Sunlight Patch Part 10

He folded his hands on the pummel and let his feet slip out of the uncertain rope stirrups. Sitting thus relaxed, for a moment he looked meditatively at the old mule's drooping ears, then reached in his pocket, brought out a red handkerchief of the bandanna type and wiped his brow. He had something to tell her--she knew this! But she knew, too, from experience that when he brought a message he must take his own time about delivering it.

"Dat's a mighty spry gemmen over to our house," he finally remarked.

"Mr. Brent?" she flushed a little.

"No-deedy! He's spry, too; but dis'n I'm talkin' 'bout jes' come."

"Yes, I heard about him," she said. "A sort of hill-billy, isn't he?"

"Now, how'd you heah dat?" the old fellow looked down at her. "He only got dar las' night!"

"I don't remember--somebody came by an' told Pappy, I reckon."

"It do beat all how tales travel," he doubtfully shook his head. "But don' you put no stock in him bein' a hill-billy! Long haih an' s'penders don' make no greenhorn. Dey never has yit, an' dey never will--any moh'n a Adam's Apple do; an' I got a Adam's Apple mahse'f, sech as 'tis! I got sumfin else, too!" He slowly closed one eye and looked up at the sky.

"A note?" she laughed.

"Dat ain' so fur off!"

"A message?"

"You sho' guessed it dat time!" he chuckled. "Some-un suttenly do a lot of thinkin' 'bout some-un--dat's all I got to say!"

"Does he?" she blushed. It pleased her to have this old man tease. It was her only outlet; he was the only one who shared the secrets of their trysts.

"He suttenly do! I don' reckon she's been outen his mind but onct dis spring!"

"When could that have been?" she bantered.

The old fellow's face disappeared into a network of wrinkles. "Dat wuz when he picked his gloves offen de po'ch an' got one on befoh knowin' a hornet had done crawled in it. He come purty nigh fergittin' his salvation, den! All de same," he added, still chuckling, "he say he's comin' over dis 'way dis evenin', less'n de lightnin' strike 'im. Dar ain' no cloud in de sky now," he looked up musingly.

He felt about for the stirrups with his boots and then took up the old reins, still grinning and bowing his adieux with a gallantry that would have done credit to the Colonel. And, as he rode away, she drew a deep, trembling breath of happy antic.i.p.ation.

CHAPTER X

THE SPIRIT OF SUNLIGHT PATCH

The old darky, after another half hour of plodding, sighed as he turned into the welcome shade of Flat Rock. The pike had been shimmering white and his eyes ached. Yet, as he followed the woodland road, he thought of a garnet shadow on a young throat, and again he sighed. In a vague way it meant a sign to him, and troubled his old heart.

A glimpse of Bob's house and its carefully kept grounds came into view, each detail opening as he approached, until he saw Jane and the mountaineer seated on the lawn. Pa.s.sing by a side way to the rear, had his eyes been good he might have seen her face flushed with interest in the man whom she was drawing out and graciously dissecting.

For this was one of her own people--one of that very shut-in, restless, hungry type, whom she had hoped by the perfecting of herself to help.

Other scholars at the school were not like him. They were, with a single exception, of the valley and foothills, but this one came from primeval grandeur. He alone possessed the absorbing craze to learn which had dominated her own life, and so she felt peculiarly drawn to him.

"I must ask you," she was saying, "where you get your way of talking.

We of the mountains,"--and she noted his look of thanks for this acknowledgment of mutual origin--"come out with our dialect pure; but I find you mixing it up with bits of really correct speech!"

"I can't talk yet like I want to," he answered, carefully choosing his words, "but what I've learned was up in Sunlight Patch. Some of the finest speakin' in the world, I reckon, is up thar!"

"Up there," Jane corrected.

"Up there," he repeated after her, adding: "I knowed that, but forgot."

"What and where is Sunlight Patch? Twice you've spoken of it."

"Hit's a cabin 'n' a clarin'," he answered simply, "back in the mountings. I war borned thar--there; all of we-uns war born there."

"An odd name," she mused, although she knew odd names were typical of the mountains.

"Not when ye know how-c.u.m-hit," he said. "Hit war called that-a-way by a preacher onct. Yeou see, Miss Jane, my sister war born blind--leastways, the fu'st thing they knowed of hit she war blind. Thar war four of us brats in the cabin, two brothers older'n me who got shot, 'n' her. I war the kid, ye mought say, 'n' when I war mighty small some-un took her off ter the blind school in the settlements. She only come back 'bout two year ago, 'n' fetched some blind books they'd give her."

"What were the books?" Jane softly asked, touched by the picture of that poverty she had so well known.

"The New Testament," he answered. "Thar war five big books of that.

