XV.
An interval of silence succeeded. The heavy, black shadows of the great trees hard by did not stir. The mute moonlight lay all down the vacant road, and rested unbroken upon the rude floor of the loft. The man at the square window stood motionless, his hand still uplifted, his illumined face questioning, intent. The only sound was the vague, lingering stir communicated through all the fibres of the hay when Bassett, half rising upon one knee in its midst, had shifted his weight. Suddenly an acorn from a chestnut-oak fell upon the roof, with a loud, imperative accent in the tense, expectant moment. It cracked upon the clapboards, that reverberated with the ready resonance of the void spaces of the interior, rebounded with a rattle, rolled deliberately down the eaves, and dropped thence to the ground. It was a slight thing, but if aught more significant had sounded in the interval, this trivial clamor had nullified it. The opportunity to continue to listen and identify the mysterious voice was lost, for one of the cows, below, had begun to low fitfully, and the rocks close at hand prolonged and reduplicated the lingering, melancholy note.
A half-articulate curse, and here and there a long-drawn respiration, intimated that the breathless tension of expectation had given way.
“’Twarn’t nuthin’ but a ow-el,” said one of the mountaineers, who had paused, as if petrified, in the middle of the floor, his hands in his pockets, his hat on the back of his head. He had a sedulously unimaginative aspect, as if determined to belittle the occurrence and denude it of consequence; and yet there was something in his tone that intimated a hope of contradiction.
“Ow-el! Waal, mebbe ’twar,” ejaculated the man at the window perversely divining his desire.
“Waal, then, what did it sound like ter you-uns?” demanded the first speaker, frustrated in argument, and realizing that he would first have to foster a sensation in order to assume his favorite iconoclastic rôle. It is an old saying that two are required to make a quarrel, and it is not worn out yet.
“Sounded ter me,” put in the simple Clem, “like a woman a-callin’.”
“Else a wild-cat, or suthin’,” suggested the first speaker. He was Peter Bryce, Mrs. Bowles’s former lover; and although he had survived her cruelty, his disposition had succumbed to the souring influences of disappointment, and his estimate of women had suffered.
“Naw, sir!” said Clem, with a definite accession of acerbity, and becoming communicative under its stress. “I ’lowed ’twar my mother a-callin’ me. Mought hev been mistaken, though,” he qualified.
Bassett, still half kneeling in the billowy hay, in the shadow save for a slender moonbeam falling upon him from a crevice in the roof above, skein-like and fibrous, turned a suspicious eye upon the stalwart young blacksmith, who was indistinct in the semi-obscurity.
“Clem Sanders,” he said sternly, “hev ye been fool enough ter tell her ’bout we-uns, an’ sech ez we air lookin’ ter do?”
There was no striding to and fro now; all the burly armed figures were still and silent for a moment, their eyes, whether distinct and shining in the moonlight, or barely discerned in the shadow, fixed with one accord upon Clem Sanders, who needed all his courage to face the suspicion of treachery that they expressed.
“Of course I never. What would I be a-tellin’ mam sech ez that fur, in the name o’ common sense? She be a-callin’ me, I reckon, ter feed some apple-parin’s ter the peegs, fur all I know.”
There was a momentary silence; then discerning the distinctly sullen note in his reply, Bassett found the tact to say:—
“Ye know, Clem, we hain’t got no objection ter Mis’ Sanders, ’ceptin’ her bein’ a woman; bes’ one in the worl’, though. But ye know, Clem, ’tain’t safe ter trest ’em with sech. They tell everythin’ they know, an’ they hain’t got no sense ter reason on jestice an’ sech; ’twould jes’ let them men plumb off, ef enny woman war ter git a-holt o’ it. ’Twon’t do ter trest ’em with sech.”
“Nor with nuthin’ else,” said the cynical Peter Bryce, speaking from the fullness of his own experience, but with an abstract application to the whole sex that gave Clem Sanders no offense for his mother’s sake, and left him at liberty to suffer sundry pangs of regret that beset him at the recollection of his disclosure to Marcella. He threw himself down on the hay, close to the wall, his hat pulled far over his brooding eyes, his elbow upon the elastic masses, and resting his head in his hand. The cat, in a crevice between the unchinked logs, looked around at him with lustrous, recognizing eyes, and, kitten-like, she put out a white, velvety paw with a feint of touching his sunburned hand, falling short by an inch. Then she once more gazed calmly out, drawing her tail about her, and seeming always to rise slightly, as she purringly closed and unclosed the nails of her fore-paws. Her shadow on the floor, above that of the prostrate man, was like a crouching tiger, ready to spring.
