CHAPTER IX
His visitors took Layson by surprise, next morning. They had started from the valley long before he had supposed they would.
Holton saw him first and nudged his daughter, who was with him. They were well ahead of Miss Alathea and the Colonel, who had been unable to keep up with them upon the final sharp ascent of the foot-journey from the wagon-road. The old man grinned unpleasantly. He had rather vulgar manners, often annoying to his daughter, who had had all the advantages which, in his rough, mysterious youth, he had been denied.
"Thar he is, Barb; thar he is," he said, not loudly. Miss Alathea and the Colonel, following close behind, were a restraint on him.
The girl's face was full of eagerness as she saw the man they sought. He was busy polishing a gun, but that his thoughts were occupied with something less mechanical and not wholly pleasant the slight frown upon his face made evident. "Mr. Layson! Frank!" she cried.
The young man turned, on hearing her, and hurried toward her and her father with his hands outstretched in welcome. He was not overjoyed to have the old man visit him, just then; he was even doubtful of the welcome which his heart had for the daughter; but he was a southerner and in the gentle-born southerner real hospitality is quite instinctive.
"Mr. Holton—Barbara," said he. "I am delighted. Welcome to the mountains." He grasped their hands in hearty greeting. "But where are Aunt Alathea and the Colonel?"
Holton tried to be as cordial as his host. That he was very anxious to appear agreeable was evident. "Oh, them slow-pokes?" he said, laughing. "We didn't wait for them. We pushed on ahead. We reckoned as you would be glad to see us."
"And so I am."
"One in particular, maybe," Holton answered, with a crude attempt at badinage. He glanced archly from the young man to his daughter.
"Father!" she exclaimed, a bit annoyed, and yet not too unwilling that the fact that she and Layson were acknowledged sweethearts should be at once established.
"Oh, I ain't been blind," said Holton, gaily, going much farther than she wished him to. "I've cut my eye-teeth!"
Then he turned to Layson with an awkward lightness. "Barbara told me what passed between you two young folks afore you come up to the mountings," he explained. And then, with further elephantine airyness: "I say, jest excuse me—reckon I'm in the way." He made a move as if to hurry off.
Layson was not pleased. The old man was annoying, always, and now, after the long revery of the night before about Madge Brierly, this attitude was doubly disconcerting. "Not at all, Mr. Holton," he said, somewhat hastily. "I'm sure we'd rather you'd remain. Are you sure the others are all right?"
"Close behind us."
"I'll go and make sure that they do not lose their way."
Holton looked at his daughter in a blank dismay after the youth had started down the hill. "I say, gal," said he, "there's somethin' wrong here!"
She was inclined to blame him for the deep discomforture she felt. "Why couldn't you let us alone?" she answered angrily. "You've spoiled everything!"
The old man looked at her, with worry on his face. "Didn't you tell me 't was as good as settled? You said you were dead sure he meant to make you his wife."
She was still petulant, blaming him for Layson's unexpected lack of warmth. "Yes, but you needn't have interfered!"
Holton was intensely puzzled, worried, almost frightened. He was as anxious to have this young man for a son-in-law as his daughter was to have him for a husband. Her marriage into such a celebrated bluegrass family as the Laysons were, would firmly fix her social status, no matter how precarious it might be now, and the match would be of great advantage to him in a business way, as well. He stood there, thinking deeply, very much displeased.
"There's somethin' more nor me has come between you," he said finally, his face flushing with a deep resentment. "I tell you, gal, what I believed at first, deep in my heart, air true. He was only triflin' with you. Them aristocrats down in the bluegrass don't hold us no better than the dust beneath their feet, even if we have got money. It's family that counts with them. Didn't he lay his whip acrost my face, once, as if I was a nigger?" His wrath was rising. "And now he shows that he was only triflin' with you with no real intentions of doin' as we thought he would!" The man was tremulous with wrath. "Oh, I'll be even with him!"
Barbara was greatly worried by the situation. All her life, despite the fact that she was beautiful, despite the fact that her father was a rich man—richer, by a dozen times, than many of the people for whose friendship she longed vainly—she had vaguely felt that there was an invisible gulf between her and the girls with whom she came in contact at the exclusive schools to which she had been sent, between her and the gentlefolk with whom, in some measure, she had mixed since she had left school-walls. "Father," she asked anxiously, "why do people look down on us so?"
