CHAPTER XIV
A MAN FROM DOWN THE RIVER
Kenneth's first night in the old Gwyn house was an uneasy, restless
one, filled with tormenting doubts as to his strength or even his
willingness to continue the battle against the forces of nature.
Viola's night was also disturbed. Some strange, mysterious instinct
was at work within her, although she was far from being aware of
its significance. She lay awake for a long time thinking of him.
She was puzzled. Over and over again she asked herself why she had
blushed when he looked down at her as she was tying her bonnet-strings,
and why had she felt that queer little thrill of alarm? And why
did he look at her like that? She answered this question by attributing
its curious intensity to a brotherly interest--which was quite natural--and
the awakening of a dutiful affection--but that did not in any sense
account for the blood rushing to her face, so that she must have
reminded him of a "turkey gobbler." She announced to her
mother at breakfast:
"I don't believe I can ever think of Kenny as a brother."
Rachel Gwyn looked up, startled. "What was that you called
him?" she asked.
"Kenny. He has always been called that for short. And somehow,
mother, it sounds familiar to me. Have I ever heard father speak
of him by that name?"
"I--I am sure I do not know," replied her mother uneasily.
"I doubt it. It must be a fancy, Viola."
"I can't get over feeling shy and embarrassed when he looks
at me," mused the girl. "Don't you think it odd? It doesn't
seem natural for a girl to feel that way about a brother."
"It is because you are not used to each other," interrupted
Rachel. "You will get over it in time."
"I suppose so. You are sure you don't mind my going to the
stores with him, mother?"
Her mother arose from the table. There was a suggestion of fatalism
in her reply. "I think I can understand your desire to be with
him." She went to the kitchen window and looked over at the
house next door. "He is out in his back yard now, Viola,"
she said, after a long pause, "all dressed and waiting for
you. You had better get ready."
"It will not hurt him to wait awhile," said Viola perversely.
"In fact, it will do him good. He thinks he is a very high
and mighty person, mother." She glanced at the clock on the
kitchen wall. "I shall keep him waiting for just an hour."
Rachel's strong, firm shoulders drooped a little as she passed into
the sitting-room. She sat down abruptly in one of the stiff rocking-chairs,
and one with sharp ears might have heard her whisper to herself:
"We cannot blindfold the eyes of nature. They see through everything."
It was nine o'clock when Viola stepped out into her front yard,
reticule in hand, and sauntered slowly down the walk, stopping now
and then to inspect some Maytime shoot. He was waiting for her outside
his own gate.
"What a sleepy-head you are," was her greeting as she
came up to him.
"I've been up since six o'clock," he said.
"Then, for goodness' sake, why have you kept me waiting all
this time?"
"My dear Viola, I was not born yesterday, nor yet the day before,"
he announced, with aggravating calmness. "Long before you were
out of short frocks and pantalettes I was a wise old gentleman."
"I don't know just what you mean by that."
"I learned a great many years ago that it is always best to
admit you are in fault when a charming young lady says you are.
If you had kept me waiting till noon I should still consider it
my duty to apologize. Which I now do."
She laughed merrily. "Come along with you. We have much to
do on this fine May day. First, we will go to the hardware store,
saving the queensware store till the last,--like float at the end
of a Sunday dinner."
And so they advanced upon the town, as fine a pair as you would
find in a twelvemonth's search. First she conducted him to Jimmy
Munn's feed and wagon-yard, where he contracted to spend the first
half-dollar of the expedition by engaging Jimmy to haul his purchases
up to the house.
"Put the sideboards on your biggest wagon, Jimmy," was
Viola's order, "and meet us at Hinkle's."
She proved to be a very sweet and delightful autocrat. For three
short and joyous hours she led him from store to store, graciously
leaving to him the privilege of selection but in nine cases out
of ten demonstrating that he was entirely wrong in his choice, always
with the naive remark after the purchase was completed and the money
paid in hand: "Of course, Kenny, if you would rather have the
other, don't for the world let me influence you."
