f :
 
 ONE THING IS CERTAIN 
 
 .iIT. OF CALM 1 . UBBAI8, LOS AHGILBS
 
 By Sophie Kerr 
 
 ONE THING IS CERTAIN" 
 PAINTED MEADOWS 
 THE SEE-SAW 
 THE GOLDEN BLOCK 
 THE BLUE ENVELOPE 
 LOVE AT LARGE
 
 ONE THING 
 IS CERTAIN 
 
 A Novel 
 
 BY 
 
 SOPHIE KERR 
 
 "One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; 
 The Flower that once has blown forever dies." 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1922, 
 George H. Doran Company 
 
 ONE THING IS CERTAIN. II. 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 
 A. C. K. 
 
 AND 
 
 J. W. K. 
 
 THIS STORY OF THEIR PEOPLE 
 AND THEIR TIMES IS DEDICATED 
 
 2130610
 
 CHARACTERS IN PART ONE 
 
 LOUELLEN WEST 
 
 JANE WEST, her mother 
 
 AMOS WEST, her father 
 
 ANNIE WEST, her sister 
 
 MART BLADEN 
 
 JOHN HENRY HYDE 
 
 Miss LENA HYDE, his aunt 
 
 DOCTOR TOM TITHELOW 
 
 PARSON TRUITT 
 
 MRS. TRUITT 
 
 PRESIDING ELDER TODD 
 
 Miss BECCA SIMPSON, gossip and oracle 
 
 RENA MASSEY ] 
 
 ESTHER DAWSON )**"** f the West 
 
 MR. LEONIDAS AYRES 
 
 CHES LAYTON 1 _ . .. , _ 
 
 BELLA LAYTON Cousins of Mart 
 
 HANCE WRIGHT, Annie West's beau 
 
 BEN WRIGHT, his cousin 
 
 DAN FISHER, Rena Massey's beau 
 
 SHERIFF STEVENS 
 
 MATT KEMP 
 
 JOE KEMP 
 
 JERE WILLIS 
 
 JIM THOMAS 
 ZEB WILLIAMS 
 
 Young bloods of 
 the neighborhood 
 
 JAY DODSON 
 
 AL HIGNUTT 
 
 GID CUMMINS 
 
 HANEY GRIFFITH J 
 
 RACHEL, colored servant of Wests' 
 
 (Continued on next page.)
 
 CHARACTERS IN PART ONE (Continued) 
 
 EDWARD, colored man, Rachel's brother 
 
 EPHUM } cohred servants O f Mart Bladen 
 
 SALLY J 
 
 A JEW TIN-PEDDLER 
 
 AMOS WEST'S KIN 
 
 BEN WEST 
 
 MARCIA, Ben's wife 
 
 TRACY WEST 
 
 SARAH, Aw wife 
 
 GREAT-AUNT VIRGIE 
 JANE WEST'S KIN 
 
 ELLA DEVENS, her sister 
 
 CLARA DEVENS, her niece 
 
 Two other sisters 
 
 VIRGIE and JOHN HENRY, children born to 
 LOUELLEN, and JOHN HENRY HYDE.
 
 ONE THING IS CERTAIN 
 
 PART ONE
 
 NOTE: To disarm certain criticism, which will 
 largely be local to the neighborhood described, 
 let me here assure my readers that the story of 
 Louellen West is entirely fictitious. I have used 
 both family names and farm names common to 
 the Eastern Shore of Maryland, but in no case, 
 save in a very few minor characters of but slight 
 importance to the story, do these names indicate 
 the real families or farms that happen to bear 
 them. So perhaps my friends will spare me the 
 unflattering remarks of "Did you mean So-and- 
 So?" or "I recognized Miss So-and-So perfectly," 
 which followed my last book in this same locale, 
 and take my word for it that my imagination, and 
 not my memory, supplied me with the incident 
 and the people of this novel. 
 
 SOPHIE KERR.
 
 ONE THING IS CERTAIN 
 
 PART ONE 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 ANYONE who takes the river road and rides for two 
 miles along its green shaded solitudes will find himself at 
 the peak of that little triangular piece of Amos West's 
 meadows, about which he went to law with Zebdial Foun- 
 tain, and having proved his right to it, enclosed it with the 
 highest, best-built snake-rail fence on the whole of the 
 Eastern Shore of Maryland. It was not a valuable piece 
 of land, but as Amos West said, "a boundary line's a 
 boundary line," and carried his deeds into court to prove 
 it. The contested bit of land was a queer jagged tooth, 
 projecting from the otherwise even square of his prosperous 
 acres, and had been cut into the adjoining tract by the man 
 who once owned both farms under the tale-telling title of 
 "Liden's Venture," because when poverty forced him to 
 divide his possessions he was determined to retain for his 
 own delight the great beech tree that marked the very tip 
 of the tooth, the only tree of its kind anywhere in the neigh- 
 borhood. For Liden, of "Liden's Venture" was a man who 
 loved trees better than he loved people and was their tire- 
 less friend. The smooth silver trunk of the beech, and 
 the gracious sweep of its branches were a delight to him 
 that he wished to preserve. 
 
 Amos West cared not at all for the beech tree as beauty 
 when at last it came into his possession, inherited from his 
 father, who had reluctantly and after many delays fore-
 
 12 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 closed his mortgage on the eastern side of the Liden lands, 
 but since it was his, and its plot, he meant to make them 
 secure. His father, gentle, pious and kindly, might have 
 been willing to let Zebdial Fountain run a straight bound- 
 ary line, just for the convenience of it, but Amos was not 
 so easy to come over. Later he grew rather proud of the 
 beech tree, not because it was splendid and unique, but 
 because it was his own and he was a man who secretly 
 considered anything he possessed to have special values. 
 
 But he would have cut down the tree, and chopped it into 
 splinters and fired its stump, if he had known that his 
 older daughter, Louellen, met Mart Bladen in the evening 
 before lamp-lighting time under its concealing shade, and 
 that they sat on his excellent high snake-rail fence and dis- 
 cussed whether or not she should run away and marry him. 
 
 Louellen, in her full lilac print crisply sprigged in purple, 
 was firm and slim, her features cut with delicate precision, 
 her eyebrows mere black pencil strokes, her short full upper 
 lip curved like one of Romney's ladies. She challenged 
 interest, as do all people of two natures. She had moods 
 of being cool and definite and determined, sure of herself 
 as only utter youth and inexperience warrant. At other 
 times her gray eyes lit with sapphire lights, her mouth curled 
 up irresistibly and any daring foolish impulse ruled her. 
 Under stress she was confused, child-like. To-day she was 
 eagerly in earnest. 
 
 "You've got to quit it, Mart. You've got to quit running 
 with the Kemps and raising rookuses all over three counties, 
 drinking, card-playing, breaking up meetings. I told you 
 so after that big rampage down at Marshy-Hope revival. 
 And you went right ahead and got into another mess at Wye 
 camp. You're possessed." 
 
 Mart Bladen leaned on the fence and turned his head 
 away, not through any shame, but for fear that she would 
 see how much he wanted to laugh. "You make me think 
 of one of these little scolding sparrows, Louellen, you do 
 indeed. You know I don't mean any harm, and nobody
 
 One Thing Is Certain 13 
 
 gets hurt. It's only something to pass the time. You don't 
 expect me to sit home and twiddle my thumbs, do you?" 
 
 "You might pass away the time by fixing up your place 
 and working your crops. Last time I was by there every- 
 thing looked so down at the heel and neglected." 
 
 This stung. "Well, it's not. I got as good crops as any- 
 body. Just because the hedges aren't trimmed and every- 
 thing's not whitewashed up to the nines you say it's shabby. 
 I'd fix it up for you, honey. I'd trim up the bushes and 
 make flowerbeds like the ones Mother used to have. I'd 
 have the grass cut, and you could plant lilacs and honey- 
 suckle and everything you want. Only you keep putting 
 me off, so I've got no encouragement." 
 
 He was broad-shouldered, thin-flanked, tall, his head al- 
 ways high, his blue eyes never by any chance grave, not 
 even now, when he was wheedling her. Every girl for 
 forty miles was a little in love with him, but Louellen had 
 his heart and she knew it. The knowledge made her cruel. 
 She felt, as so many women feel toward their lovers, that 
 she must make him over, change him from what he was into 
 something different. She was too young to know how dan- 
 gerous this is in the process, how unlikely in its success. 
 Therefore she persisted with her ultimatum. 
 