He faced her with a worried look, as if he feared that she might guess at something which he wished should remain hidden. "They say I made my money tradin' in niggers," he replied, at length. "Well, what of it? Didn't I have the right?"
"Are you sure there's nothing else?"
He seemed definitely startled. "Girl, what makes you ask?"
"Because sometimes memories come to me."
"Memories of what?"
"Of—my childhood," she said slowly, "of passes among mountains—mountains much like these."
He regarded her uneasily. "Oh, sho, gal!" he exclaimed, trying to make light of it. "Reckon you've been dreamin'. You were never hyar before."
But she looked about her, unconvinced, and, when she spoke, spoke slowly, evidently trying to recall with definite clarity certain things which flitted through her mind as vague impressions only. "Why does everything seem so familiar, here, then, as if I had just wakened in my true surroundings after a long sleep in which I had had dreams?" There was, suddenly, a definite accusation in her eyes. "Father, you are trying to deceive me! I was once a child, here in these very mountains!" She stared about intently.
The speech had an amazing effect on the old man. He stepped close to her. "Hush!" said he, imperatively. "Don't you dare speak such a word ag'in!"
She peered into his eyes. "There is a secret, then! We lived here, long ago!"
"Stop, I tell you!" he commanded. "Don't hint at such things, for your life." He dropped his voice to hoarse whisper. "Suppose I did live hyar, once. I was a smooth-faced youngster, then; my own mother wouldn't know me, now."
The sound of voices coming up the mountain-trail interrupted the dramatic scene.
"Sh!" said he. "They're comin'!"
Frank was piloting his Aunt and Colonel Doolittle. "This way, Aunt 'Lethe," they could hear him say.
An instant later he appeared, leading the way up the steep trail. His Aunt, Neb and the Colonel followed him.
"Now, Aunt 'Lethe," he said gaily, "you can rest at last. Colonel, I can welcome you in earnest. This is, indeed, a pleasure."
The Colonel was puffing fiercely from the hard work of the climb, but his broad face glowed with pleasure. He took a long, full breath of the exhilerating mountain air. "Pleasure? It's a derby-day, sir, metaphorically speaking." As he rested he eyed the youngster with approval. "Frank," said he, "you've grown to be the very image of my old friend, Judge Layson. Ah, five years have made their changes in us all—except Miss 'Lethe." He bowed gallantly in her direction, and she gaily answered the salute.
Barbara advanced, enthusiastically, looking at the Colonel with arch envy in her eyes. "Five years you've been in Europe, surrounded by the nobility. Oh, Colonel, what happiness!"
He shook his head. "Happiness away from old Kentucky, surrounded by a lot of numb-skulls who couldn't mix a fancy drink to save their lives, who know nothing of that prismatic, rainbow-hued fountain of youth, a mint-julep? Ah!"
"But, Colonel," said the girl, "the masterpieces of art!"
"Give me," said he, "the masterpieces of Mother Nature—the bright-eyed, rose-cheeked, cherry-lipped girls of old Kentucky!"
There was a general laugh. The Colonel's gallantry was ever-blooming. Frank applauded and the ladies bowed.
"By the way, Frank," said the Colonel, after they had been made comfortable in a merry group before the cabin-door, "where is that particular masterpiece of Nature which you've written us so much about? Where is the—Diana?"
Miss Alathea smiled at her somewhat worried nephew. "The 'phenomenon,'" said she.
"According to Neb, who told us of her as we worked up that steep trail," said Barbara, "the 'deer.'" She laughed, not too good naturedly Neb, who was standing waiting orders near, grinned broadly.
"Neb, you rascal!" exclaimed Frank.
"Come, where is she, Frank; where is she?" asked the Colonel.
The youth was not too much embarrassed, but he gave a quick, side-glance at Barbara. "She is probably getting ready to receive you," he replied. "I told her I expected you and she's been very much excited over it."
"Adding to nature's charms the mysteries of art," the Colonel said, approvingly. "We shall expect to be overwhelmed. And, meantime, while we're waiting, we might as well explain to you the business which has brought us up here."
