VII.

It was only for a short time that the wounded man lay as one dead. His consciousness gradually returned; his eyelids fluttered and opened slowly; he gazed about with a dazed and fluctuating attention, while he still remained, gasping and bleeding, upon the ground. Then by a mighty effort he rallied his faculties; with the recognition of his own lapsed identity, his normal expression returned to the quivering features, in lieu of the pallid, absent, alien look they had worn. This was Eli Strobe again; badly shaken, but still Eli Strobe. He struggled to his feet, and, tremulous and silent, he took his way down the path toward his home. A few officious friends strove to assist him as he went, and they kept pace with his tottering gait. Others lingered at the forge, looking vaguely after him, and then at Teck Jepson, who was on the crest of the hill, under the broad spread of the oak boughs, still mounted, and gazing back upon the scene. The mare, so suddenly checked in the race, was restive, and impatiently pawed and tossed her head, then reared and plunged as the rider turned back. More than once she bolted and tried to run, the recollection of the race so abruptly cut short still rousing her spirit and vibrating in her strong muscles. The curb held her to a slow gait, but her ears were laid back, giving her a vixenish look, and her full eye rolled as she came mincing sideways down the hill, ready to jump at any moment, her whole aspect oddly incongruous with the pale, anxious face of the rider.

It was he, doubtless, that first of all the crowd saw a light figure, swift and lithe, running at full speed, albeit the hill was rugged and steep, to meet the wounded man,—now disappearing amongst the laurel, and again flying along an open, level stretch; her curling hair floating in the wind, her eyes dilated, her face pallid, her breath coming in quick gasps. She had seen it all from the porch, Jepson thought. She must know that he was not to blame. He drew a long breath of relief, and urged the mare down the hill toward the men. He was near enough to hear her words, as she dashed in amongst them.

“Leave him be,” she said, with didactic composure. “I be goin’ ter lead him home. I’ll keer fur him.”

She offered to take the arm that the blacksmith held.

“Don’t ye know, Marcelly, ez I be a heap stronger ’n ye?” remonstrated Clem Sanders.

“Naw; Marcelly’ll take keer o’ me. Whar’s Marcelly?” piped out Eli Strobe in a weak voice. “Whar’s Marcelly? Marcelly?” he reiterated, as if he clung to the familiar name like a landmark amidst some strangely wrought chaos,—“Marcelly?”

He leaned upon her arm, and he turned toward her now and then with an uncertain look in his eye. “Marcelly?” he said, with the tone of one suddenly awakened.

“Hyar me,” her soft voice responded.

The blank stare in his face gave way to an evident satisfaction. He nodded once or twice, and trudged on.

Presently—once more an abrupt pause. “Marcelly?” again with a poignant uncertainty and interrogation. And again “Hyar me,” in dulcet, reassuring tones.

She could even conjure a smile into her pale face and a glancing lustre into her distended eyes, while he looked unsteadily and doubtfully at her. But when he began to plod on once more, the blood dripping from the cut in his head down upon his dust-grimed clothes, muttering now and again “Marcelly?” as if this were some cabalistic phrase, hard to grasp, and when once lost never to be found again, a vague terror overspread her features and shone in her wild and excited eyes. Once or twice she turned, and looked an appealing, piteous inquiry at the men who walked beside her, a blank, dull surprise on their faces.

When Isabel, who had followed her sister more slowly because of the obstacles the sharp stones and briers furnished her bare, sunburnt feet, joined them, he stretched out his hand gropingly, and laid it on her head. “Ye air—Is’bel!” he declared, with an evident effort of recognition.

“Laws-a-massy, yes,” retorted the pert maiden. “I wouldn’t be nobody else fur nuthin’.”

He kept his hand on her head as she walked beside him, albeit she remonstrated that he pulled her scalp backward; and as he went he muttered, “Marcelly—Is’bel,” and again, “Marcelly—Is’bel.”

It seemed a long time before they reached the bars of the fence, and went down the broad turn-row of the field, through the green and glistening Indian corn, to the door-yard of the little cabin.

One might feel in these unshaded and loamy slopes the full richness of the expending spirit of the summer sun, the responsive climaxing ripeness of the herbage of the earth. So broad, so glossy, were the great leaves; so full of vigor and grace, so definite and erect, the tall and stalwart stalks! And how somnolently melodious, how charged with languorous post-meridian sentiment, was the song of the cicada that issued forth! A lizard, swift and noiseless, slipped across the path, his fine yet dull colors showing in the light. The shadows of the chestnut-tree at the gate seemed black with all this yellow glare. A cat slept on the rickety gate-post, despite the enmity of the dog of the “frequent visitor,” who had spent his limited energies in barking and bounding about it, and now sat and besieged it in silent patience and with a lolling tongue. The vines were fluttering about the porch; the passage between the two rooms was dark and cool. Teck Jepson, following, watched the group disappear within the door. Then he dismounted, and hitched the mare to the gate-post; the dog of the “frequent visitor” relaxed his vigilance to greet the new-comer with an amity that expressed all the compliments of the season. Jepson gave him no notice; but the mare shied violently and backed her ears as he leaped about her, and the cat on the gate-post took advantage of the opportunity, and ran up the chestnut-tree.