“Can’t trest wimmen with nuthin’,” asseverated Peter Bryce loudly, for the cynic is rarely ready to enjoy alone his discoveries in human nature. He calls in all his world to help him make merry over the distortions of the poor, warped thing before it can get itself away.
“Waal, now, the Lord made ’em,” expostulated an elderly, grizzled fellow. It was not altogether piety which animated him. His threatening, lowering mien bespoke a personal interest. He had seven daughters, when he would have infinitely preferred seven sons. He had, in each instance, absolved himself from all obligation to feel any special affection for these young people, who persisted in being so great a shock to his prejudices; he had sought to steel himself in indifference, and in his judgment that each was an affliction and a dead weight. But poor human nature is weak at best. His seven afflictions, all unabashed, proceeded to entwine themselves about his rude heartstrings as valiantly as could any seven sons. When he became conscious of this, he applied such simple philosophy as his untutored brain could evolve to devising excuses for them, as it were; and thence he advanced to insistence upon their equality — nay, superiority to any seven sons that could be mustered in Broomsedge Cove. “The Lord made wimmen,” he solemnly declared.
“By accident, I’m thinkin’,” said Bassett.
“’Twarn’t no job ter be proud of,” echoed Dake.
“War they made a-purpose so durned changeable?” demanded Bryce.
“An’ so onreasonable?” said Bassett.
“An’ sech a tongue onto all of ’em?” Dake suggested.
“An’ no answer but ‘Bekase ’tis,’ ter every why?” said Peter Bryce.
The father of the seven afflictions looked from one to the other, his eyes vigilant, like a creature at bay. He seemed to have a large contract on his hands, but he was inured, in his paternal charge, to large contracts, and thus he was not altogether dismayed. Perhaps in the exclusively feminine association at home he had learned something of the potency of feminine logic, and of the futility of imposing upon one’s capacities the devising of answers to categorical posers. He took refuge in a broad, unimpeachable proposition, which he delivered with all the impressiveness of refutation. “The Lord made wimmen,” he solemnly asseverated anew, as if piety forbade any criticism of the supreme handiwork, and on this ground defying contradiction.
“An’ what diff’ence is that?” demanded Bassett, with a sneer that the moonlight accented, glittering on his teeth.
“Who hev said contrariwise?” echoed Dake.
“The Lord made ’em,” the paterfamilias again averred, with an arrogation of originality in his attitude as he advanced into the square of moonlight, which showed his bronzed face, with his short beard broadening its effect, his mild eye assuming belligerent intimations, as of a peaceful soul, who will, nevertheless, fight for his own, his long, thin lips firmly compressed beneath his bristly mustache. “The Lord made ’em, an’ I ain’t goin’ ter hear nuthin’ said agin ’em.”
There was a pause. The frolicsome filly down in the stall below, kept awake, perchance, by the noise above, frisked about on two or three boards, upon which her small hoofs clattered noisily, doubtless to the admiration of her slower, wide-eyed friend the calf, and sent forth a shrill, gleeful little whinny, all head tones, indescribably callow. The mother responded with a note of maternal remonstrance; there was a sound of a scampering gallopade to her side, and the stall was still. The setting hen, close in to the wall, amidst the hay, stretched her long neck with its panting open bill, and emitted a sort of hysterical clucking of apprehension when the whole great mass trembled, as Bassett flung himself at length into its midst. His head was pillowed high amongst the fragrant billows, but his feet hung down unsupported, dangling to and fro with a disparaging gesture, as he demanded, “Hev ye tole yer wife an’ that thar congregation o’ small gals o’ yourn ’bout sech ez air goin’ for’ard ter-night ’mongst we-uns?”
The grizzled head, held askew as its owner listened, gave an angry jerk. “Course I hain’t,” the paterfamilias rejoined, in surly but succinct denial.
There was a sort of suppressed snort of indignation amongst the vigilantes, prophetic of the fury that would await the supposititious betrayal; it seemed, indeed, that the very hypothesis was not a safe subject. Clem Sanders stirred uneasily.
“Waal, now,” said the crafty Bassett, “why don’t ye tell ’em?”
