“How’s that, Fedelma?”
“Didn’t you see, Atlas?” Insensibly a note of sincerer feeling crept into her voice. She looked straight at him without self-consciousness. “Ransom and Callie?”
The hat quivered, and stopped, clutched hard. “See. . . . what? You tell me!”
“Nothing only—she looked at him, I thought. When they danced.”
“Oh, she did, did she!” Atlas got to his feet. “I been afeared of it,” he groaned. “Rans’ was the first that ever went with Callie. . . . . They say a gal never forgets.” He strode forward and caught up the bucket without looking round. “Let’s us go back!” His voice went strangely harsh on the words. “By jacks, I’ve whupped Rans’ afore, and I can again if he gits to lookin’ too hard at my gal. Condamn that curly head of his!”
She had no choice but to follow, flung into a gulf of doubt and anger by his ready acceptance of her suspicions as valid. She would hurry to see what Ransom was doing now—oh, she must! What had she been thinking of, to leave him to his own devices for so long?
But it was Ransom who showed himself at the turn of the path, and demanding: “Been down to the spring, Atlas? Have you seed Fedelma anywhere? Oh, there she comes—”
Her heart at first expanded with relief; but she distinctly saw his start as he realized that she had accompanied Atlas. He stood before her, blocking the path, and did not speak for a moment. Atlas disappeared with the bucket of water; the dropping dew, the crickets and the katydids, possessed the stillness. They heard the banjos at the house, and the thudding feet of the dancers.
“Had you forgot you belong to me?” he asked at last. He stopped with his mouth open, and she smelt the product of Bivins’ still.
“Rans’! Why, Ransom! had you forgot you wasn’t goin’ to touch whiskey tonight?” she countered. “Let’s us go home right now, Rans’. Let’s do!”
“Not till I’ve licked that—” Ransom’s synonym for “cur” was polysyllabic but forceful—“for stealin’ you out. And I’ll see you afterward.” He turned on his heel and moved away, a feeling of sullen resentment against her in his heart, suddenly estranged and isolated. He felt powerless to fight against the hideous doubts that took his mind by storm.
But his wife, following, clung to him, her arm round his shoulders. “Rans’, he didn’t. He didn’t. You wouldn’t think so if you wasn’t drinkin’. Wait, honey—wait a minute—let me tell you! Atlas come down to git some water for the folks; I’d done been there for some little time. . . . . Don’t you go to the house, Rans’. Take me home.” She began to cry, stumbling along beside him. “I want to go home, Ransom! Hit’s the best. I got something to tell you. You—you’ll take another drink or two up there, and then first thing you know you’ns ’ll all git in a jower and a jangle, and you or him, one’ll be hurt.”
“Sure will,” he retorted grimly, moving doggedly forward. They came out into the open road, flooded with light.
“But I want to tell you something! Listen—”
He flung off her hands. “If hit’s what I think,” he said, in a tense undertone, “you better never tell it.” His light-weight figure was drawn erect; his eyes glinted like steel.
“You and them for it, then!” cried Fedelma, stopping short with a gesture of despair. Her secret! Had he guessed it, then—and was this the way he meant to take it? She made no attempt to follow him farther; she forgot Atlas and Callie entirely; her deepest feelings were wounded now. “His baby, his own little—Oh, dear Lord, what shall I do! I’m a good notion to go back to Marion County and stay with mammy!”
She wandered, sobbing and wiping her eyes on her sleeves, along the road home.
Ransom, hurrying to Bivins’ house, looked through the window at the lighted room. The rhythmic swing of the music urged the pounding of the blood in his temples. He saw Atlas join the dance again, saw a little flurry among the girls, and heard without noticing Callie’s laugh. The little children, who had been allowed to sit up late, now began to nod over in the corners; the usual contingent of bad little boys arrived and, growing obstreperous, had to be hustled out of the way. The fun waxed furious; the figures wheeled and swung and eddied; coats were flung off, hand-clapping and stamping increased, laughter was continuous. At every shout he glowered more darkly through the narrow pane.
“I’ll take one more drink, and then I’ll call him out,” he muttered to one who stood near him in the yard.
“Who?” asked Homer Bivins.
“Huh? Why, Atlas,—dam’ his impident looks.”
