CHAPTER XVI.
THE APPOINTMENT COMES.
While she was still standing there, musing over her happiness, Lije Peters, peering about, came into the yard. He cleared his throat and she looked at him, and moving further off, she sat down in a rocking-chair which she had brought from the house earlier in the day. With a show of respect Peters took off his hat.
"Howdy do, ma'm? I don't believe you an' me air very well acquainted."
"Our acquaintance hasn't ripened into friendship."
He laughed and replied: "Well, the bloom may be as putty as the fruit."
"Very good. I didn't expect it—of you."
"Didn't expect me at all, did you?"
"If I had I should not have remained here."
He cleared his throat. "I know all about bees, but I didn't know befo' that a butterfly could sting. But I'd ruther be stung than to have no attention paid to me at all." She arose to go away, but he intercepted her. "Beggin' yo' pardon, ma'm, for what I've said an' what I am about to say, will you let me talk business to you for about a minit?"
"I know nothing about business," she replied.
"But you know somethin' about love, don't you? Putty much the same thing."
"How dare you talk to—"
"Now, don't be fretted. I've got my own way of gittin' at a p'int. I'm a thorn bush by the road-side. The sheep comes along an' I pick off some of their wool. An' towards me there comes an old sheep, with his eyes shet, a shakin' of his head. An' he'll lose all his wool. But you could turn him aside."
"I don't know what you mean, sir."
"Starbuck is the old sheep. You'd better help turn him aside. A word from you'll do it. I told him I wanted to borry a thousand dollars. He'll understand. You tell him to lend it to me."
"I will do nothing of the sort, you—"
"If you don't, you'll be sorry. Jest now I spoke to you about love. It wan't an accident. No. An' if he don't let me have the money, Jim the preacher may be ashamed to preach ag'in. An' he won't talk no mo' honeysuckle to you, nuther. He will disappear, an' yo' heart may grieve, but yo' jedgment will be glad."
"You infamous scoundrel."
He bowed to her. "The scoundrel sometimes tells the truth, an' when he do it's the worst truth in the world; an' if I'm a scoundrel that's the sort of truth I'm a tellin'."
"Go away from here, you brute."
"All right, all right. I have give you yo' chance, an' now I must have it out with the old sheep. When I see you ag'in yo' eyes may not be so bright. A hot pillow, turned over an' over in the night, when the rooster crows an' thar ain't no sleep, ain't good fur the eyes. I'm goin' now, an' you better think it over. Good-day, ma'm. I have give you yo' chance an' my conscience is clear."
He walked off up the road and she was about to go into the house when Old Jasper came along, with an axe on his shoulder. Seeing that she was disturbed, he inquired if anything were wrong.
"Why, that man Peters was here a moment ago, and—"
"Oh, don't pay no attention to him. He's a joker," said the old man, and going to a bench near the fence, poured water into a tin can, went to the grind-stone, and upon it began slowly to pour a stream.
Mrs. Mayfield stood near, watching him, but her mind reverted to Peters. "But he says—"
"Never mind what he says," the old fellow broke in, grinding his axe. "We all ought to be kind to him." He examined the edge of the axe. "For I don't think he's goin' to live very long."
"Why, he looks healthy enough."
"Yes, but he's mighty deceivin'. Most of his men folks died when they was about his age. Suthin' the matter with the fam'ly that causes 'em to drop off along about then."
"Singular, isn't it?"
"Mighty curious."
"Couldn't the doctors do anything for them. Not that I care, you understand, but it's interesting as a—"
"No, somehow the doctors was always called in too late. Ma'm, Jim tells me he's goin' home."
"Did he tell you just now when you must have met him in the road?"
"No. Jest now when I met him he didn't say nothin', but he looked at me and his eye was a hummin' of a tune."
"And when he comes back," she said, half musingly, "he may tell you what tune he was humming."
"Hah!"
"Wait till he comes back."