The elderly champion of the fair stood helpless and at a hopeless disadvantage; he laid hold of his square-cut beard, and held it meditatively as he gazed silently at his interlocutor.
“Why don’t ye tell ’em?” repeated Bassett, half-chuckling at his own cleverness, the trend of his argument seeming hardly less than inspiration. “Ye know wimmen-folks never talk none; ’twarn’t one o’ them, surely, ez tuk ter gossipin’ in the very Gyardin o’ Eden with the Evil One hisse’f. They never talk none an’ spread the news, an’ when thar ain’t no news air plumb ekal ter makin’ it. Then they never sets tharse’fs ter frustratin’ the men on principle, jes’ fur the enjyemint o’ the thing, though some folks, ez don’t know ’em ez well ez ye an’ me, hev ’lowed wunst or twict sence the worl’ began ez they air always ekal ter that. A leetle spindlin’ snip o’ a gal kin fool a man six feet high an’ a two hunderd pounder ’bout ennythin’ she gins her mind ter.”
“That she kin!” sourly exclaimed Peter Bryce, whose infelicitous love affairs had been so widely bruited abroad, at the time when he and Maria White, subsequently Mrs. Bowles, quarreled, that reserve on the subject would have been but an empty formality.
“Oh, Pete, he’s jes’ funnin’; he ain’t hed no ’sperience o’ thar onreliability,” resumed Bassett, enraptured by the extent of his own satiric capacities when fairly tested, and having no mind to relinquish the floor of which he was so conspicuous an ornament. “Then they air so reasonable,—that’s what makes ’em so easy ter git along with. Ef enny one o’ them war ter know ’bout what we air aimin’ ter do, an’ ez we air ready ter hang them men ef we find Jake Baintree air arter enny mo’ devilmint—sence he killed Sam’l Keale, an’ got off from the court through the jedge an’ jury bein’ so all-fired weak kneed,—what would that woman say? She’d say, ‘Don’t hang ’em; it mought hurt ’em.’”
There was a smothered guffaw from the younger men, and the father of the seven reasonless beings stood mute and without a word of contradiction.
“Don’t hang ’em; it mought hurt ’em,—that air what every sistren of ’em in this broad land would say,” the speaker continued, in high feather, gratified by the flattering coincidence of the majority. “Now, Clem, ye kin bear me out,” he said, turning unexpectedly toward the young blacksmith, who gave so abrupt a start that the cat in the moonlit crevice rose up suddenly, with a back bowed high and an angry hiss; then, with her tail aloft and stiff she ran off with an unprecedented nimbleness, up the mound of hay, and composed herself to watch studiously a certain beam high out of reach, on which she had seen a lithe whisking shadow of rodent-like action. Clem heavily turned himself in the hay; he was swift to indorse mentally any plausible proposition, and he remembered anew with anxious self-reproach and many twinges of conscience his disclosures to Marcella. She had disapproved, as Bassett had urged that any woman would. Was it possible that she would act upon this disapproval? But after all, would she dare, and what could she do? He sought to solace his fears, and to shake off his overpowering sense of treachery and guilt, by arguing within himself the futility of any scheme she might devise; even circumstance seemed to favor him. He felt ashamed to experience a certain gratulation that her father, so vehement a stickler for the maintenance of the law, was not available in this emergency. “Eli be too sick fur her ter resk excitin’ him ’bout sech. She ain’t goin’ ter ’sturb Eli ef Jake Baintree war ter git hung, like he oughter hev been a year ago an’ better, an’ would hev been ef Teck Jepson hed hed his way.”
He was summarily roused from these absorptions by Bassett’s raucous drawl:—
“Whyn’t ye answer, Clem? Air ye a-snoozin’ thar, ye sleepy-headed sorrel-top?”
“I hearn ye,” replied Clem gruffly. “I dunno how I kin bear ye out. I dunno all the wimmen in the mountings, an’ I don’t wanter. Some will do one way an’ some another; ennythin’ ez air onexpected an’ suddint.”
“That’s jes’ it!” exclaimed Bassett. “The Bible ’lows ez the woman war made from one o’ Adam’s ribs, an’ I’ll be bound, though the Bible don’t say so, ez her brains war jes’ the odds and e-ends lef’ over from Adam’s brains, an’ that’s why her thoughts air jes’ higglety-picklety; a leetle o’ this, an’ a tech o’ that, an’ none ter las’ more ’n a minit. An’ she didn’t shine on that ’casion in the Gyardin as an adviser, an’ that’s how it happens men ever sence hev been glad ter git shet o’ thar wife’s advice.”