 "If you won't do it now, if you won't stop running with 
 the Kemps and Gid Cummins and Jere Willis and all the 
 rest of 'em now, I know very well you'd never do it after 
 I after we" 
 
 He gave a shout of delighted laughter. It was the first 
 time he had ever got her so near to an admission. "After 
 we're married. You try me, Louellen. You just try me. 
 I dare you. I double dare you. Look, honey, why not to- 
 day right now? I'll put you up on Star behind me, and 
 we'll ride down to Cambridge and be married before eight 
 o'clock to-night. Oh, Louellen please honey dear " He 
 caught her hands, buried his face in them, pleading hard 
 with touch and tone. 
 
 But she drew away. "No, I won't, Mart, and there's
 
 14 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 no use you asking me. I won't run away and be married 
 like it was disgraceful. I want my wedding party and my 
 setting out, just like everybody else. And that's why I 
 keep at you to steady down and stop carrying on so. If 
 you did Pa'd come round. But after Marshy-Hope why 
 he said the constables pretty near got you. How'd I felt 
 if you'd been put in jail ! And how'd you felt ! Oh, Mart, 
 it's disgraceful ! It's mean." 
 
 "Constables did pret' nigh get me, but 'twasn't my fault. 
 It was Jere. He was on a skittish young horse, and he 
 wasn't very steady and when things began to get too hot 
 and we had to ride off he got thrown and he called, and 
 none of 'em would go back for him but me. That's the 
 whole truth. Don't you believe me, Louellen?" 
 
 "I don't see what difference it makes Pa's just as down 
 on you, and you were there and in all the devilment. Mart, 
 won't you give it up, the drinking, the sprees, the gam- 
 bling? Won't you do it, Mart, for me?" 
 
 "So help me God, if you'll marry me I'll never drink an- 
 other drop of hard cider or whisky or applejack or anything 
 like 'em. I'll walk wide of the Kemps and only pass 'em 
 a howd'ye-do on the road going by and not stopping. I'll 
 quit cards, unless maybe you'd be willing to have a friendly 
 euchre game or seven-up in the house sometimes, without 
 any money passing. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, 
 if you'd marry me." 
 
 It was she who averted her head now, and her voice 
 was low. 
 
 "What about Delia Layton?" she asked. 
 
 "You don't believe there's anything in that? Why, Lou- 
 ellen, you can't. You know better." 
 
 "You go over there a lot. You take her round." 
 
 "She's my second-cousin, and she a man can't hardly 
 say it, but I go once to a dozen times she asks me to come. 
 You don't think I care anything about her? Why should I 
 always be running after you if I want her? Louellen, be 
 fair. What do you want to keep me hanging on tenter-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 15 
 
 hooks for, for so long, and bringing up all these things that 
 ain't worth thinking about? Marry me now, Louellen I'll 
 buy you all the setting-out you want and we'll give a big 
 wedding supper ourselves if your Pa won't give you one. 
 As for Delia Layton !" He snapped his fingers. "And I'll 
 go straight as a string haven't I told you I would?" 
 
 She held to her purpose. "Then do it for me now. Go 
 steady for three months and I'll believe you." 
 
 He sighed. "For a sweet little piece like you are, you 
 sure do know how to blister a fellow. What's after you, any- 
 way? Want me to be another praying machine, like John 
 Henry Hyde? Want to see me walking straight and holy, 
 passing the plate in church, leading in prayer, teaching in 
 the Sunday School?" 
 
 This forced her to laugh with him Mart Bladen, teach- 
 ing in Sunday School, was comic. "All the same his place 
 looks ever so much better kept than yours. I told 
 you it wasn't so long since I was out that way." 
 
 His smile fled. "Were you at his place?" he demanded. 
 "What were you there for? Did he take you? Who else 
 went? You tell me, Louellen. I won't have you under 
 John Henry Hyde's roof, not if I know it. Not now, or 
 ever. He's too hard after you as it is, and your Pa favor- 
 ing him, and all. What were you doing there? You tell me." 
 
 "Why he entertained the whole Sunday School a couple 
 of weeks ago. Didn't you hear of it? We all went, and 
 had ice cream and cake out in his grove." She made round 
 innocent eyes at him. 
 
 "He's a fine one to be entertaining the Sunday School! 
 Why lookahere, Louellen, even if he didn't want to marry 
 you, and even if your Pa wasn't so partial to him, I'd despise 
 him. He's close as the bark on a tree. He whips his horses. 
 And he never had a dog in his life. There ain't any right 
 sort of man without a couple of dogs." He looked across 
 the fence where Star, his mare, drooped a drowsy head, with 
 Spot and Silly, his setters, waiting patiently beside her. 
 He had made his protest with an almost agitated earnest-
 
 16 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 ness. Dogs and horses were his daily companions. They 
 were as close as humanity to him. 
 
 Louellen watched him, touched and interested. She won- 
 dered if she should tell him that it was John Henry Hyde's 
 insistence and her father's powerful advocacy that had 
 made her urge Mart to marriageable reform. No better 
 not. Mart was too headstrong, too rash. Yet she felt her- 
 self caught between two strong forces, and suddenly her 
 sex became a strait- jacket. 
 
 "I wish," she said, "that there was something women 
 could do besides get married. I wish they could do some- 
 thing for themselves like the men do." 
 
 The words restored Mart's poise, gave him back his 
 mirth. He did not probe through to their reason. They 
 were to him irrelevant, a teasing feminine vagary. "There's 
 nothing for women to do but get married unless they want 
 to be old maids and sit in the chimney corner and knit," 
 he declared. "And there's nothing for you to do, in par- 
 ticular, but marry me. Louellen, you going to pass me 
 your promise?" 
 
 All of his potent charm was in the words and they were 
 compellingly eager, but very humble. She seized her mo- 
 ment. "I promise you this : if you'll go on good behavior 
 and you know what I mean, no breaking loose on anything 
 for as long as I say, then when the time's up I'll I'll 
 make you the promise you want, no matter what Pa says." 
 
 He did not try to take her in his arms or kiss her as she 
 had expected. Instead he stood still, thoughtful, something 
 speculative in his eyes. "It's going to be pretty hard, all 
 of a sudden, you know, Louellen, breaking off everything, 
 and without you there to help me." 
 
 She yearned to make it easy for him, but she would not. 
 "Still, if you do it for me, then I'll know how much you 
 care about me." She shied away from the bold word love, 
 but it was in the air. 
 
 "Well, you mean, I mustn't break out into anything real 
 wild and noisy," he cajoled.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 17 
 
 "You know what I mean. You know just as well as I 
 do. And, Mart, look here, this is the last time I can come 
 down here for maybe two weeks. Harmony Camp opens 
 Friday and we're going to tent. I've invited Rena Massey, 
 and Annie's going to have Esther Dawson and that just 
 fills the tent, with Pa and Ma." 
 
 "I might drop in to see you some Sunday " he teased 
 her "for a little promenade." 
 
 "Don't come like you went to Wye, then," she flashed back. 
 "Oh, Mart it's not that I want you to be so good, but if 
 you do this for me, I'll never have any more doubt of 
 you don't you see how 'tis ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know. But, Louellen, I'm so plaguey uncertain. 
 I don't mean to rip loose, but first thing I know I'm off. 
 It's right dreary with nobody on the place but the niggers, 
 and I get on Star here, and go careering off, or somebody 
 comes by and gives me a hail, and then one thing leads 
 to another." His wistfulness continued, trying to make her 
 comprehend the heat and urge of his young blood, his need 
 of distraction. 
 
 She shook her head, determinedly. "I've said my last 
 word, Mart. I told you before, but this is the last time. 
 If you won't do this much for me, then it's all over. Oh, 
 Mart won't you ? When I want you to, so much ?" 
 
 "Honey dear yes, I will I'll do every single thing you 
 want. I'll take out my energy plowing and cultivating 
 though I do think there'd be time enough for that after we're 
 married and you won't hear anything about me except that 
 I'm a changed character, steady as a clock, quiet as old 
 Grandpa Martindale, and he never stirred out of the house 
 for nineteen years, they say, and never spoke unless he had 
 to. Now you satisfied?" 
 
 "You got to keep it up three months," she exacted. 
 
 "Let's see August September October oh, now, Lou- 
 ellen, say two months. October's a grand month to get 
 married in." 
 
