True and Other Stories Part 3

"By G.o.d, it's true, all an' all!" he stormed. He paused an instant, seemingly dazed, and then went on: "I didn't fairly believe it afore, but a little black devil come allays whisperin' it into my ear, when I was alone, and I couldn't get him out'n my mind. It was Sylv, Sylv, Sylv--my own brother! Oh yes, you can bet I began to see it, then! I done my best, and I've waited; but it's _him_ you love, and now I'm to be throwed over, _I_ am. _I'm_ the one that don't count nary fip. An'

now I believe it, you needn't be afeared. I believe it, and I _know_ it."

Adela was stung by his doubt, and, recoiling from it, made her next move in precisely the opposite direction to that which her heart prompted her to take.

"You've done your best?" she echoed, tauntingly. "And what's that?

Mighty little. You can't read, like--like Sylv."

"Sylv be d--d!" shouted her lover. "If ye say another word, I'll kill him!"

Adela Reefe stood before him, quite calm and unshaken. However she might fear his violence toward others, she felt no alarm for herself. She knew her power.

"No, you won't kill him, Dennie," she said. "You're not wicked: you can't do that wrong. But I'm goin' to tell you what you'll do. You're to leave me here, and go back by yourself, as I said."

Dennis tossed out a little defiant laugh. "No, I ain't a-goin', nuther.

You'll see me walkin' right alongside o' you till we get to old man Reefe's, and then I'm a-goin' to tell him the whole yarn, and we'll fix the weddin'."

"You will go straight back to aunty's," she reaffirmed, quietly.

Dennis's features softened into a pleading expression. "You'll let me go as far as the tide-way?" he pet.i.tioned.

"No."

He hesitated, but presently turned and walked a few steps over the ground they had just traversed. His gun was slung in the bend of his right arm. Once more he reverted to her, appealingly, but without a word.

"You must go," said Adela, gently, standing on one of the little hummocks into which the land was broken, with the glow of the sinking sun irradiating her brown and rosy cheeks, her dark gray eyes, and wild black hair.

Dennis obeyed. She remained stationary, watching him as he withdrew.

But before he had gone out of earshot, he called out to her, defiantly, like a truant schoolboy: "I'm not goin' back to aunty's. Some o' those birds yonder got to smell powder, fust."

Accordingly, he sauntered along over the uneven ground, scanning the narrow territory, the stretches of adjacent marsh, and the clear, pink-illumined air around him, for snipe or plover. He was the picture, outwardly, of careless ease and confident health; but, inwardly, he was far from being placid. There was a turmoil of clashing sentiments and impulses within him, which he did not understand. He was not sure as to what he thought, nor could he have told what he felt: he knew only that he was thwarted, miserable, and angry. He was hurt and helpless, and drifting on toward some fresh injury, the nature of which he could not foresee and did not so much as try to guess; for he had no more control over the pa.s.sions that tossed his soul than if they had been a raging sea. Yet, all the while, his gunner's instinct was alert, and the winged creatures doomed for his prey could not, even had they been gifted with understanding, have guessed that he was about to avenge his own wounds by those he would inflict on them.

Adela waited a few moments where she stood; for she, too, was distressed, and hardly knew which way to turn. The thought of the dreary home of the herb-doctor, to which she must return, was not alluring; but she could not go after Dennis, either, to make up with him. Suddenly she heard a short, hollow report, that was lost immediately in the echoless s.p.a.ces over land and water. She started; an indescribable dread seized her. Why, at that instant, did she think of the foolish threat--empty as his gun-barrel--which Dennis had made against his brother?

It was nothing but a flying plover that he had knocked out of existence; she could guess that well enough. But she did not stay to reflect. Like a frightened thing seeking shelter, she sprang from her place, along the open stretch, taking the opposite edge of the open ground to that which Dennis had chosen, and ran lightly on under shelter of the low hillocks, so as to reach some spot abreast of him.

A strange sight--this maiden running so featly under the sunset-light on one side, while her unconscious lover strolled along the other! She glided over the sod with a swiftness and an intuitive caution worthy of an Indian. Then all at once she halted, so promptly that it might have been with a premonition of the shock of sound that came almost simultaneously from a second discharge of the gun--nearer, this time; much nearer; so near that Adela, standing still, quivering but not breathless, heard the faint rush of several shot that fell with a sharp "pat" on the ground, close by her. Glancing up, she saw a small bird driving through the sky, with dropped feet and frantic little wings, which seemed to melt away out of sight in a moment, as if by magic.

Dennis had tried too high a shot and missed his aim.

Adela did not flinch, but she continued on her way more slowly.

Dennis also proceeded, popping at the feathered game now and then. He did not fire again toward the quarter where Adela was lurking; she half wished that he would. The dangerous greeting of those leaden pellets would be better than no message at all. She longed to cross over and speak to Dennis, but could not persuade herself to. He, meanwhile, gathered only two small birds; the rest that came in his way either escaped or fell out of reach among the sedges. Slinging the little creatures into his pocket, indifferently, he went on; and when he reached the point where he should have diverged toward the cabin, he resolved to strike into the pine-woods and meet the Beaufort road.

