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THE RED GLEAM FROM THE BLAZING LOGS FELL UPON HERSHINING HAIR; IT GLISTENED LIKE GOLD. SHE WORE A SIMPLE EVENING GOWN OFWHITE.]
GREEN FANCY
BY
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
AUTHOR OF "GRAUSTARK," "THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND," "THE PRINCE OFGRAUSTARK," ETC.
WITH FRONTISPIECE BY C. ALLAN GILBERT
NEW YORK
1917
CONTENTS
I. THE FIRST WAYFARER AND THE SECOND WAYFARER MEET AND PART ON THE HIGHWAY
II. THE FIRST WAYFARER LAYS HIS PACK ASIDE AND FALLS IN WITH FRIENDS
III. MR. RUSHCROFT DISSOLVES, MR. JONES INTERVENES, AND TWO MEN RIDE AWAY
IV. AN EXTRAORDINARY CHAMBERMAID, A MIDNIGHT TRAGEDY, AND A MAN WHO SAID "THANK YOU"
V. THE FARM-BOY TELLS A GHASTLY STORY, AND AN IRISHMAN ENTERS
VI. CHARITY BEGINS FAR FROM HOME, AND A STROLL IN THE WILDWOOD FOLLOWS
VII. SPUN-GOLD HAIR, BLUE EYES, AND VARIOUS ENCOUNTERS
VIII. A NOTE, SOME FANCIES, AND AN EXPEDITION IN QUEST OF FACTS
IX. THE FIRST WAYFARER, THE SECOND WAYFARER, AND THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY ASCENDANT
X. THE PRISONER OF GREEN FANCY, AND THE LAMENT OF PETER THE CHAUFFEUR
XI. MR. SPROUSE ABANDONS LITERATURE AT AN EARLY HOUR IN THE MORNING
XII. THE FIRST WAYFARER ACCEPTS AN INVITATION, AND MR. DILLINGFORD BELABORS A PROXY
XIII. THE SECOND WAYFARER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS AT MIDNIGHT
XIV. A FLIGHT, A STONE-CUTTER'S SHED, AND A VOICE OUTSIDE
XV. LARGE BODIES MOVE SLOWLY,--BUT MR. SPROUSE WAS SMALLER THAN THE AVERAGE
XVI. THE FIRST WAYFARER VISITS A SHRINE, CONFESSES, AND TAKES AN OATH
XVII. THE SECOND WAYFARER IS TRANSFORMED, AND MARRIAGE IS FLOUTED
XVIII. MR. SPROUSE CONTINUES TO BE PERPLEXING, BUT PUTS HIS NOSE TO THE GROUND
XIX. A TRIP BY NIGHT, A SUPPER, AND A LATE ARRIVAL
XX. THE FIRST WAYFARER HAS ONE TREASURE THRUST UPON HIM,--AND FORTHWITH CLAIMS ANOTHER
XXI. THE END IN SIGHT
CHAPTER I
THE FIRST WAYFARER AND THE SECOND WAYFARER MEET AND PART ON THE HIGHWAY
A solitary figure trudged along the narrow road that wound itsserpentinous way through the dismal, forbidding depths of the forest: aman who, though weary and footsore, lagged not in his swift, resoluteadvance. Night was coming on, and with it the no uncertain prospects ofstorm. Through the foliage that overhung the wretched road, hisever-lifting and apprehensive eye caught sight of the thunder-black,low-lying clouds that swept over the mountain and bore down upon thegreen, whistling tops of the trees. At a cross-road below he hadencountered a small girl driving homeward the cows. She was afraid ofthe big, strange man with the bundle on his back and the stout walkingstick in his hand: to her a remarkable creature who wore "knee pants"and stockings like a boy on Sunday, and hob-nail shoes, and a funnycoat with "pleats" and a belt, and a green hat with a feather stickingup from the band. His agreeable voice and his amiable smile had nocharm for her. He merely wanted to know how far it was to the nearestvillage, but she stared in alarm and edged away as if preparing tobreak into mad flight the instant she was safely past him with a clearway ahead.
"Don't be afraid," he said gently. "And here! Catch it if you can." Hetossed a coin across the road. It struck at her feet and rolled intothe high grass. She did not divert her gaze for the fraction of asecond. "I'm a stranger up here and I want to find some place to sleepfor the night. Surely you have a tongue, haven't you?" By dint ofpersuasive smiles and smirks that would have sickened him at any othertime he finally induced her to say that if he kept right on until hecame to the turnpike he would find a sign-post telling him where to getgasolene.
