CHAPTER XII.
DIDN'T DO ANYTHING HEROIC.
During all the morning Jim had been silent. Standing on a purple knob, arms folded, gazing far away toward the rugged scenes of his life's work, he had reminded the world-woman of some discoverer, a Cortez viewing the Pacific; and when to break the spell of his attitude she asked him why he gazed so fixedly, he replied: "I am looking away off yander at the duty I am neglecting, ma'm."
"Why, you couldn't neglect a duty, Mr. Reverend."
"I didn't think so, but I am. I put myself in mind of the old feller that stood all day a smelling of a rose bush when the weeds were choking his corn. In my wheat field the tares are coming up, now that I am away, and I ought to be there to pull them up by the roots."
"But you need a vacation. Ail preachers take vacations. Why, in the cities, they—"
"Yes, ma'm," he broke in. "Sometimes they shut up their churches, I know, and they go away from their desks and their pulpits; but they are learned men, bristling with sharp points against the man who attacks their creed. I am not armed that way. I can't argue; I can't defend the church against the smart men that Satan has hired. All I can do is to preach in my rough way and go about and beg men to do as near right as they can."
"And St. Paul could not have done more, Mr. Reverend."
"Ah," he said, bowing low, and then looking up at her. "I am afraid of St. Paul. He was a great scholar and in his hands the gospel was a dazzling thing. But with poor, ignorant Peter it was simple; and I choose Peter for my master because I am not afraid of him."
Below them Tom and Lou sat on a rock. The game young fellow was still shy. Sometimes he looked as if he despaired of ever recovering his wonted nerve, for in this girl, so modest and so shrinking, he knew that there lay asleep the wildcat's fearful spirit. Bold by nature he longed at times to see this spirit blaze, but her soft eyes pleaded with him and gentleness made him afraid.
"Come right in," said Margaret as they appeared at the door. "Have this cheer, Miz Mayfield?"
"No, thank you I'll sit over here." She sat down near the table, and Jim took a seat opposite to her and resumed his silent gaze. "We have had a delightful stroll," said Mrs. Mayfield, taking off her gloves; and Lou who stood behind her peeped around lovingly into her eyes.
"Stroll," cried Tom. "I call it a chase. And you could catch a deer almost as easily as to keep up with Miss Lou."
"Why, Mr. Tom, I didn't walk fast."
"Oh," he rejoined, "you didn't walk at all. You flitted."
His aunt looked at him. "Tom, dear, don't be extravagant."
"Extravagant! That's the reason father let me come up here. So I couldn't be extravagant."
"He is determined to be literal," she said with a sigh.
Lou gathered up a handful of flowers that lay in Mrs. Mayfield's lap. "Let me have these," and she began to weave them into the city woman's hair.
"Why, daughter," cried Margaret, "don't do that. She mout not like it."
"Oh, don't stop her, please," Mrs. Mayfield replied, and then to Jim she added: "Did you ever have a fawn touch you with its velvety lip? The thrill of innocence, the—"
"Auntie, don't be extravagant," Tom broke in, and Lou gave him a look of tender reproof. "I wish you'd hush, Mr. Tom. I like to hear her talk."
"Why—why don't you like to hear me talk?"
"I do except when you interrupt her."
He hung his head. "Thank you. Wishes should be sacred when set to music."
"A very pretty speech," said Mrs. Mayfield, nodding Tom a compliment, and Margaret, not to be left behind, declared: "Oh, he couldn't be pearter if he tried."
"There," exclaimed the girl, patting Mrs. Mayfield's head, "you are in bloom."
"She was the moment you said so," Tom replied.
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, I know it. She burst into bloom the moment you spoke."
"Then I'm glad I said it. Some how you always make me feel glad when I've said somethin'. You are the only—only people that ever did that."
Jim had not spoken. Mrs. Mayfield asked him why he was so silent. "A man is sometimes most silent when he is afraid of saying too much," he answered, looking down.
"Mysterious wisdom," she mused, and this gave Tom his opportunity.
"Well, that's what you like, Auntie. You never did care for anything you could understand."
"I don't care for impertinence, sir," and Lou laughed at him: "There, you got it that time."
"Ma'm, I have no desire to be mysterious," said Jim. "A hay stack in an open field couldn't be plainer than my life up to now, but there comes a time even in the most honest man's life when he feels that he must hide something, and that something is the fact that he does feel."
"There, auntie," cried Tom, "he has given you enough mystery to last you—fifteen minutes."
"Is it too warm in here?" Margaret inquired, getting up and going toward the door. They told her that it was "very pleasant," and she looked around at them as if in her opinion it was getting fairly warm but not quite warm enough.
"Mr. Reverend," said Mrs. Mayfield, "I have never known a man like you. And did you ever have a fight, being a Starbuck?"
"I have seen men fall down."