“What’s he done, Rans’? I wouldn’t, Ransom. Better not call him out, Ransom,” said several bystanders quickly. For Ransom and Atlas had fought ever since they were boys on the slightest provocation or none at all; their only peace lay in keeping apart, although there seemed no ill feeling between them other than the ancestral rivalry between males of the same blood.
Old Bivins came from the jug hidden in the althea bushes, all solicitude for the success of his daughters’ merrymaking.
“Looky here, Ransom,” he began in a conciliatory tone, plucking the young man’s sleeve. “Some day when we’ns ain’t got no frolic afoot we’ll make a ring, somers out, and see fair play whilst you and him settles it for good, and finds out which is the best man.”
“No, by Jacks, I’ll have him afore I go home tonight,” cried the little man, exasperated at the quivering of Bivins’ long beard. What business was it of anyone’s? “I feel like I could whup him right now; I b’lieve I can.”
“You go fetch his woman,” suggested Homer aside to another. “Maybe she can do something with him. Lord, what a temper Rans’ Reedy’s got! I’ll go warn his brother.”
But Fedelma could not be found; she was already whimpering to herself, far in the moonlight; and Atlas presently came to Callie with a very serious countenance.
“Callista, girl, I’ve got obleeged to quit and go, I reckon. Do you want me to take you home now, or—but I declar’ I hate to leave ye to ary other boy! Go now, will ye—with me?”
“What time is it?” she parleyed, reluctant. “I’m havin’ such a good old time! Has something happened?”
“No—not yit.”
“Then what you leavin’ for?”
“Well—Rans’ has took one or two drinks too many, and he’s lookin’ for me. You know, Callie, how he always was.”
Her eyes opened. “You ain’t afeared of him, air ye?”
“What would I be afeared of him for? I don’t want to fight him; ther ain’t no sense in hit when we ain’t got nothing to fight about, and him and me has both swore we never would again.”
The girl considered, her face still flushed, her eyes gleaming; and then, even while her foot still beat time to “Citico,” she gave in. “Wait, then, till I say good-bye to Sally Bivins, and I’ll git my shawl.”
The music swelled to their ears in an appealing crescendo and diminuendo as they made an unobtrusive exit. “I don’t much believe Delma was right about him and her,” he was thinking. “If I ’lowed he was, though, Rans’ wouldn’t hafto look far afore he found me.”
They gained the road with a reassuring backward glance to where Homer, with diplomacy slightly mistaken, was plying Ransom with more liquor.
“I like to walk with you this way,” he murmured as they swung into step. He drew her hand within his arm and kept it there, pressing and pressing it, the unlighted lantern swinging at his side.
“Why,” said the girl, perceiving a glimmering shape moving before them down the road, “somebody’s went on ahead of us.”
“Hit’s a gal,” he supplemented her observation. “All by herself. Why, I’ll swar!”
“Don’t do it,” she laughed.
“I won’t. I just said ‘I will swar.’ But I b’lieve on my soul that’s Fedelma. What’s the matter, Dell?” he called.
The forlorn figure waited for them to come up, and they saw that she was crying.
“Did Rans’ make ye go home? Did he scold ye? Air you w
aitin’ for him?” asked Callie, all in a breath.
“We left,” explained the boy, “because he seemed to want to jump onto me. I ’lowed it would be best to keep out of his way?”
Delma nodded, but could find no words.
They were now all four at cross-purposes; and their hearts were all beating a little too fast.
“Well, walk on with us,” said Atlas at last. “We’ll sight you home; won’t we, Callie?”
But as Fedelma joined the pair, Callie swung apart. “Why! you ain’t aimin’ to leave Ransom come home all by hisself, the way he is?”
“O’ course; he’ll be all right,” answered Atlas. “Or, if he ain’t, some o’ them boys ’ll see to him.”
“How d’you know they will? He may go wanderin’ about and break his fool neck.”
“He wouldn’t let me,” protested Atlas; but he glanced back along the road uneasily.
“Dell!” The appeal was from one woman to another on behalf of an erring boy. “Ain’t you goin’ to wait for your man?”
“No, I ain’t,” declared Delma, speaking for the first time. “After the way he talked to me back yon, he can go on and break his neck for all o’ me—b-hoo-hoo!”
“Then I will!” cried the girl, stopping.
