Brian Kent, strolling along the bank
of the river in the moonlight, and preoccupied with
thoughts that were, at the last, more dreams than
thoughts, was not far from the house when a sound from
behind some near-by bushes broke in upon his reveries.
A moment, he listened. Then telling himself that
it was some prowling animal, or perhaps, a bird that
his presence had disturbed, he went on. But he
had gone only a few feet farther when he was conscious
of something stealthily following him. Stepping
behind the trunk of a tree, he waited, watching.
Then he saw a form moving toward him through the shadows
of the bushes. Another moment, and the form left
the concealing shadow, and, in the bright moonlight,
he recognized Judy.
At first, the man’s feeling
was that of annoyance. He did not wish to be
disturbed at such a time by the presence of the mountain
girl. But his habitual gentleness toward poor
Judy, together with a very natural curiosity as to
why she was following him at that time of the night,
when he had supposed her in bed and asleep, led him
to greet her kindly as he came from behind the tree:
“Well, Judy, are you, too, out enjoying the
moonlight?”
The girl stopped suddenly and half-turned
as if to run; but, at his words, stood still.
“What is it, Judy?” he
asked, going to her. “What is the matter?”
“There’s a heap the matter!”
she answered, regarding him with that sly oblique
look; while Brian noticed a feeling of intense excitement
in her voice. “I don’t know what
you-all are a-goin’ ter think of me, but I’m
bound ter tell you just the same, seems
like I got ter, even if you-all was ter
lick me for hit like pap used ter.”
“Why, Judy, dear,” the
puzzled man returned, soothingly, “you know I
would never strike you, no matter what you did.
Come, sit down here on this log, and tell me about
whatever it is that troubles you; then you can go
back to sleep again.”
“I ain’t a-wantin’
ter set down. I ain’t been asleep.
Hit seems like I can’t never sleep no more.”
She wrung her hands and turned her poor twisted body
about nervously; then demanded with startling abruptness:
“When do you-all ’low she’ll git
back?”
The wondering Brian did not at first
catch her meaning, and she continued, with an impatient
jerk of her head: “Hit’s that there
gal with the no-’count name, Betty Jo, I’m
a-talkin’ ’bout.”
“Oh, you mean Miss Williams,”
Brian returned. “Why, I suppose she will
be back in two or three weeks, or a month, perhaps;
I don’t know exactly, Judy. Why?”
“‘Cause I’m a-tellin’
you-all not ter let her come back here ever,”
came the startling answer, in a voice that was filled
with menacing anger. Then, before Brian could
find a word to reply, the mountain girl continued,
with increasing excitement: “You-all dassn’t
let her come back here, nohow, ’cause, if you
do, I’ll hurt her, sure. You-all have been
a-thinkin’ as how I was plumb blind, I reckon;
but I seen you, every evenin’, when
she’d pretend ter just go for a walk an’
then’d make straight for the clearin’ where
you was a-choppin’, an’ then you’d
quit, an’ set with her up there on the hill.
Youuns never knowed I was a-watchin’ from the
bresh all the time, did you? Well, I was; an’
when youuns’d walk down ter the house, so slow
like an’ close together, I’d sneak ahead,
an’ beat you home; but all the time I was a-seein’
you, an’ youuns never knowed, ’cause youuns
just naturally couldn’t see nor hear nothin’
but each other. Don’t you-all ’low
as how I’d know by the way you looked at her,
while youuns was a-fixin’ that there book, every
night, what you-all was a-thinkin’ ’bout
her? My God-A’mighty! hit was just as plain
ter me as if you was a-sayin’ hit right out loud
all the time, a heap plainer hit was than
if you’d done writ’ hit down in your book.
I can’t make out ter read print much, nohow,
like youuns kin; but I sure kin see what I see.
I
“Judy! Judy!” Brian
broke the stream of the excited girl’s talk.
“What in the world are you saying? What
do you mean, child?”
“You-all knows dad burned well
what I’m a-meanin’!” she retorted,
with increasing anger. “I’m a-meanin’
that you-all are plumb lovin’ that there Betty
Jo gal, that’s what I’m a-meanin’! an’
you-all sure ain’t got ary right for ter go
an’ do sich a thing, nohow!”
Brian tried to check her, but she
silenced him with: “I won’t neither
hush! I can’t! I tell you I’m
a-goin’ ter say my say if you-all kills me!
I’ve just naturally got ter! Seems like
I was all afire inside an’ would burn plumb
up if I didn’t! I’ve got rights, I
reckon, if I be all crooked an’ twisted out
er shape, an’ ugly-faced an’ no learnin’,
ner nothin’.”
A dry sob choked the torrent of words
for an instant; but, with a savage effort she went
on: “I know I ain’t nothin’
alongside of her, but you-all ain’t a-goin’
ter have her just the same, not if I have
ter kill her first! You ain’t got no right
ter have her, nohow, ’cause hit’s like’s
not you-all done got a woman already somewheres, wherever
’twas you-all come from; an’ even if you
ain’t got no woman already, I sure ain’t
a-goin’ ter let you have her! What’d
she ever do for you? Hit was me what dragged
you-all from the river when you was mighty nigh dead
from licker an’ too plumb sick ter save yourself!