“I ain’t never seen one woman ez larnt enny lesson from Eve,” remarked Peter Bryce. “They gin thar advice yit ez ef ’twar one o’ the precious things o’ the yearth, an’ air always powerful ’stonished an’ conflusticated every time ez the men folks ain’t willin’ ter break thar necks ter profit by it.”
The sentinel had left the discussion, and reverted to the window; he beckoned to one of the other mountaineers presently, and pointed down the long avenue of the great oaks. Here and there were broad open spaces, where the moonlight fell in unbroken effulgence; the autumn winds had left the trees but scantily leaved; bough and bole were often distinct through the foliage, and even amidst the shadows, which duplicated each leaf and twig; the white frost lent an accentuation of brilliancy. Upon the sere grass a hoofbeat was falling, and an equestrian figure rode into full view; a mounted shadow beside him now lurked among the trees; now skulked strangely foreshortened, on the ground; now rose suddenly upon the vertical surface of a crag into the full stature of a man and the complete equipment of a horse, with a definiteness that had an uncanny effect, somehow, in the solitude. So brilliant was the moon that it seemed to seek out and reveal vague, spectral, half-realized things, affinities of the night and the unknown.
“Edzac’ly,—jes’ ez I said. Teck ridin’ ’long like some great captain,” exclaimed Bassett, whom the faint jingle of spurs in the frosty air had brought to the window.
The mounted figure passed close to the building, never lifting his head nor making a sign, although he must have been conscious of the men looking down at him. The horse whickered gleefully upon nearing the barn, and the rocks echoed and reëchoed the sound, until it simulated the distant, neighing of a squadron of cavalry. Even when it had sunk to silence, some seeming charger far away again broke the quiet, neighing in the solitary defiles of the mountain. The men looked at one another; here and there a spark of irritation, perceptible the moment that the horseman had first been glimpsed through the aisles of the woods, began to flare definitely into anger.
“Teck ain’t keerin’ how much n’ise he lets them men hear.”
“He don’t mind sech ez we-uns say; he air jes’ sot an’ sodden in his own way.”
“He oughter be tuk down somehow. He air too robustious an’ domineerin’ ter live.”
The scattered comments subsided the moment a step sounded upon the rungs of the ladder. As Teck Jepson emerged through the aperture in the floor, glancing up at the silent figures grouped about, watching his ascent, there seemed something in his eye which coerced apparent acquiescence, and in this fostered a sort of subservient dissimulation toward him. His grave “Howdy, neighbors,” in his low, melancholy drawl, evoked a friendly “Howdy, Teck,” which seemed to express all the good-fellowship of approving welcome. Only Dake stood silent and morose, retaining in his manner something of the sentiment which had animated the coterie before Jepson’s entrance. He could not have expressed a categorical opinion of Jepson’s character, but was aware of his acute observation and his alert divination of motive, and felt sure that he could not have failed to notice the chill protest and displeasure in the single exception to the cordiality of the greetings. Thus Jepson’s lofty indifference and serenity impressed him as in the nature of a triumphant retort, and presently Dake broke forth angrily:
“What air yer notion, Teck Jepson, ter kem ter a secret meetin’, a-tromplin’ an’ a-jinglin’ with spurs through the woods, an’ ridin’ of yer horse ez goes whinnyin’ fur corn inter the stable. Ef I war Clem, I wouldn’t give him nare grain. Ef them men hev enny ears, they air bound ter hear ye an’ take a warnin’. I b’lieve ye air in league with ’em.”
Jepson turned slowly upon him. “I b’lieve I’ll throw ye out’n that winder,” he said deliberately.
There was a hasty cry of protest from the group, and several interposed between the two. “Naw, Teck, naw; ye mustn’t git a-fightin’, ye an’ Gid!” exclaimed the father of the seven, with a patriarchal air which became him well at home, and in view of his seniority did not seem out of place here. “Ye know, boys, we-uns hev got tergether ter hold up the right, whether the law will tote its e-end or no. It air fur the good an’ the peace o’ the kentry. We can’t gin our cornsent ter wickedness goin’ on an’ dodgin’ its due, but we’ll meet up with it an’ medjure it, sure. ’Twon’t do, ter git ter quar’lin’, so jestice will be frustrated both in the courts an’ out’n ’em. Ef the arm o’ the law be got so spindlin’ an’ puny ez it can’t take holt an’ deal jestice, but flops par’lytic in the empty air, the people air strong yit, an’ ain’t goin’ ter suffer no wrong-doin’. Naw, sir!”