Moody and dissatisfied, he was not inclined to shut himself up in solitude at this hour with Aunty Losh; for he knew that Sylv, though he had set out for Beaufort before sunrise, was not likely to have accomplished the return journey before now. It was a distance of more than fifteen miles; Sylv had taken his load of fish on a borrowed wagon which must be left at the town, and therefore would be obliged to foot the whole way back. Dennis preferred to wait on the road and meet him there.

Possibly Adela had suspected that he would do this. At all events, on arriving where she could see him if he had been going toward the hut, she discovered that he must have taken the other course, and she, too, protected by the trees which now were frequent enough to afford a cover, slipped cautiously into the piny woods.

Dennis had not gone far along the rough thoroughfare when a second figure appeared, moving toward him in the gradual twilight, between the ranks of long-leaved pines. It was the figure of a man, young and of vigorous frame, but slightly bent; though that may have been due only to fatigue or revery. His face was darkened, rendered still more serious in its thoughtful expression by a straggling beard, which, however, grew in a picturesque entanglement that added character, instead of obscuring it. He was dressed with a modest style and care that made an outward difference between him and the ordinary dwellers on that sh.o.r.e, but his clothes were of simple "sheep's gray." Under his arms he carried two books, heavy tomes, the smoky yellow of which, discernible even in that fading light, showed that they were the ripe husks in which the fruits of the law are stored.

This was Sylvester.

Dennis waited in the shadow of the trees until Sylv came nearly abreast of him.

"Hullo, Sylv," he said.

The younger brother gave a start, and stopped abruptly in the rutty roadway, looking toward the speaker. Then, with a smile of singular frankness and sweetness, he said in a low, unperturbed voice: "Why, Dennie, I wasn't looking to find you here. Seems queer, but I was thinking so hard, all alone, that you almost frightened me."

He spoke with great precision, as was natural in a person of his studious turn, but without the least primness or affectation. Carefully transferring a ponderous volume from its place under his right arm-pit to his left hand, he held the other hand out for a greeting. "Seems as if I'd been away a week," he said, wearily. "Has aunty come?"

Dennis made no motion to take the proffered hand. "Yes," he said, "she's thar, and she's waitin' for ye."

His manner was so unusual, so withdrawn, that Sylv was surprised, and let his right arm fall to his side.

"Why, what's the trouble?" he asked. "You're not like yourself, Dennie.

You are dispirited."

"Anybody could see that," answered the senior in a surly tone, "without those thar long words. Yes, I am sort o' down; I'm out o' gear. That's the fact."

"Well, let's go along to the cabin," Sylv proposed, throwing into his words a soothing tenderness as unconscious as that of a woman's voice.

"Whatever's ailing, we'll consult over it there."

"No," said his brother, refusing to stir. "I want to talk to you hyar."

"I'm downright tired," Sylv objected, mildly. "I've been walking so long. I made a good trade, though, Dennie. See here."

He laid his books down in the road, and put his hand into his pocket.

Then he withdrew it suddenly, looking alarmed, and began to search another pocket. Dennis waxed visibly impatient. Finally, plunging into a third receptacle, Sylv brought to light five silver dollars. "That's what I got!" he exclaimed, triumphantly.

"That all!" cried Dennis. "Oh, I knowed it, I knowed it! And those thar books--you worked shares on 'em."

"Yes, I found I could get those, too," said Sylv, with honest exultation.

Dennis emitted a groan. "Ye've done it agin," he muttered, gloomily.

"Now look hyar, Sylv, ye wisht a second; I'm goin' to give ye my mind.

You're a-takin' the life right out'n me and ruinin' my hopes, and I ain't stood out about it afore; but dog-gone me if I don't stand out now. I wouldn't 'a' keered if it hadn't been none but me and aunty, but--" Here the unhappy man's voice broke. His right arm was occupied with holding his gun, but he raised his left and wiped away upon the sleeve the moisture which had gathered in his eyes. "But when it comes to Deely," he continued, "I ain't a-goin' to let things run as they hev."

With the instinct of the collector, Sylv stooped and picked up his books; but, as he rose, he offered to Dennis the money which he held. "I don't understand," he said, looking puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

Dennis remained immobile in the shadow of the pines, ignoring the younger man's gesture. "Keep your money," he said. "D'ye think I'm a highway robber, to stop ye for what ye've got? It's bad enough that ye barter away our livin'; but 'tain't that I'm a-thinkin' on. Ye've took Deely away from me. That's worse; a heap sight worse!"

His brother gazed blankly at him, apparently not understanding. "Deely?"

he said. "_I_ didn't take her. What d' you mean. Where is she?"

"Coward!" cried Dennis, growing violent.

At that word Sylv quivered visibly, and drew himself up, with a pride he had not shown before.

Dennis, after pausing, went on: "D'ye dar' to tell me ye don't know what I mean? Deely's home, but I've been a-talkin' with her, and I know it's so and ain't no other way. She sees how you been a-playin' it on me, but 'tain't no 'count to her. She wants you to go right on, the same way.