The ReCreation of Brian Kent

H >> Harold Bell Wright >> The ReCreation of Brian Kent


Brian, with his eyes fixed on the widening cut at the base of the tree,
did not notice the girl, who stood watching him. She was smiling to
herself at his ignorance of her presence and in anticipation of the
moment when he should discover her, and there was in her eyes a look of
wholesome womanly admiration for the man who swung his ax with such easy
strength. In truth, Brian Kent at his woodman's labor made a picture not
at all unattractive.

Swiftly, the cut in the tree-trunk widened as the ax bit deeply at every
skilful stroke, and the chips flew about the chopper's feet. The acrid
odor of the freshly cut oak mingled with the woodland perfume. The
sun warmly flooded the clearing with its golden light, and, splashing
through the openings in the forest foliage, formed pools of yellow
beauty amid the dark, rich green of the shadowy undergrowth. The air was
filled with the sense of life, vital and real, and strong and beautiful.

And the young woman, as she stood smiling there, was keenly conscious
of it all. Most of all, perhaps, Betty Jo was conscious of the man, who
worked with such vigor at his manly task.

Slowly, accurately, the bright ax sank deeper and deeper into the heart
of the tree. The chips increased in scattered profusion. And then, as
Betty Jo watched, the swinging ax cut through the last fibre of the
tree's strength, and the leafy top swayed gently toward its fall. Almost
imperceptibly, at first, it moved while Betty Jo watched breathlessly.
Brian swung his ax with increasing vigor, now, while the wood, still
remaining, cracked and snapped as the weight of the tree completed the
work of the chopper. Faster and faster the towering mass of foliage
swung in a wide graceful arc toward the ground. The man with the ax
stepped back, his eyes fixed on the falling tree as, with swiftly
increasing momentum, its great weight swept swiftly downward to its
crashing end.

Betty Jo clapped her hands in triumph; and Brian, turning, saw her
standing there. His face was flushed and glistening with perspiration;
his broad chest heaved with the deep breathing gained by his exertion,
and his eyes shone with the gladness of her presence.

"You are early, to-day!" he cried. "Have you finished? Is it actually
completed?"

"All finished," she returned; and, going to the fallen tree, she put her
hands curiously on the trunk, which lay a little higher than her waist.
"Help me up," she commanded.

Brian set his ax against the stump, and, laughingly, lifted her to the
seat she desired. Then he stood watching her face as she surveyed the
tangled mass of branches.

"It looks so strange from here, doesn't it?" she said.

"Yes; and I confess I don't like to see it that way;" he returned. "I
wish they didn't have to be cut. I feel like a murderer,--every one I
fall."

She looked down into his eyes, as she returned: "I know you must. YOU
would, of course. But, after all, it has to be, and I don't suppose the
tree minds so much, do you?"

"No; I don't suppose it feels it much." He laughed, and, throwing aside
his hat, he ran his fingers through his tumbled hair for all the world
like a schoolboy confused by being caught in some sentimental situation
which he finds not only embarrassing, but puzzling as well.

"I like you for feeling that way about it, though," Betty Jo confessed
with characteristic frankness. "And I am sure it must be a very good
thing for the world that every one is not so intensely practical that
they can chop down trees without a pang. And that reminds me: Speaking
of the practical, now that the book is finished, what are we going to do
with it?"

"Send it to some publisher, I suppose," answered Brian, soberly; "and
then, when they have returned it, send it to some other publisher."

"Have you any particular publisher to whom you will send it first?" she
asked.

"They are all alike, so far as my experience goes," he returned.

"I suppose it would be best if you could take your book East, and
interview the publishers personally, don't you think?"

Brian shook his head: "I am not sure that it would make any difference,
and, in any case, I couldn't do it."

"I know," said Betty Jo, "and that is what I wanted to get at. Why don't
you appoint me your agent, and let me take your book East, and make the
publishing arrangements for you?"

Brian looked at her with such delighted surprise that Betty Jo smiled
back at him well pleased.

"Would you really do it?" he demanded, as though he feared she was
jesting.

"You are sure that you don't mean 'COULD I do it'?"--she
returned,--"sure you could trust me?"

To which Brian answered enthusiastically: "You could do anything! If you
undertake the job of landing a publisher for my stuff, it is as good as
done."

"Thank you," she said, jumping down from the tree-trunk. "Now that we
have settled it, let us go to the house and tell Auntie Sue, and I will
start in the morning."

As they went down the hill, they discussed the matter further, and,
later, at the house, Brian took a moment, when Auntie Sue was in her
room, to hand an envelope to his assistant. "Your salary," he said,
hurriedly, "and expense money for the trip."