 "Two months and a half, anyway." She swung herself
 
 18 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 down from the fence. "I've got to go back. Pa'll be home 
 before I get there if I don't look out. I told Rachel and 
 Annie both if he asked for me to tell him I was off hunting 
 guinea hens' nests. But I can't be too long, even so." 
 
 He stopped her, his hands on her shoulders, beseeching 
 and longing : "Kiss me good-by, Louellen, this once. You're 
 promised to me now. You're my girl. You've never let 
 me kiss you. But now please. I won't see you for so 
 long." He stooped to her, drawing her close, but she pulled 
 away. 
 
 "No no! Not till I'm sure not till you've kept your 
 word about the sprees and the the cards and the night- 
 riding. I'm not really promised to you till then. I won't 
 let any man kiss me till I'm promised." 
 
 "It would help me a lot if you would. Just one." But 
 he knew she would not. He had never had his way with 
 Louellen as he had with a dozen other girls. It was one 
 of the bonds that held him to her. 
 
 "No. But Mart you've passed me your word to keep 
 steady you've promised. And I mean it if you break 
 your promise I'll never have anything more to do with 
 you. Never." 
 
 She picked up her white sunbonnet and made it a ruf- 
 fled aureole about her brown hair, and took the hidden secret 
 path through the crowding warm laurel and sassafras and 
 young pine toward home. He watched her go. This, too, 
 marked her difference from the other girls, for it was they 
 who watched him mount his horse and ride away, lingering 
 to catch the last glimpse of him. But it was always Mart 
 who lingered to catch the last glimpse of Louellen. Only 
 when the last faint sound and gleam of her were gone did 
 he vault the fence, catch up Star's dropped rein and canter 
 off down the river road, with Silly and Spot loping eagerly 
 beside him. For once there was no laughter in his face. 
 He had made a promise which he profoundly distrusted 
 his ability to keep, for all its significance. It opened up an 
 arid vista of work and no play, and this in mid-summer
 
 One Thing Is Certain 19 
 
 when farm labor slackens, and the still nights are won- 
 derful for riding; when he had arranged a main for his 
 game cock Zulu King with Matt Kemp's Fancy; when all 
 the cider presses were busy with the fragrant liquor he 
 loved when, in short, the tide of life flowed fullest and 
 most free. 
 
 Then he brightened. It was only two months and a half 
 thirty sixty seventy-five days. "And she's worth it," 
 he told Star, and shifted his knee to quicken her gait. "My 
 girl! My Louellen!" He softened to dreams of her in 
 the bare rooms where Ephum and Sally, his colored house- 
 servants, now reigned supreme in slatternly comfort. He 
 would fix it up for her, mow the grass-grown garden plot, 
 plant the flowers she liked, nail up trellises, repair the fall- 
 ing arbor, paint and whitewash lavishly. It would all be 
 fair and orderly again, as it had been in his mother's time. 
 He was the youngest, left at home after his two sisters mar- 
 ried, and he had never cared to change his scene. 
 
 Yet it was true, as he protested to Louellen, the dullness 
 of his solitude had driven him to wild company, for he 
 was a social soul, gregarious by instinct. All that life of- 
 fered of sensation he hastened to take, and the very per- 
 fection and power of his body had retarded any overgrowth 
 of conscience, for a man who can ride and drink all night 
 and get up clear-headed and clear-eyed seldom develops 
 the moral sense of the bilious. 
 
 Seven generations of Bladens had tilled the acres that 
 were now his, and the first of them had landed at the time 
 when Penn's intrigues and Coode's Associators were making 
 the life of Charles, third Lord Baltimore, a daily uncertainty 
 as to whether he was a "prince little less than a sovereign, 
 or a mere absentee landlord." The first Bladen had come 
 over as a servant, but presently had won his freedom, and 
 taken up land, and as he was a diligent worker, and "merrie 
 of heart" beside, according to the parish record of him, 
 he had sound property and sound qualities to bequeath to 
 his sons. All of the Bladens had been fair at a bargain,
 
 20 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 honest, without taste for loose women, bitten by no spite 
 or rancor, expert at farming and with cattle, and keen for 
 mirth and good company, but very lax in church-going. It 
 was so that Mart, the latest of the line, knew himself, and 
 anything more was outside his sphere of what was right 
 and reasonable. In his quick protest to Louellen against 
 the cutting off of all his boisterous rough pleasures he be- 
 trayed his knowledge of himself. 
 
 Of course, when a man marries, he must expect to settle 
 down somewhat. It wasn't that he blamed her for exact- 
 ing the promise, or that he meant knowingly to evade it, 
 but it was so devilish hard to say no when good fellowship 
 called to his sporting spirit, and the quiet routine of the 
 farm demanded to be spiced with adventure. He hoped 
 fervently that he would be able to stick it out, and some- 
 thing in the back of his head reminded him that, if he 
 shouldn't, maybe he'd be able to keep it quiet, or, quite 
 possibly, Louellen wouldn't keep her word to let one more 
 escapade divide them. No, she'd never do that any more 
 than he would do it with her, if it was the other way round. 
 He laughed aloud at the thought of his Louellen rampaging, 
 in need of his forgiveness. 
 
 "But she's got a streak of steel in her, out of old Amos 
 sure. I wish she'd Ve kissed me. . . ." 
 
 He did not imagine it, but on her way home, Louellen 
 was echoing that wish. She had wanted that kiss, burnt 
 for it. The very vehemence of her denial of it proved that 
 to her, and she was ashamed. In her strict up-bringing 
 to want to let a man kiss you was immodest, if not actually 
 indecent. So she was ashamed. Besides she was afraid, 
 afraid of the decision she had made. It wearied and alarmed 
 her that she must decide. When she had cried out that she 
 wished there was something women could do besides marry 
 she was voicing that weariness and alarm. She was being 
 urged so fast toward marriage, by Mart in secret, by John 
 Henry Hyde openly, and with more urgency, because her 
 father was his backer.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 21 
 
 Her mother had remained oddly silent about John Henry's 
 courting, and Louellen felt reservations in Jane West's 
 silence when he was mentioned, scented criticism of him in 
 the elder woman's calm scrutiny when he was present. She 
 had said, "He's not got much mellerness about him," and 
 Louellen had turned that phrase over in her thoughts very 
 often, since. 
 
 Well, now she had made up her mind, once and for all. 
 That is, if Mart . . . 
 
 But Mart would. He had promised. He had promised 
 faithfully, even though with obvious misgivings. If he 
 did not keep that promise she shook her head. She could 
 not face the answer to the question raised by that chill 
 doubt. She put it away from her. He must keep it. Even 
 so, even if he turned a model of propriety and industry it 
 was not going to be easy to win her father over. Amos 
 West was patriarchal in his ideas. Authority, he held, was 
 vested in the male parent. It was almost impossible to fancy 
 herself defying her father, and she knew well how he felt 
 about Mart. 
 
 Amos West's dislike for Mart was long and deep-seated, 
 based on a dark Puritanical hatred of all who love pleasure 
 and cannot be barred from it, by law or public opinion. It 
 irked Amos West that Mart should be able to stay away 
 from church, and yet be as good a farmer as any of the 
 godly. He could have seen a pestilence of drouth or insects 
 descend on the Bladen acres with a pleasurable consciousness 
 that God is not mocked, and no slightest twinge of pity for 
 the misfortune of a fellow creature. It outraged him to 
 see Mart cantering blithely away to godless diversions, when 
 he himself was on his way to prayer meeting. As for the 
 young man's pretensions to Louellen, Amos West never 
 even suspected the fervor and extent of them, but there was 
 something about the way Mart looked and spoke to him, a 
 light disregard of his disapproval, a sort of baffling twinkle 
 of amusement at his frown, that woke in him a f anged anger. 
 The souls of the two clashed involuntarily. There would
 
 22 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 have to be a profound change in Mart before Amos West 
 would so much as tolerate him. Yet Amos West was an 
 honest man, a just man, and in most things, kind. His rep- 
 robation of the ungodly was sincere, but they did not move 
 him to pity. Like Isaiah he spared not to lift up his voice 
 to show them their transgressions. Like Malachi he felt 
 it was right to tread down the wicked. 
 
 Louellen sighed. It seemed a tangled coil indeed, which- 
 ever way she approached it. The path from the beech tree 
 had led her along a field of late corn, stiff rustling green. 
 She threaded its maze quickly, came out near the stables, 
 rounded the silver-gold bulk of the straw stacks, and on the 
 lane to the house found Rachel picking into her apron the 
 purple French plums from the tree by the beehives. 
 
