University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

About a mile from the farm-house, at the same hour,
and coming towards it, a stout lad of sixteen years
trudged along beside his ox-team, bending low his head
to shield it in some measure from the eddying whirls
of sand dashed into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and
almost through his very skin by the keen north-east wind
that came sweeping down the gorges of the Alleghany
Mountains, driving every drifting thing before it.

Tom Darley — for it was he — stopped and turned his
back for a moment, and while he wiped his eyes upon
the sleeve of his blue frock, said aloud, —

“Pesky wind! Any one might know it came from
Yankee land, it's so mean and ugly.”

Then, somewhat comforted by this expression of his
feelings, he ran a few steps to overtake the oxen, and
walked along at their heads, whistling “Dixie,” while
the wind, shrilly piping a sort of gigantic Yankee Doodle,
seemed defying the boy to an unequal contest.

Presently, the road, after skirting a high hill, the lowest
step, in fact, of the mountain range, entered a little

wood, whose close-set evergreen trees made a very effectual
barrier to the sweep of the wind.

Once more Tom paused to draw his breath and wipe
his eyes, and was again moving on, when a little figure
suddenly dropped down beside him, from the crest of a
huge bowlder at the road-side.

Tom started back in considerable alarm. His first
impression was of a panther or wildcat. In the next
moment he perceived who it really was, and exclaimed, —

“Hallo, Do, is that you? How came you here, and
what makes you jump out on a fellow that way?”

“I came to meet you, Tom,” said Dora, putting her
hand caressingly upon his arm.

Such a movement was so unusual in the undemonstrative
girl, that her brother looked down at her in some
surprise.

“What's the matter then? You've been crying —
haven't you, little goose?” asked he, with rough kindness.

“O, Tom, there's a horrid time at home,” burst out
Dora, and then stopped with her lips close shut together
to keep down the rising sob; for whatever Tom might
suspect, Dora would have suffered almost anything before
she would have let him see her cry.

“What's up now?” asked Tom, anxiously.

“Mother's worse. We've had the doctor!”

“That's too bad. I'm real sorry, I do declare,” said

the boy in awkward sorrow. “How did you come to
leave her, Dora?”

“Aunt Wilson's with her, and she sent me away. She
told me to come and meet you. I reckon she wanted to
talk to aunt.”

The brother and sister walked on in silence for a little
while. Then Dora said, mysteriously, —

“And Picter's gone. Dear old Uncle Pic — we shan't
have him to play with us ever again.”

“Picter gone! Where's he gone?” asked Tom,
wonderingly.

“Mother gave him leave to go, only you mustn't say
anything about it to father.”

“Gave him leave to run away?”

“Yes, for fear of father.”

“Come, Dora, begin at the beginning, and tell me your
story. I can't make anything of it this way.”

So Dora did as she was bidden, and in a brief, distinct
manner related all the events of the day. The only thing
she omitted to mention was the refuge of Picter and the
captain. This she concealed, partly because the cave was
Picter's secret, partly because she did not quite trust
Tom's sympathy with the fugitives, and his first words
gave her reason to congratulate herself on her prudence.

“I wish I had been about home this morning,” said
Tom, bringing down his ox-goad upon poor Bright's
neck.

“Why, Tom?”

“I guess that fellow wouldn't have got off so nicely.”

“You wouldn't have tried to give him up to be put in
jail and kept ever so many years, perhaps, and his wound
never even washed — would you, Tom?” asked Dora,
indignantly.

“Of course I would. Ain't he a Yankee? and ain't
the Yankees trying all they can to shut our men up in
their prisons, or kill them outright? or if they don't do
either of those, to make slaves of us here at home?”

“I don't believe it, Tom, and I don't believe you know
better than mother about it. And she did all she could
for the Yankee captain.”

“Mother's a first-rate woman, Dora, and I'll lick any
fellow that says there's a better inside the state line; but,
Do, she's a woman, and women don't know about these
things, same as men do.”

“How is it with boys?” asked Dora, slyly.

“The boys hear the men talk, and they learn the right
thing. But women only think about one thing at a
time; and if a man has curly hair and a cut on his head,
they'll do the same by him as they would by their own
brothers, and never remember that this very fellow
they're nursing and cuddling up has come here on purpose
to kill their brothers.”

“Well, you won't try to get them taken again — will
you, Tom? You know I told you for a secret.”

Tom walked silently on for a while, whistling to himself,
and examining the end of his goad; at last he said,
rather surlily,—

“No, I don't know as I shall, now that mother has
helped them off. But if I'd got sight of that fellow this
morning—”

“Never mind what you would have done if something
had happened that didn't happen. You've promised not
to tell, and that's all.”