Then she had four big-uns of a feller named d.i.c.kens--'The Tale of Two Cities,' that war. But what I liked most war the three wrote by a Cooper feller--he warn't no kin ter our Coopers, Ruth says--called 'The Last of the Mohigans.' That Injun, Uncas, war a man, I tell yeou! Thar war some poetry I liked mighty well, too. Ruth says all of 'em wouldn't take up so much room, if 'twarn't fer the blind writin'."

"Do you remember much of those books?" she asked.

"'Member much! Why, I know 'em purty nigh off by heart! That's how-c.u.m I kin talk so good--when I stop to think. By repeatin' arter her I know the alphabet, the multiplication table, mental 'rithmetic up ter long dervision, some history, 'n' some g'ography--but I hain't never seed a map, nor writin'. Her books is writ in blind."

"I think you have learned a great deal," she smiled at him.

"Hit hain't nuthin' ter what I'm goin' ter larn," he declared. "But moh'n what I've told ye, even, I larned from her readin'. Yeou see, Miss Jane, she uster read ter ever'body who'd come, 'n' hit got so arter 'while--'specially Sundays--that folks 'd walk or ride ter our place from as fur as twenty mile ter listen, jest like they war comin' ter a singin', till the clarin' 'd be plumb full. They'd listen, 'n' watch her fingers slip over them raised letters, 'n' keep a-listenin' till plumb dark afore thinkin' 'bout goin' home. 'N' arter dark, too; 'cause ter her the darkness didn't make no diff'ence. 'N' sometimes, with jest the stars 'n' black trees 'round us up thar on the mounting side, hit seemed right quar ter see folks a-settin' on the gra.s.s, 'n' her voice comin'

outen the night like one of them prophets what maybe she war a-readin'

'bout. Yeou see," his voice a.s.sumed a mystic, whispery tone, "she never knowed when hit war night, 'n' the people wouldn't tell her, nur make a move till she quit--beant hit even mawnin'. Arter readin', she'd talk awhile; tellin' 'em things they'd orter do, 'n' things they'd orten't.

'N' onct she clean busted up a feud by makin' two ole fellers shake han's. That caught the preacher's eye. When he heern tell of hit, he called our cabin Sunlight Patch, 'n' said she war the sloc.u.m--'n' the name's done stuck."

He paused; absently, almost unconsciously raising his fingers to brush back the long hair. And when she gently encouraged him to continue, he looked at her with another smile of grateful acknowledgment.

"I won't ever fergit that day, I reckon. She war settin' in the doh as usual, 'n' on the step nigh her feet war ole Ben French 'n' Leister Mann--two of the hatin'est fellers in our parts. But they'd wanted ter come so bad that both sides compacted ter leave thar weepons behind.

This day she seemed ter be readin' stronger'n afore, 'n' she talked moh like she war a-seein' things--I mean sure 'nough things; 'n' arter 'while the folks begun ter rock 'n' moan. They believe ter this day that the Lawd give her sight back fer a minit then, 'cause she reached down 'n' took ole Ben's hand in one of hern, 'n' ole Leister's in t'other'n, 'n' asked 'em ter shake. They'd been settin' thar a-cryin' afore that, so they shook friendly, 'n' all the fellers in the clarin' they shook, too; 'n' the wimmin folks on both sides crossed over 'n' made up. That's how-c.u.m-hit."

"I don't remember those men," she murmured. "Leaders of that feud changed so quickly and so often! It lasted a long time, didn't it!"

"Hit did, that! The fu'st I ever knowed thar war sich a thing war when they brought Pappy home daid," he looked down at the ground. "I war only a leetle brat, then, but ole Granny busted out a-wailin', 'n' put his rifle in my han's, 'n' tetched my face with his blood, 'n'--but yeou know how our people takes the oath; 'n' ye know hit hain't no nice oath." She shuddered, but the mountaineer continued: "Wall, she done all that, 'n' made me say arter her the things I wisht 'd strike me daid if I didn't git the fellers what had got him. Then one day, from up in the rocks, she p'inted 'em out, so'd I know 'em. One got drowned takin' a raft down ter Frankfo't--he fell off jest arter I shot. 'N' t'other-un I didn't git fer a long time. I ketched him--"

"Don't tell me any more, Dale," she pleaded. "I know you must have ketched him."

"Wall," he mused, "'twusn't right ter make no leetle feller take a oath like that, Miss Jane--'n' I moughtn't a-done hit, 'cept fer not knowin'

no better. I wouldn't be tellin' ye, neither, but Ruth said ye'd want ter know afore takin' me in school. She says folks in the settlemints is awful tetchy 'bout killin' folks."

"We'll pa.s.s the feud. Tell me how you happened to come here?"

"A circuit rider come through our parts one day, 'n' tol' us 'bout yo'