 The negress turned at her step. "Oh, heah you is. Fine 
 'at guinea-keet's nes' ?" she asked with a chuckle. 
 
 "Not a sign of it," said Louellen cheerfully. 
 
 "Well, you fine sompen else, I be boun'. Y'ain' come 
 erlong so light-foot en wishful fer nothin'." 
 
 Louellen would have liked to tell her, but she was sure 
 that Rachel knew anyway and telling would spoil their 
 good understanding. She stopped and picked a handful 
 of the bloomy perfumed fruit. Their color melted pleas- 
 antly with the purple of her dress, and she noted this ab- 
 sently, losing herself again at her cross-roads of purpose. 
 
 "Men are a nuisance, aren't they, Rachel! Always at 
 you about something or other, always bothering, never sat- 
 isfied to let you go your own way and take your own time, 
 but hustling you into theirs." 
 
 "Listen to y', listen to y' ! You ma'k me, chile, dishyer'd 
 be a mighty po' worl', widout no tas'e to it at all, ef dey 
 wasn' no men. Dey do mek trouble, but dey sure do keep 
 things stirrin'." 
 
 "Well, that's true, anyway," said Louellen, with emphasis, 
 and went on into the house.
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 RENA MASSEY had usurped the small mirror and stood 
 before it trying to get a complete view of her white flowered 
 polonaise, her tight black jersey and the narrow cherry- 
 colored ribbon which she had tied about her full throat with 
 drooping loops at the side. Annie West and Esther Daw- 
 son watched her with open admiration, Louellen a little 
 more critically. Rena was the daughter of the man who 
 kept the biggest dry-goods store in Manor, the county seat, 
 and was therefore the only town mouse in the lot. As such 
 her manner held a certain condescension. Not that she 
 said anything but she had a way of looking at their clothes 
 and then at her own. And her chignon was quite twice 
 the size of any of theirs. She had a round box of Pond- 
 lily Face-powder which they envied heartily and as heartily 
 agreed that it was a sinful vanity. She had a scent flagon, 
 too, filled with clear pale green eau-de-cologne, which she 
 dabbed on every fresh handkerchief. 
 
 They had come upstairs to dress for the evening service 
 in the cramped upper story of the pine shack, which was, 
 nevertheless, one of the best "tents" in the whole camp- 
 ground, placed in the very center of the block facing the 
 preacher's stand. They were all ready, except Rena, who 
 was always last. 
 
 "I've got a little piece of blue velvet ribbon just that 
 width I believe I could tie up like yours," said Louellen, 
 watching the manipulation of the cherry bow. 
 
 "Well you might try it," Rena assented airily. "But 
 velvet's stiff. It ought to be moire." 
 
 Louellen was not discouraged. For all Rena's style, 
 her father was only a storekeeper running on borrowed 
 money, Amos West had said so, and he was not given to 
 vain speech. 
 
 23
 
 24 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "I think velvet will look all right," she said, and got up 
 off the bed where she had been perched with Annie and 
 Esther, to rummage in her trunk. There was just room 
 enough for her to get round the beds, bunks of rough lum- 
 ber, but spread with spotless sheets and fine "Feather Star" 
 and "Tree of Paradise" quilts. This "tent" was, like all the 
 others, nothing but two rooms one downstairs and one 
 above connected by a tiny rough stairway, built with a 
 peaked gable, which fronted on the camp-ground, and gave 
 it the look of a giant bird-box. It was unceiled, unplastered. 
 In the upper room the windows were wide slits that ex- 
 tended all the way across the front and back, and could be 
 closed in case of storms by hinged planks, now hooked up 
 to let the air in, the opening covered with mosquito net. 
 Two wide bunk beds, an old chest of drawers with the 
 mirror atop it where Rena was prinking, a wash-stand with 
 towels hanging on the bar, a kerosene hand lamp with red 
 oil in its glass body, these were all the furnishings. This 
 room was given over, for the time of the camp-meeting, 
 to the girls and their friends. 
 
 Downstairs was another bed, for Amos West and his 
 wife, their bureau and wash-stand shunted behind a cur- 
 tain which expressed the properties, and as many chairs as 
 could be got into the remaining space. And the whole 
 front, downstairs, was open to the camp-ground, closed at 
 night by removable panels of planks, that fitted none too 
 well. Louellen and Annie, wishful of elegance, had per- 
 suaded their mother this year to hang lace curtains at each 
 side of the wide downstairs front, and tie them back with 
 bows of pink ribbon. With a little variation in size and con- 
 tents the West tent duplicated every other on the ground. 
 For the ten days of these open-air services the faithful and 
 their families lived a life that was half-gypsy, half-saint, 
 and found the combination piquant and pleasing. 
 
 Louellen, with the ribbon in her hand, advanced boldly 
 to the mirror. By sheer force of will she moved Rena away 
 from it. Rena was fair-haired and pink-fleshed, blooming,
 
 One Thing Is Certain 25 
 
 in another five years she would be over-blown and her high 
 color would be fixed in her round cheeks like the redness 
 of a winter apple. Now she was luscious and she knew it. 
 She watched Louellen with the ribbon complacently. 
 
 But Louellen's slender fingers, pointed, quick, were deft 
 and sure, and when she had the bow tied to her liking she 
 turned in triumph to her audience. 
 
 "There !" she cried. "What about that?" 
 
 "I think it's real stylish," ventured Esther Dawson, with 
 a side glance at Rena. 
 
 Indeed, the clear blue brought out the blue lights in 
 Louellen's eyes, contrasted charmingly with the shadowy 
 ecru of her India muslin. Rena, observing her, suddenly 
 decided to be amiable. What was a blue ribbon, more or 
 less. Louellen had too many beaux, desirable ones and 
 energetic in their attentions, to be snubbed as a less at- 
 tractive girl might be. 
 
 "It's sweet," said Rena. "It looks perfectly all right, 
 even if it is velvet." 
 
 "Oh, I wish I had one," said Annie, looking from one to 
 the other of the older girls. "Haven't you got another 
 piece, sis?" 
 
 "You can take this one," said Louellen, with instant gen- 
 erosity. "I don't care. I just happened to think of it." 
 
 "That's just like you, Lou," commented Rena. "You'd 
 give away your head if it wasn't tight to your shoulders." 
 
 "I won't take it," protested Annie. "I thought maybe 
 there was another piece. I'm not such a pig as all that 
 when you thought of it and it looks so nice on you." 
 
 "Yes, you take it. It'll look even nicer on you." Louellen 
 was imperious, compelling. She was accustomed to rule 
 Annie even in her generosities. She tied the blue ribbon 
 about the younger girl's throat and pulled her up in front 
 of the mirror. "It does look nice. You keep it, Annie, 
 I'll give it to you. Next time I go to town I'll get me an- 
 other." 
 
 "I hate to " but she turned this way and that, fas-
 
 26 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 cinated by following the mode of so fashionable a person 
 as Rena. "You sure you don't care?" 
 
 "Not a bit." Louellen glanced about. "We're all ready, 
 aren't we? Don't let's go down right away. There'll just 
 be a parcel of old folks down there, Miss Becca Simpson 
 in her changeable silk and her false front, and old Mrs. 
 Esma Lowe, and all talking about nothing but how beau- 
 tiful Parson Truitt's prayers are and who's going to exhort 
 to-night, and who's been to the mourner's bench, and who 
 hasn't. There won't even be anybody promenading, yet." 
 
 The four girls acquiescently settled themselves in a row 
 where they could look out of the wide front aperture, sit- 
 ting on the side of the bed nearest to it. First Annie, 
 slight, fair-haired and wide-eyed, prim in white pique, finger- 
 ing the new blue bow with little pleased movements; then 
 Esther Dawson, small and dark and sharp, yet unconquer- 
 ably shy, in a bright pink muslin that did not become her, 
 a string of gold beads close about her neck, a gold fringed 
 bracelet with a black enameled buckle fastened round her 
 thin wrist ; then Rena, opulent, stylish, perfumed, her heavy 
 shining hair looped intricately, her little pink tongue con- 
 stantly moistening her full impatient lips; and at the foot 
 of the bed Louellen, definite, cool and quick, no more 
 eclipsed by the larger, more vivid Rena than a tea rose is 
 eclipsed by a peony. 
 