Jepson hesitated; he started slowly along the path amongst the luxuriant grass and weeds, where a coterie of turkeys and ducks were pecking about; then he turned back, and stood leaning with one arm upon the gate-post, his hat drawn down over a moody, anxious brow, now looking meditatively at the little house, as silent and as solemn as the vast dark mountain behind it, and again vaguely glancing toward the forge, where he could see the gossips clustering around the door, the huddled horses at the rack, the slow ruminative oxen unyoked and lying about in the clearing, and here and there a cumbrous white-covered wagon. Above were the great cliffs, beginning to show a sunset glow; and now and then might be discerned in the forest the pathway of the invisible wind in the fainter tints of the reverse side of the leaves, upturned under even this light step, and marking a narrow line amongst the dense and dark foliage, as it stole down the slopes.

Suddenly, men silent and with grave faces came out of the house. His heart gave a great throb—their faces were so like those that men bore at the little rural funerals that had hitherto formed, in his experience, the chief expression of the majesty of death, and the more terrible irrevocability of opportunity,—their manner so like the cumbrous, awkward show of respect and sympathy for the mourners. It seemed strange to him that he should note at that moment—so vagrant are our thoughts, so little held in leash by the will—how still the mountain stood, how fairly the sun shone, how freshly blew the wind, unmindful, unmindful! The soul is the alien on the earth, and the earth heeds not the in-coming of this strange essence, nor the out-going. A strong trembling fell upon every fibre. He looked suddenly gaunt as he strained forward, whispering with pale lips, “Dead? Dead?”

Their eyes with one accord rested upon him. Clem Sanders slowly shook his head; then turned to Bassett, as if doubtful nevertheless, and desiring confirmation. Once more Jepson’s dry lips framed the word “Dead?” but no sound came.

“Naw,” said Bassett, “not ez ye mought say dead—but”—He paused, and shook his head.

“Naw, he ain’t dead,” said Dake hastily; “he may be like ter die, fur all I know. He be out’n his head, an’ yit he ain’t out’n his head. I never hear sech talk.” Then speaking to Bassett he added, “Ye mought tell Teck a leetle quicker, knowin’ ez he hev got ter answer fur it.”

Jepson turned, with a flush and a flash of the eye. “Ye ’low ez I be a-keerin’ fur that—the answerin’ fur it! Naw, sir! It’s the doin’ o’ sech ez be a-killin’ me. I wouldn’t hev done it! I wouldn’t hev done it!” He struck his hands despairingly together above his head. Then his consciousness of their entertained eyes, which expressed a sort of sub-acute unrealized pleasure in the painful excitement, asserted itself, and he leaned passively against the post, silent and unresponsive when they spoke; and presently they all passed through the gate, along the turn-row and up the slope to the forge, to detail the news to the waiting crowd, and hear in turn the speculations elicited.

He stood as still as if he had turned to stone, his elbow on the post, the mare’s graceful head close to the broad brim of his hat, the dog of the “frequent visitor,” an animal of facile allegiance, at his heavily booted and spurred feet; he did not stir even when he saw the door open and shut slowly, and Marcella, still pale-faced and large-eyed, emerge upon the porch. She stood, evidently preoccupied, for a moment amidst the luxuriant jack-bean blossoms, purple and white, that overran the rickety little structure. Then, although her eyes had rested on him some little time, she seemed suddenly to perceive him. He could not interpret the expression on her face. Her light figure was poised for a moment, as if she were uncertain whether she might advance or disappear. Then she came to the verge of the porch, leaning forward and lifting the blossoming tendrils that she might look through at him. She stretched forth her hand and beckoned him. His blood gave a great bound in his veins. He felt the hot color in his cheek. His heart was beating so wildly, so heavily, that he could not hear the rustle of the lush grass as his quick strides bore him across the yard, or the abrupt and frantic outcry of the frightened poultry scuttling away. There were unwonted tears in his eyes; he could have wept in glad humility for the joy of her generosity. He hastily stretched forth his hand to clasp hers which held the vine, but she withdrew it abruptly, and he only clasped the vines, warm from the touch of her hand. As he looked up at her she looked down at him, inscrutably.

“What war ye a-waitin’ thar fur?” she demanded in a low voice, and with an anxious glance toward the window close at hand.

“Ter know ef thar be ennything I kin do fur ye,” he said.

She looked away at the refulgent golden-red glow of sunset-tide, that filled all the air over the wooded valley and the mountain above, till it touched the serene and colorless east.