"But you never killed anybody, did you—still being a Starbuck?"
"Kill anybody!" Tom cried. "Why, he's a D. D. not an M. D."
"Oh, hush, you stock joker. But Mr. Reverend, don't you think it is awfully wrong to fight?"
And gazing into her eyes he said: "At times, ma'm, it is just as essential as prayer. Now, Peter drew his sword and cut off a man's ear, and Peter stood right up next to Christ."
"But the Savior told him to put up his sword."
"Very true, ma'm, but not until after the feller had lost his ear."
"Law, me!" exclaimed Margaret, standing at the door, "but you folks air cuttin' up scollops."
"Mr. Reverend," Mrs. Mayfield continued, determined to pursue a subject so interesting to herself, "someone told me of a very heroic thing you did."
"Why, ma'm, I can't look back an' see that I ever did anything heroic. I have helped many an old woman across the creek; I have helped a man set out his tobacco plants, and I want to tell you that settin' out tobacco is the most fetching work I ever did."
"But this was something you can't make light of. I am told that when Memphis was stricken with yellow fever you went down there and nursed the sick."
For a moment he was silent and then he said: "They needed strong arms down there then. The hospitals were full and the churches empty. It seemed to me like the gospel had got scared and was running to the mountains. The Lord may not have called upon me to preach, but I do believe he called on me to go down there."
Leaning upon the table she gazed into his face as if she were for the first time in her life contemplating a human mystery. "You are a noble man, Mr. Reverend. My faith in man gasped and died, but into it you have blown the sweet breath of a new life. Don't misunderstand me, I—"
"No, ma'm, I won't do that. It is not for me to place an estimation upon you. I don't know much about—"
"Come right in," Margaret called to Mose Blake, hesitating at the door. She led him into the room and began to introduce him to the company. "Mose, this is Miz Mayfield—" Mose shook hands with Jim. "No, this is Miz Mayfield." Mose shook hands with Lou, then with Mrs. Mayfield, and turning to Tom, to whom he was now presented, shook the stool which Tom held in his hand and upon which he was about to sit, took it from him and sat down. "All h—h—h—h—hands w—w—well, I h—h—hope."
"Well as usual," Margaret answered, sitting down in the rocker. "Why ain't you folks been over?"
"Been a t—t—t—tryin' t—t—t—t—t—to git off. Granny sot t—t—t—the feather b—b—b—bed a—f—f—fire night afore l—l—l—last an' come mighty n—n—n—nigh b—b—b—burnin' up."
"Why, you don't say so?" Margaret exclaimed.
"YES, I D-D-D-DO SAY SO, A-A-A-ATTER A F-F-F-FASHION."
"Yes I d—d—d—do say so a—a—a—atter a f—f—f—fashion."
"How far do you live from here Mr. Blake?" Tom inquired.
"Oh, 'bout t—t—t—three sights and a g—g—g—good long w—w—w—walk."
"Charmingly indefinite," said Mrs. Mayfield and Jim, his eyes set, nodded to her. Tom declared himself willing to bet that Mose was a good fellow, "and I don't want to be impertinent," he ventured to remark, "but do you know they can cure stammering now? They can."
"Y—y—y—yes, I kik—kik—kik—know. I tuck—tuck some l—l—l—lessons once a—a—a—and was kik—kik—kik—cured. Got along all r—r—r—right till I t—t—tried to talk—long as I di—d—d—din didn't say nuthin'. Lou, air you g—g—g—goin' to church Sunday?"
"I don't know."
"Lowed I'd g—g—g—go with you. Mother said I ought to go up to the m—m—m—m—m—mourner's b—b—bench, but p—p—p—p—pap he 'lowed if I did git 'ligion I couldn't s—s—s—shout. But I'm in a hurry this m—m—m—m—mornin'. Granny's sick and wants some m—m—m—med—hison."
"What's the matter with her?" Margaret inquired.
"Don't know. She didn't s—s—s—say."
"But what sort of medicine did they send you after?"
"Oh, a—a—a—any sort you ain't g—g—g—got no use fur."
"Why, that won't do," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. "Why don't you send for a physician?"
"Oh, that's a—a—a—all right. It never makes any d—d—dif—difference with granny what s—s—sort of medicine she t—t—t—take—takes. If you go to church Sunday, L—L—L—Lou, I may see you there. G—g—g—got somethin' to s—s—s—say to you."
"How are you going to manage to say it?" Lou asked and he began to make signs.
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Mayfield, "what he has to say could be conveyed by signs."
"Yes," Tom declared, "signs are very impressive. Fellow made a few at me once and when he got through I found he'd knocked me down."
"Knocked you down!" cried Lou. "Oh, how could anybody knock you down?"
Mrs. Mayfield looked at Jim. "How charming to be a hero in the sight of a beautiful eye."
Jim drooped and said: "Yes'm."
