In Old Kentucky Part 15

Layson was uneasy at the turn the talk had taken. "That was years ago, Neb," he expostulated.

"Don't seem yeahs ago to me, suh. Huh! De only blow dat evuh fell upon my back! But yo' s.n.a.t.c.hed dat whip out of his ban' an' den yo' laid it, with ev'y ounce of stren'th war in yo', right acrost his face!"

Layson, unwilling to be harsh with the old man and forbid him to say more, ostentatiously busied himself, now, about the table with the frying-pan and other dishes, hoping, thus, to discourage further talk of this sort.

"No, suh," Neb went on with shaking head, "I jus' nach.e.l.ly don' like him. Don't like _either_ of 'em. An' he, Ma.r.s.e Frank, he nevuh _will_ fuhgit dat blow, an' don't you think he will!"

"That's all over, long ago," said Frank, as he put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the old man's supper. "And what had Barbara to do with it? She can't help what her father does."

Neb drew up to the table with a continuously shaking head. For months he had desired to speak his mind to his young master, but had never dared to take so great a liberty. Now the unusual circ.u.mstances they were placed in, the fact that he had been lost in the mountains in his service and half scared to death, imbued him with new boldness.

"She kain't he'p what he does, suh, no," said he. "But listen, now, Ma.r.s.e Frank, to po' ol' Neb. De pizen vine hit don't b'ar peaches, an'

nightshade berries--dey ain't hulsome, eben ef dey're pooty."

"Neb, stop that!" Layson commanded sharply.

The old negro half slipped from the chair in which he had been sitting wearily. Once he had started on the speech which he had made his mind up, months ago, that, some day, he would screw his courage up to, he would not be stopped.

"Oh, honey," he exclaimed, holding out his tremulous old hands in a gesture of appeal, while the fire-light flickered on a face on which affection and real sincerity were plain, "I's watched ovuh you evuh sence yo' wuh a baby, an' when I see dat han'some face o' hers was drawin' of yo' on, it jus' nigh broke my ol' brack heaht, it did. It did, Ma.r.s.e Frank, fo' suah."

The young man could not reprimand the aged negro. He knew that all he said came from the heart, a heart as utterly unselfish and devoted in its love as human heart could be.

"Oh, pshaw, Neb!" he said soothingly. "Don't worry. Perhaps I did go just a bit too far with Barbara--young folks, you know!--but that's all over, now." Again he wondered most uncomfortably if this were really true, again his mind made its comparisons between the bluegra.s.s girl and sweet Madge Brierly. "There's no danger that Woodlawn will have any other mistress than my dear Aunt 'Lethe for many a long year," he concluded rather lamely.

The emotion of the ancient darky worried him. It was proof that evidence of a love affair with Barbara Holton had been plain to every eye, he thought.

Neb now slid wholly from the chair and dropped upon his knees close by the youth he loved, grasping his hand and pressing it against his faithful heart.

"Oh, praise de Lawd, Ma.r.s.e Frank; oh, praise de Lawd!" he cried.

Old Neb slept with an easier heart, that night, than had throbbed in his old black bosom since the probability that Barbara Holton would be a member of the party which was to visit his young master in the mountains, had first begun to worry him. But long after he had found unconsciousness on the boughs-and-blanket bed which he had fas.h.i.+oned for himself under Frank's direction, Layson, himself, was wandering beneath the stars, thinking of the problem that beset him.

He was sorry Barbara was coming to the mountains. Why had his Aunt 'Lethe brought her? What would that dear lady think about Madge Brierly, wood-nymph, rustic phenomenon? What had Horace Holton been doing in the mountains, secretly, to have been surprised, discomfited as Neb had said he was, at sight of the Colonel, Miss 'Lethe and his daughter?

But before he had finished the pipe which he had carried into the crisp air of the sharp mountain night for company, his thought had left the Holtons and were seeking (as they almost always were, these days and nights), his little pupil of the spelling-book, his little burden of the brush-fire flight. He looked across the mountain-side toward where her lonely cabin hid in its secluded fastness. There was a late light to-night as.h.i.+ne from its small window.

"She'll like her," he murmured softly in the night. "She'll _love_ her.

Aunt 'Lethe'll understand!"

And then he wondered just exactly what it was that he felt so very certain his Aunt 'Lethe would be sure to understand. He did not understand, himself, precisely what had happened to him, his life-plans, heart-longings.

Strolling there beneath the stars he gave no thought to poor Joe Lorey, until, like a night-shadow, the moons.h.i.+ner stalked along the trail and pa.s.sed him. Layson called to him good-naturedly, but the mountaineer gave him no heed. Frank stood, gazing after him in the soft darkness, in amazement. Then a quick, suspicious thrill shot through him. The man was bound up the steep trail toward Madge's cabin. Presently he heard him calling. He went slowly up the trail, himself.

The girl came quickly from her cabin in answer to the shouting of the mountaineer.