"You know more about it than I do," he would invariably
declare. "What do I know about carpets?"--or whatever
they happened to be considering at the time.
She was greatly dismayed, even appalled, as they wended their way
homeward, followed by the first wagonload of possessions, to find
that he had spent the stupendous, unparalleled sum of two hundred
and forty-two dollars and fifty cents.
"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "We must take a lot of it
back, Kenny. Why didn't you keep track of what you were spending?
Why, that's nearly a fourth of one thousand dollars." He grinned
cheerfully. "And we haven't begun to paint the house yet, or
paper the walls, or set out the flower beds, or--"
"Goodness me!" she cried, aghast. "You are not going
to do all that now, are you?"
"Every bit of it," he affirmed. "I am going to rebuild
the barn, put in a new well, dig a cistern, build a smoke-house,
lay a brick walk down to the front gate and put up a brand new picket
fence--"
"You must be made of money," she cried, eyeing him with
wonder in her big, violet eyes.
"I am richer now than when we started out this morning,"
said he, magnificently.
"When you say things like that, you almost make me wish you
were not my brother," said she, after a moment, and to her
annoyance she felt the blood mount to her face.
"And what would you do if I were not your brother?" he
inquired, looking straight ahead.
Whereupon she laughed unrestrainedly. "You would be dreadfully
shocked if I were to tell you,--but I can't help saying that Barry
would be so jealous he wouldn't know what to do."
"You might find yourself playing with fire."
"Well," she said, flippantly, "I've got over wanting
to play with dolls. Now don't scold me! I can see by your face that
you'd like to shake me good and hard. My, what a frown! I am glad
it isn't January. If your face was to freeze--There! That's better.
I shouldn't mind at all if it froze now. You look much nicer when
you smile, Kenny." Her voice dropped a little and a serious
expression came into her eyes. "I don't believe I ever saw
father smile. But I've seen him when he looked exactly as you did
just then. I--I hope you don't mind my talking that way about your
father, Kenny. I wouldn't if he were not mine as well."
"You knew him far better than I," he reminded her. Then
he added brightly: "I shall try to do better from now on. I'll
smile--if it kills me."
"Don't do that," she protested, with a pretty grimace.
"I've been in mourning for ages, it seems, and I'm sure I should
hate you if you kept me in black for another year or two."
As they parted at Kenneth's gate,--it seemed to be mutely understood
that he was to go no farther,--they observed a tall, black figure
cross the little front porch of the house beyond and disappear through
the door. Kenneth's eyes hardened. The girl, looking up into those
eyes, shook her head and smiled wistfully.
"Will you come over and help me put all these things where
they belong?" he asked, after a moment.
"This afternoon, Kenny?"
"If you haven't anything else you would rather--" he began.
"I can't wait to see how the house will look when we get everything
in place. I will be over right after dinner,--unless mother needs
me for something."
. . . . .
That evening Zachariah was noticeably perturbed. He had prepared
a fine supper, and to his distress it was scarcely touched by his
preoccupied master. Now, Zachariah was proud of his cooking. He
was pleased to call himself, without fear of contradiction, "a
natteral bo'n cook, from de bottom up." Moreover, his master
was a gentleman whose appetite was known to be absolutely reliable;
it could be depended upon at almost any hour of the day or night.
Small wonder then that Zachariah was not only mystified but grieved
as well. He eyed the solemn looking young man with anxiety.
"Ain't yo' all feelin' well, Marse Kenneth?" he inquired,
with a justifiable trace of exasperation in his voice.
"What's that, Zachariah?" asked Kenneth, startled out
of a profound reverie.
"Is dey anything wrong wid dat ham er--"
"It is wonderful, Zachariah. I don't believe I have ever tasted
better ham,--and certainly none so well broiled."
"Ain't--ain't de co'n-bread fitten to eat, suh?"
"Delicious, Zachariah, delicious. You have performed wonders
with the--er--new baking pan and--"
"What's de matteh wid dem b'iled pertaters, suh?"