 Before and beneath them in the August twilight was the 
 open square, and at the very center the preacher's stand, 
 a high platform with a canopy roof supported by four cor- 
 ner posts. A big tin kerosene lamp hung there, as yet un- 
 lighted, and there was a wooden pulpit with Bibles and hymn 
 books on it, and at one side a small organ and some chairs for 
 the choir. There were other chairs and a bench where as- 
 sisting ministers might sit until their turn came to exhort 
 or offer prayer. 
 
 All around the preacher's stand clustered the trees of the 
 grove, oak, pine, and sweet-gum, moving their branches 
 a little in the evening breeze as if to exchange sedate com-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 27 
 
 ment on the unusual scene below them. In among the trees 
 were the benches for the congregation, nothing more than 
 boards nailed on low supports, splintery and uneven, back- 
 less, surely a test of piety's endurance. And at the edge 
 of these benches, separating them from the surrounding 
 square of tents and binding them into coherent shape, was 
 a wide walk, sprinkled with sawdust, known as the prome- 
 nade. Here the young folks strolled before and after serv- 
 ice, round and round endlessly, pausing now and then to 
 visit friends in the tents and to observe the other prome- 
 naders. Older folk did not often promenade, though they 
 found it a diversion to watch. It was a wonderful place 
 to display a new frock or a new beau, to find out what was 
 going on all round the camp-ground and it was the sole 
 concession to social vanity and worldliness that the campers 
 made. 
 
 At the four corners of the square of benches there were 
 wooden trays filled with sand, mounted on posts that stood 
 high above the heads of the crowd. On the sand was piled 
 light-wood which would presently be fired to shed a murky 
 smoky light over the scene of worship. A negro man, 
 standing on a high box, was piling fuel on the nearest of 
 these trays and the girls watched him. 
 
 "That's old Unc' Jeems King that waits over at the 
 boarding tent," said Esther Dawson, recognizing him. "He's 
 the best old nigger. Yesterday, when I lost my handker- 
 chief he came all the way round the square trying to find 
 out whose it was." 
 
 "The boarding tent's been elegant this year," commented 
 Rena, who liked food. "With all that crowd for dinner 
 to-day there was enough and to spare. But I was glad we 
 went over early quite a sight those four sucking pigs 
 roasted so beautifully and sitting in a row down the table! 
 I'm glad I saw 'em before the carving began. And that 
 chicken pie grand!" 
 
 "It's been a real nice camp," added Esther. "I'm sorry 
 it breaks up to-morrow."
 
 28 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "So'm I," said Annie. "It's been fun." 
 
 "Better not let Brother John Henry Hyde hear you call- 
 ing it fun," mocked Rena with a side-glance at Louellen. 
 "He'd take a fit." 
 
 "Oh, he won't care what I say," giggled Annie. "But if 
 Louellen said it, it would pain and distress him. Such 
 levity !" 
 
 Louellen tossed her head. "It's nothing to me what pains 
 and distresses John Henry. He always acts like he'd swal- 
 lowed a poker." 
 
 Rena looked at her curiously. John Henry Hyde's prop- 
 erty made him what she thought of as "a catch." Every 
 one knew how hotly he was courting Louellen, and that her 
 father favored him. His persistence had driven off most 
 of the other young men who had been hanging stickily round 
 the Wests' front parlor ever since Louellen was seventeen. 
 Coolly to run down so eligible a match argued a disinter- 
 estedness of which Rena was incapable and the validity of 
 which she questioned in another. Hadn't she seen John 
 Henry on hand every day at the camp, and Louellen with 
 him? Usually such appearances meant only one thing, an 
 engagement. But Louellen was so offhand about him . . . 
 and besides there were rumors. . . . 
 
 And now Esther voiced these rumors teasingly: "I 
 reckon Mart Bladen wouldn't object to a little levity 
 
 "Sh-h," said Louellen, with an involuntary gesture, indi- 
 cating the room below. 
 
 "Pa's so down on him," whispered Annie, completing the 
 warning. "Won't even hear his name !" 
 
 Rena's eyes flashed with real envy. To have Mart Bladen 
 paying you such attention as to win your parents' disap- 
 proval ! How did Louellen do it ! Certainly not by her 
 looks. It was all a mystery to Rena. She spoke with hope- 
 less enthusiasm: "Oh, isn't he the most fascinating thing! 
 But so wild. I heard that the constables almost got him 
 down at Marshy-Hope chapel. He's a case, if there ever 
 was one."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 29 
 
 Louellen could not keep from explaining why he had been 
 so nearly captured. "He went back after Jere Willis," 
 she whispered. "Took him up on his horse and got away 
 with him. The others all rode off, the Kemp boys, and Gid 
 Cummins, and Jim Thomas and Zeb Williams the whole 
 lot of 'em. Jere was riding a young horse and it threw 
 him, and he called out and Mart went back." 
 
 "You're very well informed," tittered Rena. 
 
 Louellen flushed. She had not seen nor heard from Mart 
 since the day under the beech tree, nearly two weeks ago, 
 and he had been so anxiously and constantly in her thoughts 
 that to speak of him, even blindly, was a relief. "I think 
 we might's well go down. It's pretty near time for evening 
 service," she said. 
 
 She led the way and the others followed and maneuvered 
 themselves down the narrow twisted stairway, holding their 
 long skirts from unplaned edges and projecting nail heads. 
 As they went Esther nudged Annie and nodded toward Lou- 
 ellen, and Annie made knowing eyes. They hunched their 
 shoulders and giggled silently.
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 THEY came down to a scene that rippled and waved 
 with excitement. Lamps had been lit, people had come in, 
 the bare little room was crowded. In the midst of it stood 
 Amos West, tall, austere, his long beard and shaven upper 
 lip, his high narrow forehead and fierce brows giving him 
 the aspect of a minor prophet of the more denunciatory 
 sort. Two other men were there, one rotund, red, truculent, 
 the other unmistakably a cleric, bland by custom but now 
 ruffled and apprehensive. His voice, even in conversation, 
 had the resonant twang and the conventional downward 
 swoop at the end of a phrase that mark the old-style Meth- 
 odist. 
 
 About the men clustered their women-folk, Mrs. West, 
 her gold watch chain breaking the plainness of her tight 
 buttoned black alpaca basque, her lips pursed, but a vagrom 
 gleam of humor in her eyes, was at her husband's elbow. 
 She was sometimes suspected of sympathy for the unregen- 
 erate, though her actions never justified this suspicion. The 
 others were negligible, but for one, Miss Becca Simpson, 
 short, immensely fat, dressed, even as Louellen had said, 
 in a red and green changeable silk, extinguished in ruches, 
 her false front a mass of curly black ringlets ; her eccentric- 
 ities were accepted as harmless, and her exaggerations gave 
 a peppery tang to local gossip. 
 
 The three men were talking at once, but through and over 
 their voices the preacher's penetrating accents prevailed. 
 
 "... and at the first intimation I came at once to Bro* 
 Ayres and told him that as overseer of the camp-ground 
 he was responsible for law and order, and that if these 
 rowdies really planned to create any disturbance he should 
 provide extra constables or notify the sheriff " 
 
 30
 
 One Thing Is Certain 31 
 
 "They cut the harness off half the horses down at Ma'shy- 
 Hope revival," flung in Miss Becca, with relish. 
 
 "... but he has done nothing whatever about it and 
 with the Presiding Elder to preach to-night, and ministers 
 from some of the best charges on the Shore on the preach- 
 ers' stand and the last night of camp it's nothing short 
 of disgraceful." 
 
 Brother Ayres defended himself, his red face getting 
 redder, his little eyes snapping: "Now don't you get so 
 excited, Bro' Truitt. Ches Layton rode in not half an hour 
 ago with his sister, and he said there wasn't the slightest 
 danger of that gang coming round here, and he cert'ney 
 ought to know what's going on, seeing's he's kin to Mart Bla- 
 den and hand in glove with 'em all, good bit of the time. 
 By jolly, they better lay pretty low after that Wye trouble." 
 
 "Who brought the rumor in the first place?" asked Amos 
 West. 
 
 The girls had clustered at the back, silent, all ears, but at 
 the mention of Mart Bladen Annie pinched Louellen's arm. 
 Louellen did not quiver. She was turned to stone, waiting, 
 listening. 
 
 "John Henry Hyde. Said somebody from over at the 
 Corner told him. Said the whole lot of 'em had been at 
 Joe Kemp's place all day, drinking hard cider, and whoop- 
 ing like a band of Indians. Tillie Kemp got scared and 
 took the children and run over to a neighbor's, but Joe 
 come after her and made her go back and get dinner for 
 'em. Oh, they're ripe for any devilment, but, by jolly, they 
 won't start none here. They know I'd land every man jack 
 of 'em in jail, soon's wink." 
 