Then she said slowly, “Yes,—ye kin do suthin’ fur me.” Her eyes met his. “Go up ter the mounting—an’ kem back no mo’!” Her voice was intense and low. Her straight, defiant brows were knitted; her eyes, once so soft, had a fierce glitter. “I never want ter see yer face agin whilst I live.”

“Marcelly!” he faltered, amazed.

“Go up ter the mounting!” she reiterated. “An’ when, mebbe, ez the time goes, ye ’low I mought be changin’ my mind, remember I tuk the trouble ter call ye hyar, an’ tell ye thar never war a woman ez hated a man like I hate you-uns. Some o’ ’em hated one another in the Bible, didn’t they? Study ’bout’n ’em. Fur none o’ ’em hated like me!”

“Marcelly!” he cried again, pleadingly. “I never done it a-purpose.”

She let her hands fall on either side with a gesture of indifference. “Ye mought ez well.”

She knew her power. She saw his pain, and she rejoiced in the retributive pangs.

“I war all day a-tryin’ ter holp him in the ’lection,” he protested. “I did everything I could fur him. ’Twar his fault,—an’ ef ye seen it ye air ’bleeged ter know it.”

She looked at him with disdainful eyes. “Mought save yerse’f from the court that-a-way, moughtn’t ye? But _ye_ won’t hanker fur Sol’mon ter try _yer_ case, will ye?”

Her face was suddenly smitten with a ghastly look, as she realized what that possible future for him involved for her father.

“Marcelly!” he cried, in pity for her, divining her thought.

She recovered in a moment. She bore a stanch heart within her.

“Go up ter the mounting!” She lifted her hand, and pointed through the flowers to the stern fastnesses against the sky. “An’ ef I could hev it so by sayin’ ‘Go out’n the world,’ I’d say it!”

She turned from the vines,—a light step, the flutter of a garment, the cautious closing of a door, and she was gone.

He waited for a time, believing that she would relent; she could but come back with some word of mercy, or pardon, or cheer for him. He still held the vines aside, and looked through into the open passage of the house, fearful that she might come forth and think him gone, not seeing him here. It was strangely still; presently a rooster, bronze and red and yellow, sprang upon the puncheons of the passage, and muttering inarticulately to himself strutted back and forth, his claws ploddingly audible. And now he was gone. Upon the post of the porch, close at hand, a tree-toad began to shrill. Jepson saw the creature after a little,—a dull greenish-brown color against the weathered gray of the unpainted wood. How acute his senses were! He was conscious of noticing the curious climbing feet of the tiny reptile, as he stood. Women after a time came to the house with baskets on their arms, containing infallible domestic remedies or bundles, hoping to supply some household deficiency. They looked curiously at him; two or three made a motion as if they would speak, then desisted, and went their way. He cared nothing for his pale and agitated face, his wild, eager eyes. His pride seemed spent. He was glad they had seen him. They would tell her he waited without. And surely she would then come with some word to salve the wounds she had dealt. He would be grateful for so little. He could wait so long.

Not so long as he fancied. There came through the window the sound of an unfamiliar voice, he thought at first, strangely mouthing, and presently rising into a dolorous cry. He listened, trembling guiltily. It was Eli Strobe’s voice. And when he realized this he could hear no more,—his fortitude was overtaxed. He could wait for no reward, within the sound of those tones.

He turned, strode swiftly to the gate, flung himself upon the restive mare, and the quick thud of her hoofs along the beaten ways of the turn-row announced his departure to those within. He was going up the mountain, as she had bidden him. He was going—he cared not where—to the mountains as instinctively as a bird might seek the woods.

They called to him, as he passed the forge, for news of Eli Strobe. He shook his head; he had no news to give. The votes had been counted, and the local politicians, even in this hour of stress, did not fail to communicate the fact, and one or two triumphant souls shouted to him, as he spurred away, that Eli Strobe was reëlected. He did not slacken his speed, for all the rough road, nor draw rein in fording the plunging torrent. The mare’s neck was vainly downstretched toward the limpid swiftness; its very breath, the dank perfumes of its banks, indescribably refreshing at the end of the sultry day. The sun was slowly withdrawing its fervid presence. The wind rode abreast up and up the mountain. Jepson seemed to go to meet the night, for the shadows trooped from the east, and only the lengthening miles of valley and steeps behind him were pensively splendid in the rich afterglow of the prodigal day; to meet the night, heralded in the melancholy gloom under the pines, in the vague, indefinable pain with which we loose our hold on each successive day, in the sense of quiet and silence lacking in the gorgeous, albeit noiseless, pageant of sunset-tide; to meet the night, with its pensive presentiments of sorrow, its prophetic intimation of some longer space of null and dark futurity. The mare climbed the rugged ways now with a freshened will. Home, that even the animals cherish, lay at the end of the road, and she began to recognize her rider’s intention thither. As she threaded the tangles of the laurel, a faint, blood-curdling sound smote her quick senses. A wolf was howling afar off in these primeval fastnesses. She snorted as she went, and trembled. A star was at the zenith. A great fir seemed to touch it with the dark, slender line of its spire. An open, rocky space, and Jepson could see the dark western mountains, all glooming, the sunset faded out save for a lingering red streak along the horizon,—a dull and dusky tint in the closing obscurity. Below, mists were a-stalking down the valley ways, spectral in the vague light that barely made them visible. They claimed that weird and ghostly hour; and now and then one peered out from amongst the crags hard by, and drew back aghast, it might seem, at the sight of a human being in these preëmptions of solitude, where it should meet only its own disembodied kindred. The mare shied from them with dilated eyes, and chafed at the bit, and plunged and fretted because of the momentary pause.