"Oh!" Betty Jo's exclamation was one of surprise. Then she said, in
her most matter-of-fact, businesslike tone: "Thank you. I will render a
statement of my account, but--" For once, Betty Jo seemed at a loss for
words. "You don't mind if I ask--is--is this money--?"

Brian's face was a study. "Yes," he said, "it is really Auntie Sue's
money; but it is all I have, and I can't return it to her--without her
knowing--so I--"

Betty Jo interrupted: "I understand. It is all we can do,--forgive me?"

Brian Kent did not know that Betty Jo, a few minutes later, buried the
envelope he had given her deep in the bottom of her trunk without even
opening it.

The next day, Brian drove to Thompsonville with Betty Jo, who took the
noon train for the East.

The two were rather quiet as "Old Prince" jogged soberly along the
beautiful river road. Only now and then did they exchange a few words of
the most commonplace observation.

They were within sight of the little Ozark settlement when Brian said,
earnestly: "I wish I could tell you, Miss Williams, just what your
coming to help me with this work has meant to me."

"It has meant a great deal to me, too, Mr. Burns," she returned.
Then she added quickly: "I suppose the first real work one does after
finishing school always means more than any position following could
possibly mean, don't you think? Just like your book. No matter how many
you may write in the future, this will always mean more to you than any
one of them."

"Yes," he said slowly. "This book will always mean more to me than all
the others I may write."

For a moment their eyes met with unwavering frankness. Then Betty Jo
turned her face away, and Brian stiffened his shoulders, and sat a
little straighter in the seat beside her. That was all.

Very brave they were at the depot purchasing Betty Jo's ticket and
checking her trunk. With brave commonplaces they said good-bye when the
train pulled in. Bravely she waved at him from the open window of the
coach. And bravely Brian stood there watching until the train rounded
the curve and disappeared from sight between the hills.

The world through which Brian Kent drove that afternoon on his way back
to Auntie Sue and Judy in the little log house by the river was a very
dull and uninteresting world indeed. All its brightness and its beauty
seemed suddenly to have vanished. And as "Old Prince" jogged patiently
on his way, sleepily content with thoughts of his evening meal of hay
and grain, the man's mind was disturbed with thoughts which he dared not
own even to his innermost self.

"Circumstances to a man," Auntie Sue had said, "always meant a woman."
And Brian Kent, while he never under any pressure would have admitted
it, knew within his deepest self that it was a woman who had set him
adrift on the dark river that dreadful night when he had cursed the
world which he thought he was leaving forever.

"Circumstances" in the person of Auntie Sue had saved him from
destruction, and, in the little log house by the river, had brought
about his Re-Creation.

And then, when that revelation of his crime toward Auntie Sue had
come, and the labor of months, with all that it implied of the enduring
salvation of himself and the happiness of Auntie Sue, hung wavering in
the balance, it was the "Circumstances" of Betty Jo's coming that had
set him in the right current of action again.

What waited for him around the next bend in the river, Brian
wondered,--calm and peaceful waters, with gently flowing currents, or
the wild tumult of dangerous rapids wherein he would be forced to fight
for his very existence? Would Betty Jo succeed as his agent to the
publishers? If she did succeed in finding a publisher to accept
his book, would the reading public receive his message? And if
that followed, what then? When Betty Jo's mission in the East was
accomplished, she was to return to Auntie Sue for the summer. Then--?

"Old Prince," of his own accord, was turning in at the gate, and Brian
awoke from his abstraction to see Auntie Sue and Judy waiting for him.

All during the evening meal and while he sat with Auntie Sue on the
porch overlooking the river, as their custom was, Brian was preoccupied
and silent; while his companion, with the wisdom of her seventy years,
did not force the conversation.

It was the time of the full moon, and when Auntie Sue at last bade him
good-night, Brian, saying that the evening was too lovely to waste in
sleep, remained on the porch. For an hour, perhaps, he sat there alone;
but his thoughts were not on the beauties of the scene that lay before
him in all its dreamy charm of shadowy hills and moonlit river. He had
no ear for the soft voices of the night. The gentle breeze carried to
him the low, deep-toned roar of the crashing waters at Elbow Rock; but
he did not hear. Moved at last by a feeling of restless longing, and the
certainty that only a sleepless bed awaited him in the house, he left
the porch to stroll along the bank of the river.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE.