 Louellen curled her lips in faint derision. As if anybody 
 was afraid of Mr. Leonidas Ayres, least of all the band of 
 men he was talking about ! He'd never put any one in jail 
 he was going to run for sheriff in the fall and he wanted 
 the Kemp influence. She relaxed a little. None of this 
 implicated Mart, and that was the only thing she cared
 
 32 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 about. It hadn't even been said that he was with them. 
 Of course, he wasn't. She told herself this fiercely. 
 
 "Well, I think some action should be taken," persisted 
 the preacher, looking hostilely at Bro' Ayres. 
 
 Amos West's voice, calm, decisive, settled the agitation. 
 "It's about time for evening service. People are beginning 
 to gather. You go along up to the preacher's stand, Bro' 
 Truitt, and Bro' Ayres and I will circulate round and get 
 some of the men together, and decide what to do in case 
 there should be trouble. Don't you be anxious. We'll or- 
 ganize so's to keep everything under strict surveillance, 
 from the road outside to the furthermost back tent. At the 
 first hint of any disturbance we'll be ready to deal with it." 
 
 It is never easy to gainsay assurance and commonsense. 
 The Reverend Truitt was in the minority. 
 
 "Yes, of course we will I said I would in the first place," 
 said Leonidas Ayres, puffing with importance. And the 
 preacher, over-ruled, left the tent, followed by the two 
 others. 
 
 Having kept silence under male domination, now that it 
 was removed the women promptly crisped and fluttered and 
 exclaimed. In the background the girls caught hands and 
 thrilled. They also darted watchful eyes past their elders 
 out toward the preaching square. It was time for the young 
 men to appear, their escorts for evening service. Each one 
 of them had an engagement and expected a suitor, even 
 plain little Esther Dawson, for Hance Wright, who would 
 presently come for Annie, had said that he would bring his 
 cousin Ben from Snow Hill with him, and that Ben hadn't 
 got a girl. It was tacitly understood, therefore, that he 
 would accompany Esther, while Hance paired off with An- 
 nie. Dan Fisher was to come for Rena, and John Henry 
 Hyde would as usual be waiting on Louellen. 
 
 Even while they watched for them, these more regular 
 and godly youths were almost forgotten in the prospect 
 of the presence of the county's band of hard-drinking, hard- 
 riding, card-playing, fox-hunting, blasphemous, irreligious
 
 One Thing Is Certain 33 
 
 rips, young bloods whose chief distinction was hilarious 
 deviltry. 
 
 "My goodness gracious," shrilled Miss Becca, her black 
 eyes a-glitter, her false front rakishly askew, "I don't know 
 where I'm going to sit to-night. They'll maybe ride their 
 horses right up to the preacher's stand. That's what they 
 did down at Wye. It'll give me a heart spell " but she 
 was not displeased at the prospect. 
 
 "You come with me, Miss Becca," said Mrs. West. "We'll 
 sit close to one of the trees, and if anything goes on you can 
 get round behind it. I never yet saw a horse that could 
 ride over a tree." She smiled as she said it. She, too, de- 
 spite her staid voice and plain dress and her position as wife 
 to Amos West, that good man and deacon of the church, 
 was still enough of Eve's daughter to welcome the serpent. 
 
 "D'you reckon they'll bring their pistols, Mis' West?" 
 asked Rena, pressing forward. Miss Becca gave a faint 
 scream at the bare idea. 
 
 "Law no, Rena," said Mrs. West, "and if they do they'll 
 only pop 'em off in the air. They don't aim to hurt a soul. 
 It's just wildness." 
 
 A hard-faced little woman in severe black mitts, who had 
 kept silence so far, took up this word. "I never expected 
 to hear you excuse and condone such sinfulness, Sister 
 West," she pounced. "Those rascals ought to be jailed every 
 one, I say. And they're all headed straight for perdition." 
 
 Mrs. West stooped and pulled her bonnet box from under 
 the bed, took therefrom a plain bonnet trimmed with a 
 bunch of quivering bugles, unrolled and tied the strings 
 tight under her chin before she answered. "There's a wide 
 difference between wildness and wickedness, Sister Truitt," 
 she said at last, "and I've lived to see many a sporting young 
 fellow settle down and be as good and as lib'ral a church 
 member as any. We got no call to condemn too free. Some- 
 times it comes too close home for comfort." This was a 
 sure shot, for Sister Truitt's only brother was known to 
 have been a reveller in his youth.
 
 34 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 There was silence after this retort, but Miss Becca's 
 triple chins quivered with suppressed glee. "Now," said 
 Mrs. West, "I guess we're ready. When you girls leave, 
 I want you, Louellen, to put out the big lamp and turn 
 down the little one and set it on the stand there. Don't be 
 late and don't set too far back. You know your Pa don't 
 like it." 
 
 They watched the elders depart, Miss Becca rolling along 
 like a gay balloon between two dark supports. "Mis' 
 Truitt'll think twice before she snaps up your mother soon 
 again," giggled Rena. "I was so tickled I almost laughed 
 right out. She looked like she'd tasted the vinegar jug." 
 
 "So'd I," chimed in Annie. "Serves her right. I saw 
 her cutting her eye at your cherry ribbon, Rena, and I'll 
 bet she was just dying to say something about worldly gew- 
 gaws and vanity. I kept my hand up over mine. Oh 
 here come Hance and his cousin." 
 
 Two youths approached, awkwardly, but with determina- 
 tion. They verged on the dandy with their tight panta- 
 loons, their fancy cashmere vests, their flat scarves of shot 
 silk, their straw sailors with striped ribbon bands. Hance 
 was clean shaven, but the other had incipient whiskers, a 
 manly red fuzz that fringed a face so young as to be al- 
 most cherubic. 
 
 They stopped before the West tent. Introductions were 
 got through, and then there was an uncertain pause. Lou- 
 ellen, feeling their bashfulness, took them in hand. "You 
 go on, you four," she said. "There's such a crowd you'll 
 not get good seats if you don't. Sit over at the other side 
 and try to hold places for us, won't you?" 
 
 This easy arrangement sent them off at once, Annie with 
 her fingertips on Hance's stiffly crooked arm, Esther snug- 
 gling up determinedly to Ben. Esther did not often have 
 a beau, and her shyness could not prevent her from making 
 the most of such a chance. 
 
 "Esther certainly is man-crazy," pronounced Rena. "Look 
 at her. Oh my, there goes the second bell. What ever has
 
 One Thing Is Certain 35 
 
 become of Dan! I don't want to be scrooged up next to 
 some fat woman with a slobbering baby. My, what a 
 crowd! They say the Presiding Elder's going to preach 
 his hell-fire sermon to-night, and that always draws people. 
 Oh, Lou do you believe they're coming? The Kemp 
 crowd, I mean." 
 
 "I don't suppose so. I think it's just talk," said Lou- 
 ellen, and turned away her face. "Here's Dan." 
 
 Rena was instantly coquettish, bridling, smiling, pouting. 
 "My goodness, but you do keep a person waiting ! I had a 
 good mind to go on without you." 
 
 "I was out posting men round the grounds," said Dan 
 importantly. "Mr. Ayres asked me to help him out a little. 
 Louellen, you going with us?" 
 
 "No, thank you. John Henry's coming for me." 
 
 "He'll be long pretty soon he's out with Mr. Ayres, too. 
 We got watchers way down the road." 
 
 "D'you really believe they're coming?" inquired Rena, 
 stepping off the tent floor beside Dan. Louellen leaned 
 to hear his answer as the two edged their way into the now 
 crowded promenade. 
 
 "I shouldn't be surprised. They been drinking and holler- 
 ing all day. People that come past Kemps' say they could 
 hear them out to the road, and you know when they once 
 get started they don't stop. Gid and Joe and Mart and 
 Zeb Williams " They passed out of earshot. 
 