Jepson marked, far as it was, the lights in the depression where Broomsedge lay,—like a skein of fireflies,—and he gazed down with a pained and throbbing heart, a troublous remorse and a contradictory sense of self-exculpation, a poignant sympathy with Marcella, and, nevertheless, a pulsing, sensitive resentment. “’Twar a accident,—nuthin’ but a accident,” he muttered to himself. And then he bit his lip, remembering her caustic jeer of utilizing this interpretation. Once more the howl of the wolf, strangely nearer than before.

“How them critters kin travel!” he said.

Then even his strong hand had much ado to hold the mare, snorting and plunging, and pushing now through the laurel, now amidst the gaunt and sterile cliffs on the toilsome homeward way, whether he would or no. The rocks echoed her hoof-beats; she seemed to the listening ear the first of a file of horse,—a phantom file, for here and there, where the road was open, and the dull light still showed its curves, it was visibly vacant, for all the measured pace that sounded between the crags. How lonely were these great rocks in the wilderness and the vast silences! With what precipitate avidity they caught at a sound, repeating it from one to another, as if it had some strange significance, some prophecy, perchance, that they should hoard against its fulfillment. Of all the forms of inanimate nature, they alone seemed to him sentient in some sort; and appealing from their isolation, they alone sought to communicate with creatures endowed with a motor life, through those mysteries of the elastic air, set vibrating with a word.

“Marcelly!” he cried out, with some wild desire to hear the wilderness voice her name. The whole world seemed to respond with a subdued acclaim.

“Marcelly!” the mellow tone rang from the heights above. “Marcelly!” the tender echoes of the valley replied. And now a crystalline fine vibration from the upper atmosphere, “Marcelly!” as if the magic word were spoken in the strange scenes of that lucent and glittering star.

He recovered in a moment his normal stolidity. He would have hushed, if he could, the voices he had summoned. The mare quickened her pace anew. As he emerged from the densities of the wilderness into the high vantage-ground of Bowles’s clearing, the vast splendor of the thickly instarred, moonless sky was before him,—so far and foreign it was, so dark the earth lay beneath, so drear. And he hardly cared that the dull orange glow coming from the notch was the light of his hearth-stone, although the young mare whickered gleefully at the sight, and went up the long, steep hill at a prancing pace, and with sundry plunges that threatened to unseat her practiced rider.

He took the saddle from her back as soon as he dismounted,—none too quickly, for she instantly rolled over upon the ground, her iron-shod feet awkwardly waving in the air. Then, as she gathered herself up with a snort of satisfaction, she set out for the barn and the water-trough with a capable air, evidently used to serving her own supper and making her own bed.

As Jepson entered the firelit room, Ben Bowles, sitting beside the hearth, his elbows on his knees, his pipe in his mouth, roused himself from a sort of lethargy of idleness, and a slow smile began to make more distinctly indented the many wrinkles around his mouth and hay-colored beard. His mild eyes shone with such pleasure as so definite a clod might be presumed to feel, but he glanced dubiously at his wife before he ventured to speak.

“Air that you-uns, Teck? Powerful glad ter see ye back hyar,” he said cordially.

“I ain’t company enough fur him, Teck,” said Mrs. Bowles, with an assertive smile, displaying all her fine teeth.

“Laws-a-massy, jes’ listen at M’ria, now!” Her husband gallantly scouted the idea, but he looked somewhat deprecatory of having laid himself liable to this interpretation.

Jepson glanced about him, heedless of both.

“Whar’s the chill’n?” he demanded. “Gone ter bed?”

“Whar ye reckon?” retorted Mrs. Bowles, with a flash of her bead-like eyes. “Ye s’pose I hev made sassingers or minch-meat out’n ’em?”

“Ye air ekal ter it,” her brother-in-law ruthlessly declared.

The mild Ben Bowles deserved, perhaps, a better fate than the continual futility of his efforts to preserve the peace about him. So much tact, so perfected by practice, seemed wasted here.

“Ha, ha!” He forced a laugh, affecting to interpret facetiously the retort and the counter-retort. “Nare one o’ ’em hev got meat enough on thar bones ter be wuth the scrapin’, ’ceptin’ it air Bob. Ha, ha! Bob’s fat enough.”

