.
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “You wonderful, wonderful woman! Why did
you do it?”
Slowly, she rose from her knees to sit beside him on the bed. “You
heard?”
He nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak.
“I was afraid the Sheriff talked too loud,” she said.
“But, why did you do it?” he persisted.
“I think it was because I couldn't do anything else,” she answered, with
her little chuckling laugh. Then she added, seriously: “How could I let
them take you away? Are you not mine? Did not the river bring you to
me?”
“I must tell you,” he answered, sadly, “that what the detective told you
about me is true.”
“Yes?” she answered, smiling.
“I was a clerk in the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank,” he continued,
“and I stole money,--for nearly a year I stole,--not large sums, but a
little at a time. Then, when I knew that it was going to be discovered,
I took quite a lot, and ran away.”
“Yes?” said Auntie Sue.
“Do you not care that I am a thief?” he questioned, wonderingly.
“Oh, yes; I care very much,” she returned. “But, you see, after all,
your stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. Your being
a thief is so small in comparison with other things which you might have
been, but which you are not, and of so little importance in comparison
with what you really ARE, that I can't feel so very bad about it.”
“But--but--my drinking,--my condition when--” He could not go on.
“Why, you see,” she answered, “I can't think of THAT man as being YOU at
all. THAT was something that the accident of your being a thief did to
you,--like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling in
the river.”
After a little silence, the man spoke, slowly: “I suppose every thief,
when he is caught, says the same thing; but I really never wanted to do
it. Circumstances--” he paused, biting his lip, and turning away.
“What was she like?” asked Auntie Sue, gently.
“She?” and his face reddened.
“Yes, I have observed that, to a man, 'circumstances' nearly always mean
a woman. To a woman, of course, it is a man.”
“I cannot tell you about her, now,” he said. “Some day, perhaps, when I
am further away from it. But she is not at all like you.”
And this answer, for some strange reason, brought a flush of pleasure to
the face of the old schoolteacher.
“I did not mean for you to tell me now,” she returned. “I only wanted
you to know that, even though I am an old maid, I can understand.”
She left him then, and went to attend to her simple household duties.
It was not until quite late in the evening that Auntie Sue took up the
newspaper which Sheriff Knox had given her. Judy had retired to her
room, and Brian Burns--as they had agreed he should be called--was fast
asleep.
To-morrow, Brian was going to sit up. His clothing had been washed and
ironed and pressed, and Auntie Sue was making some little repairs in the
way of darning and buttons. She had finished, and was putting her needle
and scissors in the sewing-basket on the table beside her, when she
noticed the paper, which she had forgotten.
The article headed “BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS” was not long. It told, in a
matter-of-fact, newspaper way, how Brian Kent had, at different times,
covering a period of several months, taken various sums from the Empire
Consolidated Savings Bank, and gave, so far as was then known, the
accumulated amount which he had taken. The dishonest clerk had employed
several methods in his operations; but the particular incident--read
Auntie Sue--which had led to the exposure of Kent's stealings was the
theft of a small sum of money in bank-notes, which had been sent to the
bank in a letter by one of the bank's smaller depositors.
The newspaper fell from Auntie Sue's hand. Mechanically, she fingered
the garment lying in her lap.
She, too, had sent a sum of money in a letter for deposit to her small
account in this bank from which Brian Kent had stolen. She would not
have sent the familiar paper currency of the United States that way;
but, this money was in Argentine notes. Her brother from far-away Buenos
Aires had sent it to her, saying that it would help to keep her during
the closing years of her life; and she had added it to her small savings
with a feeling of deepest gratitude that her last days were now fully
provided for. And she had received from the bank no acknowledgment of
her letter with its enclosures.
Taking up the paper with hands that trembled so she scarce could
distinguish the words, she read the paragraph again.
Suddenly, she recalled the man's puzzled expression when she had
told him her name, and she seemed to hear him say, again, “Wakefield?
Wakefield? Where have I seen that name?”
She looked at the date of the paper. Beyond all doubt, the man sleeping
there in the other room;--the man whom she had saved from a suicide's
end in the river;--whom she had nursed through the hell of delirium
tremens;--whom she had yearned over as over her own son, and for whom,
to save from the just penalty of his crime, she had lied--beyond all
doubt that man had robbed her of the money that was to have insured to
her peace and comfort in the closing years of her life.
Carefully, Auntie Sue laid the garment she had just mended with such
loving care, with the rest of Brian Kent's clothing, on the near-by
chair. Rising, she went with slow, troubled step to the porch.
There was no moon, that night, to turn the waters of The Bend into a
stream of silvery light. But the stars were shining bright and clear,
and she could see the river where it made its dark, mysterious way
between the walls of shadowy hills; and borne to her ears on the gentle
night wind came the deep, thundering roar of the angry waters at Elbow
Rock.
For a long time she stood there on the porch looking into the night,
with the light from the open door of her little house behind her; and
she felt very lonely, very tired, and very old. With her beautiful old
face upturned to the infinite sky, where shining worlds are scattered
in such lavish profusion, she listened, listened to the river that, with
its countless and complex currents, swept so irresistibly onward along
the way that was set for it by Him who swung those star-worlds in the
limitless space of that mighty arch above. And something of the spirit
that broods ever over the river must have entered into the soul of
Auntie Sue. When she turned back into the house, there was a smile on
her face, though her eyes were wet with tears.
Going to the chair that held Brian Kent's clothing, she took the
garments in her arms and pressed them to her lips. Then she carried them
to his room.
For some time she remained in that darkened chamber beside the sleeping
man.
When she returned to the living-room, she again took up the newspaper.
Very carefully, that her sleeping companions in the house might not hear
her, she went to the kitchen, the paper in her hand. Very carefully,
that no sound should betray her act, she burned the paper in the kitchen
stove.
CHAPTER IX.
AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION.
During the next few days, Brian Kent rapidly regained his strength. No
one seeing the tall, self-possessed gentleman who sat with Auntie Sue on
the porch overlooking the river, or strolled about the place, could have
imagined him the wretchedly repulsive creature that Judy had dragged
from the eddy so short a time before. And no one,--exempting, perhaps,
detective Ross,--would have identified this bearded guest of Auntie
Sue's as the absconding bank clerk for whose arrest a substantial reward
was offered.
But Mr. Ross had departed from the Ozarks, to report to the Empire
Consolidated Savings Bank that, to the best of his knowledge and belief,
Brian Kent had been drowned. Homer T. Ward, himself, wrote Auntie Sue
about the case, for the detective had told the bank president about his
visit to the little log house by the river, and the banker knew that his
old teacher would wish to hear the conclusion of the affair.
The facts upon which the detective based his conclusion that Brian Kent
was dead, were, first of all, the man's general character, temperament,
habits, and ambitions,--aside from his thefts from the bank,--prior to
the time of his exposure and flight, and his known mental and physical
condition at the time he disappeared from the hotel in the little river
town of Borden.
The detective reasoned (and there are thousands of cases that could
be cited to support his contention) that by such a man as Brian
Kent,--knowing, as he must have known, the comparative certainty of
his ultimate arrest and conviction, and being in a mental and nervous
condition bordering on insanity, as a result of his constant brooding
over his crime and the excessive drinking to which he had resorted for
relief,--by such a man, death would almost inevitably be chosen rather
than a life of humiliation and disgrace and imprisonment.
Acting upon the supposition, however, that the man had gone down the
river in that missing boat, and that the appearance of suicide
was planned by the fugitive to trick his pursuers, the detectives
ascertained that he had provided no supplies for a trip down the river.
The man would be compelled to seek food. The mountain country through
which he must pass was sparsely settled, and for a distance that would
have taken a boat many days to cover, the officers visited every house
and cabin and camp on either side of the river without finding a trace
of the hunted man. The river had been watched night and day. The net set
by the Burns operatives touched every settlement and village for many
miles around. And, finally, the battered and broken wreck of the lost
boat had been found some two miles below Elbow Rock.
“. . . And so, my dear Auntie Sue,” Banker Ward wrote, in conclusion,
“you may rest in peace, secure in the certainty that my thieving bank
clerk is not lurking anywhere in your beautiful Ozarks to pounce down
upon you unawares in your little house beside the river. The man is
safely dead. There is no doubt about it. I regret, more than I can
express, that you have been in any way disturbed by the affair. Please
think no more about it.
“By the way, you made a great impression upon detective Ross. He was
more than enthusiastic over your graciousness and your beauty. I
never heard him talk so much before in all the years I have known him.
Needless to say, I indorsed everything he said about the dearest
old lady in the world, and then we celebrated by dining together and
drinking a toast to Auntie Sue. . . .”
Auntie Sue went with the letter to Brian, and acquainted him with that
part of the banker's communication which related to the absconding
clerk; but, about her relation to the president of the Empire
Consolidated Savings Bank, she said nothing.
“Isn't it splendid!” she finished, her face glowing with delight.
“Splendid?” he echoed, looking at her with grave, questioning eyes.
“Why, yes, of course!” she returned. “Aren't you glad to be so dead,
under the circumstances? Think what it means! You are free, now. No
horrid old detectives dogging your steps, or waiting behind every bush
and tree to pounce upon you. There is nothing, now, to prevent your
being the kind of man that you always meant to be,--and really ARE,
too,--except for your--your accidental tumble in the river,” she
finished with her low chuckling laugh. “And, some day,” she went on,
with conviction, “when you have established yourself,--when you have
asserted your REAL self, I mean,--and have paid back every penny of the
money, Homer T. Ward and Mr. Ross and everybody will be glad that they
didn't catch you before you had a chance to save yourself.”
“And you, Auntie Sue?” Brian's voice was deep with feeling: “And you?”
“Me? Oh, I am as glad, now, as I can ever be, because, you see, to me it
is already done.”
For a long minute he looked at her without speaking, then turned his
face away to gaze out over the river and the hills; but his eyes were
the eyes of one who looks without seeing.
Slowly, he said: “I wish I could be sure. There was a time when I
was--when I believed in myself. It seems to me, now, that it was years
and years ago. I thought, then, that nothing could shake me in my
purpose; that nothing could check me in my ambition. I saw myself going
straight on to the goal I had set for myself as certainly as--well, as
your river ever there goes on to the sea. But now--” He shook his head
sadly.
Auntie Sue laughed. “You foolish boy. My river out there doesn't go
straight at all. It meets all sorts of obstacles, and is beset by all
sorts of conflicting influences, and so is forced to wind and twist and
work its way along; but, the big, splendid thing about the river is that
it keeps going on. It never stops to turn back. No matter what happens
to it, it never stops. It goes on and on and on unto the very end, until
it finally loses itself in the triumph of its own achievement,--the
sea.”
“And you think that I can go on?” he asked, doubtingly.
“I know you can go on,” she answered with conviction.
“But, why are you so sure?”
“Perhaps,” she returned, smiling, “seventy years makes one sure of some
things.”
Ho exclaimed passionately: “But you do not know--you cannot know--how
my life, my dreams, my plans, my hopes, my--everything--has been broken
into bits!”
