Part 11
Killdee stood glaring at her and the black leather strap shook in his grasp.
“Come heah, gal!” he said sternly, “I gwine l’a’n you some manners to-night.”
Missie seemed somehow unable to move. She took one step forward. Tottering. Uncertain. What was she to do? Killdee mistrusted her.
“What de matter ail you? Ain’ you heah me say ’Come heah’?”
He seized her by the shoulder. The grip of his fingers hurt. They were set on ruling her. Crushing her. Each one of them. Hard. Cruel. Galling.
They needn’t tighten like that. She wouldn’t try to get away. No. She’d stand still. Let him beat her if he wanted to do it. Yes, beat her. And she had thought he was her friend. That he loved her. And he didn’t even believe what she said.
* * * * *
Killdee’s breath labored. Blood beat in his ears. He’d teach this girl a lesson. One she’d never forget. He’d show her he was master in this house. Rose was watching. She’d see that he’d give Missie her due.
Bright drops glittered on Missie’s lashes. Her soft lips began trembling in a pitiful, helpless way. The dimple in her chin came and went. It seemed to beg for tenderness, gentleness.
Killdee had made up his mind. He would not be changed. He would do what he started to do.
He clutched the slight shoulder tighter. Its thin, narrow blade moved a little under his taut fingers. His hand holding the strap with resolute steadiness began faltering. It shook. It let go. For a soft, wet cheek was pressed close against it.
The strap fell to the floor. Its shiny buckle made a dull, flat thump. The length of leather twisted over and lay still.
Missie staggered a little. She closed her eyes and put up a hand to her forehead.
Killdee turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at her again. As he hurried out of the door, Rose gleeked a scornful “Chicken heart” at him, but he hardly heard what she said for his blood drummed thick in his ears.
He stumbled out into the night and walked blindly across the moon-lit fields. The warm breath of them filled with the scent of plum-blossoms was disturbing. Smothering. Like the heated air in his cabin. He longed for a breath that was cool and clear. It would help him to think.
What was he to do--What? He had to face things. He couldn’t run away--not from Missie. Not now. She needed him more than ever. And he needed her. Yes, needed her--
He was caught in a trap. Caught fast. How could he ever get loose? Deep down in his heart, did he want to get loose? He was not sure.
Voices of the singers at Meeting in the Quarter floated over the fields and blent with his throbbing pulses.
“I’m--so--glad-- My trouble--won’ las’--always--”
He knew the singers and the words and the mournful tune well, but to-night all of them seemed strange. Different. He stopped to listen.
People singing to God. Asking for help. How far away they seemed. As far as those faint stars in the glowing sky. As far as God. He was alone in the night.
Something in his heart answered the singers.
“Joy can’ las’ always needer. You sing about trouble. I’m gwine take one joy whilst I kin.”
THE END
* * * * *
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Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
look up a hot=> took up a hot {pg 122}