Brian Kent, strolling along the bank of the river in the moonlight,
and preoccupied with thoughts that were, at the last, more dreams than
thoughts, was not far from the house when a sound from behind some
near-by bushes broke in upon his reveries. A moment, he listened. Then
telling himself that it was some prowling animal, or perhaps, a bird
that his presence had disturbed, he went on. But he had gone only a few
feet farther when he was conscious of something stealthily following
him. Stepping behind the trunk of a tree, he waited, watching. Then he
saw a form moving toward him through the shadows of the bushes. Another
moment, and the form left the concealing shadow, and, in the bright
moonlight, he recognized Judy.

At first, the man's feeling was that of annoyance. He did not wish to be
disturbed at such a time by the presence of the mountain girl. But
his habitual gentleness toward poor Judy, together with a very natural
curiosity as to why she was following him at that time of the night,
when he had supposed her in bed and asleep, led him to greet her kindly
as he came from behind the tree: "Well, Judy, are you, too, out enjoying
the moonlight?"

The girl stopped suddenly and half-turned as if to run; but, at his
words, stood still.

"What is it, Judy?" he asked, going to her. "What is the matter?"

"There's a heap the matter!" she answered, regarding him with that sly
oblique look; while Brian noticed a feeling of intense excitement in her
voice. "I don't know what you-all are a-goin' ter think of me, but
I'm bound ter tell you just the same,--seems like I got ter,--even if
you-all was ter lick me for hit like pap used ter."

"Why, Judy, dear," the puzzled man returned, soothingly, "you know I
would never strike you, no matter what you did. Come, sit down here on
this log, and tell me about whatever it is that troubles you; then you
can go back to sleep again."

"I ain't a-wantin' ter set down. I ain't been asleep. Hit seems like
I can't never sleep no more." She wrung her hands and turned her poor
twisted body about nervously; then demanded with startling abruptness:
"When do you-all 'low she'll git back?"

The wondering Brian did not at first catch her meaning, and she
continued, with an impatient jerk of her head: "Hit's that there gal
with the no-'count name, Betty Jo, I'm a-talkin' 'bout."

"Oh, you mean Miss Williams," Brian returned. "Why, I suppose she
will be back in two or three weeks, or a month, perhaps; I don't know
exactly, Judy. Why?"

"'Cause I'm a-tellin' you-all not ter let her come back here ever," came
the startling answer, in a voice that was filled with menacing anger.
Then, before Brian could find a word to reply, the mountain girl
continued, with increasing excitement: "You-all dassn't let her come
back here, nohow, 'cause, if you do, I'll hurt her, sure. You-all
have been a-thinkin' as how I was plumb blind, I reckon; but I seen
you,--every evenin', when she'd pretend ter just go for a walk an'
then'd make straight for the clearin' where you was a-choppin', an' then
you'd quit, an' set with her up there on the hill. Youuns never knowed
I was a-watchin' from the bresh all the time, did you? Well, I was; an'
when youuns'd walk down ter the house, so slow like an' close together,
I'd sneak ahead, an' beat you home; but all the time I was a-seein' you,
an' youuns never knowed, 'cause youuns just naturally couldn't see nor
hear nothin' but each other. Don't you-all 'low as how I'd know by the
way you looked at her, while youuns was a-fixin' that there book, every
night, what you-all was a-thinkin' 'bout her? My God-A'mighty! hit was
just as plain ter me as if you was a-sayin' hit right out loud all the
time,--a heap plainer hit was than if you'd done writ' hit down in your
book. I can't make out ter read print much, nohow, like youuns kin; but
I sure kin see what I see. I--"

"Judy! Judy!" Brian broke the stream of the excited girl's talk. "What
in the world are you saying? What do you mean, child?"

"You-all knows dad burned well what I'm a-meanin'!" she retorted, with
increasing anger. "I'm a-meanin' that you-all are plumb lovin' that
there Betty Jo gal,--that's what I'm a-meanin'!--an' you-all sure ain't
got ary right for ter go an' do sich a thing, nohow!"

Brian tried to check her, but she silenced him with: "I won't neither
hush! I can't! I tell you I'm a-goin' ter say my say if you-all kills
me! I've just naturally got ter! Seems like I was all afire inside an'
would burn plumb up if I didn't! I've got rights, I reckon, if I be all
crooked an' twisted out er shape, an' ugly-faced an' no learnin', ner
nothin'."