She answered calmly, pointing to Elbow Rock: “Look there, Brian. See
how the river is broken into bits. See how its smoothly flowing, onward
sweep is suddenly changed to wild, chaotic turmoil; how it rages and
fumes and frets and smashes itself against the rocks. But it goes on
just the same. Life cannot be always calm and smoothly flowing like the
peaceful Bend. But life can always go on. Life must always go on. And
you will find, my dear boy, that a little way below Elbow Rock there is
another quiet stretch.”
When he spoke again there was a note of almost reverence in his voice.
“Auntie Sue, was there ever a break in your life? Were your dreams and
plans ever smashed into bits?”
For a little, she did not answer; then she said, bravely: “Yes, Brian;
several times. Once,--years and years ago,--I do not know how I managed
to go on. I felt, then, as you feel now; but, somehow, I managed, and
so found the calm places. The last hard spot came quite recently.”
She paused, wondering what he would do if she were to tell him how he
himself had made the hard spot. “But, now,” she continued, “I am hoping
that the rest of the way will be calm and untroubled.”
“I wish I could help to make it so!” he cried impulsively.
“Why, you can,” she returned quickly. “Of course you can. Perhaps that
is why the current landed your boat at my garden, instead of carrying
you on down the rapids to Elbow Rock. Who can say?”
A new light kindled in the man's eyes as his sensitive nature took fire
at Auntie Sue's words. “I could do anything for a woman like you, Auntie
Sue,” he said quietly, but with a conviction that left no room for
doubt. “But you must tell me what I am to do.”
She answered: “You are simply to go on with your life--just as if no
Elbow Rock had ever disturbed you; just as the river goes on--to the
end.”
She left him, then, to think out his problem alone; for the teacher of
so many years' experience was too wise not to know when a lesson was
finished.
But when the end of the day was come, they again sat together on the
porch and watched the miracle of the sunset hour. And no word was spoken
by them, now, of life and its problems and its meanings. As one listens
to the song of a bird without thought of musical notes or terms; as one
senses the fragrance of a flower without thought of the chemistry of
perfume; as one feels the presence of spring in the air without thought
of the day of the week, so they were conscious of the beauty, the glory,
and the peace of the evening.
Only when the soft darkness of the night lay over the land, and river
and mountain and starry sky were veiled in dreamy mystery, did Auntie
Sue speak: “Oh, it is so good to have some one to share it with,--some
one who understands. I am very lonely, sometimes, Brian. I wonder if you
know?”
“Yes, Auntie Sue, I know, for I have been lonely, too.”
And so the old gentlewoman, whose lifework was so nearly finished, and
the man in the flush of his manhood years, whose life had been so nearly
wrecked, were drawn very close by a something that came to them out of
the beauty and the mystery of that hour.
The next day, Brian told Auntie Sue that he would leave on the morrow.
“Leave?” she echoed in dismay. “Why, Brian, where are you going?”
“I don't exactly know,” he returned; “but, of course, I must go
somewhere, out into the world again.”
“And why must you 'go somewhere, out into the world again'?” she
demanded.
“To work,” he answered, smiling. “If I am to go on, as you say, I must
go where I can find something to do.”
“If that isn't just like you--you child!” cried the old teacher. “You
are all alike,--you boys and girls. You all must have something to do;
always, it is 'something to do'.”
“Well,” he returned, “and must we not have something to do?”
“You will do something, certainly,” she answered; “but, before you
can DO anything that is worth doing, you must BE something. Life isn't
DOING;--it is BEING.”
“I wonder if that was not the real reason for my wretched failures,”
said Brian, thoughtfully.
“It is the real reason for most of our failures,” she returned. “And so
you are not going to fail again. You are not going away somewhere, you
don't know where, to do something you don't know what. You are going to
stay right here, and just BE something. Then, when the time comes, you
will do whatever is yours to do as naturally and as inevitably as the
birds sing, as the blossoms come in the spring, or as the river finds
its way to the sea.”
And more than ever Brian Kent felt in the presence of Auntie Sue as
a little boy to whom the world had grown suddenly very big and very
wonderful.
But, after a while, he shook his head, smiling wistfully. “No, no,
Auntie Sue, that sounds all true and right enough, but it can't be. I
must go just the same.”
“Why can't it be, Brian?”
“For one thing,” he returned, “I cannot risk the danger to you. After
all, as long as I am living, there is a chance that my identity will be
discovered, and you--no, no; I must not!”
“As for that,” she answered quickly, “the chances of your being
identified are a thousand times greater if you go into the world again
too soon. Some day, of course, you must go; but you are safer now right
here. And”--she added quickly--“it would be no easier for me, dear boy,
to--to--have it happen somewhere away from me. You are mine, you know,
no matter where you go.”
“But, Auntie Sue,” he protested, “I am not a gentleman of means that I
can do nothing indefinitely; neither am I capable of living upon your
hospitality for an extended period. I must earn my bread and butter.”
The final sentence came with such a lifting of his head, such a look
of stern decision, and such an air of pride, that the gentle old
school-teacher laughed until her eyes were filled with tears; and Judy,
at the crack in the kitchen door, wondered if the mistress of the little
log house by the river were losing her mind.
“Oh, Brian! Brian!” cried Auntie Sue, wiping her eyes. “I knew you
would come to the 'bread and butter' at last. That is where all our
philosophies and reasonings and arguments come at last, don't they? Just
'bread and butter,' that is all. And I love you for it. Of course you
can't live upon my hospitality,--and I couldn't let you if you would.
And if you WOULD, I wouldn't let you if I could. I am no more a lady of
means, my haughty sir, than you are a gentleman of independent fortune.
The fact is, Brian, dear, I suspect that you and I are about the two
poorest people in the world,--to be anything like as pretentiously
respectable and properly proud as we are.”
When the man could make no reply, but only looked at her with a
much-puzzled and still-proud expression, she continued, half-laughingly,
but well pleased with him: “Please, Brian, don't look so haughtily
injured. I had no intention of insulting you by offering charity. Far
from it.”
Instantly, the man's face changed. He put out his hands protestingly,
and his blue eyes filled, as he said, impulsively. “Auntie Sue, after
what you have done for me, I--”
She answered quickly: “We are considering the future. What has been, is
past. Our river is already far beyond that point in its journey. Don't
let us try to turn the waters back. I promise you I am going to be very,
very practical, and make you pay for EVERYTHING.”
Smiling, now, he waited for her to explain.
“I must tell you, first,” she began, “that, except for a very small
amount in the--in a savings bank, I have nothing to provide for my last
days except this little farm.”
“What a shame,” Brian Kent exclaimed, “that a woman like you can give
her life to the public schools for barely enough salary to keep her
alive during her active years, and then left in her old age with no
means of support. It is a national disgrace.”
Auntie Sue chuckled with appreciation of the rather grim humor of the
situation. What would Brian Kent, indignant at the public neglect of the
school-teacher, say of the man who had robbed her of the money that was
to provide for her closing years? “After all, most public sins are only
individual sins at the last,” she said, musingly.
“I beg your pardon,” said Brian, not in the least seeing the relevancy
of her words.
Auntie Sue came quickly back to her subject: “Only thirty acres of my
little farm is under cultivation. The remaining fifty acres is wild
timberland. If I could have that fifty acres also in cultivation, with
the money that the timber would bring,--which would not be a great
deal,--I would be fairly safe for the--for the rest of my evening,” she
finished with a smile. “Do you see?”
“You mean that I--that you want me to stay here and work for you?”
“I mean,” she answered, “that, if you choose to stay for awhile, you
need not feel that you would be accepting my hospitality as charity,”
she returned gently. “I am not exactly offering you a job: I am only
showing you how you could, without sacrificing your pride, remain in
this quiet retreat for awhile before returning to the world.”
“It would be heaven, Auntie Sue,” he returned earnestly. “I want to stay
so bad that I fear myself. Let me think it over until to-morrow. Let me
be sure that I am doing the right thing, and not merely the thing I want
to do.”
She liked his answer, and did not mention the subject again until Brian
himself was ready. And, strangely enough, it was poor, twisted Judy who
helped him to set matters straight.
CHAPTER X.
BRIAN KENT DECIDES.
Brian had walked along the river-bank below the house to a spot just
above the point where the high bluff jutting out into the river-channel
forms Elbow Rock.
The bank here is not so high above the roaring waters of the rapids, for
the spur of the mountain which forms the cliff lies at a right angle to
the river, and the greater part of the cliff is thus on the shore, with
its height growing less and less as it merges into the main slope of
the mountain-side. From the turn in the road, in front of the house, a
footpath leads down the bank of the river to the cliff, and, climbing
stairlike up the face of the steep bluff, zigzags down the easier slope
of the down-river side, to come again into the road below. The
road itself, below Elbow Rock, is forced by the steep side of the
mountain-spur and the precipitous bluff to turn inland from the river,
and so, climbing by an easier grade up past Tom Warden's place, crosses
the ridge above the schoolhouse, and comes back down the mountain again
in front of Auntie Sue's place, to its general course along the stream.
The little path forms thus a convenient short cut for any one following
the river road on foot.
Brian, seated on the river-bank a little way from the path where it
starts up the bluff, was trying to decide whether it would be better
for him to follow his desire and stay with Auntie Sue for a few weeks
or months, or whether he should not, in spite of the land he might clear
for her, return to the world where he could more quickly earn the money
to pay back that which he had stolen.
And as he sat there, the man was conscious that he had reached one
of those turning-points that are found in every life where results,
momentous and far-reaching, are dependent upon comparatively unimportant
and temporary issues. He could not have told why, and yet he felt a
certainty that, for him, two widely separated futures were dependent
upon his choice. Nor could he, by thinking, discover what those futures
held for him, nor which he should choose. Even as his boat that night
had hung on the edge of the eddy,--hesitating on the dividing-line
between the two currents,--so the man himself now felt the pull of his
life-currents, and hesitated,--undecided.
Looking toward the house, he thought how like the life offered by Auntie
Sue was to the quiet waters of The Bend, and--his mind finished the
simile--how like the life to which he would go was to the rapids at
Elbow Rock; and, yet, he reflected, the waters could never reach the
sea without enduring the turmoil of the rapids. And, again, the thought
came, “The Bend is just as much the river as the troubled passage around
the rock.”
When he had given up life, and, to all intent and purpose, had left life
behind him, the river, without his will or knowledge, had mysteriously
elected to save him from the death he had chosen as his only refuge from
the utter ruin that had seemed so inevitable. As the currents of the
river had carried his boat to the eddy at the foot of Auntie Sue's
garden, the currents of life had mysteriously brought him to the saving
influence of Auntie Sue herself. Should he push out again into the
stream to face the danger he knew beset such a course? or should he wait
for a season in the secure calm of the harbor she offered until he were
stronger? Brian Kent knew, instinctively, that there was in the wisdom
and love of Auntie Sue's philosophy and faith a strength that would, if
he could make it his, insure his safe passage through every danger of
life, and yet--The man's meditations were interrupted by a chance look
toward the bluff which towered above him.
Judy was climbing the steep trail.
