A Maid of the Kentucky Hills Part 27

"Racc.o.o.n got a ring-a-roun' tail, Possum tail am bar'; Rabbit got no tail at all, Jes' a little bunch o' ha'r!"

It was plainly immaterial to Jeff whether I believed him or not. Equally plain it was that he knew what he was talking about.

"I believe you, Satyr. But who told you?"

He was instantly placated.

"n.o.body to' me noth'n', but I ain't no plum' ejit."

"But Mrs. Toller--"

"Look-y-here, pardner!" Jeff squirmed around and thrust his goat-tuft forward. "Granny tuk Lessie 'way frum these here parts on 'count o' you.

She 'peared to b'lieve whut I tol' 'er 'bout th' gel lyin' on yo', but they ain't no manner o' 'pen'ence to be put in Granny's notions. She's made up o' contrair'ness, anyhow. She jes' got to mull'n' 'n'

a-brood'n', 'n' whut 'ith her trouble 'ith Ar'minty 'n' all she jes'

'lowed it's well 's not to light out fur a spell. 'N' hev yo' got little 'nough sinse to 'low fur a minute she 'd tell that long-tongued Ab'gail Toller whur she's a-goin'? Yes, she tol' Ab'gail Toller she's a-goin' to Snack Holler--'n' fur why? 'Cus she knowed yo'd come a-nosin' 'roun'

axin' questions, 'n' th' fust place you'd go 'd be right thur."

I felt the water closing over me afresh at these words of doom.

"But don't you know?" I urged, desperately. "Didn't you ask Granny?"

"Yes, I axed 'er, 'n' she 'lowed it's none o' my 'fair."

"But you said they would be back soon. How do you know?"

A sly grin crept to his thinly bearded lips.

"Look-y-here, pardner. Me 'n' you's frien's. I've et yo' grub 'n' drunk yo' liquor 'n' slep' on yo' floor. I know yo 're lovin' Lessie 'n'

lovin' her hones'. I 'm a-gunta bring 'er back to yo'. I said I didn't know whur they went, 'n' I don't, but I've got my s'picions. It mought be a week, 'n' it mought be a mont', 'n' it mought be longer. But I 'm a-gunta do it. Never yo' min' jes' how I'll manage. Th' day I fin' 'em that day they start home, 'n' I don't 'low they 's so tur'ble fur, neither."

I felt my throat choke up at this totally unexpected act of generous devotion. I know my eyes grew moist, and it was several moments before I could say anything.

"Satyr, I--I--you don't know how much I appreciate this. I don't deserve it. But--can't I go with you on the search?"

Jeff Angel laughed his mirthless, jacka.s.s laugh before answering.

"Lord, no! This here pleasure trip 's all fur me. You jes' hang 'roun'

'n' wait fur nooze!"

"You'll need money--how much?"

My hand started toward an inner pocket, but instantly Jeff's long, wiry fingers had gripped it, and dragged it down.

"Naw yo' don't, pardner!"

There was a peculiar earnestness to his voice and an exalted look in his bleary eyes as, holding my hand hard down on the platform, he resumed:

"I wen' to hear Father John preach onct--jes' out o' cur'os'ty. He tol'

a tale 'bout a Feller whut some heath'ns nailed on a cross, 'n' that Feller c'd a-he'p' Hisself if He'd a-wanted to, but He let 'em kill 'im so 's a pas'l o' other fellows c'd live. Father John said 't wuz fur you 'n' me, too, 'n' ever'body, but I 'low he kin' o' got that part o' the story crooked, 'cus that ain't natch'l. Anyhow, he 'lowed that whut that Feller done saved th' worl', 'n' He done it 'ithout money 'n' 'ithout price. That's whut stuck in my craw. Jes' think uv it! 'Ithout money 'n'

'ithout price! I ain't no sort o' eddicated, but it 'pears to me that w'en a feller c'n do some'n' fur another feller 'ithout no sort o'

pay--some'n' that's sh.o.r.e 'nough, yo' know--that it'd make 'im holler'n'

'n' shout'n' happy fur quite a spell. That's whut I mean, pardner; 'n'

that's whut I 'low to do fur you--fur, b' gos.h.!.+ I love yo'!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

IN WHICH, STRANGE TO SAY, TIME Pa.s.sES. ALSO I RECEIVE THREE WARNINGS, AND WITNESS AN UNPARALLELED EPISODE IN THE SMITHY

Four weeks have pa.s.sed since Jeff Angel departed on his quest. Until to-night I have not had the heart to face my journal. But to-day a premonition came to me that my period of waiting was drawing to a close, and pinning my faith to this invisible, silent herald which has spoken to me before with prophetic voice, I take up my pen again.

Jeff's loyal, true declaration almost stunned me. It was entirely unexpected. I could not conceive of such self-sacrificing n.o.bility in him. I had given him no serious thought, accepting him for what he appeared to be on the surface; a harmless, almost half-witted wanderer in the wilderness about Hebron, cursed with an inordinate love for strong drink, and blessed with the pure soul of music. And here, when my case seemed all but hopeless, he had gladly and willingly volunteered for a task which could be no light one.

