CHAPTER XI
A ROADSIDE MEETING
Kenneth remained at the tavern for a month. He did not go near the
house of his step-mother. He saw her once walking along the main
street, and followed her with his eyes until she disappeared into
a store. A friendly citizen took occasion to inform him that it
was the "fust time" he had seen her on the street in a
coon's age.
"She ain't like most women," he vouchsafed. "Never
comes down town unless she's got some reason to. Most of 'em never
stay to home unless they've got a derned good reason to, setch as
sickness, or the washin' and ironin', or it's rainin' pitchforks.
She's a mighty queer woman, Rachel Gwyn is. How air you an' her
makin' out these days, Kenneth?"
"Oh, fair to middlin'," replied the young man, dropping
into the vernacular.
"I didn't know but what ye'd patched things up sorter,"
said the citizen, invitingly.
"There is nothing to patch up," said Kenneth.
"Well, I guess it ain't any of my business, anyhow," remarked
the other, cheerfully.
The business of taking over the property, signing the necessary
papers, renewing an agreement with the man who farmed his land on
the Wea, taking account of all live-stock and other chattels, occupied
his time for the better part of a fortnight. He spent two days and
a night at the little farmhouse, listening with ever increasing
satisfaction to the enthusiastic prophecies of the farmer, a stout
individual named Jones whose faith in the new land was surpassed
only by his ability to till it. Even out here on his own farm Kenneth
was unable to escape the unwelcome influence of Rachel Carter. Mr.
Jones magnanimously admitted that she was responsible for all of
the latest conveniences about the place and characterized her as
a "woman with a head on her shoulders, you bet."
He confessed: "Why, dodgast it, she stopped by here a couple
o' weeks ago an' jest naturally raised hell with me because my wife's
goin' to have another baby. She sez, sorter sharp-like, 'The only
way to make a farm pay is to stock it with somethin' besides children.'
That made me a leetle mad, so I up an' sez back to her: 'I wouldn't
swap my seven children fer all the hogs an' cattle in the state
o' Indianny.' So she sez, kind o' grinnin', 'Well, I'll bet your
wife would jump at the chance to trade your NEXT seven children,
sight onseen, fer a new pair o' shoes er that bonnet she's been
wantin' ever sence she got married.' That sorter mixed me up. I
couldn't make out jest what she was drivin' at. Must ha' been nine
o'clock that night when it come to me all of a sudden. So I woke
Sue up an' told her what Rachel Gwyn said to me, an', by gosh, Sue
saw through it quicker'n a flash. 'You bet I would,' sez she. 'I'd
swap the next HUNDRED.' Then she kinder groaned an' said, 'I guess
maybe I'd better make it the next ninety-nine.' Well, sir, that
sot me to thinkin', an' the more I thought, the more I realized
what a lot o' common sense that mother-in-law o' your'n has got.
She--"
"You mean my step-mother, Jones."
"They say it amounts to the same thing in most families,"
said the ready Mr. Jones, and continued to expatiate upon the remarkable
qualities of Rachel Gwyn.
Kenneth found it difficult to think of the woman as Rachel Gwyn.
To him, she was unalterably Rachel Carter. Time and again he caught
himself up barely in time to avoid using the unknown name in the
presence of others. The possibility that he might some day inadvertently
blurt it out in conversation with Viola caused him a great deal
of uneasiness and concern. He realized that he would have to be
on his guard all of the time.
There seemed to be no immediate prospect of such a calamity, however.
Since the memorable encounter in the thicket he had not had an opportunity
to speak to the girl. For reasons of her own she purposely avoided
him, there could be no doubt about that. On more than one occasion
she deliberately had crossed a street to escape meeting him face
to face, and there was the one especially irritating instance when,
finding herself hard put, she had been obliged to turn squarely
in her tracks and hurry back in the direction from which she came.
This would have been laughable to Kenneth but for the distressing
fact that it was even more laughable to others. Several men and
women, witnessing the manoeuvre, had sniggered gleefully,--one of
the men going so far as to slap his leg and roar: "Well, by
gosh, did you ever see anything like that?" His ejaculation,
like that of a town-crier, being audible for a hundred feet or more,
had one gratifying result. It caused Viola to turn and transfix
the offender with a stare so haughty that he abruptly diverted his
attention to the upper north-east corner of the court-house, where,
fortunately for him, a pair of pigeons had just alighted and were
engaged in the interesting pastime of bowing to each other.
A week or so after his return from the farm Kenneth saw her riding
off on horseback with two other young women and a youth named Hayes.