Curiously, Brian watched the deformed mountain girl as she made her way
up the narrow, stairlike path, and her cutting words came back to him:
“God-A'mighty and my drunken pap made me like I am. But you,--damn
you!--you made yourself what you be.” And Auntie Sue had said that
the all-important thing in life was not to DO something, but to BE
something.
The girl, who had gained a point halfway to the top of the bluff, paused
to look searchingly about, and Brian, who was half-hidden by the bushes,
started to call to her, thinking she might be looking for him; but some
impulse checked him and he remained silently watching her. Climbing
hurriedly a little higher up the path Judy again stopped to look
carefully around, as if searching the vicinity for some one. Then, once
more, she went on until she stood on top of the cliff; and now, as she
looked about over the surrounding country, she called: “Mr. Burns! Oh,
Mr. Burns! Who-o-e-e! Mr. Burns!”
Brian's lips were parted to answer the call when something happened on
top of the bluff which held him for the moment speechless.
From beyond where Judy stood on the brink of the cliff, a man's head
and shoulders appeared. Brian saw the girl start and turn to face the
newcomer as if in sudden fear. Then she whirled about to run. Before she
could gain the point where the path starts down from the top, the man
caught her and dragged her roughly back, so that the two disappeared
from Brian's sight. Brian was halfway up the bluff when he heard the
girl's shrill scream.
There was no sign of weakness, now, in the man that Judy had dragged
from the river. He covered the remaining distance to the top in a
breath. From among the bushes, a little way down the mountainside, came
the sound of an angry voice mingled with Judy's pleading cries.
An instant more, and Brian reached the spot where poor Judy was
crouching on the ground, begging the brute, who stood over her with
menacing fists, not to hit her again.
The man was a vicious-looking creature, dressed in the rough garb of
the mountaineer; dirty and unkempt, with evil, close-set eyes, and a
scraggly beard that could not hide the wicked, snarling mouth.
He stood for a second looking at Brian, as if too surprised by the
latter's sudden appearance to move; then he went down, felled by as
clean a knockout as was ever delivered by an Irish fist.
“Are you hurt, Judy?” demanded Brian, as he lifted the girl to her feet.
“Did he strike you?”
“He was sure a-fixin' ter lick me somethin' awful when you-all put in,”
returned the poor girl, trembling with fear. “I know, 'cause he's done
hit to me heaps er times before. He's my pap.”
“Your father!” exclaimed Brian.
Judy nodded;--then screamed: “Look out! He'll git you, sure!”
Judy's rescuer whirled, to see the man on the ground drawing a gun. A
vigorous, well-directed kick, delivered in the nick of time, sent the
gun whirling away into the bushes and rendered the native's right arm
useless.
“Get up!” commanded Brian.
The man rose to his feet, and stood nursing his damaged wrist and
scowling at Judy's companion.
“Are you this girl's father?”
“I reckon I am,” came the sullen reply. “I'm Jap Taylor, an' you-all
are sure goin' to find that you can't come between a man an' his lawful
child in these here mountains, mister,--if you-all be from the city.”
“And you will find that you can't strike a crippled girl in my presence,
even if she is your daughter,--in these mountains or anywhere else,”
retorted Brian. “What are you trying to do with her, anyway?”
“I aim ter take her back home with me, where she belongs.”
“Well, why didn't you go to the house for her like a man, instead of
jumping on her out here in the woods!”
“Hit ain't none of your dad burned business as I can see,” came the
sullen reply.
“I am making it my business, just the same,” returned Brian.
He turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little behind him. “Judy,”
he said, kindly, “I think perhaps you better tell me about this.”
“Pap, he was a-layin' for me in the bresh 'cause he dassn't come to the
house ter git me,” said the girl, fearfully.
“But, why does he fear to come to the house?” persisted Brian.
“'Cause he done give me ter Auntie Sue.”
“Gave you to Auntie Sue?” repeated the puzzled Brian.
Jap Taylor interrupted with, “I didn't sign ary paper, an'--”
“Shut up, you!” snapped Brian. “Go on, Judy.”
“Hit was a year last corn-plantin',” explained the girl. “My maw, she
died. He used ter whip her, too. An' Auntie Sue was there helpin' weuns;
an' Tom Warden an' some other folks they was there, too; an' they done
fixed hit so that I was ter go an' live with Auntie Sue; an' pap, he
give me ter her. He sure did, Mr. Burns, an' I ain't a-wantin' ter go
with him, no more.”
The poor girl's shrill monotone broke, and her twisted body shook with
her sobs.
“I didn't sign ary paper,” repeated Judy's father, with sullen
stubbornness. “An' what's more, I sure ain't a-goin' ter. I 'lows as how
she'll just go home an' work for me, like she ort, 'stead of livin' with
that there old-maid schoolma'am. I'm her paw, I am, an' I reckon I got
rights.”
He started toward the girl, who drew closer to Brian, and begged
piteously: “Don't let him tech me! 'Fore God, Mr. Burns, he'll kill me,
sure!”
Brian drew the girl behind him as he faced the father with a brief, “Get
out!”
The mountaineer hesitated.
Brian went one step toward him: “Do you hear? Get out! And if you ever
show your dirty face in this vicinity again, I'll not leave a whole bone
in your worthless carcass!”
And Jap Taylor saw something in those Irish blue eyes that caused him to
start off down the mountain toward the river below Elbow Rock.
When he had placed a safe distance between himself and the man who
appeared so willing and able to make good his threat, Judy's father
turned, and, shaking his uninjured fist at Brian, delivered a volley
of curses, with: “I'll sure git you-all for this! Jap Taylor ain't
a-lettin' no man come between him an' his'n. I'll fix you, an' I'll fix
that there schoolma'am, too! She's nothin' but a damned old--”
But Brian started toward him, and Jap Taylor beat a hasty retreat.
“Never mind, Judy,” said Brian, when the native had disappeared in the
brush and timber that covered the steep mountain-side. “I'll not let
him touch you. Come, let us sit down and talk a little until you are
yourself again. Auntie Sue must not see you like this. We don't want to
let her know anything about it. You won't tell her, will you?”
“I ain't aimin' ter tell nobody,” said Judy, between sobs. “I sure ain't
a-wantin' ter make no trouble,--not for Auntie Sue, nohow. She's been
powerful good ter me.”
When they were seated on convenient rocks at the brink of the cliff
overlooking the river, Judy gradually ceased crying, and presently said,
in her normal, querulous monotone: “Did you-all mind what pap 'lowed
he'd do ter Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns?”
“Yes, Judy; but don't worry, child. He is not going to harm any one
while I am around.”
“You-all are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful glad,” said
Judy, simply.
Brian started. A new factor had suddenly been injected into his problem.
“I was powerful scared you-all was aimin' ter go away,” continued Judy.
“Hit was that I was a-huntin' you-all to tell you 'bout, when pap he
ketched me.”
“What were you going to tell me, Judy?”
“I 'lowed ter tell you-all 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be powerful mad
if she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you, but she's a-needin' somebody
like you ter help her, mighty bad. She--she's done lost a heap of money,
lately: hit was some she sent--”
Brian interrupted: “Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me anything
about Auntie Sue's private affairs; you must not tell any one. Anything
she wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you understand?” he finished
with a reassuring smile.
“Yes, sir; I reckon you-all are 'bout right, an' I won't tell nobody
nothin'. But 'tain't a-goin' ter hurt none ter say as how you-all ort
ter stay, I reckon.”
“And why do you think I ought to stay, Judy?”
“'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for you-all,--a-nursin' you when you
was plumb crazy an' plumb dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' like she
did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man,” returned Judy
stoutly; “an' 'cause she's so old an' is a-needin' you-all ter help her;
an' 'cause she is a-lovin' you like she does, an' is a-wantin' you-all
ter stay so bad hit's mighty nigh a-makin' her plumb sick.”
Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed to him
the selfishness of his own consideration of his problem so clearly that
he was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, remembered the dear old
gentlewoman who had saved him from a shameful death?
Judy went on: “Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got ter
take care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All her whole life she's a-been
takin' care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just like she tuck
you-all, besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's so old and mighty
nigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit was time somebody was
a-fixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what I was a-huntin' you-all
ter tell you when pap ketched me, Mr. Burns.”
“I am glad you told me, Judy;--very glad. You see, I was not thinking of
things in just that way.”
“I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't.”
“But it's all right, now!” Brian cried heartily. “You have settled it.
I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue,--you and I, Judy. Come on,
now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't say anything
about your father, Judy;--that would only make her unhappy; and we must
never make Auntie Sue unhappy--never.” He was as eager and enthusiastic,
now, as a schoolboy.
“'Course,” said Judy, solemnly; “'course you just naturally got ter stay
an' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do.”
“Yes, Judy; I've just naturally got to stay,” returned Brian.
Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little log
house by the river to announce Brian's decision to Auntie Sue. They
found the dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch overlooking
the river.
“Why, of course you will stay,” she returned, when Brian had told her.
“The river brought you to me, and you know, my dear boy, the river is
never wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are cross-currents and crooked spots
and sand-bars and rocks and lots of places where it SEEMS to us to be
wrong. But, just the same, it all goes on, all the time, toward the sea
for which it starts when it first begins at some little spring away
over there somewhere in the mountains. Of course you will stay with me,
Brian,--until the river carries you on again.”
CHAPTER XI.
RE-CREATION.
From the very day of his decision, to which he had been so unexpectedly
helped by Judy, Brian Kent was another man. The gloomy, despondent,
undecided spirit that was the successor of the wretched creature that
Judy had helped to Auntie Sue's that morning was now succeeded by a
cheerful, hopeful, contented man, who went to his daily task with a
song, did his work with a smile and a merry jest, and returned, when the
day was done, with peace in his heart and laughter on his lips.
As the days of the glorious Ozark autumn passed, Brian's healthful,
outdoor work on the timbered mountain-side brought to the man of the
cities a physical grace and beauty he had lacked,--the grace of physical
strength and the beauty of clean and rugged health. The bright autumn
sun and the winds that swept over the many miles of tree-clad hills
browned his skin; while his work with the ax developed his muscles and
enforced deep breathing of the bracing mountain air, thus bringing
a more generous supply of richer blood, which touched his now firmly
rounded cheeks with color.
The gift of humor and the faculty of quaint and witty conversational
twists, with the genius of storytelling that was his from his Irish
mother, made quick friends for him of the mountain neighbors who
welcomed this new pupil of their old school-teacher with whole-hearted
pleasure, and quoted his jests and sayings throughout the country with
never-failing delight. And Judy,--it is not too much to say that Judy
became his most ardent admirer and devoted slave.
But the dear old mistress of the little log house by the river alone
recognized that these outward changes in the human wreck that the
river had brought to her were but manifestations of a more potent
transformation that was taking place in the man's inner life; and it was
this inner change that filled the teacher's loving heart with joy, and
which she watched with keen and delighted interest.
It was not, after all, a new life that was coming to this man, Auntie
Sue told herself; it was his own old and more real life that was
reassuring itself. It was the real Brian Kent that had been sojourning
in a far country that was now coming home to his own. It was the wealth
of his heart and mind and soul which had been deep-buried under an
accumulation of circumstances and environment that was now being brought
to the surface.