He uttered this with a sing-song delivery, reminiscent of the pulpit of the circuit rider, his voice rising and falling in alternate waves and with rhythmical cadences; then he suddenly assumed an indescribably coaxing tone, that had often proved exceedingly efficacious with recalcitrant small girls.
“Don’t ye git ter quar’lin’ with Gid, Teck! An’ Gid, ye oughter be ’shamed! Teck’s our main man; he’s a plumb ringleader, an’ ye know we air all bound ter b’lieve in Teck, wharfore or what not. I notice we-uns all do his bid, whether we aim ter or no. Teck ain’t goin’ ter git up no commotion ez them men kin hear. An’ ez ter Teck bein’ in league with ’em, we-uns all know—everybody knows—ez he hev been plumb down on Jake Baintree ever sence the jury let him off; Teck ’lowed ez Jedge Lynch ought ter take his case up. Teck’s our main man!”
A frown had gathered on Jepson’s face, distinctly seen in the moonlight which sifted through the dark shadows from the crannies of the high peaked roof. The peace-maker had touched some false note, and the jarring discord was instantly manifested. Jepson deliberately drew his arm from the grasp of the elder man.
“I ain’t a-aimin’ ter be a leader,” he said. “I ain’t sech ez covets the fust place. I hev no wish fur words of praise. I look within fur the testimony an’ the voice o’ the Lord ez sounds in the silences. Sech ez my steps air, they air tuk in His path.”
He half turned from his well-meaning exhorter, who stood, a trifle crestfallen but deeply impressed, still staring, the ligaments of his strong bare neck tense as he thrust his head forward.
Jepson paused, looking over his shoulder his luminous handsome eyes rested upon Dake with a more familiar and worldly expression than they had worn a moment ago.
“Ez ter Gid Dake, he air welcome ter his thoughts; his wust enemy wouldn’t gredge him sech pore leetle things ez he kin think. But ye air in an’ about right ter gin rebukes fur quar’lin’,—we ain’t met fur sech ez that. An’ I won’t throw Gid out’n the winder jes’ yit; but,” he sneered, “let him think his thoughts. A body ought ter be sorry fur a man condemned ter pass his life in sech comp’ny ez Gid an’ his thoughts.”
The elderly peace-maker received the intimation that his interference was praiseworthy and well timed with a distinct and grateful glow. Dake, with his hands in his pockets and a flouting shrug of his shoulders, ejaculated, “Shucks!” and walked away amongst the others, quick enough, however, and sensitive enough to note the glances askance and the half-veiled contempt which marked the degree to which they considered him defeated, and the consequent depths to which he had sunk in their opinion.
“I rid, but I tuk a short cut through the woods, an’ never teched the road nowhar,” continued Jepson, standing in the middle of the floor, taller than them all, very distinct in the moonlight, “I rid bekase I war so all-fired late.” It was unusual that he deigned to explain his motives, and this betokened an unwonted geniality and sense of nearness and oneness with them all. “It takes me mighty nigh the whole evenin’ ter cook a leetle dab o’ supper. My mother war the bes’ cook ez ever seen a fire, but I don’t ’pear ter take arter her. I actially can’t turn a hoe-cake over.” He smiled slightly at the laughter that this revelation of his domestic difficulties evoked. Then he went on: “Mos’ folks rej’ice mightily when meal-times come, but it air a season o’ hardship an’ labor fur me. The skillets an’ the pans ’pear ter hide, somehows, an’ I can’t find nuthin’; though I aim ter put everythin’ in its place, ’tain’t thar whenst I want it agin.”
“Ye miss Mis’ Bowles cornsider’ble, don’t ye?” suggested Bassett, with a leer,—“specially meal times.”
“I never hearn Mis’ Bowles war ennythin’ so tremenjious s’prisin’ ez a cook,” sneered Peter Bryce, nettled at the very mention of her name, and resolved not to indorse any presumable merits and culinary accomplishments.
But Teck Jepson had a sentiment of loyalty to the hospitable board, although it was self-interest that had spread it. “She never let me go hongry,” he averred heartily, “an’ that’s more ’n I kin say fur myself.”