Hit’s me that’s kept from tellin’
the Sheriff who you be an’ a-takin’ that
there reward-money! Hit was me what jumped inter
the river above Elbow Rock just ter git your dad burned
old book, when you’d done throwed hit plumb
away!
“I knowed first time I heard
Auntie Sue name her what she’d do ter you!
Any fool would a-knowed what a woman with a half-gal,
half-boy name like her’n would do, an’
she’s done hit, she sure has!
But she ain’t a-goin’ ter do no more!
You-all belongs ter me a heap more’n you do ter
her, if hit comes ter that, though,
I ain’t a-foolin’ myself none a-thinkin’
that sich as you could ever take up with sich
as me, me bein’ what I am. No,
sir; I ain’t never fooled myself ary bit like
that, Mr. Burns. But hit ain’t a-makin’
no difference how ugly an’ crooked an’
no ’count I be outside; the inside of me is
a-lovin’ you like she never could, ner nobody
else, I reckon. An’ I’ll just go on
a-lovin’ you, no matter what happens; an’
I ain’t a-carin’ whether you got a woman
already er not, er whether you-all have robbed er
killed, er what you done. An’ an’ so
I’m a-tellin’ you, you’d best not
let her come back here no more, ’cause ’cause
I just naturally can’t stand hit ter see youuns
tergether! ‘Fore God, I’m a-tellin’
you true, I’ll sure hurt her!”
The girl’s voice raised to a
pitch of frenzied excitement, and, whirling, she pointed
to the river, as she cried: “Look out there!
What do you-all reckon your fine Betty Jo lady would
do if I was ter git her ketched in them there rapids?
What do you-all reckon the Elbow Rock water would
do ter her? I’ll tell you what hit’d
do: Hit would smash an’ grind an’
tear an’ hammer that there fine, straight body
of hers ‘til hit was all broken an’ twisted
an’ crooked a heap worse’n what I be, that’s
what hit would do; an’ hit would scratch an’
cut an’ beat up that pretty face an’ mess
up her pretty hair an’ choke her an’ smother
her ’til she was all blue-black an’ muddy,
an’ her eyes was red an’ starin’,
an’ she was nothin’ but just an ugly lump
of dirt; an’ hit wouldn’t even leave her
her fine clothes neither, the Elbow Rock
water wouldn’t, hit’d just
naturally tear ’em off her, an’ leave her
’thout ary thing what’s makin’ you
love her like you’re a-doin’! An’
where would all her fine schoolin’ an’
smart talk an’ pretty ways be then? Eh?
She wouldn’t be no better, nor half as good as
me, I’m a-tellin’ you, onct Elbow Rock
got done with her!”
The poor creature finished in wild
triumph; then suddenly, as though spent with the very
fury of her passion, she turned from the river, and
said dully: “You’d sure best not let
her come back, sir! ’Fore God, I ain’t
a-wantin’ ter do hit, but hit seems like I can’t
help myself; I can’t sleep for wantin’
ter fix hit so, so’s you just couldn’t
want ter have her no more’n you’re a-wantin’
me. I I sure ain’t
a-foolin’ myself none, not ary bit, a-thinkin’
you-all could ever git ter likin’ sich
as me; but, I can’t help sort of dreamin’
‘bout hit an’ a-pretendin’, an’ an’
all the while I’m a-knowin’, inside er
me like, that there ain’t nobody, not
Auntie Sue, nor this here Betty Jo, nor that there
other woman, nor anybody, what kin care
for you like I’m a-carin’, they
just naturally couldn’t care like me; ’cause ’cause,
you see, sir, I ain’t got nobody else, ain’t
no man but you ever even been decent ter me.
I sure ain’t got nobody else
The distraught creature’s sobs
prevented further speech, and she dropped down on
the ground, weak and exhausted; her poor twisted body
shaking and writhing with the emotion she could not
voice.
For a little while, Brian Kent himself
was as helpless as Judy. He could only stand
dumbly, staring at her as she crouched at his feet.
Then, very gently, he lifted her from the ground,
and tried as best he could to comfort her. But
he felt his words to be very shallow and inadequate,
even though his own voice was trembling with emotion.
“Come, Judy, dear,” he
said, at last, when she seemed to have in a measure
regained her self-control. “Come. You
must go back to the house, child.”
Drawing away from his supporting arm,
she answered, quietly: “I ain’t no
child, no more, Mr. Burns: I’m sure a woman,
now. I’m just as much a woman as as she
is, if I be like what I am. I’m plumb sorry
I had ter do this; but I just naturally couldn’t
help hit. You ain’t got no call ter be
scared I’ll do hit again.”
When they were nearing the house,
Judy stopped again, and, for a long minute, looked
silently out over the moonlit river, while Brian stood
watching her.