Might it not be that Auntie Sue's genius for absorbing beauty and making
truth her own had, in her many years of searching for truth and beauty
in whatever humanity she encountered, developed in her a peculiar
sensitiveness? And was it not this that had made her feel instinctively
the real nature of the man in whom a less discerning observer would have
recognized nothing worthy of admiration or regard? Without question,
it was the true,--the essential,--the underlying,--elements in the
character of the absconding bank clerk that had aroused in this
remarkable old gentlewoman the peculiar sense of kinship--of
possession--that had determined her attitude toward the stranger. The
law that like calls to like is not less applicable to things spiritual
than to things material. The birds of a feather that always flock
together are not of necessity material birds of material feathers.
Nor was Brian Kent himself unconscious of his Re-Creation. The man knew
what he was, as every man knows deep within himself the real self that
is. And that was the horror of the situation which had set him adrift on
the river that night when, in his last drunken despairing frenzy, he had
left the world with a curse in his heart and had faced the black unknown
with reckless laughter and a profane toast. It is to be doubted if
there can be a hell of greater torment than that experienced by one who,
endowed by nature with a capacity for great living, is betrayed by the
very strength of his genius into a situation that is intolerable of his
real self, and is forced, thus, to a continuous self-crucifixion and
death.
In his new environment the man felt the awakening of this self which he
had mourned as dead. Thoughts, emotions, dreams, aspirations, which had,
as he believed, been killed, he found were not dead, but only sleeping;
and in the quickening of their vitality and strength he knew a joy as
great as had been his despair.
The beauty of nature, that had lost its power of appeal to his sodden
soul, now stirred him to the very depth of his being. The crisp,
sun-sweet air of the autumn mornings, when he went forth with his ax
to the day's clean labor, was a draught of potent magic that set every
nerve of him tingling with delight. The woodland hillside, where he
worked, was a wonderland of beautiful creations that inspired a thousand
glowing fancies. Sometimes, at his heavy task, he would pause for a
moment's rest, and so would look out and away over the vast expanse of
country that from his feet stretched in all its charm of winding river
and wooded slopes, and tree-fringed ridges to the far, blue sky-line;
and the very soul of him would answer to the call as he had thought he
never could answer again. The very clouds that drifted past on their
courses to unseen ports beyond the hills were freighted with meaning for
him now. The winds that came laden with the subtly blended perfume
of ten thousand varieties of trees and grasses and shrubs and flowers
whispered words of life which he now could hear. The loveliness of the
glowing morning skies, as he saw them when he rose for the day's work,
and the glories of the sunsets, as he watched them with Auntie Sue
from the porch when the day's task was accomplished, filled him with an
exquisite gladness which he had never hoped to know again.
Most of all, did the river speak to him; not, indeed, as it had spoken
that dreadful night, when, from the window of his darkened room, he had
listened to its call: the river spoke, now, in the full day as his eye
followed its winding length through the hills in all its varied beauty
of sunshine and shadow;--of gleaming silver and living green and
russet-brown. It talked to him in the evening when the waters gave back
the glories of the sky and the deepening twilight wrapped the world in
its dusky veil of mystery. It spoke to him in the soft darkness of the
night, as it swept on its way under the stars, or in the light of the
golden moon. And, in time, some of these things which the river said to
him, he, in turn, told to Auntie Sue.
And Auntie Sue, delighted with the man's awakening self, and charmed
with his power of thought and his gift of expression, led him on.
With artful suggestion and skilful question and subtle argument, she
stimulated his mind and fancy to lay hold of the truths and beauties
that life and nature offered. But ever the rare old gentlewoman was his
teacher, revealing himself to himself; guiding him to a fuller discovery
and knowledge of his own life and its meaning, which, indeed, is the
true aim and end of all right teaching.
So the days of the autumn passed. The hills changed their robes of
varied green for costumes of brown and gold, with touches here and there
of flaming scarlet and brilliant yellow. And then winter was at hand,
and that momentous evening came when Auntie Sue said to her pupil, after
an hour of most interesting talk, “Brian, why in the world don't you
write a book?”
“'A book'!” exclaimed Brian, in a startled tone.
Judy laughed. “He sure ought ter. Lord knows he talks like one.”
“I am in earnest, Brian,” said Auntie Sue, her lovely old eyes shining
with enthusiasm and her gentle voice trembling with excitement. “I have
been thinking about it for a long time, now, and, to-night, I just can't
keep it to myself any longer. Why don't you give to the world some of
the thoughts you have been wasting on Judy and me?”
“Hit's sure been a-wastin' of 'em on me,” agreed Judy. “'Fore God, I
don't sense what he's a-talkin' 'bout, more'n half the time.”
Brian laughed. “Judy is prophetic, Auntie Sue. She voices perfectly the
sentiment of the world toward any book I might write.”
Auntie Sue detected a note of bitterness underlying the laughing
comment, and wondered.
Judy spoke again as she arose to retire to her room for the night: “I
reckon as how there's a right smart of things youuns talk that'd be
mighty fine if a body only had the learnin' ter sense 'em. An' there
must be heaps of folks where youuns come from what would know Mr.
Burns's meaning if he was to write hit all out plain. Everybody ain't
like me. Hit's sure a God's-blessin' they ain't, too.”
“And there, Brian, dear, is your answer,” said Auntie Sue, as Judy left
the room. “Any book has meaning only for those who have the peculiar
sympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book that means
nothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. Every writer writes
for his own peculiar readers, just as every individual has his own
peculiar friends.”
“Or enemies,” said Brian.
“Or enemies,” agreed Auntie Sue.
Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into the
night. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily up
and down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with an
expression of loving concern on her dear old face.
At last, she spoke: “Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said?
I did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, and tell me
about it. What is it troubles you so?”
With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. “I suppose it had
to come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I have been trying for days to
muster up courage enough to tell you about it. You have touched the one
biggest thing in my life.”
“Why, what do you mean, Brian?”
“I mean just what we have been talking about,--writing,” answered Brian.
“Oh!” she cried, with quick and delighted triumph. “Then I AM right. You
have been thinking about it, too.”
“Thinking about it!” he echoed, and in his voice she felt the nervous
intensity of his mood. “I have thought of nothing else. All day long
when I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It is the last thing
on my mind when I go to sleep. I dream about it all night. And, it is
the first thing I think about in the morning.”
Auntie Sue clasped her hands to her heart with an exclamation of joyous
interest.
Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: “I know exactly
what I want to say, and why I want to say it. There is a world of
people, Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and spoiled by one
thing or another, and who have more or less cut themselves loose from
everything, and are just drifting, they don't care a hang where, because
they think they have failed so completely that there is nothing more
in life for them. People like me,--I don't mean thieves and criminals
necessarily,--who have had that which they know to be the best and
biggest and truest part of themselves tortured and warped and twisted
and denied and smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who,
because they feel that their real selves are dead within them, don't
care what happens to that part which is left.”
He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of feeling
which he had never before revealed to his gentle companion.
“It is not so much the love of wrong-doing that makes people turn
bad,”--he continued,--“it is having their real selves misunderstood and
doubted and smothered and their realest loves and dreams and aspirations
never recognized, or else distorted and twisted and made to appear
as something they hate. I want to make the people--and there are many
thousands of them--who are suffering in the living hell that tormented
me, feel that I know and understand. And then, Auntie Sue, then I want
to tell them about you and your river.
“I would teach them the things you have taught me. I would say to every
one that I could persuade to listen: 'It doesn't in the least matter
what your experience is, the old river is still going on to the sea.
No matter if every woman you ever knew has proved untrue, virtuous
womanhood still IS. No matter if every man you ever knew has proved
false, true manhood still IS. If every friend you ever had has betrayed
your friendship, loyal friendship still IS. If you have found nothing
in your experience but dishonesty and falsehood and infidelity and
hypocrisy, it is only because you have been unfortunate in your
experience; because honesty and fidelity and sincerity are existing
FACTS. They are the very foundation facts of life, and can no more fail
life than the river can fail to reach the sea.
“'Your little individual experience, my little individual
experience,--what are they? They are nothing more than the tiny bubbles,
swirls, ripples, and breaks on the surface of the great volume of water
that flows so inevitably onward. The bit of foam, the tiny wave caused
by twig or branch or blade of water-grass, or the great rocks and cliffs
that make the roaring whirlpools and rapids,--do they stay the waters,
or turn the river back on its course, or in any way prevent its
onward flow? No more can the twigs of circumstances, or the boughs of
environment, or the grasses of accident that make the tiny waves of our
individual experiences,--or even the great rocks and cliffs of national
or racial import,--such as wars, and pestilence, and famine,--finally
check or stay the river of life in its onward flow toward the sea of its
final and infinite meaning.'”
He went again to the window, and stood looking out into the night as
though listening to the voices.
“Why, Auntie Sue,” he said, turning back to the old gentlewoman,--and
his face was radiant with the earnestness of this thought,--“Auntie Sue,
there are as many currents in our river out there as there are human
lives. A comparatively few great main or dominant currents in the river
flow--a comparatively few great dominant currents in the river flow of
life. But if you look closer, you will see that in each one of
those established principal currents there are countless
thousands--millions--of tiny currents all turning and twisting across,
and back, and up, and down in every direction,--weaving
themselves together,--pulling themselves apart,--criss-crossing,
clashing,--interlacing,--tangled and confused,--and these are the
individual lives. And no matter what the conflict or confusion; no
matter what direction they take for the moment, they all, ALL, go to
make up the river;--they, all together, ARE the river,--and they all
together move onward,--ceaselessly, inevitably, irresistibly.”
He paused to stand smiling down at her, as she sat there in her low
chair beside the table with the lamplight on her silvery hair,--there in
the little log house by the river.
“That is what you have made your river mean to me, Auntie Sue; and that
is what I would give to the world.”
With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for her
handkerchief, which lay in the sewing-basket on the table beside her.
Smilingly, she wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. Lovingly,
she looked up at him,--standing so tall and strong before her, with his
reddish hair tumbled and tossed, and his Irish blue eyes lighted with
the fire of his inspiration.
“Well,” she said, at last, “why don't you do it, Brian?”
As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light went
from Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his chair, he answered hopelessly,
“Because I am afraid.”
“Afraid?” echoed Auntie Sue, troubled and amazed. “What in the world are
you afraid of, Brian?”
And the bitter, bitter answer came, “I am afraid of another failure.”
Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. “ANOTHER
failure, Brian? Then you,--then you have written before?”
“Yes,” he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her had
she seen him so despondent. “To write was the dream and the passion of
my life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and slaved at it! The only
result from my efforts was the hell from which you dragged me.”
Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: “I don't think I
understand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you know.”
“It is an old, old story,” he returned. “I am only one of thousands. My
wretched experience is not at all uncommon.”
“I know,” she answered. “But don't you think that perhaps you had better
tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that it is all
over, you may find the real reason for--for what happened to you.”
Wise Auntie Sue!--wise in that rarest of all wisdom,--the sympathetic
understanding of human hearts and souls.