The old man, shrewder than she was aware, left off his work and at her looked a droll inquiry. She met his gaze. "Ma'm, you don't mean that with all yo' finery you—"
With a gesture she cut him short, "Don't talk that way, Mr. Starbuck. He comes to me a religion typified, and I would rather walk over a stony road with him than to ride in a chariot with any other human being."
The old man laughed and shook his head. "Oh, I know'd it as soon as I seed his eye a hummin' of a tune, an' I said to myse'f, 'at last the gate has been opened for him.'"
"But please don't say a word about it to anybody, Mr. Starbuck. Let the result come as a surprise."
"I won't, but when does the—"
"Oh, I mustn't tell you that. I want to surprise you, too."
"All right. I reckon I'm the easiest man to surprise you ever come across."
She came closer to him. "Let me turn for you—Uncle Jasper."
He slapped his leg and laughed. "Uncle Jasper! Now that do sound like music, don't it? No, you better not turn this here grind-stone. You mout git splashed."
She took the crank from him and began laboriously to turn it. "Down in Maine where I came from I used to turn for the men when they ground their scythes—just for fun."
"Yes, fun for them that seed you do it, I reckon. Maine—Maine. That whar they uster burn witches?"
"Oh, no, they never burned any witches in Maine."
"Why, couldn't they ketch 'em?"
"Oh, they never burned any witches in this country, Uncle Jasper. That's all a fable."
The old man pondered as if searching in his mind for a forgotten name. "But," said he, "they uster burn them fellers—fellers that done sorter this way," and he began to shake his shoulders.
"Oh, you mean Quakers."
"Yes, Quakers."
"Yes, they hanged Quakers."
"KOTCH 'EM STEALIN' HOSSES, I RECKON."
"Kotch 'em stealin' hosses, I reckon."
"No, hanged them on account of their religion."
"Whew, ruther hard on that sort of doctrine."
"Helloa, Jasper," a voice called, and looking about they saw Laz Spencer climbing upon the fence. They bade him good morning, and sitting on the top rail of the fence he took out a jews-harp and began to wipe it on his coat-sleeve.
"How air you gittin' along, Laz?" Old Jasper inquired.
"Glad to hear it. Best day of a man's life is when he was never better. I'll let that nigger finish this job," he said, sticking the axe into a log; and Mrs. Mayfield, willing enough to play quits, smiled upon him and walked out to the gap and stood looking down the road.
"Have a drink of water, Laz?" Jasper inquired, pointing to a pail on the bench.
"No, laid on a rock an' got a drink outen the creek as I come along."
"Wall, this is fresh water. Wan't fotch from the spring mo' than twenty-fo' hours ago."
"Don't reckon you kin tempt me, Jasper."
The old man took up the gourd, and in attempting to drink, let the water pour through the handle and run down his sleeve. He threw the vegetable dipper back into the bucket and declared that a man might as well try to drink out of a sifter.
"Any news over yo' way, Laz?"
"Don't believe thar's anythin' wu'th dividin'."
"Nobody shot or cut?"
"Let me see. Reckon you hearn about Oscar Pryor."
"No, not sence he borrid five dollars of me. What about him?"
"Went down in the bottoms whar folks war a leetle too civilized an' fell in a well."
"Did they git him out?"
"Oh, yes, they got him out jest in time."
"Jest in time to save his life?"
"No, jest in time to keep from sp'ilin' the water. He drownded all right."
"Ought to have drownded long ago," Jasper replied. "But I'd a leetle ruther it had tuck place befo' he got the five from me."
"But say, Jasper, come to think of it we did have some right sharp excitement over our way yistidy. 'Lowed thar war suthin' on my mind. Ricolleck the hoss the preacher swopped to Dave Somers?"
"The bay with white fetlocks?"
"Yes, thatter'n. Wall, Dave tuck him home an' put him in the stable, an' in the night he got up an' went out to rub him, havin' him on his mind, an' when he went into the stable he found the hoss dead."