"But I don't want gasolene. I want bread and butter," he said.
"Well, you can git bread an' butter there too," she said. "Food fer manan' beast, it says."
"A hotel?"
"Whut?"
"A boarding-house?" he substituted.
"It's a shindy," she said, painfully. "Men get drunk there. Pap callsit a tavern, but Ma says it's a shindy."
"A road-house, eh?" She was puzzled--and silent. "Thank you. You'llfind the quarter in the grass. Good-bye."
He lifted his queer green hat and strode away, too much of a gentlemanto embarrass her by looking back. If he had done so he would have seenher grubbing stealthily in the grass, not with her brown little hands,but with the wriggling toes of a bare foot on which the mud, perhaps ofyesterday, had caked. She was too proud to stoop.
At last he came to the "pike" and there, sure enough, was thesign-post. A huge, crudely painted hand pointed to the left, and onwhat was intended to be the sleeve of a very stiff and unflinching armthese words were printed in scaly white: "Hart's Tavern. Food for Manand Beast. Also Gasolene. Established 1798. 1 mile." "Also Gasolene"was freshly painted and crowded its elders in a most disrespectfulmanner.
The chill spring wind of the gale was sweeping in the directionindicated by the giant forefinger. There was little consolation in thethought that a mile lay between him and shelter, but it was a relief toknow that he would have the wind at his back. Darkness was settlingover the land. The lofty hills seemed to be closing in as if to smotherthe breath out of this insolent adventurer who walked alone among them.He was an outsider. He did not belong there. He came from the lowlandsand he was an object of scorn.
On the opposite side of the "pike," in the angle formed by a junctionwith the narrow mountain road, stood a humbler sign-post, lettered soindistinctly that it deserved the compassion of all observers becauseof its humility. Swerving in his hurried passage, the tall strangerdrew near this shrinking friend to the uncertain traveller, and wassuddenly aware of another presence in the roadway.
A woman appeared, as if from nowhere, almost at his side. He drew backto let her pass. She stopped before the little sign-post, and togetherthey made out the faint directions.
To the right and up the mountain road Frogg's Corner lay four miles anda half away; Pitcairn was six miles back over the road which the manhad travelled. Two miles and a half down the turnpike was SpanishFalls, a railway station, and four miles above the cross-roads wherethe man and woman stood peering through the darkness at the laconicsign-post reposed the village of Saint Elizabeth. Hart's Tavern was onthe road to Saint Elizabeth, and the man, with barely a glance at hisfellow-traveller, started briskly off in that direction.
Lightning was flashing fitfully beyond the barrier heights and farawaythunder came to his ears. He knew that these wild mountain storms movedswiftly; his chance of reaching the tavern ahead of the deluge wasexceedingly slim. His long, powerful legs had carried him twenty orthirty paces before he came to a sudden halt.
What of this lone woman who traversed the highway? Obviously she toowas a stranger on the road, and a glance over his shoulder supported afirst impression: she was carrying a stout travelling bag. His firstglimpse of her had been extremely casual,--indeed he had paid noattention to her at all, so eager was he to read the directions and beon his way.
She was standing quite still in front of the sign-post, peering up theroad toward Frogg's Corner,--confronted by a steep climb that led intoblack and sinister timberlands above the narrow strip of pasturebordering the pike.
The fierce wind pinned her skirts to her slender body as she leanedagainst the gale, gripping her hat tightly with one hand and strainingunder the weight of the bag in the other. The ends of a veil whippedfuriously about her head, and, even in the gathering darkness, he couldsee a strand or two of hair keeping t
hem company.
He hesitated. Evidently her way was up the steep, winding road and intothe dark forest, a far from appealing prospect. Not a sign ofhabitation was visible along the black ridge of the wood; no lightedwindow peeped down from the shadows, no smoke curled up from unseenkitchen stoves. Gallantry ordered him to proffer his aid or, at theleast, advice to the woman, be she young or old, native or stranger.
Retracing his steps, he called out to her above the gale:
"Can I be of any assistance to you?"
She turned quickly. He saw that the veil was drawn tightly over herface.
"No, thank you," she replied. Her voice, despite a certain nervousnote, was soft and clear and gentle,--the voice and speech of awell-bred person who was young and resolute.
"Pardon me, but have you much farther to go? The storm will soon beupon us, and--surely you will not consider me presumptuous--I don'tlike the idea of your being caught out in--"
"What is to be done about it?" she inquired, resignedly. "I must go on.I can't wait here, you know, to be washed back to the place I startedfrom."