“You know about my earlier life,” he began; “how, in my boyhood, after
mother's death, I worked at anything I could do to keep myself alive,
and how I managed to gain a little schooling. I was always dreaming of
writing, even then. I took the business course in a night-school, not
because I liked it, but because I thought it would help me to earn a
living in a way that would give me more time for what I really wanted
to do. And after I finished school, and had finally worked up to a good
position in that bank, I did have more time for my writing. But,”--he
hesitated--“I--well,--other interests had come into my life,--and--”
Auntie Sue said, softly, “She did not understand, Brian.”
“No, she did not understand,” he continued, accepting Auntie Sue's
interpretation without comment. “And when my writing brought no money,
because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the conditions under
which I wrote became intolerable because of misunderstanding and
opposition and disbelief in my ability and charges of neglect,
I--I--stole money from my employers to gain temporary relief until my
writing should amount to something. You see, I could not help believing
that I would succeed, in time. I suppose all dreamers have more or less
confidence in their dreams: they must, you know, or their dreams would
never be realized. I always expected to pay back the money I took with
the money I would earn by my pen. But I failed to earn anything, you
see; and then--then the inevitable happened, and the river brought me to
you.”
“But, my dear boy!” cried Auntie Sue, “all this that you have told me
is no reason why you should fear to write now. Indeed, it is a very good
reason why you should not fear.”
He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: “You have given every
reason in the world why you failed. Your whole life was out of tune.
How could you expect to produce anything worthy from such a jangling
discord? You should have been afraid, indeed, to write THEN. But,
NOW,--now, Brian, you are ready. You are a long, long way down the river
from the place of your failures. The disturbing, distracting things
are past,--just as in the quiet reach of the river below Elbow Rock the
turmoil of the rapids is past. You say that you know exactly what
you want to write, and why you want to write it--and you do know--and
because you know,--because you have suffered,--because you have
learned,--because you can do this thing for others,--it is yours to do,
and so you must do it. What you really mean when you say you are 'afraid
to write' is, that you are AFRAID NOT TO,” she finished with a little
laugh of satisfaction.
And Brian Kent, as he watched her glowing face and felt the sincerity
and confidence that vibrated in her voice, was thrilled with a new
courage. The fires of his inspiration shone again in his eyes, as he
answered, with deep conviction, “Auntie Sue, I believe you are right.
What a woman you are!”
CHAPTER XII.
AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE.
So Brian wrote his book that winter.
When the days were fair, he worked with his ax on the mountain-side. But
his notebook was ever at hand, and many a thought that went down on the
pages of his manuscript was born while he wrought with his hands in the
wholesome labor which gave strength to his body and clearness to his
brain. In the evenings, he wrote in the little log house by the river,
with Auntie Sue sitting in her chair beside the table,--the lamp-light
on her silvery hair, and her sewing-basket within reach of her
hand,--engaged with some bit of needlework, a book, or perhaps with one
of her famous letters to some other pupil, far away. The stormy days
gave him many hours with his pen, and so the book grew.
And always as the man endeavored to shape his thoughts for the printed
pages that would carry his message to the doubting, disconsolate, and
fearful world that he knew so well, he heard in his heart the voices of
the river. From the hillside where he worked in the timber he could see
the stream winding through the snowy hills like a dark line carelessly
drawn with many a crook and curve and break on the sheet of white. From
the porch he saw the quiet Bend a belt of shining ice and snow, save for
a narrow line in the centre, which marked the course of the strongest
currents; while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadful
against the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid the
surrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush of the winter twilight,
the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. And all that the
river said to him he put down,--so far as it was given him to do.
And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew it--in his deepest,
truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue knew it; for, of course, he read
to her from his manuscript as the book grew under his hand. Even Judy
caught much of his story's meaning, and marvelled at herself because
she, too, could understand.
So the spring came, and the first writing of the book was nearly
finished.
And now the question arose: What would they do about the final
preparation of the manuscript for the printers? Brian explained that he
should have a typewritten copy of his script, which he would work over,
correct, and revise, and from which perfected copy the final manuscript
would be typewritten. But neither Auntie Sue nor Brian would consider
his finishing the book anywhere but in the little log house by the
river; even if there had been no other reason why Brian should not go to
the city, if it could be avoided.
“There is only one thing to do,”--said Auntie Sue, at last, when the
matter had been discussed several times,--“we must send for Betty Jo.
She has been studying stenography in a business college in Cincinnati,
and, in her latest letter to me, she wrote that she would finish in
April. I'll just write her to come right here, and bring her typewriter
along. She will need a vacation, and she can have it and do your work at
the same time. Besides, I need to see Betty Jo. She hasn't been to visit
me since before Judy came.”
Brian thought that Auntie Sue seemed a little nervous and excited as she
spoke, but he attributed it to her combined interest in the book and in
the proposed typist. The man could not know the real cause of his gentle
old companion's agitation, nor with what anxiety she had considered the
matter for many days before she announced her plan. The fact was that
Auntie Sue was taking a big chance, and she realized it fully. But
she could find no other way to secure the services of a competent
stenographer for Brian, and, as Brian must have a competent stenographer
in order to finish his book properly, she had decided to accept the
risk.
“That sounds all right, Auntie Sue,” returned Brian. “But who, pray
tell, is Betty Jo?”
“Betty Jo is,”--Auntie Sue paused and laughed with a suggestion of
embarrassed confusion,--“Betty Jo is--just Betty Jo, Brian,” she
finished.
Brian laughed now. “Fine, Auntie Sue! That describes her exactly,--tells
me her life's history and gives me a detailed account of her
family,--ancestors and all.”
“It describes her with more accuracy than you think,” retorted Auntie
Sue, smiling in return at his teasing manner.
“I reckon as how she's got more of er name than that, ain't she?” said
Judy, who was a silent, but intensely interested, listener. “I've
allus took notice that folks with funny names'll stand a right smart of
watchin'.”
Brian and Auntie Sue laughed together at this, but the old lady said,
with a show of spirit: “Judy! You know nothing about it! You never even
saw Betty Jo! You shouldn't say such things, child.”
“Might as well say 'em as ter think 'em, I reckon,” Judy returned, her
beady-black eyes stealthily watching Brian.
“What is your Betty Jo's real name, Auntie Sue?” asked Brian, curiously.
Again Auntie Sue seemed to hesitate; then--“Her name is Miss Betty Jo
Williams,” and as she spoke the old teacher looked straight at Brian.
“A perfectly good name,” Brian returned; “but I never heard of her
before.”
Judy's black eyes, with their stealthy, oblique look, were now
watchfully fixed on Auntie Sue.
“She is the orphan-niece of one of my old pupils,” Auntie Sue continued.
“I have known her since she was a baby. When she finished her education
in the seminary, and had travelled abroad for a few months, she decided
all at once that she wanted a course in a business college, which was
just what any one knowing her would expect her to do.”
“Sounds steady and reliable,” commented Brian. “But will she come?”
“Yes, indeed, she will, and be tickled to death over the job,” returned
Auntie Sue. “I'll write her at once.”
While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, in
a tone which only Brian heard: “Just the same, 'tain't no name for a
common gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad burned queer
'bout hit somewhere.”
“Nonsense! Judy,” said Brian in a low voice; “don't worry Auntie Sue.”
“I ain't aimin' ter worry her none,” returned the mountain girl; “but
I'll bet you-all a pretty that this here gal'll worry both of youuns
'fore you are through with her;--me, too, I reckon.”
For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be rather
long. In fact, she spent the entire evening at it; which led Judy to
remark that “hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' ter write a book
herself.”
A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load of
hogs for shipment, posted the letter. And, in due time, another neighbor
brought the answer. Betty Jo would come.
It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page of
his book that another letter came to Auntie Sue,--a letter which, for
the second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world.
CHAPTER XIII.
JUDY TO THE RESCUE.
Brian was working in the garden. It was early in the afternoon, and the
man, as he worked in the freshly ploughed ground, was rejoicing at the
completion of his book.
Straightening up from his labor, he drew a deep breath of the fragrant
air. About him on every side, and far away into the blue distance, the
world was dressed in the gala dress of the season. The river, which at
the breaking of the winter had been a yellow flood that washed the top
of the bank in front of the house and covered the bottom-lands on the
opposite side, was again its normal self, and its voice to him, now, was
a singing voice of triumphal gladness.
For Brian, too, the world was new, and fresh, and beautiful. The world
of his winter was gone. He had found himself in his work, and in the
glorious consciousness of the fact he felt like shouting with sheer joy
of living.
“And Auntie Sue, dear Auntie Sue,” he thought, looking with love in
his eyes toward the house, how wonderful she had been in her helpful
understanding and never-failing faith in him. After all, it was Auntie
Sue's triumph more than it was his.
His happy musing was interrupted by a neighbor who, on his way home from
Thompsonville, stopped at the garden fence with the letter for Auntie
Sue.
Brian took the letter with a jest which brought a roar of laughter from
the mountaineer, and, when the latter had gone on his way up the hill,
started toward the house to find Auntie Sue.
Glancing at the envelope in his hand, Brian noticed the postmark “Buenos
Aires.” He stopped suddenly, staring dumbly at the words in the circular
mark and at the name written on the envelope. Over and over, he
read “Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan Wakefield; Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan
Wakefield.” Something--His brain seemed to be numb. His hands trembled.
He looked about at the familiar surroundings, and everything seemed
suddenly strange and unreal to him. He looked again at the letter in his
hand, turning it curiously. A strange feeling of oppression and ominous
foreboding possessed him as though the bright spring sky were all at
once overcast with heavy and menacing storm-clouds. What was it? “Buenos
Aires,--Susan Wakefield?” Where had he seen that combination before?
What was it that made the name of the Argentine city in connection with
Auntie Sue's name seem so familiar? Slowly, he went on to the house,
and, finding Auntie Sue, gave her the letter.
“Oh!” cried the old lady, as she saw the postmark on the envelope. “It
must be from brother John. It is not John's writing, though,” she added,
as she opened the envelope.
And at her words the feeling of impending disaster so oppressed Brian
Kent that only by an effort could he control himself. He was possessed
of the strange sensation of having at some time in the past lived the
identical experience through which he was at that moment passing. “Susan
Wakefield;--a brother John in Buenos Aires, Argentine;--the letter!” It
was all so familiar that the allusion was startling in its force. But
that ominous cloud,--that sense of some great trouble near that filled
him with such unaccountable dread--what could it mean?
An exclamation from Auntie Sue drew his attention. She looked at him
with tear-filled eyes, and her sweet voice broke as she said: “Brian!
Brian! John is dead! This--this letter is from the doctor who attended
him.”
Tenderly, as he would have helped his own mother, Brian assisted Auntie
Sue to her room. For a little while he sat with her, trying to comfort
her with such poor words as he could find.
Briefly, she told him of the brother who had lived in Argentine for many
years. He had married a South-American woman whom Auntie Sue had never
seen, and while not wealthy had been moderately prosperous. But he
had never forgotten his sister who was so alone in the world. “Several
times, when he could, he sent me money for my savings-bank account,” she
finished simply, her sweet old voice low and tender with the memories
of the years that were gone. “John and I were always very fond of each
other. He was a good man, Brian.”