"Wall, I don't deceive a man about sich a matter. Yes, found him dead; an' he roused up his neighbors an' they all come an' looked at the hoss, but he didn't kere fur, as I tell you, he war dead. An' now the talk is that the preacher known that thar war suthin' wrong with him, an' jest wanted to git rid of him. Dave, you know, went up to the mourner's bench some time ago an' got a right lively artickle of religion; but when his hoss died he 'lowed, he did, that he didn't want no sich religion that this here preacher would fetch an' he ups an' cusses, he does, an' flings his religion away."
"Wall," said Jasper, "this here is news. What air they goin' to do about it?"
"Kain't do nothin', I reckon. Dave would whup the preacher, but the gal he is a goin' to marry told him he shouldn't. Say, Jasper, I was on my way down to Smithfield, an' I didn't know but you mout want suthin' fotch from down thar."
"No, ain't a hurtin' fur nothin' at the present. Lemme see. Yes, I want you to give a order to the stone-cutter for a tombstone for mammy's grave."
"How big?"
"Oh, 'bout three feet by six."
"Reckon you'll want suthin' cut on the rock."
"Yes. Sot up mighty nigh all night a drawin' of it off. Got it right here." From his pocket he took a piece of paper and began to read: "'Old Black Mammy, come here nobody don't know when an' went home on the eighteenth of June, 1884. Her skin mout have been as dark as the night when thar ain't no moon an' no stars, but her soul is like the risin' of the sun when thar ain't a cloud in the sky.'" Mrs. Mayfield had turned to listen, and Jasper inquired of her: "Will that do, ma'm?"
"Yes, Uncle Jasper, it is very expressive."
"Wall, would you mind goin' over it an' fixin' it up for me?"
"I wouldn't change a word of it," she said, and he thanked her.
"Jasper," said Laz, "I didn't know you could write."
"Wall," the old man drawled, "I kain't write as putty as the county clerk, but I kin write as big. So you like it, ma'm?"
"Yes, Uncle Jasper."
"Wall," said he, looking at his work, "it's the truth, an' thar ain't nuthin' skeercer than truth on grave-yard rocks."
Margaret came out of the house. "Howdy, Laz."
"Ain't runnin' no foot races, but so as to be about."
"Folks all as well as usual?"
"Ain't hearn no loud complaint."
"Miz Mayfield," said Margaret, "Kintchin fotch me a letter from the post-office this mornin' an' as my eyes ain't right good to-day, I wish you'd come in an' read it to me."
"Yes, gladly."
"Thank you—'specially as my eyes ain't right good this mornin'. Skuze us, Laz," she said, turning to go into the house.
"Help yo'se'f," Laz replied, again wiping his jews-harp; and when the two women had gone into the house, he began to play, and the old man, sitting now upon the wood-pile, looking over his epitaph, nodded time. Suddenly the musician left off.
"Say, Peters has got his app'intment."
The old man's arms dropped. "Air you shore?"
"I'm a tellin' you. He's got it writ out on a piece of paper that looks like white luther."
"Wall," said Jasper, getting up. "I don't know of any man that's a goin' to w'ar out his shoes a runnin'. But I'm sorry. Was in hopes that he couldn't git it. An' yit, I didn't put the strings back into my shoes."
"I understand. You don't want to die with 'em on. But I wouldn't give him any of the advantage."
"No, Laz, fur the man that gives the mad dog any of the advantage is almost shore to git bit. An' I don't want Jim to know any mo' about this comin' trouble than he kin help."
"I reckon not, Jasper. It's sorter noised about that he's a pinin' for the lady from off yander."
"Yes, caliker is got him at last. It's all right, though. The Lord has lit up brown jeans with a smile. Now, here's what I want cut on that rock," he added, handing the paper to Laz, but suddenly withdrawing it, remarked: "Remember, I ain't lendin' you this."
He gave the paper to the borrower, who, looking at it, turning it over and over, replied: "All right. Don't need it—yit."
"Say, Laz, come over with me to the mill. There's suthin' I want to put away."
As they were going out through the gap, Lou came running into the yard.