"Matter with them? Nothing! They are fine."
"Well, den, suh, if dere ain't nothin' de matteh wid de vittels,
dere suttinly mus' be somefin de matteh wid you, Marse Kenneth.
Yo' all ain't etten enough fo' to fill a grasshoppeh."
"I am not hungry," apologized his master, quite humbly.
"'Cause why? Yas, suh,--'cause why?" retorted Zachariah,
exercising a privilege derived from long and faithful service. "'Cause
Miss Viola she done got yo' all bewitched. Can't fool dis yere nigger.
Wha' fo' is yo' all feelin' dis yere way 'bout yo' own sister? Yas,
suh,--Ah done had my eyes open all de time, suh. Yo' all was goin'
'round lookin' like a hongry dog, 'spectin'--Yas, suh! Yas, SUH!
Take plenty, suh, Marse Johnson he say to me, he say, 'Dis yere
sap come right outen de finest maple tree in de State ob Indianny,
day befo' yesterday,' he say. A leetle mo' coffee, suh? Yas, suh!
Das right! Yo' suttinly gwine like dat ham soon as ever yo' get
a piece in yo' mouth,--yas, SUH!"
Kenneth's abstraction was due to the never-vanishing picture of
Viola, the sleeves of her work-dress rolled up to the elbows, her
eyes aglow with enthusiasm, her bonny brown hair done up in careless
coils, her throat bare, her spirits as gay as the song of a roistering
gale. She had come over prepared for toil, an ample apron of blue
gingham shielding her frock, her skirts caught up at the sides,
revealing the bottom of her white petticoat and a glimpse of trim,
shapely ankles.
She directed the placing of all the furniture carried in by the
grunting Jimmy Munn and Zachariah; she put the china safe and pantry
in order; she superintended the erection of the big four poster
bed, measured the windows for the new curtains, issued irrevocable
commands concerning the hanging of several gay English hunting prints
(the actual hanging to be done by Kenneth and his servant in a less
crowded hour,--after supper, she suggested); ordered Zachariah to
remove to the attic such of the discarded articles of furniture
as could be carried up the pole ladder, the remainder to go to the
barn; left instructions not to touch the rolls of carpet until she
could measure and cut them into sections, and then went away with
the promise to return early in the morning not only with shears
and needle but with Hattie as well, to sew and lay the carpets,--a
"Brussels" of bewildering design and an "ingrain"
for the bedroom.
"When you come home from the office at noon, Kenny, don't fail
to bring tacks and a hammer with you," she instructed, as she
fanned her flushed face with her apron.
"But I am not going to the office," he expostulated. "I
have too much to see to here."
"It isn't customary for the man of the house to be anywhere
around at a time like this," she informed him, firmly. "Besides
you ought to be down town looking for customers. How do you know
that some one may not be in a great hurry for a lawyer and you not
there to--"
"There are plenty of other lawyers if one is needed in a hurry,"
he protested. "And what's more, I can't begin to practise law
in this State without going through certain formalities. You don't
understand all these things, Viola."
"Perhaps not," she admitted calmly; "but I do understand
moving and house-cleaning, and I know that a man is generally in
the way at such times. Oh, don't look so hurt. You have been fine
this afternoon. I don't know how I should have got along without
you. But to-morrow it will be different. Hattie and I will be busy
sewing carpets and--and--well, you really will not be of any use
at all, Kenny. So please stay away."
He was sorely disgruntled at the time and so disconsolate later
on that it required Zachariah's startling comment to lift him out
of the slough of despond. Spurred by the desire to convince his
servant that his speculations were groundless, he made a great to-do
over the imposed task of hanging the pictures, jesting merrily about
the possibility of their heads being snapped off by Mistress Viola
if she popped in the next morning to find that they had bungled
the job.
Four or five days passed, each with its measure of bitter and sweet.
By the end of the week the carpets were down and the house in perfect
order. He invited her over for Sunday dinner. A pained, embarrassed
look came into her eyes.