Brian Kent sat like a man stricken dumb. Auntie Sue's words, “he sent me
money for my savings-bank account,” had made the connection between the
names “Buenos Aires, Argentine; John Wakefield; Susan Wakefield,” and
the thing for which his mind had been groping with such a sense of
impending disaster.
In her grief over the death of her brother, and in her memories of their
home years so long past, dear old Auntie Sue had forgotten the peculiar
meaning her words might have for the former clerk of the Empire
Consolidated Savings Bank who sat beside her, and to whom she turned in
her sorrow as a mother to a dearly beloved son.
“But it is all right, Brian, dear,” she said with brave cheerfulness.
“When one has watched the sunsets for seventy years, one ceases to fear
the coming of the night, for always there is the morning. Just let me
rest here alone for a little while, and I will be myself again.”
She looked up at him with a smile, and Brian Kent, kneeling beside the
bed, bowed his head and caught the dear old hands to his lips. Without
trusting himself to speak again, the man left the room,--closing the
door.
He moved about the apartment as one in a dream. With a vividness that
was torture, he lived again that hour in the bank when, opening the
afternoon mail, he had found the letter from Susan Wakefield with the
Argentine notes, which her letter said she had received from her brother
John in Buenos Aires, and which she was sending to the bank for deposit
to her little account. It had been a very unbusinesslike letter and a
very unbusinesslike way to transmit money. It was, indeed, this nature
of the transaction that had tempted the hard-pressed clerk.
Mechanically, Brian stopped at his writing-table to finger the
manuscript which he had finished the evening before. Was it only the
evening before? Taking up the volume of closely written sheets which
were bound together by a shoestring that Auntie Sue had laughingly found
for him, when he had so joyously announced the completion of the last
page of his book, he turned the leaves idly,--reading here and there
a sentence with curious interest. The terrific mental strain of his
situation completely divorced him, as it were, from the life which he
had lived during those happy months just past, and which was so fully
represented by his work.
Again the river, swinging around a sudden turn in its course, had come
upon a passage where its peaceful flow was broken by the wild turmoil of
the troubled waters.
“And Auntie Sue,”--something within the man's self was saying,--“dear
Auntie Sue, who had saved him, not only from death, but from the hell
of the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose loving
companionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired and
strengthened him in the work which had been the passionate desire of his
heart;--the gentle old teacher whose life had been so completely given
to others, and who, in the helplessness of her last years, was so
alone,--Auntie Sue was depending upon that money which her brother had
sent her as the only support of the closing days of her life. Auntie Sue
believed that her money was safe in the bank. That belief was to her
a daily comfort. Auntie Sue did not know that she was almost
penniless;--that the man whom she had saved with such a wondrous
salvation had robbed her, and left her so shamefully without means
for the necessities of life. Auntie Sue did not know. But she would
know,”--that inner voice went on. “The time would come when she
would learn the truth. It was certain to come. It might come any day.
Then--then--”
As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from the
house,--the manuscript in his hand.
Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girl
the man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. He must
make sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; but
still, as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stay
of sentence, so he caught at the shadowy suggestion of a possibility.
“Come with me, Judy,” he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; “I want
to talk with you.”
Judy arose, and, looking at him in her stealthy, oblique way, said,
in her drawling monotone: “What's happened ter Auntie Sue? Was there
somethin' in that there letter Bud Jackson give you-all for her what's
upset her?”
“Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy,” Brian answered. “She wishes to be
alone, and we must not disturb her. She will be all right in a little
while. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff.”
When they had reached a spot on the river-bank a short distance above
the Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to his companion: “Judy, I want you
to tell me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a letter to the
Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, in Chicago?”
“The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl turned
her sallow, old-young face away from Brian's direct gaze.
“Look at me, Judy.”
She sent a stealthy, oblique glance in his direction.
“You must tell me.”
“I done started ter tell you-all onct,--that time pap ketched me,--an'
you-all 'lowed as how I oughten ter tell nothin' 'bout Auntie Sue to
nobody.”
“But it is different now, Judy,” returned Brian. “Something has happened
that makes it necessary for me to know.”
“Meanin' that there letter 'bout her brother bein' dead?” asked Judy,
shrewdly.
“Yes.”
“What you-all got ter know for?”
“Because--” Brian could not finish.
Judy's beady eyes were watching him intently, now. “Hit looks like
you-all ain't a-needin' me ter tell you-all anythin',” she observed
dryly.
“Then Auntie Sue did send money?”
“She sure did. I seed her fix hit in the letter, myself,” came the
answer.
“What kind of money?”
“I dunno,--some funny kind hit was,--what her brother done sent her from
some funny place, I dunno just where.”
“When did she send it?”
“'Bout a month 'fore you come.”
“And--and did any letter ever come from the bank to tell her that the
money was received by them all right?”
The mountain girl did not answer, but again turned her face away.
“Tell me,” Brian insisted. “I--I--must know, Judy,” and his voice was
harsh and broken with emotion.
The answer came reluctantly: “I reckon you-all knows where that there
money went ter.”
The girl's answer sent a new thought like a hot iron into Brian Kent's
tortured brain. He caught Judy's arm in quick and fearful excitement.
“Judy!” he gasped, imploringly, “Judy, do you--? does Auntie Sue know--?
does she know that I--?”
“How could she help knowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard that
there Sheriff an' the deteckertive man tellin' her 'bout you an' the
bank. An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he said told all
'bout what you-all done, an' she must er burned the paper, or done
somethin' with hit, 'cause I couldn't never find hit after that night.
An' what would she do that for? And what for did she make me promise not
ter ever say nothin' ter you-all 'bout that there money letter? An' why
ain't she said nothin' to you 'bout the letter from the bank not comin',
if she didn't know hit was you 'stead of them what done got the money?”
The girl paused for a moment, and then went on in a tone of reverent
wonder: “An' to think that all the time she could a-turned you-all over
to that there Sheriff an' got the money-reward to pay her back what
you-all done tuck.”
Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features were
distorted with suffering. With eyes that could not see, he looked down
at the manuscript to which he still unconsciously clung; and, again,
he fingered the pages of his work as though some blind instinct were
sending his tormented soul to seek relief in the message which, during
the happy months just past, he had written for others.
And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted body
and old-young face, grew fearful as she watched the suffering of this
man whom she had come to look upon as a superior being from some world
which she, in her ignorance, could never know.
“Mr. Burns,” she said at last, putting out her hand and plucking at his
sleeve, “Mr. Burns, you-all ain't got no call ter be like this. You-all
ain't plumb bad. I knows you ain't, 'count of the way you-all have
been ter me an' 'cause you kept pap from hurtin' me, an' 'cause you are
takin' care of Auntie Sue like you're doin'. Hit ain't no matter 'bout
the money, now, 'cause you-all kin take care of her allus.”
Brian looked up from the manuscript in his hand, and stared dumbly at
the girl, as if he failed to hear her clearly.
“An' just think 'bout your book,” Judy continued pleadingly. “Think
'bout all them fine things you-all have done wrote down for everybody
ter read,--'bout the river allus a-goin' on just the same, no matter
what happens, an' 'bout Auntie Sue an'--”
She stopped, and drew away from him, frightened at the look that came
into the man's face.
“Don't, Mr. Burns! Don't!” she half-screamed. “'Fore God, you-all
oughten ter look like that!”
The man threw up his head, and laughed,--laughed as the wild, reckless
and lost Brian Kent had laughed that black night when, in the drifting
boat, he had cursed the life he was leaving and had drunk his profane
toast to the darkness into which he was being carried.
Raising the manuscript, which represented all that the past months of
his re-created life had meant to him, and grasping it in both hands, he
shook it contemptuously, as he said, with indescribable bitterness and
the reckless surrendering of every hope: “'All them fine things that I
have wrote down for everybody ter read.'” He mimicked her voice with a
sneer, and laughed again. Then: “It's all a lie, Judy, dear;--a damned
lie. Auntie Sue is a saint, and believes it. She made me believe it
for a little while,--her beautiful, impossible dream-philosophy of the
river. The river,--hell!--the river is as treacherous and cruel and
false and tricky and crooked as life itself! And I am as warped and
twisted in mind and soul as you are in body, Judy, dear. Neither of us
can help it. We were made that way by the river. To hell with the whole
impossible mess of things!” With a gesture of violent rage, he turned
toward the river, and, taking a step forward, lifted the manuscript high
above his head.
Judy screamed, “Mr. Burns, don't!”
He paused an instant, and, turning his head, looked at her with another
laugh.
“'Fore God, you dassn't do that!” she implored.
And then, as the man turned his face from her, and his arms went back
above his head for the swing that would send the manuscript far out into
the tumbling waters of the rapids, she leaped toward him, and, catching
his arm, hampered his movement so that the book fell a few feet from the
shore, where the water, checked a little in its onward rush to the cliff
by the irregular bank, boiled and eddied among the rocky ledges and huge
boulders that retarded its force. Another leap carried the mountain girl
to the edge of the bank, where she crouched like a runner ready for
the report of the starter's pistol, her black, beady eyes searching the
stream for the volume of manuscript, which had disappeared from sight,
drawn down by the troubled swirling currents.
The man, watching her, laughed in derision; but, while his mocking
laughter was still on his lips, the boiling currents brought the book,
again, to the surface, and Brian saw the girl leave the bank as if
thrown by a powerful spring. Straight and true she dived for the book,
and even as she disappeared beneath the surface her hands clutched the
manuscript.
For a second, Brian Kent held his place as if paralyzed with horror.
Then, as Judy's head appeared farther down the stream, he ran with
all his strength along the bank to gain a point a little ahead of the
swimming girl before he should leap to her rescue.
But Judy, trained from her birth on that mountain river, knew better
than Brian what to do. A short distance below the point where she had
plunged into the stream, a huge boulder, some two or three feet from the
shore, caused a split in the current, one fork of which set in toward
the bank. Swimming desperately, the girl gained the advantage of this
current, and, just as Brian reached the spot, she was swept against
the bank, where, with her free hand, she caught and held fast to a
projecting root. Had she been carried past that point, nothing could
have saved her from being swept on into the wild turmoil of the waters
at Elbow Rock.
It was the work of a moment for Brian to throw himself flat on the
ground at the edge of the bank and, reaching down, to grasp the girl's
wrist. Another moment, and she was safe beside him, his manuscript still
tightly held under one arm.
Not realizing, in his excitement, what he was doing, Brian shook the
girl, saying angrily: “What in the world do you mean, taking such a
crazy-fool chance as that!”
She broke away from him with: “Well, what'd you-all go an' do such a
dad burned fool thing for? Hit's you-all what's crazy yourself--plumb
crazy!”
Brian held out his hand: “Give me that manuscript!”
Judy clutched the book tighter, and drew back defiantly. “I won't.
You-all done throwed hit away onct. 'Tain't your'n no more, nohow.”
“Well, what do you purpose to do with it?” said the puzzled man, in a
gentler tone.
