Judith of the Cumberlands Part 27

"That's right, son," said the old man rising and clapping a hearty hand on each young shoulder. "I'm mighty proud to hear it. Hit's a good way for fellers like you to start out in this world."

"Well, befo' we do so," Jeff took up the burden, "the preacher says we ort to confess our sins and git forgiveness from them we have done wrong by. Creed Bonbright ain't here. Mebbe he's never goin' to be back any mo'. We talked it over and 'lowed we'd better come tell you, pap."

At Creed Bonbright's name a pathetic change went over old Jephthah's pleased countenance. He had received the opening words with satisfaction, not untinctured by the mild, patronising indulgence we show to children.

But when Bonbright was mentioned he sat back in his chair, nervously knocking the ash from his pipe, anxiously staring at the boys.

"I'm mighty proud," he repeated, "to hear what you say." He spoke gravely and with dignity; but a note of uncontrollable eagerness stole into his voice, as he added in a lower tone, "What mought you-all have to tell me about Creed Bonbright?"

"Pap, we done you a meanness in that business," hastened Jeff. "We had no call to lie to you like we done, and send the feller word in yo' name."

"Wade, he was mad about his gal," agreed Andy thoughtfully, "but what possessed me and Jeff I'll never tell ye. Spy or no spy, we done that man wrong."

Jephthah looked expectantly and in silence from one young face to the other.

"Blatch let on to you hit was the still; but of course we knowed hit was Jude that ailed him. He got Taylor Stribling to toll Creed to Foeman's Bluff that night," Jeff supplied. "Blatch picked the quarrel, and drawed a knife when they was wrastlin', and when Bonbright pushed Blatch away from him, he fell over the cliff. That's G.o.d's truth about the business, pappy, ef I ever spoke it. Me an' Andy an' Wade was all into it."

The boyish countenance was pale, and Jeff drew a nervous hand across his brow as he concluded. There followed a lengthened silence. Old Jephthah sat regarding his own brown right hand as it lay upon his knee.

"Ye tolled him thar," he said finally. "Ye tolled him thar. Then Creed Bonbright wasn't no spy." He lifted his head. "I never could make it figure up right for that feller to be a spy. Curious he was, and he had some idees that I couldn't agree with; but a spy----"

He broke off suddenly, and one saw how strong had been the bond between him and the young justice, how greatly he cared that the memory of the man even should be cleared.

The boys looked at each other, and with a gulp Jeff began again:

"I reckon you knowed well enough we stood in with Blatch when he hid out and let folks believe the killin' had been did. We knowed you seen through it all; but when ye git started in a business like that, one thing leads on to another, and befo' you're done with it, ye do a plenty that you'd ruther not."

"Well, hit's over and cain't be he'ped, but you've done what's right at last," Jephthah a.s.sured them. "The church is a mighty good thing for young fellers like you. A good wife'll do a sight to he'p along."

He looked at them kindly. He had never liked his boys half so well.

"I'm mighty proud of the both of ye," he concluded heartily. "Ef Creed Bonbright ever does come back in the mountains, we'll show him that the Turrentines can be better friends than foes to a man."

Chapter XXI

The Baptising

October had led forth her train across the c.u.mberlands. One night the forest was fairly green, but early risers next morning found that in the darkness while they slept the hickories had been touched to gold, the oaks smitten with a promise of the glowing mahogany-red which was to be theirs. Sourwood and sumach blazed; the woodbine flung its banner of blood, chestnuts were yellow where the nuts dropped through them from loosened burs. The varying dark greens of balsam and fir, pine and cedar, heightened by contrast the glow of colour, while the dim blue sky above set its note of tender distance and forgetfulness. On a thousand mountain peaks smoked and smouldered, flared and flamed the altar fires of autumn.

After that each day saw a deepening of the glory in the hills. It was like a n.o.ble overture a mult.i.tudinous chorus made visible. The marvel of it was that one sense should be so clamorously challenged while the other was not addressed. The ear hearkened ever amid that grand symphony of colour for some mighty harmony of sound. But even the piping song-birds were gone, and the cry of a hawk wheeling high in the blue, the voice of a woman calling her cow, these sounded loud in the autumnal hush.

The streams were shrunken to pools whose clear jade reaches reflected the blazing banners above them, and offered mimic seas for the sailing of painted argosies when the wind shook the leaves down. There was a fruity odour of persimmon and wild grape forever in the air. The salmon-pink globes stood defined against the blue on leafless twigs, while the frost sweetened them to sugary jelly, and the black wild grape by the water-courses yielded an odour that was only less material than the flavour of its juices. Every angle of the rail fences became a parterre with golden-rod, cat-brier, and the red-and-yellow pied leaves of blackberries, while a fringe of purple and white asters thrust fragile fingers through the rails below, or the stout iron-weed pushed its purple-red blooms into view at the head of tall, lance-like stems.

Judith walking in the woods one day found a great nest of Indian pipe.

She bent listlessly to pick the waxen mystic blossoms, thinking to herself that they were like some beautiful dead thing; and then she came upon a delicate flush on the side of their clear, translucent pearl, and wondered if it were an omen.

It was a gorgeous October Sabbath when the boys were baptised. Baptisms always took place from Brush Arbour in a sizable pool of Lost Creek which flows through one corner of the little valley that holds the church building. The sward which ran down to its clear mirror was yet green, but the maples and sourwoods above it were coloured splendidly. Among their clamant red and yellow laurel and rhododendron showed glossy green, and added to the gay tapestry. The painted leaves let go their hold on twig or bough and dropped whispering into the water, like garlands flung to dress the coming rite.