Jepson’s only rejoinder was a glance of scorn. He strode over to the shadowy corner where the children lay, and looked down at Sim’s pale, unhappy face, with its marks of sullen sorrow all undispelled, even in its absent, far-away expression. Aminty’s had the solemnity of sleep upon it, and her tossed and tangled hair about it. Bob’s wide-open twinkling hazel eyes shut instantly in feigned slumber the moment they encountered Jepson’s. The diplomatist of four snored gently.

Jepson made no comment, but turned back to the broad hearth, slowly divesting himself of his powder-horn and shot-pouch. The firelight glanced upon his full blue eyes; the fairness of his brow contrasted sharply with his sun-embrowned cheeks, and had a definite line across it where the brim of his hat had ceased to cast its shade. The spurs on the heels of his long boots, that reached to his knee, gave out a dull metallic glitter. His brown jeans coat was begirt by a broad leather belt, and his massive, well-formed figure seemed taller than usual, since the others, seated, were fain to look up. Mrs. Bowles’s eyes had a certain speculation in their bead-like brightness, as she sat silently gazing at him for a time.

Then suddenly, “Ye needn’t be holdin’ yer jaw, Teck. I know jes’ ez well ez ef I hed seen him ez that thar Bob air a-lyin’ thar broad awake, like a fox, or possum, or suthin’, though he hev been tole forty times”—she lifted her voice that the youth should hear—“ez the devil will kem arter him an’ ketch him ef he waits ter go ter sleep till the house be dark. I tell ye now what I’m a-goin’ ter do. I’m a-goin’ ter put him out’n doors, ter keep company with them t’other night rampagers,—bars, ez eat fat boys, an ’painters, an’ sech. An’ Bob’ll feel powerful lonesome out thar in the dark mountings, a-tryin’ ter git away from ’em, this road an’ that. His legs air short, an’ he can’t run fas’. An’ he be so fat he mus’ be toler’ble heavy ter hisself ter tote.”

There was a vague stir under the quilts. Even the small stoic could but writhe a little in prophetic anguish at this prospect.

Jepson turned abruptly, strode again to the bed, caught the child by the collar of his nightgown, and the next moment Bob was sitting in his chair before the fire, looking very rotund in his straight garment, and gazing with wide, apprehensive eyes at his stepmother, expectant of the blow that always came when she was thwarted. She did not deal it now. She was constrained by the eye of the man as he stood once more on the hearth, busying himself with the strap that held his powder-horn.

“An’ when enny bars, or painters, or devils, or folks take arter ye, Bob, jes’ call on me, sir, an’ I’ll tend ter ’em.” He glanced down, and nodded convincingly.

Bob looked up at the big man with a grave and plump countenance. He gave a little sigh of relief, but he did not venture upon words. His pink toes were more rosy in the light of the fire, and now and then curled in the enjoyment of the warmth, for the night was chilly on the mountain. His great wakeful eyes dwelt on the flames. He filled his little armchair very comfortably, and his hair, standing up straight in front, gave him a quaintly grotesque look.

Ben Bowles skillfully preserved an air of unconsciousness of the clashing in the domestic circle. Mrs. Bowles seemed for a moment likely to acquiesce without demur in the rule of the stronger. Then a flush rose through her clear olive skin, and overspread her blunt features. Her strong white teeth showed in a satiric smile. That added significant glitter in her small dark eyes struck Jepson’s attention. As he held the powder-horn in his hand he paused, and looked down intently at her. She noted his glance. Her desire to harass was strong, but she could not restrain her caustic tongue, or she might have baffled his curiosity.

“Keep on, Teck,” she said sarcastically, “keep on the way ye air a-goin’. Set pore leetle Bob up thar ter ketch his death o’ cold, an’ take an axe an’ hack me an’ Ben up, an’ set the house afire, an’—_ennything_! Ye air ekal ter _ennything_ arter what we hev hearn ter-day.”

“Hearn what, ter-day?” he asked, marveling how the news of the disaster had reached these untrodden, secluded wilds.

“Oh, nuthin’,” she said, flashing her eyes at him.

“Laws-a-massy, M’ria,” Ben Bowles ventured to remonstrate,—he would fain have ignored the whole incident,—“let Teck tell us just what did happen. Mought be some mistake.”

She laughed, and sneered too. “Toler’ble large-sized mistake, sartin, ter kill Eli Strobe jes’ kase his darter wouldn’t marry ye—turned ye off! Gals air choosers one time in thar lives, ennyhow.” She tossed her head with a lively relish of this limited ascendency.

Jepson was shaken with a wild fear that they had had later news from the Cove than he. Then he remembered that no one had entered or left the room since his return.

“Eli Strobe warn’t dead whenst I left Brumsaidge,” he replied calmly.

“Thar, now, M’ria, what did I tell ye?” expostulated Bowles.