A dry sob choked the torrent of words for an instant; but, with a
savage effort she went on: "I know I ain't nothin' alongside of her,
but you-all ain't a-goin' ter have her just the same,--not if I have ter
kill her first! You ain't got no right ter have her, nohow, 'cause hit's
like's not you-all done got a woman already somewheres, wherever 'twas
you-all come from; an' even if you ain't got no woman already, I sure
ain't a-goin' ter let you have her! What'd she ever do for you? Hit was
me what dragged you-all from the river when you was mighty nigh dead
from licker an' too plumb sick ter save yourself! Hit's me that's
kept from tellin' the Sheriff who you be an' a-takin' that there
reward-money! Hit was me what jumped inter the river above Elbow Rock
just ter git your dad burned old book, when you'd done throwed hit plumb
away!

"I knowed first time I heard Auntie Sue name her what she'd do ter you!
Any fool would a-knowed what a woman with a half-gal, half-boy name like
her'n would do, an' she's done hit,--she sure has! But she ain't a-goin'
ter do no more! You-all belongs ter me a heap more'n you do ter her,--if
hit comes ter that,--though, I ain't a-foolin' myself none a-thinkin'
that sich as you could ever take up with sich as me,--me bein' what I
am. No, sir; I ain't never fooled myself ary bit like that, Mr. Burns.
But hit ain't a-makin' no difference how ugly an' crooked an' no 'count
I be outside; the inside of me is a-lovin' you like she never could, ner
nobody else, I reckon. An' I'll just go on a-lovin' you, no matter what
happens; an' I ain't a-carin' whether you got a woman already er not,
er whether you-all have robbed er killed, er what you done. An'--an'--so
I'm a-tellin' you, you'd best not let her come back here no more,
'cause--'cause I just naturally can't stand hit ter see youuns
tergether! 'Fore God, I'm a-tellin' you true,--I'll sure hurt her!"

The girl's voice raised to a pitch of frenzied excitement, and,
whirling, she pointed to the river, as she cried: "Look out there! What
do you-all reckon your fine Betty Jo lady would do if I was ter git
her ketched in them there rapids? What do you-all reckon the Elbow Rock
water would do ter her? I'll tell you what hit'd do: Hit would smash an'
grind an' tear an' hammer that there fine, straight body of hers
'til hit was all broken an' twisted an' crooked a heap worse'n what I
be,--that's what hit would do; an' hit would scratch an' cut an' beat up
that pretty face an' mess up her pretty hair an' choke her an' smother
her 'til she was all blue-black an' muddy, an' her eyes was red an'
starin', an' she was nothin' but just an ugly lump of dirt; an' hit
wouldn't even leave her her fine clothes neither,--the Elbow Rock water
wouldn't,--hit'd just naturally tear 'em off her, an' leave her 'thout
ary thing what's makin' you love her like you're a-doin'! An' where
would all her fine schoolin' an' smart talk an' pretty ways be then? Eh?
She wouldn't be no better, nor half as good as me, I'm a-tellin' you,
onct Elbow Rock got done with her!"

The poor creature finished in wild triumph; then suddenly, as though
spent with the very fury of her passion, she turned from the river, and
said dully: "You'd sure best not let her come back, sir! 'Fore God, I
ain't a-wantin' ter do hit, but hit seems like I can't help myself; I
can't sleep for wantin' ter fix hit so,--so's you just couldn't want
ter have her no more'n you're a-wantin' me. I--I--sure ain't a-foolin'
myself none, not ary bit, a-thinkin' you-all could ever git ter
likin' sich as me; but, I can't help sort of dreamin' 'bout hit an'
a-pretendin', an'--an' all the while I'm a-knowin', inside er me like,
that there ain't nobody,--not Auntie Sue, nor this here Betty Jo, nor
that there other woman, nor anybody,--what kin care for you like I'm
a-carin',--they just naturally couldn't care like me; 'cause--'cause,
you see, sir, I ain't got nobody else,--ain't no man but you ever even
been decent ter me. I sure ain't got nobody else--"

The distraught creature's sobs prevented further speech, and she dropped
down on the ground, weak and exhausted; her poor twisted body shaking
and writhing with the emotion she could not voice.

For a little while, Brian Kent himself was as helpless as Judy. He could
only stand dumbly, staring at her as she crouched at his feet. Then,
very gently, he lifted her from the ground, and tried as best he could
to comfort her. But he felt his words to be very shallow and inadequate,
even though his own voice was trembling with emotion.

"Come, Judy, dear," he said, at last, when she seemed to have in a
measure regained her self-control. "Come. You must go back to the house,
child."

Drawing away from his supporting arm, she answered, quietly: "I ain't
no child, no more, Mr. Burns: I'm sure a woman, now. I'm just as much a
woman as--as--she is, if I be like what I am. I'm plumb sorry I had ter
do this; but I just naturally couldn't help hit. You ain't got no call
ter be scared I'll do hit again."