“I aims ter give hit ter Auntie Sue,” came the startling reply. “I
reckon she'll know what ter do. Hit allus was more her'n than your'n,
anyhow. You done said so yourself. I heard you only last night when
you-all was so dad burned tickled at gittin' hit done. You-all ain't got
no right ter sling hit inter the river, an', anyway, I ain't a-goin' ter
let you.”
“Which sounds very sensible to me,” came a clear voice from a few feet
distant.
Judy and Brian turned quickly, to face a young woman who stood regarding
them thoughtfully, with a suggestion of a smile on her very attractive
face.
CHAPTER XIV.
BETTY JO CONSIDERS.
The most careless eye would have seen instantly that the newcomer was
not a native of that backwoods district. She was not a large woman, but
there was, nevertheless, a full, rounded strength, which saved her
trim and rather slender body from appearing small. Neither would a
discriminating observer describe her by that too-common term “pretty.”
She was more than that. In her large, gray eyes, there was a look
of frank, straightforward interest that suggested an almost boyish
good-fellowship, while at the same time there was about her a general
air of good breeding; with a calm, self-possessed and businesslike
alertness which, combined with a wholesome dignity, commanded a feeling
of respect and confidence. Her voice was clear and musical, with an
undertone of sympathetic humor. One felt when she spoke that while she
lacked nothing of intelligent understanding and sympathetic interest,
she was quite ready to laugh at you just the same.
When the two stood speechless, she said, looking straight at Brian: “It
seems to me, sir, that the young lady has all the best of the argument.
But I really think she should have some dry clothes as well.”
She turned to the dripping and dishevelled Judy: “You poor child. Aren't
you cold! It is rather early in the season for a dip in the river, I
should think. Let me take whatever you have there, and you make for the
house as fast as you can go,--the run will warm you.”
As she spoke, she went to the mountain girl, holding out her hand to
take the manuscript, and smiling encouragingly.
But Judy backed away, her stealthy, oblique gaze fixed with watchful
surprise on the fair stranger.
“This here ain't none of your put-in,” and her shrill drawling monotone
contrasted strangely with the other's pleasing voice. “Where'd you-all
happen from, anyhow? How'd you-all git here?”
“I came over the bluff by the path,” answered the other. “You see, I
left the train from the south at White's Crossing because I knew I could
drive up from there by the river road quicker than I could go by rail
away around through the hills to Thompsonville, and then make the drive
down the river from there. When I reached Elbow Rock, I was in such a
hurry, I took the short cut, while the man with my trunk and things went
by the road over Schoolhouse Hill, you know. I arrived here just as this
gentleman was pulling you from the water.”
Before Brian could speak, Judy returned with excitement: “I know who
you-all be now. I ought ter knowed the minute I set eyes on you. You-all
are the gal with that there no-'count name, an' you've come ter work for
him, there,”--she pointed to Brian,--“a-helpin' him ter write his book,
what ain't his'n no more, nohow, 'cause he done throwed hit away,--plumb
inter the river.”
“I am Miss Williams,” returned the other. “My 'no-'count name,' I
suppose, is Betty Jo.” She laughed kindly. “Perhaps it won't seem so
'no'count' when we are better acquainted, Judy. Won't you run along to
the house, and change to some dry clothes? You will catch your death of
cold if you stand here like this.”
“How'd you-all know I was Judy?”
“Why, Auntie Sue wrote me about you, of course.”
“An' you knowed me 'cause I'm so all crooked an' ugly, I reckon,” came
the uncompromising return.
Betty Jo turned to Brian: “You are Mr. Burns, are you not, for whom I am
to work?”
Brian made no reply,--he really could not speak. “And this,”--Betty
Jo included Judy, the manuscript, and the river in a graceful
gesture,--“this, I suppose, is the result of what is called 'the
artistic temperament'?”
Still the man could find no words. The young woman's presence and her
reference to his work brought to him, with overwhelming vividness, the
memory of all to which he had so short a time before looked forward,
and which was now so hopelessly lost to him. He felt, too, a sense of
rebellion that she should have come at such a moment,--that she could
stand there with such calm self-possession and with such an air of
competency. Her confidence and poise in such contrast to the chaotic
turmoil of his own thoughts, and his utter helplessness in the situation
which had so suddenly burst upon him, filled him with unreasoning
resentment.
Betty Jo must have read in Brian Kent's face something of the suffering
that held him there dumb and motionless before her, and so sensed a
deeper tragedy than appeared on the surface of the incident; and her own
face and voice revealed her understanding as she said, with quiet,
but decisive, force: “Mr. Burns, Judy must go to the house. Won't you
persuade her?”
Brian started as one aroused from deep abstraction, and went to Judy;
while Betty Jo drew a little way apart, and stood looking out over the
river.
“Give me the manuscript, Judy,” said Brian gently, “and go on to the
house.”
“You-all ain't a-goin' ter sling hit inter the river again?” The words
were half-question and half-assertion.
“No,” said Brian. “I promise not to throw it into the river again.”
As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in a
stealthy, oblique look toward Betty Jo, and whispered: “You-all best
tell her 'bout hit. I sure hate her poison-bad; but hit's easy ter see
she'd sure know what ter do.”
“Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy,” was
Brian's only answer; and Judy started off for her much-needed change to
dry clothing.
When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at the
water-stained volume of manuscript in his hand. He had no feeling, now,
of more than a curious idle interest in this work to which, during the
months just past, he had given so without reserve the best of himself.
It was, he thought, strange how he could regard with such indifference a
thing for which a few hours before he would have given his life. Dumbly,
he was conscious of the truth of Judy's words,--that the book was no
longer his. Judy was right--this book which he had called his had always
been, in reality, Auntie Sue's. So the matter of his work, at least
so far as he had to do with it, was settled--definitely and finally
settled.
But what of himself? What was to become of him? Of one thing only he was
certain about himself;--he never could face Auntie Sue again. Knowing,
now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew;--that all the time she
was nursing him back to health, all the time she had been giving him the
inspiration and strength and peace of her gentle, loving companionship,
in the safe and quiet harbor of her little house by the river, she had
known that it was he who had--A clear, matter-of-fact, but gentle,
voice interrupted his bitter thoughts: “Is it so very badly damaged, Mr.
Burns?”
He had forgotten Betty Jo, who now stood close beside him.
“Let me see?” She held out her hand as he turned slowly to face her.
Without a word, he gave her the manuscript.
Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling of
tenderness that was her most compelling charm, Betty Jo examined the
water-stained volume.
“Why, no,” she announced cheerfully; “it isn't really hurt much. You
see, the sheets being tied together so tightly, the water didn't get all
the way through. The covers and the first and last pages are pretty wet,
and the edges of the rest are rather damp. It'll be smudged somewhat,
but I don't believe there is a single word that can't be made out. It is
lucky it didn't prolong its bath, though, isn't it? All we need to do,
now, is to put it in the sun to dry for a few minutes.”
Selecting a sunny spot near by, she arranged the volume against a stone
and deftly separated the pages so that the air could circulate more
freely between them; and one would have said, from her manner of ready
assurance, that she had learned from long experience exactly how to dry
a manuscript that had been thrown in the river and rescued just in the
nick of time. That was Betty Jo's way. She always did everything without
hesitation,--just as though she had spent the twenty-three years of her
life doing exactly that particular thing.
Kneeling over the manuscript, and gently moving the wet sheets, she
said, without looking up: “Do you always bath your manuscripts like this
before you turn them over to your stenographer to type, Mr. Burns?”
In spite of his troubled state of mind, Brian smiled.
The clear, matter-of-fact voice went on, while the competent hands
moved the drying pages. “You see, I never worked for an author before. I
suspect I have a lot to learn.”
She looked up at him with a Betty Jo smile that went straight to his
heart, as Betty Jo's smiles had a curious way of doing.
“I hope you will be very patient with me, Mr. Burns. You will, won't
you? There is no real danger of your throwing ME in the river when the
'artistic temperament' possesses you, is there?”
It was no use. When Betty Jo set out to make a man talk, that man
talked. Brian yielded not ungracefully: “I owe you an apology, Miss
Williams,” he said.
“Indeed, no,” Betty Jo returned, giving her attention to the manuscript
again. “It is easy to see that you are terribly upset about something;
and everybody is so accustomed to being upset in one way or another that
apologies for upsetments are quite an unnecessary bother, aren't they?”
That was another interestingly curious thing about Betty Jo,--the way
she could finish off a characteristic, matter-of-fact statement with a
question which had the effect of making one agree instantly whether one
agreed or not.
Brian felt himself quite unexpectedly feeling that “upsetments” were
quite common, ordinary, and to be expected events in one's life. “But I
am really in very serious trouble, Miss Williams,” he said in a way that
sounded oddly to Brian himself, as though he were trying to convince
himself that his trouble really was serious.
Betty Jo rose to her feet, and looked straight at him, and there was no
mistaking the genuineness of the interest expressed in those big gray
eyes.
“Oh, are you? Is it really so serious? I am so sorry. But don't you
think you better tell me about it, Mr. Burns? If I am to work for you, I
may just as well begin right here, don't you think?”
There it was again,--that trick-question. Brian felt himself agreeing in
spite of himself, though how he was to explain his painful situation
to this young woman whom, until a few minutes before, he had never even
seen, he did not know. He answered cautiously, speaking half to himself:
“That is what Judy said.”
Betty Jo did not understand, and made no pretense,--she never made a
pretense of anything. “What did Judy say?” she asked.
“That I had better tell you about it,” he answered.
And the matter-of-fact Betty Jo returned: “Judy seems to be a very
particular and common-sensing sort of Judy, doesn't she?”
And Brian realized all at once that Judy was exactly what Betty Jo said.
“But,--I--I--don't see how I CAN tell you, Miss Williams.”
“Why?” laughed Betty Jo. “It is perfectly simple, Mr. Burns, here,
now, I'll show you: You are to sit down there on that nice comfortable
rock,--that is your big office-chair, you know,--and I'll sit right here
on this rock,--which is my little stenography-chair,--and you will just
explain the serious business proposition to me with careful attention to
details. I must tell you that 'detailing' is one of my strong points, so
don't spare me. I really should have my notebook, shouldn't I?”
Again, in spite of himself, Brian smiled; also, before he was aware,
they were both seated as Betty Jo had directed.
“But this is not a business matter, Miss Williams,” he managed to
protest half-heartedly.
Betty Jo was looking at her watch in a most matter-of-fact manner, and
she answered in a most matter-of-fact voice: “Everything is more or less
a business matter, isn't it, Mr. Burns?”
And Brian, if he had answered, would have agreed.
Betty Jo slipped her watch back into her pocket, and continued: “You
will have plenty of time before that man with my trunk and things can
get away 'round over Schoolhouse Hill and down again to Auntie Sue's. He
will be obliged to stop at neighbor Tom's, and tell them all about me,
of course. We mustn't let him beat us to the house, though; so, perhaps,
you better begin, don't you think?”