“Ye oughter git married, Teck,” said the champion of the fair. “A man ’thout a wife air like a house ’thout a h’a’th-stone: thar ain’t no chances for comfort, nor cheerfulness, nor light, nor nuthin’, ’thout it; it’s jes’ the heart o’ a home.”
“Yes; an’ ye kin make mighty sure thar ain’t a skillet in Brumsaidge Cove spry enough ter hide from Marcelly Strobe,” broke in Dake irreverently, glad to touch upon a tender point; having heard and believed Andy Longwood’s representations of Marcella’s preference for Clem Sanders, and knowing that Teck Jepson had also been an aspirant for favor.
Jepson, with an angry start, was about to retort, when Clem Sanders, growling an oath, rose up from the hay, stamping heavily first one foot and then the other, to rouse them from the premature slumbers in which they had been surreptitiously indulging while the rest of his system was broad awake. “Air we-uns a-goin’ ter stay hyar all night, a-colloguin’ ’bout skillets an’ sech, an’ not even peekin’ out o’ the winder ter keep watch on them men at the forge? They could hev been at thar evil works, an’ a-doin’ a dunno-what-all in secret an’ agin the law, an’ we-uns air sech all-fired drivilin’ idjits we can’t ketch ’em, though we sets up night arter night a-watchin’, kase we gits ter jawin’ ’bout Eve an’ Adam, an’ skillets, an’ Marcelly Strobe! Them men air mighty safe. I wisht I knowed I war a-goin’ ter be ez fur off from harm an’ hurt all my days. Them men air mighty safe, no matter what they air a-aim-in’ an’ a-plottin’; mighty safe from sech vengeance ez we-uns kin git tergether in Brumsaidge Cove.”
It was seldom that Teck Jepson was affected by the speech of others, but the coercive influence of this logical outburst was very apparent in his manner, as he turned abruptly away, evidently terminating and casting off the whole previous train of thought, and strode to the window. As he stood there, the moonlight upon his clearly chiseled features, his full, deep eyes fixed with a searching intentness upon the dark little shanty of the forge down the road, his hand resting upon the handle of the pistol that he wore thrust in his belt, his high boots drawn over his trousers to the knee, his spurs catching the light and scintillating, albeit they were as motionless as if they had been the accoutrements of some sculptured soldier, there was so much agile strength suggested in his pose, so much fire and force in his face, earnest of the vassalage of circumstance to this full-pulsed spirit, that Clem Sanders, dolorously gazing, felt his heart sink within him. Teck Jepson had forgotten his enterprise, for the moment, and he himself had reminded him of it, forgetful in his turn of the horror that Marcella had expressed, and of his own protestations that no task she could impose would be too onerous for him to show his wish to please her. And now he had had but to hold his tongue, and the intruders might have come and gone while the vigilantes wrangled together in the loft; no bloodshed would darken this silver night, and Marcella’s tender heart would be unwrung. “Me, ez ’lowed I’d shoot all these fellers an’ run ’em off from hyar ter keep ’em from harmin’ Jake Baintree an’ that thar slouch of a blacksmith ez he hev got along with him!” he said, aghast at the rift between his performance and his protestations. He began to be appalled by the significance and consequence that now seemed to attend his hap-hazard speech and actions. He was not reflective, he had no habits of forecast and serious intention, and he felt enmeshed in troublous toils in the knowledge that he secretly wished to hinder that which he apparently sought to help forward. He would have given much to recall his words. He had lost all desire to assist in adjudicating public affairs in the courts of Judge Lynch, to investigate the mystery of the intrusion into his own forge, even to punish the bungling smith that surreptitiously broke and mended; these things had become repugnant to him, under the knowledge of Marcella’s disapproval. He stood for a few moments in the shadow, silently regarding Teck Jepson in the mellow splendor of the moonlight, that added its indefinite idealization to those advantages of symmetry and pose which Clem considered constituted a “powerful fine-built man.” The blacksmith turned, slouching forward his heavy shoulders, a manner he affected when displeased and out of sorts, and which had an oddly aging effect, making him appear like some burly fellow of fifty or sixty, bent with toil and trouble. He flung himself, with a short sigh, into his former nest in the hay, and upheld his head on one hand. The moonlight had shifted since he last lay there. The hay that in the semi-obscurity retained its dull amber tint, tending here and there to a dusky brown or the nullity of invisibility, was in the light a fine and fibrous silver; it gleamed with lustrous reflections as he moved, and threw his head and face into distinct relief, despite the shadow of his hat-brim.