His face showed him to be the bearer of good news. He rose, excitedly, and went to Frank, to put his hand upon his shoulder. "Now, my boy, keep cool, keep cool! I tell you, Frank, it's the biggest thing out. It'll make a millionaire of you as sure as Fate before the next five years have passed!"
Layson was taken wholly by surprise. No one had in the least prepared him for anything of this sort. He had supposed the party had come up to see him merely for the pleasure of the trip. "I don't understand," said he.
"Keep cool, keep cool!" the Colonel urged. "It is colossal, metaphorically. You see, I was over there in Europe, promoting a South American mine, when I happened to see in a Kentucky paper that the Georgetown Midland was to be put through these mountains near the land your father bought. That land, my boy, is rich in coal and iron!"
The young man's face shone with delight. "He always said so!" he exclaimed. "I meant, sometime, to investigate."
"I've saved you the trouble. I came back on the next steamer, organized a syndicate in New York City, sent an expert out to carefully look into things, and, on his report, a company is willing to put in a $200,000 plant to develop your land. All you've got to do is to take $25,000 worth of stock and let your coal-land stand for as much more."
The youth's face fell. "Twenty-five thousand dollars!" he exclaimed. "Why, Colonel, I have not one fifth of it!"
"Ah," said the Colonel, smiling, "but here, like a good angel, comes in your dear Aunt 'Lethe!" He smiled at her. "Isn't it so, Miss 'Lethe?"
Frank spoke up quickly. "Surely," he exclaimed to her as she advanced toward him, with smiles, "you know I'd never take your money!"
"You must, Frank," she insisted. "The Colonel says it is the chance of a lifetime."
"Why, Auntie, it's your whole fortune. I wouldn't risk it."
"But you could pay it all back in a month."
"How?" he asked, not understanding in the least.
"By selling Queen Bess."
He flinched. The thought had not occurred to him. "Sell Queen Bess!" said he. "The prettiest, the fastest mare in all Kentucky! Never!"
"My boy," said the Colonel, "the odds are far too heavy—a million against the mare. You can't stand 'em."
"Oh, Frank," said his Aunt, impulsively, "if you'll only take the money and give up racing!"
He laughed. Miss Alathea's strong prejudice against the race-tracks was proverbial. "So that's what you're after!" he exclaimed. "You dear old schemer!"
"With your impulsive, generous nature, racing is sure to ruin you."
The Colonel looked first at Frank with ardent sympathy aglow in his eyes; then, after a hasty glance at Miss Alathea, he quickly changed the meaning of his look and spoke admonishingly. "The voice of wisdom!" he exclaimed. "Ah, Frank, from what I hear I judge you're too much of a plunger—like a young fellow I once knew who thought he could win a fortune on the race-track." He began, now, to speak very seriously. "He was in love with the prettiest and sweetest girl in old Kentucky, but he wished to wait till he could get that fortune, and he chased it here and there, looking for it mostly on the race-tracks, until he had more grey hairs than he had ever hoped to have dollars; he chased it till his dream of happiness had slipped by, perhaps forever. My boy, the race-track is a delusion and a snare."
Miss Alathea looked at him with pleased surprise. "Colonel, your sentiments astonish and delight me."
"How can you refuse," the Colonel said, "when such a woman asks? For one who loves you, you should give those pleasures up without a pang."
In the pause that followed he reflected on the history of the youth to whom he had referred, for that young man was himself. He had loved Miss Alathea twenty years, but the Goddess Chance had kept him, all that time, too poor to ask her hand in marriage. His heart beat with elation as he realized that, possibly, the scheme which he had come there to the mountains to propose to Frank, might remedy the evils of the situation.
Frank had been thinking deeply. "But what certainty is there," he inquired, "that I can sell Queen Bess at such a price?"
Now the Colonel spoke with animation. "Absolute. I've a written offer from the Dyer brothers to take her for twenty-five thousand dollars, if she is delivered, safe and sound, on the morning she's to run in the Ashland Oaks. It's a dead sure thing, my boy. You can't refuse."
The young man hesitated, still. "I'll investigate, and—well, I'll see." He walked away, deep in thought.
The Colonel turned from him to Miss Alathea. "Miss 'Lethe, congratulate yourself. The victory is won."
Frank turned upon his heel and spoke to Holton. "What do you think of this investment?" he inquired.