He smiled. She had wit as well as determination. There was thesuggestion of mirth in her voice--and certainly it was a most pleasing,agreeable voice.
"If I can be of the least assistance to you, pray don't hesitate tocommand me. I am a sort of tramp, you might say, and I travel as wellby night as I do by day,--so don't feel that you are putting me to anyinconvenience. Are you by any chance bound for Hart's Tavern? If so, Iwill be glad to lag behind and carry your bag."
"You are very good, but I am not bound for Hart's Tavern, wherever thatmay be. Thank you, just the same. You appear to be an uncommonlygenteel tramp, and it isn't because I am afraid you might make off withmy belongings." She added the last by way of apology.
He smiled--and then frowned as he cast an uneasy look at the blackclouds now rolling ominously up over the mountain ridge.
"By Jove, we're going to catch it good and hard," he exclaimed. "Bettertake my advice. These storms are terrible. I know, for I've encounteredhalf a dozen of them in the past week. They fairly tear one to pieces."
"Are you trying to frighten me?"
"Yes," he confessed. "Better to frighten you in advance than to let itcome later on when you haven't any one to turn to in your terror. Youare a stranger in these parts?"
"Yes. The railway station is a few miles below here. I have walked allthe way. There was no one to meet me. You are a stranger also, so it isuseless to inquire if you know whether this road leads to Green Fancy."
"Green Fancy? Sounds attractive. I'm sorry I can't enlighten you." Hedrew a small electric torch from his pocket and directed its slenderray upon the sign-post. So fierce was the gale by this time that he wascompelled to brace his strong body against the wind.
"It is on the road to Frogg's Corner," she explained nervously. "A mileand a half, so I am told. It isn't on the sign-post. It is a house, nota village. Thank you for your kindness. And I am not at allfrightened," she added, raising her voice slightly.
"But you ARE" he cried. "You're scared half out of your wits. You can'tfool me. I'd be scared myself at the thought of venturing into thosewoods up yonder."
"Well, then, I AM frightened," she confessed plaintively. "Almost outof my boots."
"That settles it," he said flatly. "You shall not undertake it."
"Oh, but I must. I am expected. It is import--"
"If you are expected, why didn't some one meet you at the station?Seems to me--"
"Hark! Do you hear--doesn't that sound like an automobile--Ah!" Thehoarse honk of an automobile horn rose above the howling wind, and aninstant later two faint lights came rushing toward them around a bendin the mountain road. "Better late than never," she cried, her voicevibrant once more.
He grasped her arm and jerked her out of the path of the on-comingmachine, whose driver was sending it along at a mad rate, regardless ofruts and stones and curves. The car careened as it swung into the pike,skidded alarmingly, and then the brakes were jammed down. Attended by avast grinding of gears and wheels, the rattling old car came to a stopfifty feet or more beyond them.
"I'd sooner walk than take my chances in an antediluvian rattle-traplike that," said the tall wayfarer, bending quite close to her ear. "Itwill fall to pieces before you--"
But she was running down the road towards the car, calling out sharplyto the driver. He stooped over and took up the travelling bag she haddropped in her haste and excitement. It was heavy, amazingly heavy.
"I shouldn't like to carry that a mile and a half," he said to himself.
The voice of the belated driver came to his ears on the swift wind. Itwas high pitched and unmistakably apologetic. He could not hear whatshe was saying to him, but there wasn't much doubt as to the nature ofher remarks. She was roundly upbraiding him.
Urged to action by thoughts of his own plight, he hurried to her sideand said:
"Excuse me, please. You dropped something. Shall I put it up in frontor in the tonneau?"
The whimsical note in his voice brought a quick, responsive laugh fromher lips.
"Thank you so much. I am frightfully careless with my valuables. Wouldyou mind putting it in behind? Thanks!" Her tone altered completely asshe ordered the man to turn the car around--"And be quick about it,"she added.
The first drops of rain pelted down from the now thoroughly black domeabove them, striking in the road with the sharpness of pebbles.
"Lucky it's a limousine," said the tall traveller. "Better hop in.We'll be getting it hard in a second or two."
"I can't very well hop in while he's backing and twisting like that,can I?" she laughed. He was acutely aware of a strained, nervous notein her voice, as of one who is confronted by an undertaking calling forconsiderable fortitude.
"Are you quite sure of this man?" he asked.
"Absolutely," she replied, after a pause.
"You know him, eh?"
"By reputation," she said briefly, and without a trace of laughter.
"Well, that comforts me to some extent," he said, but dubiously.
She was silent for a moment and then turned to him impulsively.