“Ye tole me,” she perversely retorted, “ez Teck war too sharp an’ smart ter git inter enny sech trouble, even ef he warn’t none too good fur it.”

Jepson recognized the facile temporizing of Bowles in this, and he noted the quick flush on the cheek of the master of the house, attesting the veracity of his wife’s speech.

Jepson did not resent it, for he had a certain scornful indulgence of the cowardly amiability of his half-brother, and a contemptuous pity for the hardship of his position in his own house. He quietly hung the powder-horn and shot-pouch upon a prong of the deer antlers that formed the rack for his gun. Then he sat down before the fire, his eyes on the blaze, his legs crossed, bringing one of his heavy boots so near Bob that the fat baby could not refrain from leaning forward, and with both chubby hands making the rowel whirl. His teeth shone, his eyes gleamed, he chuckled with glee, till, catching Mrs. Bowles’s gaze, a sudden gravity settled upon his open mouth, and he leaned back in his armchair, affecting to rub his eyes, but now and then glancing furtively at her. The cat came and purred about him, and rubbed against his dimpled legs; then, suddenly bethinking herself, stood erect on her hind feet and put her fore-paws on his knees to beg. He was not eating, but she watched for some moments with stern and vigilant eyes every movement of his chubby hands, that they should not undetected convey some unshared delicacy to his lips. Finally even feline patience was exhausted, and with an inaudible motion of mewing once or twice she sprang into the child’s lap, curled up, and composed herself to slumber.

Bowles moved uneasily in his chair. The aggressive silence weighed hardly less heavily upon his spirit than the more active expressions of antagonism which he had sought to avert or annul. Now he glanced at his wife with an urgent remonstrance in his face, of which he was unaware, or he would have suppressed it in his timorous policy, and now at Teck Jepson with an air of appeal.

Presently, in desperation, he broke the pause:—

“War ye a-axin’ jes’ now, Teck, who fetched the news hyar? I warn’t payin’ much ’tention.”

Jepson did not take his eyes from the flames. “Naw, I didn’t ax,” he said.

Bowles subsided into silence, and his wife turned and cast a contemptuous glance upon him, which he comprehended as a rebuke that he should interfere.

The fire burned the freer and the clearer for the draught from the open door; the circle sat well back from the hearth in the alternate red flare and white fluctuations; the dark night looked in through the black aperture of window and door; the awful solitude of the unpeopled mountain was close without. Sometimes a dallying white presence was visible, and one might know that a mist was skulking close at hand, clearing away again to show the glimmer of a lonely star through a dark pine bough. A tree-toad trilled; the woods sighed, and lapsed again to soundless solitude.

Mrs. Bowles, too, chafed at the silence. Once or twice she visibly restrained herself. Then returning to her first impulse, she observed, “Teck don’t want ter know, Ben. Them ez he don’t like he jes’ won’t see nor hear, an’ it does him mighty nigh ez well ez ef they war dead. He knows somehow ez ’twar Jake Baintree ez hev been hyar this evenin’”—

Jepson lifted his head. “Jake Baintree!” he ejaculated, in evident surprise.

Mrs. Bowles rejoiced in her opportunity. “Yes, sir, ’twar Jake Baintree.” Her dark bead-like eyes flashed. She smiled flexibly; her white teeth glittered.

“What call hed he ter kem hyar?” Jepson demanded, puzzled.

“What call hedn’t he?” Mrs. Bowles retorted. “He be a free man! He travels the mountings whar his will leads him,—same ez a fox or a deer. He be ekal ter them dumb sinners, ennywise, I reckon, though he ain’t ’lowed ter git baptized.”

She relapsed into silence, with an obvious satisfaction to have shot this arrow. She expected him to inquire further. But he only rose, looked on the rude shelf, that served as mantel-piece, for his pipe, filled it, scooped up a coal from the edge of the fire, and smoked thoughtfully, with no show of desire to hear more; and this stimulated infinitely Mrs. Bowles’s intention to continue the detail of the visit. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, gazed smilingly into the fire, apparently meditating on these things, and once she broke out “Waal, waal!” as if in reminiscent wonder and interest.

Her husband, always alert to take an acceptable part, looked first at her, with her patent bid to be interrogated, and then at Jepson’s impassive and lofty face, with its proud indifference. He reflected that Jake Baintree was in one sense his half-brother’s enemy, and in another the object of his persecution, and he said nothing.