"Wal," said Holton, "I think it's a blamed good thing. I'd only like the chance to go into it, myself." He went closer to the youth and spoke in an instinctively low tone. "By the way, this gal, hyar, Madge Brierly, owns fifty acres o' land down there in the valley, that's bound to be wuth money. Like enough, with your help, I could buy it for a song. I'll make it all right with you. What do you say? Is it a bargain, Layson?" He held out his hand, evidently with no thought but that the questionable offer would be snapped up at once.
Layson drew back angrily. "No," he replied.
Holton, seeing that he had made a serious mistake, tried to correct it. "Oh, shucks, now! I didn't mean no harm. That's only business."
Layson was intensely angered. "I won't waste words on you," he said, "but think twice before you make me such a proposition again."
Holton's wrath rose vividly. "Damn him!" he muttered as he walked away. "I'll pay him back for that! I'll get that gal's land in spite of him, and I won't stop at that. I'll pay him back for ... everythin'! I'll teach him what it air to stir the hate o' hell in a man's heart!"
Barbara, distressed anew by this unpleasant episode, had started to go after him, when the weird cry of an owl, a long drawn, tremulous: "Hoo-oo-oo!" came from somewhere in the forest, close at hand. It startled her. "Heavens!" said she. "What's that?"
Neb, who also had been startled at the first penetrating, weird call, bethought himself, now, and answered her: "It's de deah."
"The phenomenon!" exclaimed Miss Alathea.
"The Diana!" said the Colonel, looking at Frank slyly.
"Yes; she's coming," Frank said gaily, and then, looking down the path, started violently. "Heavens, she's coming!"
The Colonel, who also had looked down the path, hurriedly approached him, feigning worry. "Frank, I haven't got 'em again, have I?"
Madge approached them slowly in the quaint, old-fashioned costume she had resurrected from the chests of her dead mother's finery and re-made, very crudely, in accordance with the fashion-plates which she had found down at the cross-roads store. The result of her contriving was a startling mixture of fashions widely separated as to periods. Her untutored taste had mixed colors clashingly. Her unskilled fingers had sewed very bunchy seams.
The girl was much embarrassed: it required the last ounce of her bravery to advance. Before she actually reached the little group, she half hid, indeed, behind a tree. It was from this shelter that she called her greeting: "Howdy, folks, howdy!"
Frank went toward her with an outstretched hand. "Come, Madge," said he, encouragingly.
"Reckon I'll have to," she assented, with a bashful smile and took a step or two reluctantly. But she had never seen folk dressed at all as were these visitors from the famed bluegrass, and her courage again faltered. Instantly she realized how wholly her own efforts to be elegant had failed. She hung back awkwardly, pathetically.
"Don't be nervous, Madge; just be yourself," Frank urged her.
"Free and easy? Well, I'll try; but I'm skeered enough to make me wild and reckless."
Frank led her forward, while she made a mighty effort to accept the situation coolly. "These are my friends, Madge. Let me introduce you."
She got some grip upon herself and smiled. "Ain't no need. Know 'em all by your prescription." With a mighty effort she approached the Colonel. "Colonel Sandusky Doolittle, howdy!"
The Colonel was delighted. Her knowledge of his name was flattering. He had forgotten her strange costume the moment his glance had caught her wonderful, deep eyes. "Howdy, howdy!" he said heartily, shaking her hand vigorously. "Why, this is real Kentucky style!" It won't take us long to get acquainted."
"Know all about you now," she said. "Great hossman. Colonel, I'll have a race with you, sometime."
"What, you ride?" said the delighted Colonel.
"Ride! Dellaw!" said she, with, now, unembarrassed animation. The subject was that one, of all, which made her most quickly forget everything beside. "Why, me and my pony takes to racin' like a pig to carrots. Before he lamed himself, whenever th' boys heard us clatterin' down th' mounting, they laid to race us back. Away we went, then, clickity-clip, up th' hills and around th' curves—an' I allus won."
The Colonel realized with a great joy that he had found a kindred spirit. "Shake again!" he said to her, after further most congenial talk, and then turned to Frank. "My boy, you're right. She is a phenomenon—a thoroughbred, even if she hasn't any pedigree."