"What is it, Joe?" she asked.

"I want a word with you. I've come a purpose," Lorey answered sullenly.

The girl was almost frightened by his manner. She had never seen him in this mood; he had never come to her, alone, at night, before. "Well, Joe, you'll have to wait," said she. "I've got some things to do, to-night." Her sewing was not yet half finished.

Standing on her little bridge, she held with one hand to the worn old rope by means of which she presently would pull it up. She did not take Joe very seriously; in the darkness she could not see the grim expression of his brow, the firm set of his jaw, the clenched hands, one of which was pressed against the game sack with his powerful plunder hidden in it. She laughed and tried to joke, for, even though she did not guess how serious he was, her heart had told her that some day, ere long, there must of stern necessity be a full understanding between her and the mountaineer, and that he would go from her, after it, with a sore heart. In the past she had not wished to marry him, but she had never definitely said, even to herself, that such a thing was quite impossible for all time to come. Now she knew that this was so, although she would not acknowledge, even to herself, the actual reason for this certainty. No; she could never marry Joe. She hoped that, he would never again beg her to.

"Come back some other time, when I ain't quite so busy," she said trying to speak jokingly. "Tomorrow, or nex' week, or Crismuss."

He stood gazing at her sourly. "I'll come sooner," he said slowly.

"Sooner. An' hark ye, Madge, if that thar foreigner comes in atween us, I'm goin' to spile his han'some face forever!"

"What nonsense you do talk!" the girl exclaimed, but her heart sank with apprehension as the man stalked down the path. She did not pull the draw-bridge up, at once, but stood there, gazing after him, disturbed.

Again he met Layson, still strolling slowly on the trail, busy with confusing thoughts, puffing at his pipe. The mountaineer did not call out a greeting, but stepped out of the trail, for Frank to pa.s.s, without a word.

"Why, Joe," said Layson, "I didn't see you. How are you?" He held out his hand.

The mountaineer said nothing for an instant, then he straightened to his lank full height and held his own hand close against his side. "No," he said, "I can't, I can't."

Layson was astonished. He peered at him. "Why, Joe!" said he; and then: "See here--what have I ever done to you?"

Joe turned on him quickly. "Done?" he cried. "Maybe nothin', maybe everythin'." He paused dramatically, unconscious of the fierce intentness of his gaze, the lithe aggressiveness of his posture. "But I warns you, now--you ain't our kind! Th' mountings ain't no place for you. The sooner you gits out of 'em, the better it'll be fer you."

Layson stood dumbfounded for a moment. Then he would have said some further word, but the mountaineer, his arm pressed tight against that old game-sack, stalked down the trail. Suddenly Layson understood.

"Jealous, by Jove!" he said. "Jealous of little Madge!" Slowly he turned about, puffing fiercely at his pipe, his thoughts a compound of hot anger and compa.s.sion.

Madge, filled with dread of what her disgruntled mountain suitor might be led to do by his black mood, had not yet re-crossed her draw-bridge, but was standing by it, listening intently, when she heard Layson's footsteps nearing. Her heart gave a great throb of real relief. She had not exactly feared that trouble really would come between the men, but--Lorey came of violent stock and his face had been dark and threatening.

She saw Layson long before he knew that she was there.

"Oh," she cried, relieved, "that you?"

He hurried to her. "I thought you mountain people all went early to your beds," said he, and laughed, "but I met Joe Lorey on the trail and here you are, standing by your bridge, star-gazing."

Of course she would not tell him of her worries. She took the loophole offered by his words and looked gravely up at the far, spangled sky.

"Yes," said she, "they're mighty pretty, ain't they?"

Layson was in abnormal mood. The prospect of his Aunt's arrival, the certainty that something more than he had thought had come out of his mountain sojourn, the fact that he was sure that he regretted Barbara Holton's coming, old Neb's arrival, and his raking up of ancient scores against the lowland maiden's father, his meeting with Joe Lorey and the latter's treatment of him, had wrought him to a pitch of mild excitement. The girl looked most alluring as she stood there in the moonlight.

"My friends are in the valley and are coming up to-morrow," he said to her. "Do you know that this may be the last time I shall ever see you all alone?"

She gasped. He had not hinted at a thing like that before. "You ain't going back with them, are you?" she asked, her voice a little tremulous from the shock of the surprise. "You ain't going back with them--never to come hyar no more, are you?"

He stepped nearer to her. "Why, little one," he asked, "would you care?"

"Care?" she said with thrilling voice, and then, gaining better self-control, tried to appear indifferent. "Why should I?" she said lightly. "I ain't nothin' to you and you ain't nothin' to me."

His heart denied her words. "Don't say that!" he cried. "You don't know how dear you've grown to me." He stepped toward her with his arms outstretched. He almost reached her and he knew, and she knew, instinctively, that if he had he would have kissed her.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "NO MAN CAN CROSS THIS BRIDGE, UNLESS--UNLESS,--"]