When they were nearing the house, Judy stopped again, and, for a long
minute, looked silently out over the moonlit river, while Brian stood
watching her.

"Hit is pretty, ain't hit, Mr. Burns?" she said at last. "With the hills
all so soft an'--an' dreamy-like, an' them clouds a-floatin' 'way up
there over the top of Table Mountain; with the moon makin' 'em all
silvery an' shiny 'round the edges, an' them trees on yon side the river
lookin' like they was made er smoke er fog er somethin' like that; an'
the old river hitself a-layin' there in The Bend like--like a long strip
of shinin' gold,--hit sure is pretty! Funny, I couldn't never see hit
that a-way before,--ain't hit?"

"Yes, Judy; it is beautiful to-night," he said.

But Judy, apparently without hearing him, continued: "'Seems like I can
sense a little ter-night what Auntie Sue an' youuns are allus a-talkin'
'bout the river,--'bout hit's bein' like life an' sich as that. An' hit
'pears like I kin kind of git a little er what you done wrote 'bout hit
in your book,--'bout the currents an' the still places an' the rough
water an' all. I reckon as how I'm a part of your river, too, ain't I,
Mr. Burns?"

"Yes, Judy," he answered, wonderingly; "we are all parts of the river."

"I reckon you're right," she continued. "Hit sure 'pears ter be that
a-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin' else 'bout the river what you
didn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps an' heaps er
snags an' quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places where hit looks
deep an' deep holes where hit looks shaller, an' currents what's hid
'way down under that'll ketch an' drag you in when you ain't a-thinkin',
an' drown you sure. 'Tain't all of the river what Auntie Sue an' youuns
kin see from the porch. You see, I knows 'bout hit,--'bout them other
things I mean,--'cause I was borned and growed up a-knowin' 'bout
'em; an'--an'--the next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low
you-all ought ter put in 'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folks
sure got ter know 'bout 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned."

When Judy had gone into the house, Brian again sat alone on the porch.

An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: "Why, Brian,
are you still up? I supposed you were in bed long ago."

He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway.

"And what in the world are you prowling about for, this time of the
night?" Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her.

"I am prowling because I couldn't sleep,--thinking about you, Brian,"
she answered.

"I fear that is the thing that is keeping me up, too," he returned
grimly.

"I know," she said gently. "Sometimes, one's self does keep one awake.
Is it--is it anything you care to tell me? Would it help for me to
know?"

For some time, he did not answer; while the old teacher waited silently.
At last, he spoke, slowly: "Auntie Sue, what is the greatest wrong that
a woman can do?"

"The greatest wrong a woman can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong that a
man can do."

"But, what is it, Auntie Sue?" he persisted.

"I think," she answered,--"indeed I am quite sure,--that the greatest
wrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and for a man to
kill a woman's faith in man."

Brian Kent buried his face in his hands.

"Am I right, dear?" asked the old gentlewoman, after a little.

And Brian Kent answered: "Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is the
greatest wrong."

Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed between
the woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some great trouble,
had been so strangely brought to her by the river.

Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: "Brian, have you ever
wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourself
why I never married?"

"Yes, Auntie Sue," he answered. "I have wondered."

"Many people have," she said, with simple frankness. Then--"I am going
to tell you something, dear boy, that only two people in the world
beside myself ever knew, and they are both dead, many years now. I am
going to tell you, because I feel--because I think--that, perhaps,
it may help you a little. I, too, Brian, had my dreams when I was a
girl,--my dreams of happiness,--such as every true woman hopes for;--of
a home with all that home means;--of a lover-husband;--of little
ones who would call me 'mother';--and my dreams ended, Brian, on a
battlefield of the Civil War. He went from me the very day we were
promised. He never returned. I have always felt that we were as truly
one as though the church had solemnized and the law had legalized our
union. I promised that I would wait for him."

"And you--you have kept that promise? You have been true to that
memory?" Brian Kent asked, wonderingly.

"I have been true to him, Brian;--all the years of my life I have been
true to him."

Brian Kent bowed his head, reverently.

Rising, the old gentlewoman went close to him, and put her hands on his
shoulders. "Brian, dear, I have told you my secret because I thought
it might help you to know. Oh, my boy--my boy,--don't--don't let
anything--don't let anyone--kill your faith in womanhood! No matter how
bitter your experience, you can believe, now, that there are women who
can be faithful and true. Surely, you can believe it now, Brian,--you
must!"