She passed within ten feet of him but did not deign to notice him,
although her companions bowed somewhat eagerly. This was an occasion
when he felt justified in swearing softly under his breath--and
also to make a resolve--to write her a very polite and formal letter
in which he would ask her pardon for presuming to suggest, as a
brother, that she was making a perfect fool of herself, and that
people were laughing "fit to kill" over her actions. It
goes without saying that he thought better of it and never wrote
the letter.
She was a graceful and accomplished horsewoman. He watched her out
of the corner of his eye as she cantered down the street, sitting
the spirited sorrel mare with all the ease and confidence of a practised
rider. Her habit was of very dark blue, with huge puffed sleeves
and a high lace collar. She wore a top-hat of black, a long blue
veil trailing down her back. He heartily agreed with the laconic
bystander who remarked that she was "purtier than most pictures."
Later on, urged by a spirit of restlessness, he ordered Zachariah
to saddle his horse and bring him around to the front of the tavern,
where he mounted and set out for a ride up the Wild Cat road. Two
or three miles above town he met Hayes and the two young women returning.
The look of consternation that passed among them did not escape
him. He smiled a trifle maliciously as he rode on, for now he knew
what had become of the missing member of the party.
Half a mile farther on he came upon Viola and Barry Lapelle, riding
slowly side by side through the narrow lane. He drew off to one
side to allow them to pass, doffing his beaver ceremoniously.
Lapelle's friendly greeting did not surprise him, for the two had
seen a great deal of each other, and at no time had there been anything
in the lover's manner to indicate that Viola had confided to him
the story of the meeting in the thicket. But he was profoundly astonished
when the girl favoured him with a warm, gay smile and cried out
a cheery "How do you do, Kenneth!"
More than that, she drew rein and added to his amazement by shaking
her finger reproachfully at him, saying:
"Where on earth have you been keeping yourself? I have not
laid eyes on you for more than a week."
Utterly confounded by this unexpected attack, Kenneth stammered:
"Why, I--er--I have been very busy." Not laid eyes on
him, indeed! What was her game? "Now that I come to think of
it," he went on, recovering himself, "it is fully a week
since I've seen you. Don't you ever come down town, Viola?"
"Every day," she said, coolly. "We just happen never
to see each other, that's all. I am glad to have had this little
glimpse of you, Kenneth, even though it is away out here in the
woods."
There was no mistaking the underlying significance of these words.
They contained the thinly veiled implication that he had followed
for the purpose of spying upon her.
"Better turn around and ride back with us, Kenny," said
Barry, politely but not graciously.
"I am on my way up to the Wild Cat to see a man on business,"
said Kenneth, lamely.
"Kenny?" repeated Viola, puckering her brow.
"Where have I heard that name before? I seem to remember--oh,
as if it were a thousand years ago. Do they call you Kenny for short?"
"It grew up with me," he replied. "Ever since I can
remember, my folks--"
He broke off in the middle of the sentence, confronted by a disconcerting
thought. Could it be possible that somewhere in Viola's brain,--or
rather in Minda's baby brain,--that familiar name had stamped itself?
Why not? If it had been impressed upon his own baby brain, why not
in a less degree upon hers? He made a pretence of stooping far over
to adjust a corner of his saddle blanket. Straightening up, he went
on:
"Any name is better than what the boys used to call me at school.
I was known by the elegant name of Piggy, due to an appetite over
which I seemed to have no control. Well, I must be getting along.
Good day to you."
He lifted his hat and rode off. He had gone not more than twenty
rods when he heard a masculine shout from behind: turning, he discovered
that the couple were still standing where he had left them. Lapelle
called out:
"Your sister wants to have a word with you."
She rode swiftly up to where he was waiting.
"I just want to let you know that I intend to tell mother about
meeting Barry out here to-day," she said, unsmilingly. "I
shall not tell her that we planned it in advance, however. We did
plan it, so if you want to run and tell her yourself, you may do
so. It will make no--"
"Is that all you wanted to say to me, Viola?" he interrupted.
For a moment she faced him rebelliously, hot words on her lips.
Then a surprising change came over her. Her eyes quailed under the
justifiable scorn in his. She hung her head.
"No," she said, miserably. "I thought it was all,
but it isn't. I want to say that I am sorry I said what I did."
He watched the scarlet flood sweep over her cheeks and then as swiftly
fade. It was abject surrender, and yet he had no thrill of triumph.
"It's--it's all right, Viola," he stammered, awkwardly.
"Don't think anything more about it. We will consider it unsaid."
"No, we'll not," she said, looking up. "We will just
let it stand as another black mark against me. I am getting a lot
of them lately. But I AM sorry, Kenneth. Will you try to forget
it?"