“Clem looks like ez ef he hed been a-feedin’ on ten-penny nails as his daily fare,” suggested Jube, the parson’s son, who had lately come in, and who sat upon an inverted half-bushel measure. He was amusing himself by shelling an ear of corn, and dropping the grains through the cracks in the ill-laid flooring upon the little filly in the stall below, which he could see quite distinctly; the surprise of the little animal was varied by periodic panic and flight; she would return, however, to reëxamine the phenomenon, until, finally, Jube forced the empty cob through the crevice, hitting her fairly upon the head, when, with a terrified snort and an elastic bound, she disappeared, to come back no more.
Clem made no retort. He did not fail, however, so sharpened were his blunt perceptions, to notice that Teck Jepson, despite his preoccupation, glanced round at the sound of his name; he remembered, with an irritated sense of the grotesqueness of the mistake, that Jepson fancied him an accepted lover, and there was no relish in masquerading in this triumphant guise with so dreary and hopeless an identity within.
“What’s the news from the forge, Teck?” demanded Jube, reaching out to the pile of corn for an ear to hold in readiness in case the filly should venture out again. Jepson once more turned to the window.
“All dark thar,” he replied.
“Shucks!” said Jube easily, craning over the crevice in the floor in an effort to see the filly again, as if badgering the small denizen of the stall below were the praiseworthy errand which had brought him hither; he even broke off a bit of the ear of corn, and cast it down the cranny, in the hope that it might prove a lure. But the filly, though slow to learn, learned thoroughly, and his craft was in vain.
There was a sensation among the others that savored more of angry disappointment than their disinterested professions of seeking to promote the welfare and the peace of the community might justify. They became more sensible of the hardship of their long restraint, and manifestly chafed at being thus balked of the expected excitement. More than one was restively striding back and forth upon the quaking flooring, and between Dake and Bassett arose a somewhat clamorous controversy concerning the number of times that they had thus fruitlessly watched and waited.
“I ain’t half awake in the daytime, stumblin’ along arter the plow-tail or huntin’ like somebody walkin’ in thar sleep!” Bassett angrily exclaimed. “An’ ef we-uns war the men we-uns purtend ter be, we’d go in the daytime, an’ git Baintree off ter the woods, an’ hang him then.”
“Oh, shet up, Joe!” called out Clem from where he lay half buried in the hay. He had scant imagination or sensitiveness, but his pulses had come to beat in sympathy with Marcella’s sentiments, and he felt as it were by proxy the cold thrill of horror at the murderous words; his nerves were tense with a sense of resistance to the bloody-minded cruelty of the careless proposition. “Ye fairly make me hone ter git up an’ beat that empty cymblin’ o’ a head off’n them narrer, spindlin’ shoulders o’ yourn.”
He had not gauged the effect of his words. Before Bassett could reply Jepson whirled round, with a flash of the eye that was fiery even in the pallid moonlight.
“An’ what ails you-uns ter take this suddint turn, Clem Sanders?” he demanded, his voice vibrant with scorn. “The las’ time I hearn from you-uns ye war plumb crazed ’bout yer leetle tongs,—not kase they war bruk, but kase they hed been mended. ’Peared like ’twould kill ye kase ye couldn’t approve o’ that thar job. I war ’feard we couldn’t find a rope long enough nor a tree high enough ter hang the man ez war so gin ter pernicious ways ez ter fool with them leetle tongs. An’ now ye ’pear not ter keer nuthin’ ’t all ’bout them desolated leetle tongs. Ye can’t hold ter nuthin’, Clem Sanders, an’ ennybody ez puts thar ’pendence in ye air leanin’ on a broken reed,—even ter shoein’ a horse-critter, ef the truth war knowed.”
Clem Sanders had palpably winced under this arraignment, despite his bluff courage, fearing that he had too definitely evinced his changed feeling, and that in some way it might result in eliciting the fact that he had divulged their plans to Marcella Strobe. He detected the influence of her fancied preference in the evident acrimony of Teck Jepson’s sentiment toward him, but he was not moved to reply until the slur was cast upon his capacities as a blacksmith. Even in this moment of supreme emotion his simple art was dear to him.