Mose who had been screwing up his face began again: "Feller knock me down have me to w—w—w—w—whup."
The voice of Kintchin, driving the steers, came up the hill: "Whoa, hor, Buck, come yere. Come yere Bright." Mose remarked after a serious effort that the steers must have about all they could pull, and then added that he must be going. Tom asked if he found it difficult to pull himself loose, and his aunt cried out! "Why Thomas." Kintchin's voice was heard again, further off and Mose said he "reckoned" he'd have to be pulled out by the steers. Margaret who had been searching the safe and the "cubbo'd", bade him wait a moment, that she had some medicine for him. "Here," she said, giving him two small packages, "'is some quinine and some calomy. Tell yo' granny not to take too much of the calomy. Mout salavater her."
"Yes'm. But it won't m—m—m—m—make any diffunce with granny w—w—w—wuther she's s—s—s—salivated or not. She ain't got no teeth. And b—b—b—besides, she likes the quinine better. She's d—d—d—d—deef and the q—q—q—quinine makes her head r—r—r—r—roar and she thinks she's hearin' suthin'. Well, er g—g—g—g—good day."
"Miz Mayfield," said Margaret, when Mose was gone, "I reckon these folks air mighty queer to you."
"Oh, no, they are close to nature in her most whimsical mood, and a mother of fun is better than a step-mother to scandal."
"I don't know what you mean, auntie" said Tom, "and I don't guess you do, but I'll bet they are game and that is enough to make them all right with me."
"Why," Lou replied, "the man that won't fight is a Judas."
"Good," cried Tom, taking her hands. "I'd rather hear a girl say that than to hear her play a symphony. Before my father was a judge he was a soldier. Now they call him a learned jurist but I am prouder of the fact that he was a distinguished colonel of cavalry."
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Margaret, "I must see about dinner."
"I'll help you mother," said Lou.
"No you won't," Margaret replied. "You jest stay right whar you air."
"You won't object to my helping," said Mrs. Mayfield, arising.
"Oh, no, that is you may come an' look on."
Jim snatched his hat off the floor and followed, leaving Tom and Lou alone in the room. The girl stood leaning on the table looking at the young fellow, and though often of late had they strolled alone in the woods, yet he seemed to feel that this was the first time he stood facing so confidential a privilege.
"And you lived away off in Maine," said Lou.
"Yes, until father received the appointment to come down here."
"Is yo' mother livin'?"
"No, I can just remember her."
She mused for a few moments as if struggling with a thought. "I read of them findin' a new star," she said, "and I wondered if it wan't the speret of some good man or woman that hed passed away from down here an' gone up there."
"If that were true," he replied, coming forward and putting his hands on the table, gazing into her eyes—"if that were true and I should find a new star brighter than all the rest, I would call it—Lou."
She straightened up. "You must be careful how you talk to me because I might not know how to act. When folks would hide things they must talk like in a book, and I can't do that. But do you think if I was to read books I could be smart?"
"I have begun to think that books don't make so much difference after all. It's the soul that makes people great."
"There's hardly any way for a woman to be great," she said. "All I can hope for is not to be foolish."
"You couldn't be foolish. You might make a man foolish, but you—"
"Oh, how could I make anybody foolish?" she cried, and leaving the table she stood leaning upon the back of a rocking chair.
"How long have you known Mr. Peters?" he inquired and he appeared to be embarrassed.
"All my life."
"Is he game?"
"Game enough, I reckon. Why do you ask?"
"I met him in the road and without cause he insulted me. And I could have killed him!"
"He insulted you?" and she came closer to him. "Insulted you? Then why didn't you kill him?"
"Because—because—I can't tell you now and you musn't ask."
Away from him she turned her head. "All right, I won't ask."
Margaret came to the door. "Lou, go down to the spring house and fetch me that jar of butter," and coming into the room as Lou started, she added, just as Jasper came in. "It's a mighty heavy jar, Mr. Elliott. You mout go an' help her."
"Oh, may I?" Tom asked of Lou.
"Yes, you may, but—"
"But what?"
"I won't ask you to."
"Oh, you won't have to ask me."
"Well, then, come on."
Jasper looked knowingly at Margaret, who, laughing, went back into the kitchen and the old man, shaking his head, humorously mused: "Blamed if I don't wish I could fix up things thatter way." He sat down, took up a lap-board, and upon it began to cut a piece of leather; but leaving off the work, gave himself up to deep thought. "Shot fo' and stobbed three," he said, his mind on the story paper. "Ah, it may not be true, but it sounds mighty natchul. I wonder how it all is goin' to end. Don't want to think about it; wush I could think of somethin' else. Margaret's got her heart set. And I wonder if my little girl has too. If she has it's the first time, an' if his heart don't come when hers calls it, it will never call ag'in." And for a long time he sat there, immovable, gazing; and in his old eyes there was a dream.