He shook his head. "Never! Forgetting the bitter would mean
that I would also have to give up the sweet," said he, gallantly.
"And you have given me something very sweet to remember."
She received this with a wondering, hesitating little smile.
"I never dreamed that brothers could say such nice things to
their sisters," she said, and he was aware of a deep, questioning
look in her eyes. "They usually say them to other men's sisters."
"Ah, but no other fellow happens to have you as a sister,"
he returned, fatuously. She laughed aloud at this, perhaps a little
uncertainly.
"Bless me!" he exclaimed. "It sounds good to hear
you laugh like that,--such a jolly, friendly sort of laugh."
"I must be going now," she said, biting her lip. "Good-bye,--Kenny."
A faint frown clouded her brow after she had uttered the name. "I
must ask mother if she remembers hearing father speak of you as
Kenny."
"Say, Viola," came an impatient shout from Barry Lapelle,
"are you going to take all day?"
It was plain to be seen that the young man was out of temper. There
was a sharp, domineering note of command in his voice. Viola straightened
up in her saddle and sent a surprised, resentful look at the speaker.
Kenneth could not repress a chuckle.
"Better hurry along," he said, grimly, "or he'll
take your head off. Lord, we are going to have a storm. I see a
thundercloud gathering just below the rim of Barry's hat. If you--"
"Please keep your precious wit to yourself," she flamed,
but with all her show of righteous indignation she could not hide
from him the chagrin and mortification that lurked in her tell-tale
eyes.
She rode off in high dudgeon, and he was left to curse his ill-timed
jest. What a blundering fool he had been! Her first, timid little
advance,--and he had met it with boorish, clownish wit! A scurvy
jest, indeed! She was justified in despising him.
If Viola had turned her proud head a few moments later, she would
have beheld an amazing spectacle: her supposedly smug and impeccable
brother riding away at break-neck speed down the soggy lane, regardless
of overhanging branches and flying mud, fleeing in wrath from the
scene of his discontent.
Dusk was falling when he rode slowly into the town again. He had
reached a decision during that lonely ride. He would not remain
in Lafayette. He foresaw misery and unhappiness for himself if he
stayed there,--for, be it here declared, he was in love with Viola
Gwyn. No, worse than that, he was in love with Minda Carter,--and
therein lay all the bitterness that filled his soul. He could never
have her. Even though she cast off the ardent Lapelle, still he
could not have her for his own. The bars were up, and it was now
beyond his power to lower them. And so, with this resolve firmly
fixed in his mind, he gave himself up to a strange sort of despair.
After supper at the tavern, he set out for a solitary stroll about
the town before going to bed. He took stock of himself. No later
than that morning he had come to a decision to open an office and
engage in the practice of Law in Lafayette. He had made many friends
during his brief stay in the place, and from all sides he had been
encouraged to "hang out his shingle" and "grow up
with the town." He liked the people, he had faith in the town,
he possessed all the confidence and courage of youth. The local
members of the bar, including the judge and justices, seriously
urged him to establish himself there--there was room for him,--the
town needed such men as he,--indeed, one of the leading lawyers
had offered to take him into partnership, an opportunity not to
be despised, in view of this man's state-wide reputation as a lawyer
and orator, and who was already being spoken of for high honours
in the councils of state and nation.
All this was very gratifying to the young stranger. He was flattered
by the unmistakable sincerity of these new friends. And he was in
a position to weather the customary paucity of clients for an indefinite
period, a condition resulting to but few young men starting out
for themselves in the practice of law. He was comfortably well-off
in the matter of worldly goods, not only through his recently acquired
possessions, but as the result of a substantial legacy that had
come to him on the death of his grandmother. He had received his
mother's full share of the Blythe estate, a no inconsiderable fortune
in lands and money.
And now everything was changed. He would have to give up his plan
to settle in Lafayette, and so, as he strolled gloomily about the
illy-lighted town, he was casting about for the next best place
to locate. The incomprehensible and incredible had come to pass.
He had fallen in love with Viola Gwyn at first sight, that stormy
night at Striker's. The discovery that she was his own half-sister
had, of course, deluded his senses--temporarily, but now he realized
that the strange, primitive instincts of man had not been deceived
and would not be denied.
His blood had known the truth from the instant he first laid eyes
upon the lovely stranger. Since that first night there had been
revelations. First of all, Viola was the flesh and blood of an evil
woman, and that woman his mortal foe. Notwithstanding her own innocence
and purity, it was inconceivable that he should ever think of taking
her to himself as wife. Secondly, he was charged with a double secret
that must forever stand between him and her: the truth about her
mother and the truth about herself.
