A Maid of the Kentucky Hills Part 19

"All men don't tell the truth," was her unexpected rejoinder; "but you do.... Don't you think I am worth sitting by?"

Heavens! Why did she persevere in this strain? Why? G.o.d pity her, I knew. I knew her birthright of womanliness and unsullied purity had been bartered long ago for the pottage of faithlessness and sham pleasures, and that now the exceeding bitter cry rang in her soul day in and day out. She had made sacrifice of the substantial, the real, the true, and the good, on the shadowy altar of indulgence. She had flung aside the fruit to devour the husk, and the penalty was an insatiable gnawing of the evil teeth which she had first guided with her own hand to her being's core. I s.h.i.+vered inwardly as these thoughts darted lightning-like through my mind, and my face shaped itself into lines of gravity.

"Little girl," I said, gently; "I should be glad to sit by you, but what's the use in this instance? We are as two birds pa.s.sing in mid-air.

Soon you will go; soon I will go. Let's be good, honest friends while we stay."

I leaned toward her and spoke earnestly, trying to keep any note of rebuke from my tones. She did not reply, but colored slightly, turned her head partly away, and lowered her lashes. I smoked in silence for a few moments to give her a chance to speak, but she remained silent, and directly I said, throwing my voice into a cheerier key:

"If you're to help me with my secret we must hurry. Our few minutes on the river did not last long enough for us to get very well acquainted, but probably Father John has told you that I am roughing it for a few months on a certain big k.n.o.b back in the woods. I've met a few people, and--"

Poor, hopelessly stupid mind of man! In my agitation caused by the att.i.tude Beryl Drane had seen fit to adopt toward me, I had forgotten that the confidence I had purposed bestowing involved another girl--a beautiful girl! Now it was too late to hold back. Two slits of eyes were viewing me cynically, and a low laugh bubbled up from her throat.

"Who is she?" mocked Beryl Drane, who lived in the world.

"I don't know!" I answered, boldly. "That's what I want you to help me find out."

"What's her name?"

How cold the words were; like little sharp icicles. Ah! Womankind!

Velvet soft, iron hard; dove merciful, tiger cruel; heaven breasted, h.e.l.l armed; honey lipped, gall tongued!

"They call her Lessie."

Her sweetly bowed mouth had turned to a straight line of scarlet as she shook her head.

"I don't mix with the rabble here."

She spoke to cut, and she succeeded. The insolent words bit sharply, and a flame-like resentment set a hot reply on my tongue, but I withheld it.

I waited a while, that my speech might not betray my agitation.

"She lives with her granny and gran'fer on Lizard Point. Surely you have seen her at church? Granny is very conscientious, I'm sure, in the performance of her church du----"

"I never go to church!" interrupted Father John's niece. "But I think I know the people to whom you refer," she added, at once. "I cannot recall the name of the family, however.... You must be extraordinarily stupid not to have learned her surname, being in love with her."

Evidently Miss Drane was ignorant of the circ.u.mstances surrounding the Dryad's birth, and a great wave of relief rolled up in my breast when I was a.s.sured of this.

"A man doesn't love a girl's name," I thought. Then I said:

"It would seem so, indeed."

I can't imagine what there was in that innocent sentence to cause affront, but instantly the girl in the hammock swung her feet to the ground, arose, and picked up her bonnet and basket.

"I don't think you are at all nice!" she said. "Go on and love your little cabin minx if you want to! She'll be sadly wiser when your love is over and you have gone back where you came from. I know you men--all alike!... If you want to see uncle you'll find him in the library at this hour."

