Part 20 (1/2)

In far separated cabins, held in the quarantine of mired roads, men and women have lived, from hand to mouth, sinking into a dour and melancholy apathy.

But when Spring comes, the gray and chocolate humps of raggedness are softly veiled again with tender verdure and a song runs with the caress of the breeze. It is a song relayed on the throats of birds. The color of new flower and leaf and of skies washed clean of brooding finds an echo in man and womankind. When the dogwood blossom, everywhere, breaks into white foam upon the soft billows of woodland green, and the sap stirs--then the old and crabbed bitterness of life stands aside for the coming of Love.

If one be young and free, one feels, admittedly or subconsciously, the deep tides that sing to sentiment and the undertows that pull to pa.s.sion.

About the lonely house of Alexander McGivins the woods were burgeoning and tuneful. Stark contours of landscape had become lovely and Alexander, preparing for the activities of ”drappin' and kiverin'” in the steep corn-fields, felt the surge of vague influences in her bosom.

Joe McGivins had carried a stricken face since Old Aaron's death. He looked to his sister, as he had looked to his father, for direction and guidance and though he worked it was as a hired man might have worked, patiently rather than keenly and without initiative.

But keeping busy failed to comfort the empty ache in Alexander's heart because in the grave over yonder lay all that had filled her world, and though she would have fought the man who suggested it, there were times when her lovely lips fell into lines of irony, and when she half-consciously felt that her playing at being a man had been a bitter and empty jest. She had only forfeited her woman's rights in life, and had failed to gain the compensation of man's.

Once or twice when on the high road, she pa.s.sed youthful couples, love-engrossed, she went on with a wistfulness in her eyes. For such as these, life held something, but for her, she was sure in her obduracy of inexperience, there was no objective.

If the truth be told, the ”spring-tide” was welling in the channels of her being, as well as in the rivulets of the hills, and the changes that had come to her were near to bearing fruit.

That s.p.a.ce of little more than a week, when she had left her home--a home which had also been a world with its own laws and environment--had brought her into contact with other views. Her father's death had left the house no longer the same. Two independent souls, with strong views, may succeed in fas.h.i.+oning their own world, and she and her father had been two such.

One left unsupported may fail, and now she was alone--for Joe hardly counted.

Ever since she had been old enough to think at all, she had been inordinately proud of ”being a man,” and profoundly contemptuous of the women about her whose colorless lives spelled thraldom and hard servitude.

That long fostered and pa.s.sionately held creed would die hard. She would fight herself and whomsoever else challenged its acceptance--but insidious doubts were a.s.sailing her.

So to all outward seeming Alexander McGivins was more the ”he-woman”

than ever before, but in her inner heart the leaven of change was at its yeasty work.

”I've got ter be a man,” she told Joe, who mildly objected, even while he leaned on her strength. ”Now thet paw's gone, I hev greater need then ever ter stand squ'ar on my own two feet.”

The youth nodded. ”I reckon ye're right,” he acknowledged, ”but folks talks a heap. I'm always figgerin' thet I'm goin' ter hev ter lick somebody erbout ye. I wouldn't suffer n.o.body ter speak ill of ye when I war present.”

Alexander looked steadily at the boy. ”I'm obleeged ter ye, but I'll do my own fightin', Joe,” she told him calmly. ”I'll even make s.h.i.+ft ter do some o' your'n, an' yit----” She paused a moment and he inquired, ”Wa'al, what's on yore mind, Alexander?”

”An' yit,” she went on more slowly and thoughtfully, ”I'd be mighty nigh willin' ter prove ther cause of ye gittin' in one or two good fights--ef hit couldn't be brought ter pa.s.s no other way.”

”Paw always counseled peace, ef a feller warn't pushed too fur,” he alleged in defense of his pacific att.i.tude.

”So does I. But Joe, hit's jest on yore own account thet I'd like ter see ye show more sperit. Folks talks erbout _you_ too. I know what blood ye've got, commandin' blood--an' ef ye got roused up onc't hit'd mek a more upstandin' man of ye. I knows. .h.i.t's a lie, but I've heered ye called ther disablest feller on Shoulder-blade!”

A touch of contempt stole into her voice as she added, ”An' yore paw's only son!”

He went away somewhat sulkily, but she had ignited in him a spark of needed torture. Bred of a fighting line, the acid of self-scorn began eating into his pride, and when a few days later he halted at a wayside smithy, which was really only a ”blind-tiger,” and came upon a drinking crowd, the ferment of his thoughts developed into action.

Sol Breck was sitting with his back turned as the boy strolled in and it chanced that he was talking about Alexander. The girl herself with her square sense of justice, would have recognized his comments as crude jesting and would have pa.s.sed them by unresented.

But Joe had been bitterly accusing himself of timidity and he needed sustenance for his waning faith in his own temerity. It was characteristic of him that he should pick an easy beginning, as a timid swimmer seeks proficiency in shallow water. Sol Breck had the unenviable reputation of one who never declined battle--and never emerged from one crowned with victory. Joe hurled at him the challenge of the fighting epithet and after a brief but animated combat had him down and defeated. Then he returned home with a swelling breast, and just enough marks of conflict upon his own person to bear out his report of counsel heeded and resolution put to the touch.

Alexander listened without interruption to the end, for Joe had told her all but the name of his adversary and the exact words that had precipitated battle.

But when the narrative came to its conclusion she inquired quietly, ”What did he say erbout me?”

”Oh, hit wasn't so much what he said es ther way he said hit,” was Joe's somewhat shame-faced reply. ”Ef hit hed been erbout any other gal, I reckon I mout of looked over it.”