He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability of the light, flat-bottomed skiff, together with his own unsteady weakness, combined to land him half in the water and half on the muddy bank where he struggled helplessly, and, in his weakened condition, would have slipped wholly into the river had not Judy rushed down the rude steps to his assistance.
With a strength surprising in one of her apparent weakness, the mountain girl caught the stranger under his shoulders and literally dragged him from the water. When she had further helped him to his feet, Judy surveyed the wretched object of her beneficence with amused and curious interest.
The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, haggard face, bloodshot eyes, and slovenly dishevelled dress, had appeared repulsive enough while in the boat; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and covered with mud, there was a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance that brought a grin to the unlovely face of his rescuer, and caused her to exclaim with unnecessary frankness: “I'll be dad burned if you-all ain't a thing ter look at, mister!”
As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded the twisted form, the wry neck, and the sallow, old-young face of the girl, who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed in his bloodshot eyes. “Thanks,” he said, huskily; “you are something of a vision yourself, aren't you?”
The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the cruel words. “I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty,” she retorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. “But, I kin tell you-all one thing, mister: Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what made me ter look like I do. While you—damn you!—you-all just naturally made yourself what you be.”
At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, a remarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His voice, even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sincere feeling as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous deference, said: “I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You really should have left me to the river.”
“You-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had,” she retorted, somewhat mollified by the effect of her observation.
“Which,” he returned, “would have been so beautifully right and fitting that it evidently could not be.” And with this cynical remark, his momentary bearing of self-respect was gone.
“Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-all was a-wantin' ter drown?”
“Something like that,” he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness in his voice and eyes, he rasped: “But, look here, girl! do you think I'm going to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversation with you? Where is this aunt of yours? Can't you see that I've got to have a drink?”
He started uncertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the bank, and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the steep way. A part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he would have fallen except for the girl's support. But, at last, they gained the top, and stood in the garden.
“That there is the house,” said Judy, pointing. “But I don't reckon as how you-all kin git ary licker there.”
The wretched man made no reply; but, with Judy still supporting him, stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables.
The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch when Auntie Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with the potatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the presence of the unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation of pity, she hurried to meet them.
The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, did not notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, and raising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady.
“Why, Judy!” cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with gentle concern. “What in the world has happened?”
With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his haggard face, the man also turned to the mountain girl beside him.
“I found him in er John-boat what done come ashore last night, down there in the eddy,” Judy explained to Auntie Sue. To the man, she said: “This here is Auntie Sue, mister; but, I don't reckon as how she's got ary licker for you.”
“'Liquor'?” questioned Auntie Sue. “What in the world do you mean, child?” Then quickly to the stranger;—“My dear man, you are wringing wet. You must have been in the river. Come, come right in, and let us do something for you.” As she spoke, she went toward him with outstretched hands.
But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear;—his whole body shaking with emotion; his fluttering hands raised in a gesture of imploring protest;—while the eyes that looked up at the saintly countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soul sunken in the deepest hell of shame and humiliation.
Shocked with pitying horror, Auntie Sue paused.
The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain of his suffering. He bit his lips and fingered his quivering chin in a vain effort at self-control; and then, as he looked up at her, the sunken, bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tormented spirit had no power to check.
And Auntie Sue turned her face away.
For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, the stranger, with a supreme effort of his will, gained a momentary control of his shattered nerves. Drawing himself erect and standing steady and tall before her, he raised a hand to his uncovered head as if to remove his hat. When his hand found no hat to remove, he smiled as if at some jest at his own expense.
“I am so sorry, madam,” he said—and his voice was musically clear and cultured. “Please pardon me for disturbing you? I did not know. This young woman should have explained. You see, when she spoke of 'Auntie Sue,' I assumed, of course—I mean—I expected to find a native woman who would—” He paused, smiling again, as if to assure her that he fully appreciated the humor of his ridiculous predicament.
“But, my dear sir,” cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, “there is nothing to pardon. Please do come into the house and let us help you.”
But the stranger drew back, shaking his head sadly. “You do not understand, madam. It is not that my clothes are unpresentable—it is I, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less to enter your house. I thank you, but I must go.”
He was turning away, when Auntie Sue reached his side and placed her gentle old hand lightly on his arm.
“Please, won't you come in, sir? I shall never forgive myself if I let you go like this.”
The man's voice was hoarse and shaking, now, as he answered: “For God's sake, madam, don't touch me! Let me go! You must! I—I—am not myself! You might not be safe with me! Ask her—she knows!” He turned to Judy.
“He's done said hit, ma'm,” said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue's questioning look. “My pap, he was that way when he done smashed me up agin the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me grow up all crooked an' ugly like what I be now.”
With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked down at the ground. His head drooped forward. His shoulders sagged. His whole body seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he again started back toward the river.
“Stop!” Auntie Sue's voice rang out imperiously.
The man halted.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with fine spirit, now, but kindly still: “This is sheer nonsense, my boy. You wouldn't hurt me. Why, you couldn't! Of course, you are not yourself; but, do you think that I do not know a gentleman when I meet one? Come—” She held out her hand.