Up to this time the ladies had remained somewhat in the background, watching the young mountain girl as the Colonel drew her out.
Madge now turned to Frank, but looked at Barbara. "Is that the young lady from the bluegrass?" The girl was hurt and really offended by the stranger's aloof manner. "Looks like she can't see common folks."
"That is Miss Barbara." He led the mountain girl toward her. "Barbara, this is my friend—er—Madge." He was, himself, a little disconcerted.
The maiden from the lowlands bowed, but said no word. For an instant Madge shrank back, but then she advanced with an unusual boldness. Her spirit was aroused.
"Howdy, Miss Barbarous, howdy!" she exclaimed and held her hand out to the handsomely dressed girl.
But Miss Barbara was annoyed by the whole happening. She felt that this uncultivated country girl was getting far too much attention. The child's unconscious pun upon her name infuriated her. She did not answer her, but raised a lorgnette and stared at her.
Madge was ready with an instant sympathy. "Oh, that's why you couldn't see, poor thing! Spectacles at your age!" Whether she really thought this was the case, not even Frank could tell by looking at her.
Miss Holton was incensed. The haughty treatment she had planned to, give the mountain girl had not had the results she had expected. "There's nothing whatever the matter with my eyes!" she exclaimed hastily.
"Wouldn't think you'd need a machine to help you star-gaze at folks, then," said the mountain girl. "But maybe it's the fashion in the bluegrass."
Frank hurried up with Holton, planning a diversion. "This is Mr. Holton, Madge."
"Howdy, sir," said she, and then started in astonishment. "Ain't I seen your face before, sir?"
"Wal, I reckon not," said Holton most uneasily. "I was never hyar in these hyar mountings afore."
She stepped closer to him, gazing straight at his grey eyes. They seemed strangely to recall the very distant past, she knew not how. There were other things about him which seemed much more immediately familiar, although his more elaborate garb prevented her, for the moment, from recognizing him as the stranger with the hammer, who had, that day of the forest-fire, been tap-tapping on the rocks upon her pasture-land. "Your eyes seem to bring something back." She plainly paled. She knew that their suggestion was a dreadful one, but could not make it definite.
Miss Alathea noted her agitation instantly, and hurried to her side. "Poor child, what is the matter?"
Madge had regained control of her features, which, for an instant, had shown plain horror. "Tain't nothin', ma'am. It couldn't be. It's all over now." She smiled gratefully at Miss Alathea. "An' you're his aunt, ain't you? I'd know you for his kin, anywhere. Why, somehow, you remind me of my lost mother."
"Thank you, my dear. You must be very lonely, up here all alone."
"I am, sometimes," said the girl, "but I have lots of fun, too. The woods are full of friends. Th' birds an' squirrels ain't afraid o' me. They seem to think I'm a wild thing, like 'em."
"It's true," said Frank, with an admiring, cheering look at the little country girl. "Their confidence in her is wonderful."
The bluegrass girl's annoyance was increasing. She had come up to the mountains thinking that, among such crude surroundings, her gowns and the undoubted beauty they adorned, would hold the center of the stage, and by contrast, hold Layson quite enthralled; but here, instead, was a brown-faced country maid in grotesque, homemade costume, attracting most of his attention. She was conscious that by showing her discomfiture she was not strengthening her own position, but she could not hide it, could not curb her tongue.
"A rider of races," said she; "a tamer of animals! What accomplishments! Do you actually live here, all alone?"
"Come," said Madge, determined to be pleasant, "and I'll show you." She led the bluegrass girl to a convenient point from which her cabin was in sight.
"In that little hut!" said Barbara, not impressed as Madge had innocently thought she would be. "Shocking!"
The girl was angered, now. "So sorry I didn't have your opinion afore! But, maybe, you wouldn't think it were so awful, if you knowed how 'twere I come to live there."
Frank had written something of the poor girl's tragic story to his aunt. She was all interest. "Won't you tell us, please?" she asked.
Holton seemed to show a strange disinclination to listen to the narrative. "Ain't got no time for stories," he objected. "Gettin' late."
"We'll take time, then," said Frank.
"Go on, little one," urged Colonel Doolittle. "We're listening."
