Part 12 (1/2)
”Well, well, well!” exclaimed the old man, fumbling feebly in his pockets for his red bandanna handkerchief, ”what kind of a come-off is this? Did you ast him to stay to dinner, honey?”
”No--no; he didn't gimme a chance.”
”I 'lowed you didn't,” exclaimed Grandsir Hightower triumphantly. ”I thes natchally 'lowed you didn't. That's what riled 'im. An' now he'll go off an' vilify you. Well, well, well! he's missed his dinner! The fust time in many's the long day. Watch 'im, Babe! Watch 'im, honey! The Ole Boy's in 'im. I know 'im; I've kep' my two eyes on 'im. For a mess er turnip-greens an' dumperlin's that man 'u'd do murder.” The old man paused and looked all around, as if by that means to dissipate a suspicion that he was dreaming. ”An' so Tuck missed his dinner! Tooby sh.o.r.e--tooby sh.o.r.e!”
”Oh, hit ain't that,” cried Babe; ”he's jealous of Cap'n Chichester.”
”Why, the good Lord, honey! what makes you run on that way?”
”He tol' me so,” said Babe.
”Jealous!” exclaimed Grandsir Hightower, ”jealous er that young feller!
Merciful powers, honey! he's a-begrudgin' 'im the vittles what he eats.
I know'd it the minnit I seed 'im come a-sa'nterin' in the yard. Lord, Lord! I wish in my soul the poor creetur could git a chance at one er them ar big Whig barbecues what they useter have.”
But there was small consolation in all this for Babe; and she went into the house, where her forlorn appearance attracted the attention of her mother. ”Why, Babe! what in the worl'!” exclaimed this practical woman, dropping her work in amazement. ”What in the name er sense ails you?”
Babe had no hesitation in telling her mother the facts.
”Well, my goodness!” was Mrs. Hightower's comment, ”I wouldn't go aroun'
whinin' about it, ef I wuz you--that I wouldn't. n.o.body never ketched me whinin' 'roun' atter your pappy 'fore we wuz married, an' he wuz lots purtier than what Tuck Peevy is. When your pappy got tetchy, I thes says to myself, s'I: 'Ef I'm wuth havin', I'm wuth scramblin' atter;' an' ef your pappy hadn't 'a' scrambled an' scuffled 'roun' he wouldn't 'a' got me nuther, ef I do up an' say it myself. I'd a heap druther see you fillin' them slays an' a-fixin' up for to weave your pappy some s.h.i.+rts, than to see you a-whinin' 'roun' atter any chap on the top side er the yeth, let 'lone Tuck Peevy.”
There was little consolation even in this, but Babe went about her simple duties with some show of spirit; and when her father and Chichester returned from their trip on Sweet.w.a.ter, it would have required a sharp eye to discover that Babe regarded herself as ”wearing the green willow.” For a few days she avoided Chichester, as if to prove her loyalty to Peevy; but as Peevy was not present to approve her conduct or to take advantage of it, she soon grew tired of playing an unnecessary part. Peevy persisted in staying away; and the result was that Babe's anger--a healthy quality in a young girl--got the better of her grief. Then wonder took the place of anger; but behind it all was the hope that before many days Peevy would saunter into the house, armed with his inscrutable smile, and inquire, as he had done a hundred times before, how long before dinner would be ready. This theory was held by Grandsir Hightower, but, as it was a very plausible one, Babe adopted it as her own.
Meanwhile, it is not to be supposed that two lovers, one sulking and the other sighing, had any influence on the season. The spring had made some delay in the valley before taking complete possession of the mountain, but this delay was not significant. Even on the mountain, the days began to suggest the ardor of summer. The air was alternately warm and hazy, and crisp and clear. One day Kenesaw would cast aside its atmospheric trappings, and appear to lie within speaking distance of Hightower's door; the next, it would withdraw behind its blue veil, and seem far enough away to belong to another world. On Hightower's farm the corn was high enough to whet its green sabres against the wind. One evening Chichester, Hightower, and Babe sat on the little porch with their faces turned toward Kenesaw. They had been watching a line of blue smoke on the mountain in the distance; and, as the twilight deepened into dusk, they saw that the summit of Kenesaw was crowned by a thin fringe of fire. As the darkness gathered, the bright belt of flame projected against the vast expanse of night seemed to belong to the vision of St. John.
”It looks like a picture out of the Bible,” suggested Chichester somewhat vaguely.
”It's wuss'n that, I reckon,” said Abe. ”Some un's a-losin' a mighty sight of fencin'; an' timber's timber these days, lemme tell you.”
”Maybe someun's a-burnin' bresh,” said Babe.
”Bless you! they don't pile bresh in a streak a mile long,” said Abe.
The thin line of fire crept along slowly, and the people on the little porch sat and watched it. Occasionally it would crawl to the top of a dead pine, and leave a fiery signal flaming in the air.
”What is the matter with Peevy?” asked Chichester. ”I met him on the mountain the other day, and he seemed not to know me.”
”He don't know anybody aroun' here,” said Babe with a sigh.
”Hit's thes some er his an' Babe's capers,” Hightower remarked with a laugh. ”They er bin a-cuttin' up this away now gwine on two year'. I reckon ag'in' camp-meetin' time Tuck'll drap in an' make hisself know'd.
Gals and boys is mighty funny wi' the'r gwines-on.”
After a little, Abe went into the house, and left the young people to watch the fiery procession on Kenesaw.
”The next time I see Peevy,” said Chichester gallantly, ”I'll take him by the sleeve, and show him the road to Beauty's bower.”
”Well, you nee'nter pester wi' 'im on account of me,” said Babe.
Chichester laughed. The fact that so handsome a girl as Babe should deliberately fall in love with so lank and ungainly a person as Tuck Peevy seemed to him to be one of the problems that philosophers ought to concern themselves with; but, from his point of view, the fact that Babe had not gradually faded away, according to the approved rules of romance, was entirely creditable to human nature on the mountain. A candle, burning in the room that Chichester occupied, shone through the window faintly, and fell on Babe, while Chichester sat in the shadow. As they were talking, a mocking-bird in the apple trees awoke, and poured into the ear of night a flood of delicious melody. Hearing this, Babe seized Chichester's hat, and placed it on her head.