Morning meeting was over. The women-folks who had come far spread dinner on the gra.s.s near the church, joining together occasionally, the children wandering about in solemn delight with a piece of corn pone in hand, whispering among the graves in the tiny G.o.d's acre, spelling out the words upon some wooden head-board, or the rarer stone.

The Big Spring was the customary gathering place of the young people before church, and during intermissions, about its clear basin, on the slopes above the great rock from under which it issued, might be seen a number of couples, the boys in Sunday best of jeans or store-bought clothing, the girls fluttering in cheap lawns or calicoes, and wearing generally hats instead of the more becoming sunbonnet. Judith had been used to lead her following here, and the number of her swains would have been a scandal in any one else: but there was a native dignity about Judith Barrier that kept even rural gossip at bay. This morning, however, when Elder Drane gave her the customary invitation to walk down there for a drink, she refused, and all during the first service the widower had sat tall and reproachful on the men's side and reminded her of past follies. She was aware of his accusing eyes even when she did not look in his direction, and uncomfortably aware too that others saw what she saw.

Throughout the pleasant picnic meal, shared with its group of neighbours, the sight of Andy and Jeff with Cliantha and Pendrilla aggravated a dull pain which dragged always in her heart, and when dinner was over and they had packed the basket once more, and set it in the back of the waggon, she left them, to wander by herself on the farther side of Lost Creek, sitting down finally in the shade of a great sourwood, and looking moodily at the water. All afternoon she sat there wrapt in her own emotions, forgetful of time and place. The congregation straggled back into the little log church, and the second service was begun. The preacher's voice came floating out to her softened by distance, and with it the sound of singing; as the meeting drew to its close an occasional more vociferous "Amen!" or "Glory!" or "Praise G.o.d!" made itself heard.

The sun was beginning to slant well from the west when she got suddenly to her feet with the startled realisation that afternoon preaching was over, the people were pouring from the church door, streaming across the green toward the baptising pool. They were in the middle of a hymn.

"Oh, wanderer return--return,"

came their musical tones across the water. The grey-haired old preacher was in the lead, his black coat blowing about him, the congregation spreading out fan-wise as they followed after, Andy and Jeff arm in arm, the half-dozen others who were to be baptised walking with them.

Her fretted, pining spirit had no appreciation left for the appeal of the picture. She gazed, and looked away, and groaned. "Oh, wanderer return,"

they sang--almost her heart could not bear the words.

She sighed. Ought she to cross the foot-log and be with them when the boys were dipped? But while she hesitated the singers struck up a different hymn, a louder, more militant strain. Brother Bohannon was at the water; he was wading in; he was up to his knees now--up to his waist.

"Send 'em in, Brother Drane," she heard him call. "This is about deep enough. That's right--give me the young men first. When the others see them dipped they'll have no fear."

Elihu Drane took Andy's arm, and another helper laid hold of Jeff.

"Sing--sing brethren and sisters," admonished the preacher. "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord. This is the time for Hallelujahs. Ef ye don't sing now, when will ye ever?"

Andy spoke low in the elder's ear, whereupon he was released, and turned to his brother; hand-in-hand the two stepped into the water alone. Judith saw the pale, boyish faces, strangely refined by the exaltation of spirit which was upon them, as the twins waded out toward the preacher. Bohannon called to Jeff, shook hands with him, shouted, "Praise G.o.d, brother.

Glory! Glory! Now--make yo'se'f right stiff. Let me have ye. Don't be scared. I won't drop ye. I've baptised a many before you was born, son."

His right hand was lifted dripping above the dark head. "I baptise ye, Thomas Jefferson Turrentine, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen."

"Amen--Amen!" came the deep chorus from the bank, the high, plaintive women's voices undertoned by the masculine ba.s.s.

The black coat sleeve went around the white-clad shoulders, the preacher dropped his new convert gently backward into the s.h.i.+ning water, dipped him, and Jeff who was not an excellent swimmer for nothing, came up quiet, smiling, and stood aside to wait for his brother.

"Sing--sing!" cried the preacher. "Here goes another soul on its way to glory," and he reached forth to take Andy. A moment later he sent him, drenched, but washed clean of his sins, so far as mountain belief goes, after his twin. The hallelujahs burst forth to greet the boys: joyful shouts, amens, and some sobbing when, hand-in-hand--even as they had gone in--they came up out of the water.

"Mighty pretty to look at, ain't it?" said a voice at Judith's shoulder.

She turned to find Blatch Turrentine standing behind her.

"I reckon Andy and Jeff is goin' to be regular little prayin' Sammies from this out," jeered the newcomer.

"Granny Lusk has given her consent for them and the gals to be wedded,"

remarked Judith softly. To her--and perhaps to Cliantha and Pendrilla also--the main importance of the twins' conversion was in this permission, which had been withheld so long as they were wild and had a bad name.

"I heared of another weddin' that might interest ye," Blatch insinuated.

"Want to come and walk a piece over by the Big Spring, Judy?"

Judith turned uncertainly. The boys had pa.s.sed on up to the sheds to get on dry clothing. It was nearly time for her to be going back to the waggon. Bohannon was dipping Doss Provine's sister Luna. A group of trembling, tearful candidates, mostly young girls, were being heartened and encouraged for the ordeal by the helpers on the bank.

"Tell me here--cain't ye?" she said listlessly.