Mrs. Bowles flushed with a dull red glow, but still persistently smiled and gazed into the fire; then shaking her head slowly and gently, she presently broke forth again:—

“Waal, waal, I never hearn the beat o’ Jake’s talk! He ’peared plumb rej’iced over the happenings in the Cove. An’ I ’lowed ter him—I said, ‘I’ll thanky ter remember it be my cousin—yes, sir, own blood relation—ez Teck, Jepson hev murdered, so don’t git ter glorifyin’ over it hyar.’ An’ he say, ‘I can’t holp it. Mis’ Bowles. I’m sorry fur Eli an’ his darters, but ’tain’t mine ter question the Lord’s devices, nor what He ’lows that a day shell bring forth. The Lord suffered it,’ he says, ‘so Eli mus’ submit, an’ his kinfolks too. But,’ he says, ‘the Lord hain’t done nuthin’ so much ter my taste fur the las’ ten year! We-uns’ll see how the mate o’ Daniel will look in a cage hisself,’ Jake say; ‘no other lion nor other wild cattle thar, but he kin cavort around an’ rage fur twenty. We-uns will see how the friend o’ Moses, the Lawgiver, will stand agin them lawgivers down ter the criminal court. We-uns will git a chance ter rest our ears ’bout them folks in the Bible fur one while, sure, fur the livin’ will gin Teck all he kin tend ter, ’thout studyin’ on them ez be dead an’ gone so long they oughter be furgot, ef they ain’t.’ An’ I ax Jake, I jes’ riz up an’ axed him, ef he warn’t ’shamed ter talk that-a-way, whenst he purtended ter hev got religion. An’ he ’lowed he hed got through with wantin’ religion. Whenst the pa’son declared he wouldn’t baptize him, it jes’ kem on him like a flood o’ light ez he hed ruther go ter hell ’n ter heaven along o’ sech Christians ez pa’son an’ Teck. An’ sence that minit his soul hed troubled him no mo’.”

Jepson slowly blew the smoke from between his lips; the hand that held the corn-cob pipe did not tremble. There was no suggestion of anger in his dark blue eyes, the color of the iris distinct as he gazed meditatively into the fire. The flicker of the flames fluctuated upon his regular, definite features, and he showed no consciousness of his surroundings save that he kept his former attitude rigidly, in order that Bob, leaning forward with the excited eye of achievement and the quick breath of effort, might triumphantly accomplish the feat of unbuckling and taking off the large spur. The child’s posture incommoded the slumbers of Aminty’s yellow cat that lay in his lap, and she held her green eyes half open that she might guard against the danger of being too much compressed as he bent over. More than once she put up her paw against the breast of his nightgown, with an admonitory claw extended; but he only peremptorily caught it and put it down, and went on with his enterprise as before.

Mrs. Bowles seemed disposed to despair and desist, as she gazed speculatively at the impassive Jepson. Her husband stirred uneasily, and then remarked non-committally, “_Some_ say Jake Baintree air a bad aig.”

His wife did not often condescend to a dialogue with him alone. But this was the only prospect of covering her retreat with dignity, as she relinquished her attack on Jepson. She turned her face with a commingling animation and benignity toward her husband, and rejoined in a tone of interest, “Yes, folks say so; but what s’prised me war the cur’ous way he behaved hyar this evenin’. I wisht ye or Teck, one, hed been hyar, jes’ ter see how he ’peared. He sot thar in that cheer,—’twar gittin’ on toward dark,—an’ his face war sharp an’ clear, somehows, an’ white, an’ his hair so slick an’ shinin’, an’ his looks so keen, like he war studyin’ ’bout a heap he never would tell in this worl’. An’ he say, ‘I ain’t got no mo’ use fur religion, Mis’ Bowles. I hev got no use fur rivers, ’ceptin’ ter go swimmin’ in ’em.’ An’ I say, ‘Hev ye traded off yer soul, ez ye don’t ’pear ter ’low ye hev got none ter save?’ An’ he say, ‘Ye look out fur me at the Jedgmint Day, Mis’ Bowles, an’ ye’ll ’low I stan’ toler’ble high amongst the n’angels.’ He say, ‘I hev got suthin’ else ter look arter now. Folks in the mountings dunno ez much ez they think they do, Mis’ Bowles. I fund that out whilst I war in jail in Glaston an’ larnin’ so much o’ town ways.’ An’ I say, ‘It’s good ye air pleased with yer smartness, Jake, fur ye air the fust one I ever hearn accuse ye o’ sech.’ An’ I jes’ up-ed an’ set about gittin’ supper, an’ lef him thar ter brag by hisself. An’ whenst I looked at him, arter a minit, he hed tuk a paper out’n his pocket an’ war a-purtendin’ ter read. His eyes war jes’ set sorter cross-eyed onter it, an’ his lips a-movin’ like he war a-talkin’ ter hisself, an’ he looked so plumb foolish ez I jes’ drapped the bowl what I war stirrin’ batter in, an’ hollered an’ laffed. An’ he say, ‘Ye don’t b’lieve I kin read, Mis’ Bowles; jes’ listen, an’ I’ll read ye ’bout a man what got tired o’ livin’ in the world, an’ got onter a raft on the ruver.’ An’ sure enough Jake did.”