I pressed him to take some money--even a little; enough to insure him against hunger, but he refused. He said he never had any trouble getting food, and he was going to tramp. He needed nothing. He was going to start at once--that afternoon. I made him come to the Lodge with me for dinner, wished him quick success, and bade him G.o.d-speed with a strong handclasp. He strode away chanting one of his absurd couplets.

With his going a great sense of loneliness descended upon me. I felt the cold hand of despair feeling at my throat. With an effort of will I flung the deadening weight from me, and began to pace my plateau vigorously, my hands behind me, my head bent in thought. I must not prove a weakling or a craven now. Celeste would return. Jeff would find her--or if he did not, I would. The world was not big enough to hide her from me. A kind of mad joy flared out in my breast at the thought, and I smiled fiercely. Jeff had said positively that they would start home the day he found them. How did he know this? I had urged him to tell me, but he had only laughed, and repeated his statement. I could not clear this point, but I would not let it depress me. I was convinced the Satyr was genuine, and that he knew what he was talking about.

His time of absence was indefinite. That was the hardest of all to bear.

Had there been a fixed day in the future toward which I could walk with the a.s.surance that on that day I should greet my beloved again, I could have gone laughing through the hours. But the uncertain waiting--the rising of sun after sun and the falling of night after night, and the still, empty minutes which must be lived! I strove to comfort myself in those first few hours after my self-appointed messenger had left. He knew these k.n.o.bs intimately. He had been born in them, he had roamed them all his life, he knew every nook and hiding place in them for miles. He had also expressed his belief that the fugitives had not gone far. Perhaps a few days would bring about our reunion; surely it would not be longer than a week, or a fortnight at the farthest. There was solace in this thought. And as I hugged this phantom belief to me my furious pace slackened, and I continued my walking at a soberer gait, still too perturbed to sit down and think quietly.

How my heart ached for my vanished Dryad that afternoon! Let another opportunity come! Nay, let her but come, and I would make the opportunity. I had dallied. I had not listened to the promptings of my heart early enough, and now a jealous old woman who did not understand had s.n.a.t.c.hed her from me. Then came the distracting thought that perhaps Jeff would fail! Perhaps Granny's plan was deeper than it seemed, and it might be that she had hurried away to some far and obscure part of the Commonwealth, or even to another State. The fact that they were poor presented no foil to this theory. People like her and Gran'fer were not as poor as they seemed. They never spent except for the absolute necessities, and during their long life together they had doubtless saved and pinched until a goodly h.o.a.rd was stored away in some nook or hole. I believe I knew Granny's mind. It could never entertain but one idea at a time, and it was an utter impossibility for her to view both sides of a question. I pitied her even in my vexation. She had had ample cause for the course she had adopted, and I was being made to suffer for the sin of a cultured renegade from the higher world. Granny had decided that all relations of whatsoever nature must cease between her granddaughter and myself. She mistrusted me, in spite of the evidences she had had of my sincerity and honesty. Since I would not go away, then she would take Celeste away. To carry out her idea, I am sure she would have sacrificed the savings of years. This was the thought which burned hotly in my breast now. Then to my mind came the vision of Jeff Angel, coming dejectedly up the road to my plateau, with the news that the lost ones could not be found. Oh, it is a terrible thing, my brothers! To be suddenly and swiftly swept into the maelstrom of a mighty love, and then to be confronted by the possible loss of the girl who aroused this feeling.

That night I climbed the peak; climbed it by the soft light of the stars alone, for the moon was young, and I saw it only after I had reached the top--a crescent thread of silver cradled on the tops of the trees on the furthest western range. Up there, between creation and infinity, as it were, I applied all the philosophy I could bring to bear upon my case. I got results, too, thank goodness! Had I not been able to persuade my mind into a certain channel of common sense, I can't say what would have become of me, for I was idiotically in love. Howbeit, I levied on the very bases of my reason for strength and guidance, and deep down where the fundamentals of character perpetually abide, I found that which saved me.

It was thus my sane self argued with my insane self:

_Insane Self_: If Celeste is not restored to me within a short time, I shall go wild.

_Sane Self_: What's the good of going wild? Then you will be in no condition to greet her when she does come, and may lose her forever.

_Insane Self_: I cannot rest, or sleep, until I see her again.

_Sane Self_: A suicidal att.i.tude. Be sensible instead. Take the best care of yourself, and so be fit in every way to welcome her back.

_Insane Self_: But, I must see her; I _must_ see her soon!

_Sane Self_: Perhaps. Be calm. Nothing is to be gained by rashness. You will only succeed in wearing yourself out.

_Insane Self_: I am on this peak to-night because of a racked mind. I may climb it again before morning.

_Sane Self_: What of Buck Steele?

_Insane Self_: Ah!

_Sane Self_: What of Buck Steele? His love is just as great as yours--perhaps greater, for he has not the restraining leash of a cultivated mind. He is your rival. Is he sapping his strength by doing without food, straying through the forest, and climbing mountains? No; he is making those iron muscles harder every day at his forge, and when the time comes when you and he face each other--as come it inevitably must--he will twist you in two like a winter-rotted weed! He is sensible; you are a fool!