"I was afraid you would ask me to come," she said gently.
"I don't think it would be right or fair for me to accept your
hospitality. Wait! I know what you are going to say. But it isn't
quite the same, you see. Mother has been very kind and generous
about letting me come over to help you with the house,--and I suppose
she would not object if I were to come as your guest at dinner,--but
I have a feeling in here somewhere that it would hurt her if I came
here as your guest. So I sha'n't come. You understand, don't you?"
"Yes," he said gravely,--and reluctantly. "I understand,
Viola."
Earlier in the week he had ridden out to Isaac Stain's. The hunter
had no additional news to give him, except that Barry, after spending
a day with Martin Hawk, had gone down to Attica by flat-boat and
was expected to return to Lafayette on the packet Paul Revere, due
on Monday or Tuesday.
Lapelle's extended absence from the town was full of meaning. Stain
advanced the opinion that he had gone down the river for the purpose
of seeing a Williamsport justice of the peace whose record was none
too good and who could be depended upon to perform the contemplated
marriage ceremony without compunction if his "palm was satisfactorily
greased."
"If we could only obtain some clear and definite idea as to
their manner of carrying out this plan," said Kenneth, "I
would be the happiest man on earth. But we will be compelled to
work in the dark,--simply waiting for them to act."
"Well, Moll Hawk hain't been able to find out just yet when
er how they're goin' to do it," said Stain. "All she knows
is that two or three men air comin' up from Attica on the Paul Revere
and air goin' to get off the boat when it reaches her pa's place.
Like as not this scalawag of a justice will be one of 'em, but that's
guesswork. That reminds me to ask, did you ever run acrosst a feller
in the town you come from named Jasper Suggs?"
"Jasper Suggs? I don't recall the name."
"Well, she says this feller Suggs that's been stayin' at Martin's
cabin fer a week er two claims to have lived there some twenty odd
years ago. Guess you must ha' been too small to recollect him. She
says he sort of brags about bein' a renegade durin' the war an'
fightin' on the side of the Injins up along the Lakes. He's a nasty
customer, she says. Claims to be a relation of old Simon Girty's,--nephew
er something like that."
"Does he claim to have known any of my family down there?"
inquired Kenneth, apprehensively.
"From what Moll says he must have knowed your pa. Leastwise,
he says the name's familiar. He was sayin' only a day or two ago
that he'd like to see a picter of your pa. He'd know if it was the
same feller he used to know soon as he laid eyes on it."
Kenneth pondered a moment and then said: "Do you suppose you
could get a letter to Moll Hawk if I were to write it, Stain?"
"I could," said the other, "but it wouldn't do any
good. She cain't read er write. Besides, if I was you, I wouldn't
risk anything like that. It might fall into Hawk's hands, and the
fust thing he would do would be to turn it over to Lapelle,--'cause
Martin cain't read himself."
"I was only wondering if she could find out a little more about
this man Suggs,--just when he lived there and--and all that."
"He's purty close-mouthed, she says. Got to be, I reckon. He
fell in with Martin ten er twelve years ago, an' there was a price
on his head then. Martin hid him for awhile an' helped him to git
safe away. Like as not Suggs ain't his real name anyhow."
Kenneth was a long time in deciding to speak to Rachel Gwyn about
the man Suggs. He found an opportunity to accost her on the day
that the Paul Revere came puffing up to the little log-built landing
near the ferry. Viola had left the house upon learning that the
boat had turned the bend in the river two or three miles below town,
and had made no secret of her intention to greet Lapelle when he
came ashore. This was Gwynne's first intimation that she was aware
of her lover's plan to return by the Paul Revere. He was distinctly
annoyed by the discovery.
Rachel was in her back yard, feeding the chickens, when he came
up to the fence and waited for her to look in his direction. All
week,--in fact, ever since he had come up there to live,--he had
been uncomfortably conscious of peering eyes behind the curtains
in the parlor window. Time and again he had observed a slight flutter
when he chanced to glance that way, as of a sudden release of the
curtains held slightly apart by one who furtively watched from within.