"You must let me take you on to the Tavern in the car," she said. "Turnabout is fair play. I cannot allow you to--"
"Never mind about me," he broke in cheerily. He had been wondering ifshe would make the offer, and he felt better now that she had done so."I'm accustomed to roughing it. I don't mind a soaking. I've hadhundreds of 'em."
"Just the same, you shall not have one to-night," she announced firmly.The car stopped beside them. "Get in behind. I shall sit with thedriver."
If any one had told him that this rattling, dilapidatedautomobile,--ten years old, at the very least, he would havesworn,--was capable of covering the mile in less than two minutes, hewould have laughed in his face. Almost before he realised that theywere on the way up the straight, dark road, the lights in the windowsof Hart's Tavern came into view. Once more the bounding, swaying carcame to a stop under brakes, and he was relaxing after the strain ofthe most hair-raising ride he had ever experienced.
Not a word had been spoken during the trip. The front windows werelowered. The driver,--an old, hatchet-faced man,--had uttered a singleword just before throwing in the clutch at the cross-roads in responseto the young woman's crisp command to drive to Hart's Tavern. That wordwas uttered under his breath and it is not necessary to repeat it here.
He lost no time in climbing out of the car. As he leaped to the groundand raised his green hat, he took a second look at the automobile,--alook of mingled wonder and respect. It was an old-fashioned,high-powered Panhard, capable, despite its antiquity, of astonishingspeed in any sort of going.
"For heaven's sake," he began, shouting to her above the roar of thewind and rain, "don't let him drive like that over those--"
"You're getting wet," she cried out, a thrill in her voice. "Goodnight,--and thank you!"
"Look out!" rasped the unpleasant driver, and in went
the clutch. Theman in the road jumped hastily to one side as the car shot backwardwith a jerk, curved sharply, stopped for the fraction of a second, andthen bounded forward again, headed for the cross-roads.
"Thanks!" shouted the late passenger after the receding tail light, anddashed up the steps to the porch that ran the full length of Hart'sTavern. In the shelter of its low-lying roof, he stopped short and oncemore peered down the dark, rain-swept road. A flash of lightningrevealed the flying automobile. He waited for a second flash. It camean instant later, but the car was no longer visible. He shook his head."I hope the blamed old fool knows what he's doing, hitting it up likethat over a wet road. There'll be a double funeral in this neck of thewoods if anything goes wrong," he reflected. Still shaking his head, hefaced the closed door of the Tavern.
A huge, old-fashioned lantern hung above the portal, creaking andstraining in the wind, dragging at its stout supports and threateningevery instant to break loose and go frolicking away with the storm.
The sound of the rain on the clap-board roof was deafening. At thelower end of the porch the water swished in with all the velocity of agigantic wave breaking over a ship at sea. The wind howled, the thunderroared and almost like cannon-fire were the successive crashes oflightning among the trees out there in the path of fury.
There were lights in several of the windows opening upon the porch; thewooden shutters not only were ajar but were banging savagely againstthe walls. Even in the dim, grim light shed by the lantern he could seethat the building was of an age far beyond the ken of any living man.He recalled the words of the informing sign-post: "Established in1798." One hundred and eighteen years old, and still baffling theassaults of all the elements in a region where they were never timid!
It may, in all truth, be a "shindy," thought he, but it had led agallant life.
The broad, thick weather-boarding, overlapping in layers, was brownwith age and smooth with the polishing of time and the backs, no doubt,of countless loiterers who had come and gone in the making of thenarrative that Hart's Tavern could relate. The porch itself, while old,was comparatively modern; it did not belong to the century in which theinn itself was built, for in those far-off days men did not waste time,timber or thought on the unnecessary. While the planks in the floorwere worn and the uprights battered and whittled out of their pristineshapeliness, they were but grandchildren to the parent building towhich they clung. Stout and, beyond question, venerable benches stoodclose to the wall on both sides of the entrance. Directly over thebroad, low door with its big wooden latch and bar, was the word"Welcome," rudely carved in the oak beam. It required no cultured eyeto see that the letters had been cut, deep and strong, into the timber,not with the tool of the skilled wood carver but with the hunting knifeof an ambitious pioneer.
A shocking incongruity marred the whole effect. Suspended at the sideof this hundred-year-old doorway was a black and gold, shield-shapedornament of no inconsiderable dimensions informing the observer that acertain brand of lager beer was to be had inside.
He lifted the latch and, being a tall man, involuntarily stooped as hepassed through the door, a needless precaution, for gaunt, giganticmountaineers had entered there before him and without bending theirarrogant heads.