That “don't-you-think?” so characteristic of Betty Jo, did its work, as
usual; and so, almost before Brian Kent realized what he was doing,
it had been decided for him that to follow Judy's advice was the best
possible thing he could do, and he was relating his whole wretched
experience to this young woman, about whom he knew nothing except that
she was a niece of an old pupil of Auntie Sue's, and that she had just
finished a course in a business college in Cincinnati.
At several points in his story Betty Jo asked straightforward
questions, or made short, matter-of-fact comments; but, always with her
businesslike air of competent interest. Indeed, she managed to treat the
situation as being wholly impersonal; while at the same time the man
was never for a moment made to feel that she was lacking in sincere and
genuine sympathy. Only when he told her that his name was Brian Kent,
and mentioned the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, did she for the
moment betray excited surprise. When she saw that he had noticed, she
said quickly: “I read of the affair in the papers, of course.”
Auntie Sue had indeed taken a big chance when she decided for Betty Jo
to come to help Brian with his book. But Auntie Sue had taken no chance
on Betty Jo herself. Perhaps it was, in fact, the dear old teacher's
certainty about Betty Jo herself that had led her to accept the risk
of sending for the niece of her friend and pupil under such a peculiar
combination of circumstances.
When Brian had finished his story with the account of his discovery of
the distressing fact that he had robbed Auntie Sue and that she knew he
had robbed her, Betty Jo said: “It is really a sad story, isn't it, Mr.
Burns? But, oh, isn't Auntie Sue wonderful! Was there ever such
another woman in the world! Don't you love her? And couldn't you do
anything--anything that would make her happy? After all, when you think
of Auntie Sue, and how wonderful she has been, this whole thing isn't so
bad, is it?”
“Why, I--I--don't think I see what you mean,” Brian replied, puzzled
by the unexpected turn she had given to the situation, yet convinced by
that little question with which she finished that she was somehow right.
“Well, I mean wouldn't YOU love to do for some one what Auntie Sue has
done for you? I should if I were only big enough and good enough.
It seems to me it would make one the happiest and contentedest and
peacefulest person in the world, wouldn't it?”
Brian did not answer. While he felt himself agreeing with Betty Jo's
view, he was wondering at himself that he could discuss the matter
so calmly. It was not that he no longer felt deeply the shame of this
terrible thing that he had done; it was not that he had ceased to suffer
the torment that had caused his emotional madness, which had found
expression in his attempt to destroy his manuscript; it was only
that this young woman somehow made it possible for him to retain his
self-control, and instead of venting his emotions in violent and wholly
useless expressions of regret, and self-condemnation, and in irrational,
temperamental action, to consider coolly and sanely what he must do. He
was strangely possessed, too, of an instinctive certainty that Betty Jo
knew exactly how he felt and exactly what she was doing.
While he was thinking these things, or, rather, feeling them, Betty Jo
went to see how the manuscript was drying. She returned to her seat on
the rock presently, saying: “It is doing very nicely,--almost dry. I
think it will be done pretty soon. In the meantime, what are we going
to do about everything? You have thought of something for you to do, of
course!”
“I fear I have felt rather more than I have thought,” returned Brian.
She nodded. “Yes, I know; but feeling alone never arrives anywhere. An
excess of thoughtless feeling is sheer emotional extravagance. I sound
like a book, don't I?” she laughed. “It is so just the same, Mr.
Burns. And now that you have--ah--been properly--not to say
gloriously--extravagant at poor Judy's expense, we had better do a
little thinking, don't you think?”
The man's cheeks reddened at her words; but the straightforward,
downright sincerity of those gray eyes, that looked so frankly into
his, held him steady; while the interrogation at the end of her remark
carried its usual conviction.
“There is only one possible thing left for me to do, Miss Williams,” he
said earnestly.
“And what is that?” A smile that sent a glow of courage to Brian Kent's
troubled heart accompanied the flat question.
“I can't face Auntie Sue again, knowing what I know now.” He spoke with
passion.
“Of course you would expect to feel that way, wouldn't you?” came the
matter-of-fact answer.
“The only thing I can do,” he continued, “is to give myself up, and go
to the penitentiary; arranging, somehow, to do it in such a way that the
reward will go to Auntie Sue. God knows she deserves it! Sheriff Knox
would help me fix that part, I am sure.”
For a moment there was a suspicious moisture in Betty Jo's gray eyes.
Then she said, “And you would really go to prison for Auntie Sue?”
“It is the least I can do for her now,” he returned.
And Betty Jo must have felt the sincerity of his purpose, for she said,
softly: “I am sure that it would make Auntie Sue very happy to know that
you would do that; and”--she added--“I know that you could not possibly
make her more unhappy and miserable than by doing it, could you?”
Again she had given an unexpected turn to the subject with the usual
convincing question-mark.
“But what can I do?” he demanded, letting himself go a little.
Betty Jo steadied him with: “Well, suppose you listen while I consider?
Did I tell you that 'considering' was another of my strong points, Mr.
Burns? Well, it is. You may consider me while I consider, if you please.
“The first thing is, that you must make Auntie Sue happy,--as happy as
you possibly can do at any cost. The second thing is, that you must pay
her back that money, every penny of it. Now, it wouldn't make her happy
for you to go to prison, and the reward wouldn't pay back all the money;
and if you were in prison, you never could pay the rest; besides, if you
were wasting your time in prison, she would just die of miserableness,
and she wouldn't touch a penny of that reward-money--not if she was to
die for want of it. So that settles that, doesn't it?”
And Brian was forced to admit that, as Betty Jo put it, it did.
“Very well, let us consider some more: Dear Auntie Sue has been
wonderfully, gloriously happy in doing what she has for you this past
winter,--meaning your book and all. I can see that she must have been.
No one could help being happy doing such a thing as that. So you just
simply can't spoil it all, now, by letting her know that you know what
you know.”
Brian started to speak, but she checked him with: “Please, Mr. Burns,
I must not be interrupted when I am considering. Next to the
prison,--which we have agreed won't do at all,--you could do nothing
that would make Auntie Sue more unhappy than to spoil the happiness she
has in your not knowing what you have done to her. That is very clear,
isn't it? And think of her miserableness if, after all these weeks of
happy anticipation, your book should never be published. No, no, no; you
can't rob Auntie Sue of her happiness in you just because you stole her
money, can you?”
And Brian knew in his heart that she was right.
“So, you see,” Betty Jo continued, “the only possible way to do is to
go right along just as if nothing had happened. And there is this final
consideration,--which must be a dark secret between you and me,--when
the book is finished, you must see to it that every penny that comes
from it goes to Auntie Sue until she is paid back all that she lost
through you. Now, isn't that pretty fine 'considering,' Mr. Burns?”
And Brian was convinced that it was. “But,” he suggested, “the book may
not earn anything. Nothing that I ever wrote before did.”
“You never wrote one before just like this, did you?” came the very
matter-of-fact answer. “And, besides, if your book never earns a cent,
it will do Auntie Sue a world more good than your going to prison for
her. That would be rather silly, now that you think of it, wouldn't it?
And now that we have our conspiracy all nicely conspired, we must hurry
to the house before that man arrives with my things.”
She went for the manuscript as she spoke. “See,” she cried, “it is quite
dry, and not a bit the worse for its temperamental experience!” She
laughed gleefully.
“But, Miss Williams,” exclaimed Brian, “I--I--can't understand you!
You don't seem to mind. What I have told you about myself doesn't seem
to--to--make any difference to you--I mean in your attitude toward me.”
“Oh, yes, it does,” she returned. “It makes me very interested in you,
Mr. Burns.”
“But, how can you have any confidence--How can you help me with my book
now that you know what I am?” he persisted, for he was sincerely puzzled
by her apparent indifference to the revelation he had made of his
character.
“Auntie Sue,”--she answered,--“just Auntie Sue. Come,--we must go.”
“How in the world can I ever face her!” groaned Brian.
“You won't get the chance at her, for awhile, with me around;--she will
be so busy with me that she won't notice anything wrong with you. So
you will get accustomed to the conspiracy feeling before you are even
suspected of conspiring. You know, when one has once arrived at the
state of not feeling like a liar, one can lie with astonishing success.
Haven't you found it so?”
They laughed together over this as they went toward the house.
As they reached the porch, Betty Jo whispered a last word of
instruction: “You better find Judy, and fix her the first thing;--fix
her good and hard. Here is Auntie Sue now. Don't worry about her
noticing anything strange about you. I'll attend to her.”
And the next minute, Betty Jo had the dear old lady in her arms.
CHAPTER XV.
A MATTER OF BUSINESS.
The weeks that followed the coming of Betty Jo to the little log house
by the river passed quickly for Brian Kent. Perhaps it was the peculiar
circumstances of their first meeting that made the man feel so strongly
that he had known her for many years, instead of for only those few
short weeks. That could easily have been the reason, because the
young woman had stepped so suddenly into his life at a very critical
time;--when his mental faculties were so confused by the turmoil and
suffering of his emotional self that the past was to him, at the moment,
far more real than the present.
And Betty Jo had not merely come into his life casually, as a
disinterested spectator; but, by the peculiar appeal of herself, she
had led Brian to take her so into his confidence that she had become
immediately a very real part of the experience through which he was then
passing, and thus was identified with his past experience out of which
the crisis of the moment had come.
Again Betty Jo, in the naturalness of her manner toward him, and by her
matter-of-fact, impersonal consideration of his perplexing situation,
had brought to his unsettled and chaotic mind a sense of stability and
order; and by subtly insinuating her own practical decisions as to the
course he should follow, had made herself a very literal part of his
inner life. In fact, Betty Jo knew Brian Kent more intimately at the
close of their first meeting than she could have known him after years
of acquaintanceship under the ordinary course of development.
Brian's consciousness of this would naturally cause him to feel toward
the young woman as though she had long been a part of his life. Still
other causes might have contributed to the intimate companionship that
so quickly became to them both an established and taken-for-granted
fact; but, the circumstances of their first meeting, given, of course,
their peculiar individualities, were, really, quite enough. The fact
that it was springtime might also have had something to do with it.
The morning after her arrival, Betty Jo set to work typing the
manuscript. Brian went to his work on the timbered hillside. In the
evenings, Brian worked over the typewitten pages,--revising, correcting,
perfecting,--and then, as Betty Jo made the final copy for the printers,
they went critically over the work together.
So the hours flew past on busy wings, and the days of the springtime
drew toward summer. The tender green of the new-born leaves and grasses
changed to a stronger, deeper tone. The air, which had been so filled
with the freshness and newness of bursting buds and rain-blessed soil,
and all the quickening life of tree and bush and plant, now carried the
perfume of strongly growing things,--the feel of maturing life.
To Brian, the voices of the river brought a fuller, deeper message, with
a subtle undertone of steady and enduring purpose.
From the beginning, Betty Jo established for herself the habit of
leaving her work at the typewriter in the afternoons, and going for
a walk over the hills. Quite incidentally, at first, her walks
occasionally led her by way of the clearing where Brian was at work
with his ax, and it followed, naturally, that as the end of the day drew
near, the two would go together down the mountain-side to the evening
meal. But long before the book was finished, the little afternoon visit
and the walk together at the day's close had become so established as a
custom that they both accepted it as a part of their day's life; and to
Brian, at
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