“You won’t neither!” snapped Fedelma.
“Why, Callie!” Atlas stopped, facing her. A jealous wrath surged up in him and burst bounds. “By Jacks, if there is anything between you and your old sweetheart, hit’s time I knowed it, Callie! I want the straight of hit; I can’t stand this—”
“Don’t you name such to me!” She sprang back and squared away valiantly, like a man, with heaving breast. “Why—why then, the straight of hit is, I wouldn’t leave a dawg to blunder around in these here woods, and him full o’ Bivins’ pizen! You’ns go on, I’ll wait.” She knew perfectly that this was ridiculous. “Or else we all wait, right here.”
“Won’t hafto wait long,” muttered Atlas, hearing swift unsteady footsteps. A second later Ransom, whom Homer’s wit and hospitality had not availed to detain long, burst upon them, wildly swinging a lantern covered with blazing oil, and cursing.
“Look out, you’ll set fire—Put that light down, you firebug!” shouted Atlas, leaping; and then it happened. Whack, whack, whack; crash went the two lanterns; a yellow oily flame shot up from the sand; the two girls, in momentary terror of an explosion that distracted even their terror of the conflict, saw in the bright light the brothers at each other’s throats, struggling, kicking, reeling to and fro. Into the shine and out of it they drove, now trampling the sand, now crashing through the bushes, till Atlas tripped on a root and was down.
“He’s got a knife!” screamed Delma, catching the glint of a blade.
“Oh, my God, he’ll kill him!” cried Callie at the same moment.
Together by a great effort the women dragged Ransom back by the arms. Never had Callie’s splendid strength and courage served her so well as while she held the furious little man and shrieked, “Run, Atlas! for the Lord’s sake, run!”
A second later she caught up Atlas’ hat from the ground and set off after him.
Ransom, the knife still in his hand, stood blinking foolishly at the last flicker of the spilt oil. He drew a long breath, like a gasp.
“Let me have the knife, Rans,” pleaded Delma. “Give it here. There, there, honey! it’s all over; you won’t need ary weepon.” She approached timidly, feeling for his hand.
“Naw!” he said, and with a jerk sent the open blade whirling into the thicket. “Shucks! I never tried to knife anybody afore. . . . What’s it all about, anyhow?” He seemed to have sobered all at once. “Shucks!” he repeated, looking down at the trampled road and broken lanterns. “Oh, shucks! Atlas. Oh, At!” There was no answer. “Done gone on, has he?”
“Let’s us go, too,” urged his wife.
He laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him; then, putting both arms closely round her, he looked intently into her eyes.
“Tell me, Fedelma—was there anything to fight about? What was you down to the spring for?”
She responded gladly to his touch, as always. “Not anything. There wasn’t no harm in that, was there?”
“What was he sayin’ to you?”
“Not much of anything. . . . I—jist wondered how he would talk if—”
“Fedelma!”
She tore the wreath from her hair and sent it flying after his knife. It caught on a twig and hung, swaying a little, all transparent against the luminous background, each delicate leaf-rib clear as if formed of coral and crystal and jade. It seemed not to be of earth, but the last visible fragment of a dream-world, called up by a magician and on the point of vanishing.
“I don’t know what made me so silly—especially seein’ that I’ll haf to face death my ownself in a while,—for you and yourn,” she added, so low that he did not quite hear. “Ransom, it wasn’t—real. Nothing is real but you for me. You’ve made my life for me, every day for a year now,—and, look!” She fumbled at his collar and turned it down to show the patch she had sewed there. Her neat strong stitches caught the light as clearly as the delicate interlaced veins of the wreath. “That’s mine—you’re mine! Don’t you see we’ve growed together—we belong to one another. Nothing can change that. Nothing else is real. Only I wisht—I wisht I never had gone with any boy but you.”
He pressed his lips to her face, feeling it cool and fresh as a fruit just freshly plucked. “Let’s be good people, and not quarrel. I reckon we better go home and stay there.”
“Air you hurt?” She passed her fingers over the curls she had so resolutely clipped the day before.
“Just a bump. Atlas give me one good lick if he never gits in another.”
“And listen, Ransom,” she continued breathlessly, nestling to him, “I’ll tell ye now. . . .”