Impressed and touched by the sympathy in the horseman's tone and the interest in Miss Alathea's eyes, Madge told with even greater force and more effect than when she had related it to Layson the story of the tragedy which had robbed her at a blow of father and of mother, the black, dreadful tale of merciless assassination which had left her orphaned in the mountains. Her audience attended, spellbound, even the disgruntled and unsympathetic Barbara listening with unwilling fascination. Only Holton turned away, with a gesture of impatience. He plainly did not wish to waste time on the girl. Or was it that? He seemed to be uneasy as he walked to and fro upon the rock-ledge near them, whence, had he cared for it, he could have had a gorgeous view of mountain scenery. But, although he said, as plainly as he could without actual rudeness, that the girl and her sad tale of tragedy were not worth attention, he was not successful in his efforts wholly to refuse to listen to her.
"Infamous!" said Miss Alathea, when the child had finished.
"And that scoundrel has gone free!" exclaimed the Colonel, in disgust.
"That's how I come to live alone, here," Madge went on, addressing Barbara, particularly. The girl had made her feel it necessary to offer some defense. "After my mammy died I didn't have no place to go, an' so I just stayed on here, an' th' bridge my daddy built for his protection I have kept for mine. Maybe he has told you of it." She indicated Frank. They nodded.
"And nothing has been heard of the infernal traitor, all these years?" the Colonel asked.
"He left the mountings when he found how folks was feelin'—they'd have shot him, like a dog, on sight. But it don't make no differ where he goes; it don't make a bit of differ where he goes."
"What do you mean by that?" the Colonel asked, and as he spoke, Holton, suddenly intent, paused in his pacing of the ledge to listen.
"I mean, no matter where he goes he'll have to pay for it, come soon, come late. Th' day air sure to come when Joe, Ben Lorey's son, 'll meet him face to face an' make him answer for his crime!"
"God-speed to him!" exclaimed the Colonel, fervently.
Madge, in a gesture full of drama, although quite unconscious, raised her head, looking off into the vastness of the mountains, her hands thrust straight down at her sides and clenched, her shoulders squared, her chest heaving with a mighty intake. The little mountain-girl, as she stood there, thrilling with her longing for revenge, with prayers that some day the sinner might be punished for his dreadful crime, made an impressive figure.
"Come soon or late!" she sighed. "Come soon or late!"
The party watched her, fascinated, till Holton took his daughter's arm and urged her, uneasily, out of the little group.
Later Madge asked the Colonel to go with her to the pasture lot and take a look at Little Hawss. Gladly he went with her, tenderly this expert in Kentucky racers, the finest horses in the world, examined the shaggy little pony's hoof. He told Madge what to do for him and promised to send up a lotion with which to bathe the injured foot, although he gently warned her that she must not hope that Little Hawss would ever do much racing up and down the mountain trails again. She choked, when he said this, and the horseman's heart went out to her.
"Little one," said the Colonel, as the party was preparing to go down the mountain, "you're a thoroughbred, and Colonel Sandusky Doolittle is your friend from the word 'go.'" He took her hand in his and smiled down into her eyes.
Then, turning to Miss 'Lethe: "Do you know, Miss 'Lethe, there's something about this little girl that puts me in mind of you, when I first met you? You remember?"
"Ah, Colonel, that was twenty years ago—the day I was eighteen."
"And I was twenty-five. Now I'm forty-five and you—"
"Colonel!"
"Are still eighteen.' He bowed, impressively, with that charming, gallant smile which was peculiar to him.
"Aren't you going down with us, Frank?" asked Barbara, looking at the youth with plain surprise when she noted that he lingered when she and her father were ready for the start.
"I wish to speak to Madge, a moment. I'll overtake you."
The bluegrass beauty looked at him, wrath blazing in her eyes, then turned away with tossing head.
"Good-bye," said Madge, and held her hand out to her.
Barbara paid no attention to the small, brown hand, but, instead, opened her parasol almost in the face of the astonished mountain-girl, who jumped back, startled. "Oh, very well," said Barbara to Frank.
Madge turned to him, the softness of the mood engendered by her talk with the Colonel and Miss 'Lethe all gone, now. Her face was flushed with anger. "Dellaw!" said she. "Thought she was goin' to shoot!"
Now Barbara spoke haughtily. "Good afternoon, Miss Madge. You have entertained us wonderfully, wonderfully."