 Louellen drew back and with the movement retired into 
 the fastnesses of her own troubled thoughts. Mechanically 
 she put out the big lamp, turned down the little one and set 
 it on the stand. Then she sat down again, her eyes fixed 
 absently on the scene before her. The summer night had 
 closed over the camp-ground, deep blue, mysterious, im- 
 penetrable, warm with desire, dark with a pagan beauty 
 that pressed down the flare of the pineknots, muffled and 
 veiled the mounting voices as they essayed the hymn, frus- 
 trated in the hearts of the crowd the desire to center them- 
 selves luxuriously on sin and repentance, troubled them
 
 36 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 with vague unsettling nerves, oppressed them with their 
 powerlessness. Even in the thickest of the crowd there 
 was no peace, no serene devout attention. People kept 
 glancing over their shoulders, shifting, restless. They 
 thought it was the impending raid, but it was not. It was 
 Nature, taking toll of their emotions, without haste, with- 
 out shame, laughing at them, mocking them, not unkindly, 
 but as if they were small foolish children to be played with 
 and disregarded. The eddying smoke of the light-wood 
 might have been fumes from little secret altars dedicated 
 to Pan, so fragrantly, so troublingly, it wreathed amongst 
 them. The yearning slow harmonies of the sacred song 
 might have been a chant raised to propitiate and supplicate 
 Demeter or Diana. 
 
 To Louellen, listening, seeing, feeling, with senses made 
 keen by the past two weeks of waiting, the night's withheld, 
 yet promised mysteries, were weight to the heart. Dan 
 Fisher had said Mart's name as one of those who had been 
 rioting at the Kemps'. But she would not believe it. It 
 was impossible. Still, the careless surety with which that 
 name had been spoken opened a rift of doubt. 
 
 Hardily, she forced herself to stare into this rift, to com- 
 pass all its depth. If Mart had done this thing, if he was 
 really loosed again in another of his meaningless wanton 
 follies, she was through. She had said it, and she would 
 keep her word, no matter what it cost her. And that meant 
 that she must marry John Henry Hyde. It would not be 
 possible to deny him any longer. For she knew that only 
 by her marriage to another could she finally close the door 
 to Mart. 
 
 And now she thought of John Henry. How little she 
 knew him, how different he was from all the people of her 
 ken ! Six years ago he had appeared in the neighborhood, 
 a close-mouthed, dark youth, well supplied with money just 
 inherited, and after a prolonged investigation he had driven 
 a hard bargain for the old Temple farm next to the Bladen 
 place. He had imported an angular, restlessly energetic
 
 One Thing Is Certain 37 
 
 Aunt Lena from amongst his kin back in York State, as 
 they called it, as housekeeper for him, and had at once 
 taken his place amongst the Methodist congregation with 
 a seriousness and a narrow-minded fervor of piety that 
 delighted many of the elders, and Amos West in particular. 
 There was a curious affinity between the two men, and 
 Amos West lost no time in bringing him into his home as 
 a guest for dinner. There he had seen Louellen, still with 
 short skirts and long braids, and he had made up his mind 
 to marry her. 
 
 He followed a narrow path, John Henry, with his farm 
 which he tilled amazingly well, his church which he served 
 with a bigoted devotion, and 'his intent craving for this one 
 woman, biding his time restlessly until she would be old 
 enough to be won. 
 
 It had been flattering to Louellen, at first, but as she 
 matured, she had not liked him so well. He was too as- 
 sured, too much the owner. And there was something else. 
 Of late, as she had turned toward Mart, and John Henry 
 had insensibly felt her recede from him, he had grown 
 more importunate. His hard eagerness, the avid clutch 
 of his hands toward her repelled her as something physically 
 not to be borne. She hated to have him breathe hard and 
 break into feverish sweat at her nearness. Something es- 
 sentially virginal in her shrank from his controlled yet 
 obvious passion. And he never joked and he never laughed. 
 While Mart . . . 
 
 Always she came back to Mart. How different, how gay, 
 how utterly irresponsible and persuasive he was! Her 
 drooping mouth lifted just to think of him. How easily, 
 how carelessly, how wheedlingly he had tempted her to go 
 against her father's will ! Remembered scraps of talk came 
 back to her. "Of course you'll come down to the beech and 
 meet me you wouldn't let me linger alone down there and 
 die of a broken heart and maybe catch cold, too." . . . 
 "Let's have our fun first and work afterward, if there's 
 any time left" . . . Mart, to whom no man was bad unless
 
 38 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 he abused his horses or his dogs. Mart, who thought that 
 to sit in church was a pitiful waste of a sunshiny day or a 
 silver moonlit night. Mart, as he had looked at her at their 
 last meeting, more serious than she had ever seen him, oddly 
 uncertain, appealing. 
 
 Why, why, she wondered with sudden vehemence, had 
 she been fool enough to make him promise! Why hadn't 
 she trusted him, gone with him, and tasted adventure fear- 
 lessly! And yet there was the memory of poor draggled 
 Tillie Kemp, sallow and scared and afraid to call her soul 
 her own. Five years ago she had run away with Joe Kemp, 
 then a dashing blade, now a settled worthless rowdy. Her 
 subsequent misery was accepted by herself and the com- 
 munity as final, and as just. Even Jane West had said: 
 "She's made her bed and now she must lie in it." 
 
 So her warm impulse toward Mart ebbed away. But she 
 could not believe that he had gone against his promise to 
 her. Even if the Kemp boys and their gang had been drink- 
 ing all day and were working up to one of their wanton 
 raids on the camp-meeting, it didn't necessarily follow that 
 Mart was with them. She painstakingly went back over 
 the evidence. Mart had been mentioned only twice, once 
 by Bro' Ayres, and then only as Ches Layton's cousin, and 
 Ches had scouted the idea of any raid. But Dan Fisher 
 had said, clearly, that he was at the Kemps', and drinking, 
 and Dan had no malice against Mart, was, in fact, his 
 friend, would not lie about him. Even in Bro' Ayres' state- 
 ment that it was John Henry who had got the news that 
 the raid was on from some one who had driven in from 
 the Cross Roads, there was no particular mention of Mart, 
 and if any one would try to bring Mart's name into it, fairly 
 or unfairly, it would be John Henry. 
 
 So all the connections were vague, tenuous. And yet 
 and yet a cold premonition lay on her spirit. If Mart should 
 do this thing it could only mean that he did not love her, 
 did not want her as much as he wanted drink and deviltry. 
 She gripped her hands together, bereft, forlorn, and prayed
 
 One Thing Is Certain 39 
 
 that it might not be true, prayed to keep her faith in her 
 (over, to keep his love for her. She could not bear it if he 
 ^id not love her, and did not keep his word. The thought 
 of his bright beauty, his laughter, his eyes that drew and 
 held her, she prayed that they might be hers, incoher- 
 ently, achingly, shamelessly, casting away all shame. She 
 tried to put her will that Mart should not leave her and 
 break her heart between him and his riotous desires. She 
 sent her will out into the darkness and tried to reach him, 
 to interpose, that she might not suffer this irreparable loss. 
 And all the time she knew that she was impotent, powerless, 
 that she could not touch him.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 OUTSIDE, the congregation, compact, crowded, had lis- 
 tened, still with a certain unwonted restlessness, to a long 
 prayer that recounted the glories and pleasures of the Lord's 
 service, especially as dispensed at this camp-meeting of the 
 faithful, and besought a continuation of these mercies to 
 those who deserved them. The devout had punctuated and 
 annotated this petition with unctuous "A-a-men" and 
 "Glory" and one old brother had offered an enthusiastic 
 "Praise the Lord" or two as confirmation of its truth. 
 Another hymn was now given out and the choir on the 
 platform raised it, a shrilling emotional soprano in the lead. 
 
 "Jesus, thou all-redeeming Lord, 
 
 Thy blessing we implore; 
 Open the door to preach Thy word, 
 The great effectual door." 
 
 And John Henry Hyde, tall, dark, hurried from his usual 
 calm, stepped up into the tent. It startled her, he came so 
 suddenly into the subdued light, he seemed so tall, so as- 
 sured. 
 
 "I'm sorry I'm late, Louellen," he began. "You ready? 
 All the others gone ?" Her mood took a quick turn, lighter, 
 more commonplace. This tone of John Henry's why, it 
 was that of a husband of years' standing. She resented it. 
 His assumptions were always sparks to the resin of her 
 quick temper. To-night they were a positive offense. 
 
 "You needn't have come at all. I could sit here and hear 
 every word, distinctly. I'd just as soon not go out into the 
 crush." 
 
 It threw him into instant confusion, her attack. "But 
 you said you'd go with me," he cried, his assurance gone. 
 