“Hit is pretty, ain’t
hit, Mr. Burns?” she said at last. “With
the hills all so soft an’ an’
dreamy-like, an’ them clouds a-floatin’
’way up there over the top of Table Mountain;
with the moon makin’ ’em all silvery an’
shiny ‘round the edges, an’ them trees
on yon side the river lookin’ like they was
made er smoke er fog er somethin’ like that;
an’ the old river hitself a-layin’ there
in The Bend like like a long strip of shinin’
gold, hit sure is pretty! Funny, I
couldn’t never see hit that a-way before, ain’t
hit?”
“Yes, Judy; it is beautiful to-night,”
he said.
But Judy, apparently without hearing
him, continued: “’Seems like I can
sense a little ter-night what Auntie Sue an’
youuns are allus a-talkin’ ‘bout
the river, ’bout hit’s bein’
like life an’ sich as that. An’
hit ’pears like I kin kind of git a little er
what you done wrote ’bout hit in your book, ’bout
the currents an’ the still places an’ the
rough water an’ all. I reckon as how I’m
a part of your river, too, ain’t I, Mr. Burns?”
“Yes, Judy,” he answered,
wonderingly; “we are all parts of the river.”
“I reckon you’re right,”
she continued. “Hit sure ’pears ter
be that a-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin’
else ’bout the river what you didn’t put
down in your book, Mr. Burns: There’s heaps
an’ heaps er snags an’ quicksands an’
sunk rocks an’ shaller places where hit looks
deep an’ deep holes where hit looks shaller,
an’ currents what’s hid ‘way down
under that’ll ketch an’ drag you in when
you ain’t a-thinkin’, an’ drown
you sure. ‘Tain’t all of the river
what Auntie Sue an’ youuns kin see from the
porch. You see, I knows ’bout hit, ’bout
them other things I mean, ’cause
I was borned and growed up a-knowin’ ’bout
’em; an’ an’ the
next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I ’low
you-all ought ter put in ‘bout them there snags
an’ things, ’cause folks sure got ter
know ’bout ’em, if they ain’t a-wantin’
ter git drowned.”
When Judy had gone into the house,
Brian again sat alone on the porch.
An hour, perhaps, had passed when
a voice behind him said: “Why, Brian, are
you still up? I supposed you were in bed long
ago.”
He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway.
“And what in the world are you
prowling about for, this time of the night?”
Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her.
“I am prowling because I couldn’t
sleep, thinking about you, Brian,”
she answered.
“I fear that is the thing that
is keeping me up, too,” he returned grimly.
“I know,” she said gently.
“Sometimes, one’s self does keep one awake.
Is it is it anything you care to tell me?
Would it help for me to know?”
For some time, he did not answer;
while the old teacher waited silently. At last,
he spoke, slowly: “Auntie Sue, what is the
greatest wrong that a woman can do?”
“The greatest wrong a woman
can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong that a man can
do.”
“But, what is it, Auntie Sue?” he persisted.
“I think,” she answered, “indeed
I am quite sure, that the greatest wrong
is for a woman to kill a man’s faith in woman;
and for a man to kill a woman’s faith in man.”
Brian Kent buried his face in his hands.
“Am I right, dear?” asked the old gentlewoman,
after a little.
And Brian Kent answered: “Yes,
Auntie Sue, you are right that is the greatest
wrong.”
Again they were silent. It was
as though few words were needed between the woman
of seventy years and this man who, out of some great
trouble, had been so strangely brought to her by the
river.
Then the silvery-haired old teacher
spoke again: “Brian, have you ever wondered
that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever
asked yourself why I never married?”
“Yes, Auntie Sue,” he answered. “I
have wondered.”
“Many people have,” she
said, with simple frankness. Then “I
am going to tell you something, dear boy, that only
two people in the world beside myself ever knew, and
they are both dead, many years now. I am going
to tell you, because I feel because I think that,
perhaps, it may help you a little. I, too, Brian,
had my dreams when I was a girl, my dreams
of happiness, such as every true woman hopes
for; of a home with all that home means; of
a lover-husband; of little ones who would
call me ’mother’; and my dreams
ended, Brian, on a battlefield of the Civil War.
He went from me the very day we were promised.
He never returned. I have always felt that we
were as truly one as though the church had solemnized
and the law had legalized our union. I promised
that I would wait for him.”
“And you you have
kept that promise? You have been true to that
memory?” Brian Kent asked, wonderingly.
“I have been true to him, Brian; all
the years of my life I have been true to him.”
Brian Kent bowed his head, reverently.
Rising, the old gentlewoman went close
to him, and put her hands on his shoulders. “Brian,
dear, I have told you my secret because I thought
it might help you to know. Oh, my boy my
boy, don’t don’t
let anything don’t let anyone kill
your faith in womanhood! No matter how bitter
your experience, you can believe, now, that there are
women who can be faithful and true. Surely, you
can believe it now, Brian, you must!”
And as he caught her hands in his,
and raised his face to whisper, “I do believe,
Auntie Sue,” she stooped and kissed him.
Then, again, Brian Kent was alone
in the night with his thoughts.
And the river swept steadily on its
shining way through the moonlit world to the distant
sea.