“No, I didn't promise not to tell. I said I wouldn't
try to have them caught. But if father asks me if I
know anything about it, I ain't going to lie, and say I
don't.”

“No, of course you can't,” said Dora, sadly.

“Besides, I think father'd ought to know about Pic,”
continued Tom. “Mother's had her way, and given him
his liberty, right or wrong, and I think father had at
least ought to be told how he's gone.”

“Do you?” asked Dora, thoughtfully.

“Of course I do. But I ain't a telltale, nor I don't
want to get mother and you into trouble. So I shan't
say anything if I can help it, and maybe mother will
make up her mind to tell for herself. I'd be glad if she
would.”

“Perhaps she will; but she can tell best whether she
ought to or not.”

To this the young advocate of male supremacy made
no reply, and presently Dora said, —

“At any rate, you can't tell where they're gone, because
you don't know.”

“That's so,” said Tom; “and I wouldn't advise you
to tell me.”

“I ain't going to,” returned Dora, shrewdly. “But
here we are at home, and I must run in to get supper
ready. Come in as quick as you can.”

“As quick as I've put up the cattle and given them
their supper. After that I've got to milk, I suppose.
You see I shall have to do Picter's work now, besides
my own.”

“I'll help you all I can,” said Dora, gayly, as she ran
into the house. But she smiled no longer, when, on entering
the house, she found her father still seated by the
fireplace, his face buried in his hands, while her aunt
moved about the kitchen with noisy efforts at quiet, making
preparation for supper.

“Well, child,” began she, when Dora appeared, “you
seem to take it easy, any way. Where've you been
trapsing, I'd like to know, and who'd ye think was doing
up your work for ye?”

“Mother told me to go and meet Tom, and I've been,”
said Dora, quietly. “And you needn't have done anything
about supper, aunt; I shall have it all ready at
six o'clock.”

“Massy! How peart we be!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson.
“You know a heap more than ever your granny
did — don't ye, child?”

To this address Dora made no reply, but went steadily
about her preparations for supper, quietly undoing, as she
proceeded, nearly everything her aunt had done.

Mrs. Wilson, after grimly watching her a few moments,
went and sat down by her brother.

“John,” began she, in the whining and high-pitched
voice many persons seem to consider essential to the
proper treatment of mournful or religious subjects, —
“John, I suppose you know there's a awful visitation
a hanging over ye. Mary ain't no better than a dead
woman, and I shouldn't wonder a mite if she was took
afore another morning.”

Mr. Darley groaned aloud.

“Yes, I know it's awful,” recommenced his comforter,
“to be took right out o' your warm bed as it
might be, and buried up in the cold ground. It makes
a body's flesh creep to think on't; now don't it? But
then it's what we've all got to come to. There ain't no
gittin' red on't, do what you will. It's her turn to-day,
and it may be your'n or mine to-morrow. It's an
awful judgment, sartain.”

During this speech Dora had stood motionless, her
eyes fixed, half in horror, half in surprise, upon her aunt's
face. When she had done, she came up to her father,
and putting her arms about his neck, said softly, —

“It won't be mother that will die and be buried up in
the ground, father dear. It will only just be her body,

and her soul is going to live in heaven with Jesus. And
if we do just as well as ever we can, we shall go there
too, when God is willing to let us, and perhaps see her
again.”

“Child, who told you this?” asked the father, hoarsely.

“Mother told me; and it is all true, every word of
it, for she read it out of the Bible to me,” said Dora,
triumphantly.

Mr. Darley, without uncovering his face, laid one arm
about the child's waist. It was the first time that Dora
remembered such an act; for besides her own shy and
reserved habits, she had for a year or two plainly shown
by manner, if not by words, her shame and indignation
at her father's intemperate and violent habits.

Occasionally, too, he had ill-treated her mother, when
angry and intoxicated; and this was something that Dora
could scarcely endure in silence. Mr. Darley had seen
and resented this silent protest on the part of his own
child, and after a while the father and daughter had
come to have as little as possible to do with each other.

Now, however, all this was forgotten in the common
sorrow that had fallen upon them; and as Dora felt her
father's arm about her waist, she drew his head upon her
bosom, and kissed his forehead.

Mrs. Wilson's harsh voice indignantly interposed.

“Well, brother, I must say, if you're going to let a
saucy young one like that teach you religion, you're a

bigger fool than I take you for. My sakes! I'd like to
catch one of my gals speaking up to me the way she's
done ever since I stepped my foot inside o' that door.
She's reg'lar spilte, that child is; an' I guess you'll find
your hands full when you come to have her on 'em all
alone.”

At this moment the feeble voice of the invalid was
heard calling Dora, and the child sprang away to obey
the summons.