On the other hand, she never so much as looked toward his house
when she was out in her own yard or while passing by on the road.
Always she was the straight, stern, unfriendly figure in black,
wrapped in her own thoughts, apparently ignorant of all that went
on about her.
She turned at last and saw him standing there.
"May I have a word with you?" he said.
She did not move nor did she speak for many seconds, but stood staring
hard at him from the shade of her deep black bonnet.
"What is it you want, Kenneth Gwynne?"
"No favour, you may be sure, Rachel Carter."
She seemed to wince a little. After a moment's hesitation, she walked
slowly over to the fence and faced him.
"Well?" she said curtly.
"Do you remember a man at home named Jasper Suggs?"
"Are you speaking of my old home in Salem or of--of another
place?"
"The place where I was born," he said, succinctly.
"I have never heard the name before," she said. "Why
do you ask?"
"There is a man in this neighbourhood,--a rascal, I am told,--who
says he lived there twenty years ago."
She eyed him narrowly. "Well,--go on! What has he to say about
me?"
"Nothing, so far as I know. I have not talked with him. It
came to me in a roundabout way. He is staying with a man named Hawk,
down near the Wea." "He keeps pretty company," was
all she said in response to this.
"I have been told that he would like to see a daguerreotype
of my father some time, just to make sure whether he was the Gwynne
he used to know."
"Has he ever seen you, Kenneth Gwynne?" She appeared to
be absolutely unconcerned.
"No."
"One look at you would be sufficient," she said. "If
you are both so curious, why not arrange a meeting?"
"I am in no way concerned," he retorted. "On the
other hand, I should think you would be vitally interested, Rachel
Carter. If he knew my father, he certainly must have known you."
"Very likely. What would you have me do?" she went on
ironically. "Go to him and beg him to be merciful? Or, if it
comes to the worst, hire some one to assassinate him?"
"I am not thinking of your peace of mind. I am thinking of
Viola's. We have agreed, you and I, to spare her the knowledge of--"
"Quite true," she interrupted. "You and I have agreed
upon that, but there it ends. We cannot include the rest of the
world. Chance sends this man, whoever he may be, to this country.
I must likewise depend upon Chance to escape the harm he may be
in a position to do me. Is it not possible that he may have left
before I came there to live? That chance remains, doesn't it?"
"Yes," he admitted. "It is possible. I can tell you
something about him. He is related to Simon Girty, and he was a
renegade who fought with the Indians up north during the war. Does
that throw any light upon his identity?"
"He says his name is Suggs?" she inquired.
He was rewarded by a sharp catch in her breath and a passing flicker
of her eyes.
"Jasper Suggs."
She was silent for a moment. "I know him," she said calmly.
"His name is Simon Braley. At any rate, there was a connection
of Girty's who went by that name and who lived down there on the
river for a year or two. He killed the man he was working for and
escaped. That was before I--before I left the place. I don't believe
he ever dared to go back. So, you see, Chance favours us again,
Kenneth Gwynne."
"You forget that he will no doubt remember you as Rachel Carter.
He will also remember that you had a little girl."
"Let me remind you that I remember the cold-blooded murder
of John Hendricks and that nobody has been hung for it yet,"
she said. "My memory is as good as his if it should come to
pass that we are forced to exchange compliments. Thank you for the
information. The sheriff of this county is a friend of mine. He
will be pleased to know that Simon Braley, murderer and renegade,
is in his bailiwick. From what I know of Simon Girty's nephew, he
is not the kind of man who will be taken alive."
He started. "You mean,--that you will send the sheriff out
to arrest him?"
She shook her head. "Not exactly," she replied. "Did
you not hear me say that Simon Braley would never be taken alive?"
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him to stare after
her until she entered the kitchen door. He was conscious of a sense
of horror that began to send a chill through his veins.