Callie fled along the road, her breath coming and going audibly, her dress flitting mothlike under the gliding shadows. “Atlas!” she called softly. “Oh, Atlas!”
In a moment he answered from a darker core of shadows under an oak, his deep voice vibrating like a soft gong.
“Here’s your hat,” she panted, coming close to him. “Oh, Atlas, air you hurt?”
“Not me. ’Magine he is. I fetched him one with the lantern, just afore I went down, that ought to a-stunded him if it hadn’t a-glanced.”
“Serve him right. Oh, Atlas, I always heared you was a beautiful fighter, but I never thought so well of you as when you jist wouldn’t fight till you had obliged to.”
“Then you do?” He put out his arm, still quivering with the strain of conflict, and she came within it. All the warm, splendid womanhood of her seventeen rough-and-tumble years thrilled to his kiss. “So you think much o’ me, Callie?”
“More’n the world and all. Oh, I do!” Their untried hearts beat and plunged against each other.
“Sure there’s nobody—none o’ your old sweethearts, f’r instance—that you might come to think more of, sometime?”
“I never had—oh! If you mean Ransom,—why, I was a little bit o’ gal then, and he’s—he’s married!”
“You—I thought you looked at him tonight—”
“How?”
“As if he wasn’t, maybe.”
“Why, you old jealous-hearted—You old fool!” Her voice broke with tenderness on the final word.
As Callie and Atlas went by Ransom’s house a few days later, they stopped at the gate and called to Fedelma.
The young wife was rocking on her front porch, stringing beans. She rose, and came down to the fence, putting back a wispy lock and smiling. A new gravity and sweetness had come into her eyes since the night of the dance in the cove, and she, and Ransom singing in the field below, alone in all the world knew why.
“Come on in,” she bade the pair.
“Can’t,” stated Callie. “We jist wanted to tell you that me and Atlas—that we was—” She flushed, looked down, and seemed unable to
go on.
But the young man put his hand firmly over hers where it lay on the top rail. “We’re a-goin’ to be married a-Sunday, Delma, and we want you and Ransom to be there. Then we’ll have a housewarmin’ soon as I can git a shack ready, and you can tell him that’s one dance where there won’t be any liquor circulated.”
Fedelma regarded them with a grave smile.
“We’ll be glad to come and see ye married,” she answered. “But if hit’s all the same to you-uns, I reckon we won’t be at the infare. If a body can’t keep their heads at a frolic no better than we do—” the prettiest imaginable color crept up into her cheeks, and she did not look at Atlas—“I think they better not go. I never have jined ary church, but I ain’t shore I b’lieve in dancin’.”
thirteen
Thistle Bloom
From The Lookout 10 (Part I, October 26, 1912; Part 2, November 2, 1912), n.p.
A transition sentence or paragraph appears to have been omitted between the two parts of this story. I have supplied a few words in brackets in Part II to provide transition for the reader.
The tumultuous father-daughter relationship in “Thistle Bloom” somewhat parallels the one in “At the Top of Sourwood.” In both stories there is an only daughter who enjoys people, parties, and pretty things. And in both stories there is a love interest to which the father objects. An added complication in “Thistle Bloom” is that the mother has died suddenly, leaving the father in sole charge of a budding woman he is ill prepared to parent. His harsh, judgmental oversight of her spurs Oran Shively, himself a brooding, critical young man, to declare his honorable intentions toward Seretha Massengale sooner than he might have. One has to wonder if Miles was once again drawing from her own experience as an only daughter whose father disapproved of her choice of a mate. Whatever the case, she allows herself the luxury of a digression about the dancing style of the mountaineer. Clearly, dancing among her mountain neighbors is a topic of great interest to the author, for she frequently weaves it into her stories.
. . .
I.
The old shed had not been used for a long time, but in this perfect September weather its broken roof and half-chinked logs afforded sufficient shelter. Before its door the earth-shaped apples glowed like fairy lanterns among the Limbertwig boughs, their winy scent mingling with that of ripening muscadines from the woods behind. In this hide-out Oran Shively was doing for himself, even cooking the supplies brought him daily by his brother or sister Libby; and they felt relieved, as they saw him sitting glum and sore from a recent hurt, that he was not at hand to spoil Seretha’s visit.
The Common Lot and Other Stories Page 21