There was but one thing left for him to do,--go away. He loved her.
He would grow to love her a thousand-fold more if he remained near
her, if he saw her day by day. These past few days had brought despair
and jealousy to him, but what would the future bring? Misery! No,
he would have to go. He would wind up his affairs at once and put
longing and temptation as far behind him as possible. There was
the town of Louisville. From all reports it was a prosperous, growing
town, advantageously situated on the River Ohio. Crawfordsville
was too near. He would have to go farther, much farther away than
that,--perhaps back to the old home town.
"What cruel foul luck!" he groaned, aloud.
His wanderings had carried him through dark, winding cow-paths and
lanes to within a stone's throw of Jack Trentman's shanty, standing
alone like the pariah it was, on the steep bank of the river near
the ferry. Back in a clump of sugar trees it seemed to hide, as
if shrinking from the accusing eye of every good and honest man.
Kenneth had stopped at the edge of the little grove and was gazing
fiercely at the two lighted windows of the "shanty." He
was thinking of Barry Lapelle as he muttered the words, thinking
of the foul luck that seemed almost certain to deliver Viola into
his soiled and lawless hands. The fierceness of his gaze was due
to the knowledge that Lapelle was now inside Trentman's notorious
shanty and perhaps gambling.
This evening, as on two or three earlier occasions, he had been
urged by Barry to come down to the shanty and try his luck at poker.
He had steadfastly declined these invitations. Trentman's place
was known far and wide as a haven into which "cleaned out"
river gamblers sailed in the hope of recovering at least enough
of their fortunes to enable them to return to more productive fields
down the reaches of the big river. These whilom, undaunted rascals,
like birds of passage, stayed but a short time in the new town of
Lafayette. They came up the river with sadly depleted purses, confident
of "easy pickings" among the vainglorious amateurs, and
be it said in behalf of their astuteness, they seldom if ever boarded
the south-bound boats as poor as when they came.
In due time they invariably returned again to what they called among
themselves "the happy hunting-ground." The stories of
big "winnings" and big "losings" were rife among
the people of the town. More than one adventurous citizen or farmer
had been "wiped out," with no possible chance of ever
recovering from his losses. It was common talk that Barry Lapelle
was "fresh fish" for these birds of prey. He possessed
the gambling instinct but lacked the gambler's wiles. He was reckless
where they were cool. They "stripped" him far oftener
than he won from them, but it was these infrequent winnings that
encouraged him. He believed that some day he would make a big "killing";
the thought of that was ever before him, beckoning him on like the
dancing will-o'-the-wisp. He took no note of the fact that these
bland gentlemen could pocket their losings as well as their winnings.
It was part of their trade to suffer loss. They had everything to
gain and nothing to lose, so they throve on uncertainty.
Not so with Barry, or others of his kind. They could only afford
to win. It was no uncommon experience for the skilled river gambler
to be penniless; it was all in the day's work. It did not hurt him
to lose, for the morrow was ahead. But it was different with his
victims. The morrow was not and never could be the same; when they
were "cleaned out" it meant desolation. They went down
under the weight and never came up, while the real gambler, in similar
case, scraped his sparse resources together and blithely began all
over again,--a smiling loser and a smiling winner. Full purse or
empty, he was always the same. Rich to-day, poor to-morrow,--all
the same to him. Philosopher, rascal, soldier, knave,--but never
the craven,--and you have the Mississippi gambler.
Barry, after coming in from his ride with Viola, had "tipped
the jug" rather liberally. He kept a demi-john of whiskey in
his room at the tavern, and to its contents all the "afflicted"
were welcome. It could not be said of him that he was the principal
consumer, for, except under unusual circumstances, he was a fairly
abstemious man. As he himself declared, he drank sparingly except
when his "soul was tried." The fact that he had taken
several copious draughts of the fiery Mononga-Durkee immediately
upon his return was an indication that his soul was tried, and what
so reasonable as to assume that it had been tried by Viola.
In a different frame of mine, Kenneth might have accepted this as
a most gratifying augury. But, being without hope himself, he took
no comfort in Barry's gloom. What would he not give to be in the
roisterer's boots instead of his own?
The spoken lament had barely passed his lips when the wheel of fate
took a new and unexpected turn, bringing his dolorous meditations
to a sudden halt and subsequently upsetting all his plans.
He thought he was alone in the gloom until he was startled by the
sound of a man's voice almost at his elbow.
"Evenin', Mr. Gwynne."