Then out she switched with never so much as a "Good-day," leaving me staring amazedly at the cl.u.s.tering viney ma.s.s which swayed behind her vanished form. I had known many kinds of women: petulant, spoiled, mean; gracious, charming, good. I knew the majority of them were not amenable to logic, and would sometimes take offense at a smile or a wrong inflection. But when Beryl Drane flung this low insinuation in my face, I was nettled. It was utterly without foundation or reason. It bore out strikingly the opinion I had previously formed of her, and as I sat and turned the matter over in my mind, I knew presently that I was pitying her. For there is no sadder sight on the world's broad breast than a woman with a spotted soul. This poor child's perceptions were all awry, her affections wrenched and twisted, and in that moment I almost cursed the fate which would permit such a sacrilege. My resentment was gone, or was directed against the nonunderstandable forces, powers--call them what you will--which so often, in their workings, flung the spotless lily under the filthy snout of a hog, and dashed the white soul of a girl into a pit of s.m.u.t and slime! Give me the reasons, ye gray-bearded savants! You are children fumbling in the dark. You do not know.

I got up and pa.s.sed without the leafy curtain. Miss Drane had disappeared. I walked to the porch, found the front door open, and entered the hall without knocking. I judged the library to be on the right, and at that door I tapped. The old priest's voice bade me "Come!"

I went in, and when he saw me cross the threshold, Father John leaped up with a nervous agility which was incongruous when a.s.sociated with his many years, and hastened forward.

"Ah-h-h! Ze pleasure! W'ere have you bene, m'sieu?"

He smiled cordially, and led me to an easy chair by the table, holding my hand until I was fairly seated.

"Roaming the woods, princ.i.p.ally," I replied, easily, noting the extremely comfortable furnis.h.i.+ngs of the apartment. "I have been here a half-hour, I should say. I found Miss Drane cutting roses, and stopped for a chat with her. She seems perfectly well?"

Father John made a grimace, and spread his hands.

"Zat chil'! I love 'er m'sieu, but she try me. She plague me wiz 'er pranks, zen she come wiz 'er arms aroun' my neck--so--an' fix eversing."

He obligingly essayed to hug himself by way of ill.u.s.tration, and I nodded my comprehension.

"You will doubtless miss her when she leaves you?"

He twisted his features as from a sudden pain.

"I can't sink of zat, m'sieu. She have bene wiz me t'ree--four--five weeks; she is one--headstron' chil', but she make me vair happy--_oui_."

He sank a little deeper in his soft chair, and pulled contentedly at his long-stemmed pipe.

It was hard for me to broach the subject uppermost in my mind. Twice my lips parted to open the discussion, but each time the sentence which followed related to an entirely different matter. So for quite a while we talked of the weather, the crops, the parish, and it was while we were discussing the neighborhood that I knew my opportunity had arrived.

"I have become very much interested in the family at Lizard Point. You know them well?"

"Vair well. Madame is vair releegious; a good woman. M'sieu is--is--indeef'rent; ma'm'selle--ah, ze young ma'm'selle!"

Again his spread hands went out expressively, and he shook his head with wrinkled forehead.

Inwardly I smiled, but outwardly my face was set to decorous lines.

"Does not the granddaughter belong to your fold?" I asked.

"Ah! m'sieu; we try. We try all her life lon' to make her ze Christian.

But she wil'--she wil' as ze bird in ze wood. She an' ze half crazy Jeff--ze fiddle player--zey heazen, m'sieu. Zey never dark ze door of ze church. Zey run in ze fores', fiddlin' an' dancin', an' ze devil he laugh an' skip by zey side!"

He put his hands between his knees, palm to palm, and rocked to and fro in genuine distress. I could think of no suitable reply on the moment, so remained silent.

"I have ze pity for ze chil', poor sing!" he resumed, presently. "Ze chance she has not had, like ozzer ones. Meybe ze curse of ze broke' law follow her; I don' know--I don' know!"

He sighed, and let his narrow shoulders droop forward in an att.i.tude both sad and pensive.

"Tell me about that if you can, Father John," I said, placing my elbows on the table's edge and leaning toward him. "I will say to you in strictest confidence that I am deeply interested in Lessie; it is not idle curiosity which prompts me to ask this. I know her father betrayed and deserted her mother; Gran'fer has practically admitted this to me, but he will go no further. You must know the man's name--what was it?"

Father John lifted his head and looked at me.

"Zat, m'sieu, I cannot tell you."

"Why?"

I kept my eyes fastened on his persistently, but respectfully.