“Whar’ll ye find a better blacksmith?” he cried, springing to his feet, and holding both arms outspread. “Whar’ll ye find him? Tell me, an’ I’ll walk a hunderd mile ter see him!”
The dignity of the worker who loves his craft and does his utmost in its service was in his face and manner, as he stood, and served to neutralize his over-weening vanity.
“Ef he war ter tell ye, ye wouldn’t b’lieve him,” said Dake discerningly, as Jepson turned slightingly away, and Clem sank back once more into the deep, elastic meshes of the hay.
“Waal,” Bassett resumed his objections, “air we-uns a-goin’ ter keep this up till Christmus? An’ what did we begin it fur? Ef it air perlite an’ agreeable ter hang Baintree down hyar, why ain’t it jes’ ez perlite an’ agreeable ter go git him up in the mountings? ’Twould save time an’ sleep, an’ be jes’ edzac’ly the same ter him.”
“Hang him fur what?” demanded Teck Jepson succinctly.
Clem Sanders, with a galvanic start, turned his head as he lay in the masses of the hay, and stared at the speaker.
“Fur—fur—a-doin’ of whatever he air a-doin’ of,” said Bassett, to whom a reputation for a logical, level head was by no means a cherished ambition.
Jepson shook his own head with an imperatively negative gesture. “We hev got ter find out ez he air arter some harm fust,—some wickedness ez air agin the interus’ o’ the kentry. He mought hev done nothin’ wuss ’n fool with them leetle tongs; an’ ef Clem’s half the blacksmith he makes hisself out ter be, he ought ter be able ter fix ’em agin.”
“Hang him fur a-killin’ of Sam’l Keale, o’ course,” said Bassett casually, his unthinking face repulsive in its lack of any expression that might attest some protest of humanity, some reluctant though urgent and distorted sense of justice, as he paused in his striding to and fro, and stood in the illumined square of the window. “Ye always ’lowed ’twar jestice.”
“Not now!” cried Jepson vehemently,—“not now.” He lifted a convincing forefinger, and laid it in the palm of the other hand at every point he made, as if telling it off. The other men, great, lumbering, massive figures in the silver-shotted dusk, gathered about him, watching with pondering intentness his gesture as he spoke, and slowly deliberating upon the subject-matter. “At fust, when the courts let him go, I ’pealed ter Jedge Lynch. But now he hev ez good ez got the promise o’ the kentry on it. He hev been let ter go free an’ ’thout fear, an’ Brumsaidge hev ’peared ter cornsent ter the verdict o’ the jury. An’ arter six month an’ better Brumsaidge can’t turn around now an’ say, ‘I b’lieve I’ll change my mind, bubby, an’ hang ye arter all.’ Naw; ’thout he hev done somethin’ fraish, he’ll hev ter go scot-free. An’ ’tain’t likely he hev done ennythin’ agin ekal ter killin’ Sam’l Keale.”
Clem Sanders had slowly drawn himself into a sitting posture in the hay. He gazed at the speaker with startled, dilated eyes, his suddenly formed conviction taking fast hold upon his mind. In this reasoning, inconclusive though it was, he thought he saw that trait of mercy, of humanity, which Marcella had urged half heartedly upon him, and then let fall, since he could do naught, she said. Could Teck Jepson do more? He wondered if this were her decision. Had she thought Jepson more powerful? Had she appealed to him for the men she chose to befriend in the name of sheer humanity? How else could be explained this sudden elaborate construction of the acquiescence of Broomsedge Cove in the verdict of the jury? What careful argument was this for the delectation of lynchers, assembled for the purpose of defying quirks and palliations, and administering condign punishment for the deed done? He scanned the half-seen moonlit faces grouped about; there was on more than one a flouting indignation, and here and there a disappointed, bloodthirsty lower that he remembered to have seen in the unguarded look of a sheep-killing dog glimpsing a distant flock on a hill. But one trait made them all alike,—an expression of suspicious surprise. Had not Gideon Dake spoken more truly than he knew when he said that Teck Jepson was in league with those men? And if this were so, it was for Marcella’s sake; and these words were almost trembling into sound upon the blacksmith’s quivering, angry lips, as he rose up slowly and confronted Teck Jepson, still standing in the centre of the circle. There was something so significant in Clem Sanders’s manner that they all turned expectantly toward him.
Keen, keen on the frosty air, incisive, iterative, metallic, fell the sudden stroke of a hammer on the anvil, and every pulse thrilled to the sound.