Jepson suddenly lifted his head. “What did the man do?” His eyes were alert with the interest of the incomplete suggestion, the promise of a narrative; he held his pipe in his hand; the feeblest tissue of smoke stole upward from it. He had forgotten her antagonism.

She broke into a discordant laugh. “Laws-a-massy, ye reckon I kin remember all that thar! Naw, sir. I didn’t mo’n half listen, bein’ all tuk up ter see Jake readin’ like a preacher! An’ Jake say, ‘I reckon ye won’t see Teck no mo’, Mis’ Bowles, bein’ as they mus’ hev ’rested him by this time. Else I wouldn’t hev kem inter this house, it bein’ sorter his’n, ez he lives hyar an’ hev put his stock with yourn. An’ I’ll say ye air mighty well rid o’ him, in my idee.’ Arter that he went.”

She had unburdened her mind. She had spent her quiver,—not a barbed shaft remained. She was glancing about the room, meditating upon certain arrangements to be providently made over night for the early breakfast; now and again her gaze rested on Bob, still serenely awake in his nightgown, and holding up before eyes that squinted in the eager intensity of their interest the spur which he had taken from the boot.

She was altogether unprepared for aught of moment when Jepson said slowly, “Ye hed better lay off ter milk the cow-critters sooner ’n common, ter-morrer, M’ria, kase I be goin’ ter drive my stock off from hyar by daylight. I hev hed in an’ about enough o’ this place.”

Her small eyes dilated; she changed color; her jaw dropped. Her lethargic husband was suddenly tense and alert, looking at Jepson with a dismayed deprecation, aghast at the prospect of this collapse of their partnership. Mild as he was and weak, he was man enough in this emergency to upbraid his wife.

“Thar now, M’ria!” he said, temperately, however.

It was the first rebuke he had ever given her, and he quailed as the words passed his lips. But she took no heed of them; her sense of loss was so poignant as to dull all resentment. “Why, Teck!” she exclaimed, her voice cordial with persuasive intonations, “ye goin’ ter leave us—jes’ kase I tole ye what that thar black-hearted Jake Baintree say ’bout our bein’ well rid o’ ye? I didn’t go ter hurt yer feelin’s. Ye ain’t goin’ ter leave us fur sech ez that!” She smiled at him, her eyes and her teeth glittering in the glow of the fire.

“’Tain’t fur nuthin’ Jake Baintree say,” he disclaimed, still placidly gazing at the blaze, with none of the excitement and instability of an unconsidered resolution in his face. “I jes’ be a-goin’ fur good.” He seemed unpliable enough to daunt persuasion or appeal.

“Laws-a-massy, Teck!” Ben Bowles exclaimed, lantern-jawed, and pallid, and disconsolate. The inflections of his voice had such dreary suggestions that Jepson glanced at him, as he sat pulling at his hay-colored beard, the deeply indented grooves and wrinkles in his face growing more definite and multiplying, his weak blue eyes appealing and forlorn. He might have seemed in terror of being left at the mercy of his wife, who sat beside him, the picture of discomfiture, and swift repentance, and anxious forecast.

The survey evidently suggested to Jepson some modification of his plans.

“I’ll leave old Spot an’ her calf, bein’ ez yer cow air dry, so ez the chill’n kin hev buttermilk an’ M’ria kin churn; an’,” after a moment’s pause, “I’ll leave one o’ my horses, so ye kin git along better puttin’ in craps nex’ spring. Ye kin keep ’em ez long ez ye’ll feed ’em.”

“Why, Teck!” cried Mrs. Bowles, in a pained yet cordially insistent tone; she forgot what she was about to say, for there surged in upon her the recollection of his “stock,” for which they had besought him to abide with them, and which, benefited infinitely the housekeeping and the farming in a thousand ways. He possessed only a few head of the commonest variety, but they seemed much when once within her grasp, and it had been as if she owned them. “Why, Teck!” she exclaimed once again, at a loss how to continue.

“Ye needn’t say nare word,” he declared. “I’m goin’ by daybreak.”

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, put it in his pocket, rose, and strode out on the porch. He had not contemplated one of his long mountain jaunts,—only a turn or two in the solemn stillness of the night, to be alone with his thoughts, to be free from the presence of his fellows. This was contrary to his usual custom, and he knew that she thought him far away when he saw her through the open door rise up by the hearth-stone, and heard her say impressively to the forlorn, stooping, and disquieted Ben Bowles,—

“Ye mark my words,”—she lifted her arm and shook her forefinger at him,—“Eli Strobe ain’t dead mebbe, but he will be soon, an’ Teck air aimin’ aforehand ter git out’n the kentry with all he hev got; he’ll flee the State, an’ that ter-morrer mornin’.”

Bowles listened with plaintive, hopeless, upturned face. The small Bob had become rigid with propriety of demeanor the instant she lifted her arm, and sat with his bright hazel eyes fixed expectantly and deprecatingly upon her. The man outside in the darkness watched the group for a moment, and then turned away into the black night.