 40
 
 One Thing Is Certain 41 
 
 "And I waited for you, didn't I? We'll have an awful 
 time getting good seats now. I asked Annie and Esther to 
 try to hold places for us, but I know they couldn't all this 
 time." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders in vexation that somehow ex- 
 plained her to herself. "We sound for all the world like 
 Pa and Ma having an argument," she thought. To end it, 
 she took his arm and they started out into the crowd. She 
 glanced up at him and saw his face clouded with disappoint- 
 ment, harsh, sullen. "I'm not going to coax him round," 
 she told herself determinedly. "He can sulk it out." 
 
 But presently she repented. "For goodness' sake, John 
 Henry, don't look so black. Everybody's noticing you." 
 
 "I don't know why you want to torment me," he an- 
 swered, low and fiercely. 
 
 Of all the unreasonableness! Was she to blame for him 
 being late, she who had waited for him when she might 
 have gone with the others? Torment him when it was 
 he who had tormented her and had for a long time, always 
 pestering and plaguing her to marry him! 
 
 He went on : "I wouldn't have been late but there's a 
 rumor out that the Kemp boys and their lot are going to 
 ride in and break up the preaching and Bro' Ayres got 
 some of the men together and organized 'em. We're not 
 going to have any rookus here like down at Wye. They 
 wa'n't ready for 'em there. But we are. If they come 
 they'll run right into a trap. We'll land the whole lot in 
 jail that'll cool 'em down. Time this country was cleared 
 of that bunch of rips and rascals." He was fervently vin- 
 dictive, a righteous castigator. He looked like a hawk 
 just before it strikes. 
 
 There was no time to say anything more. They had found 
 a vacant space on a side bench and inched into it. The 
 hymn was over. The Presiding Elder, a shrewd, grim 
 apostle, with long-stretched neck, and a wide thin flexible 
 mouth, had risen beside the pulpit and was giving out the 
 text of the sermon on which his fame as soul-winner rested.
 
 42 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "In flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know 
 not God." 
 
 He rolled out the words slowly, tremendously, and his 
 voice searched the camp-ground. No gentle shepherd he, 
 but a rod of chastisement to the sinner, an angry, pitiless 
 prophet. The congregation became still before him, their 
 restlessness awed into abeyance. The pagan spirit of the 
 night retreated before this man's magnetic will, his op- 
 pressive purpose. 
 
 "In flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not 
 God." 
 
 He repeated the text three times, each time more pene- 
 tratingly, more harshly. He beat down inattention, indif- 
 ference. Even naughty little boys, wriggling with all the 
 irrepressible muscles of immature growth, sat motionless 
 and fixed round awed eyes on him, believing he was aware 
 of each one of them. 
 
 But Louellen West did not hear him, did not heed, though 
 she too sat motionless. She turned so that her arm would 
 not touch John Henry for she could not bear his nearness. 
 He and his kind to set a trap for Mart Bladen, to disgrace 
 and break him ! And then her heart burned against Mart, 
 wanton, shameless, laughing Mart. Mart, who had, she 
 felt with growing certainty, broken his word and proved 
 that he held her dearest wish but lightly, that the barrier 
 of her love was too slight to keep him from his chosen 
 pleasures. If she could only believe that it was not so, 
 that he was not drinking and carousing with the Kemps ! 
 And again she had the strange wish that she had not asked 
 him to make the promise. If she had not, she need not 
 suffer so. 
 
 A sudden weariness seized her. Why should she be fast 
 in this ferment of men and their desires, their yieldings 
 and their obstinacies, the imposition of their wicked selfish- 
 nessfor that was all it was. Mart Bladen's selfishness in 
 riding with the Kemp gang John Henry's selfishness that 
 he was intent to shame and hurt Mart, because he suspected
 
 One Thing Is Certain 43 
 
 her tenderness for him. Whilst between them she bore 
 the buffet of their wills, the scourge of their cravings. 
 
 "... lakes of fire, boundless, shoreless, bottomless, 
 . . . river of fires, . . . molten, . . . flowing forever in 
 endless scorching tides of flame . . . engulfing sinners . . ." 
 
 The Presiding Elder's cruel glorying certainty cast trem- 
 ors of fear over his hearers, they shuddered in the warm 
 night. 
 
 "... repent . . . repent . . . the fiery vengeance of the 
 Lord is waiting . . . flaming . . . burning pits of red-hot 
 coals . . . burning forever . . . the hot blue scorch of the 
 ravenous tongues of flame flaring up ... the reek of brim- 
 stone . . . scarifying, searing, shriveling . . . and through 
 it all the echoing groans and screams of sinners' lost souls 
 in the eternal, untellable agony of punishment . . . burning 
 forever . . . burning forever . . . yet always unconsumed, 
 because their torture is eternal, so ordained by the offended 
 might and majesty of the Omnipotent Jehovah . . . forever 
 damned because they knew not God. . . ." 
 
 He exulted in the promise, dwelt upon its horrors with 
 gloating surety. The words hung in the palpitating air and 
 mingled with the smoke from the lightwood until it seemed 
 a faint reek from the hell he pictured. 
 
 Here and there a man hid his face in his hands, girls 
 averted their eyes, and leaned close to their lovers. The 
 exhorters behind the preacher looked round in expectation 
 of a rich harvest. When the sermon was over and the in- 
 vitation to the mourner's bench had been given, these ex- 
 horters would go amongst the congregation, inviting, en- 
 couraging the timid sinner, and inquiring piercingly, "Are 
 you saved, sister?" "Are you saved, brother?" "Are you 
 washed in the blood of the Lamb ?" 
 
 Parson Truitt and some of the older ministers listened 
 more critically. They had heard this sermon before, and 
 though they knew its merits, they were not tremendously 
 moved thereby. One or two of them knew it almost by 
 heart. Bits of it they had appropriated for use from time
 
 44 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 to time in their own tamer discourses. Withal they kept 
 the look of deep and awed attention, the mien due to a 
 preacher of the Presiding Elder's eminence. 
 
 Suddenly, in the rich attentive silence, attuned to the ring- 
 ing discourse now approaching its climax, far away there 
 rose a faint hullabaloo, a tramping of horses' feet, shouts, 
 galloping, ribald mirth, strange obligato for this over- 
 whelming solo of denunciation. Nearer, nearer it came, 
 the edge of the congregation began to stir, to ruffle, to mur- 
 mur. Waves of exclamation, of alarm eddied in through 
 the body of worshipers, and the tumult came nearer, nearer, 
 unchecked, unstayed. Whoopings, strange, uncouth, drunken 
 cries, rallying, dying, rising again, drummed through with 
 driven, pounding hooves. Whips sang in the air ... "Right 
 through to the preachers, God damn 'em ! Go it, boys !" 
 
 The congregation was on its feet, turning with chaotic 
 mass motions, a milling helpless herd. Mothers caught their 
 babies to them, tried to get out to safety, their men fending 
 for them. The exhorters and the ministers stood helpless, 
 twittering with fear and futile indignation, adrift as to nec- 
 essary action, but the Presiding Elder was of better mettle. 
 
 "Quiet," he called, his voice a clarion. "Quiet . . . Go 
 slow! Women into the tents or up on the benches, and 
 stand still. Men form together and meet these sons of 
 Belial. ..." 
 
 At the first intimation of the coming of the rowdies, John 
 Henry Hyde had attempted to rally his cohorts, but in the 
 wild shifting buffeting rush it was impossible. Louellen, 
 who had leaped on the bench, saw him caught in a swirl of 
 fighting panic-stricken women, sweating and screaming. 
 He waved his arms and pushed and thrust about, but he 
 could not get out. . . . The staccato of revolver shots was 
 added to the melee, and through the main avenue of the 
 camp the invaders galloped in pell-mell, people falling, 
 crawling, hurtling out of their path as a miracle. Louellen 
 leaned and looked, forgetting to be afraid. She must know 
 if Mart was there. Every other feeling was swallowed in
 
 One Thing Is Certain 45 
 
 the intensity of her seeking. If he was there . . . but he 
 could not ... he could not ... it would be too cruel. . . . 
 
 "Where's the hell-fire parson?" shouted one raucous hi- 
 larious voice. "We'll give him a taste of hell-fire. . . ." 
 They charged through, over the benches toward the preach- 
 er's stand, their horses snorting, rearing, stumbling. 
 
 And then, through the strange dull murky light she saw 
 Mart Bladen, as drunk as any of them, shouting, half- 
 standing in his stirrups, his revolver in one hand, his eyes 
 blazing, but laughing rocking with his unquenchable wild 
 laughter! His little roan mare was white with dust and 
 lather, and he was coatless, hatless, his shirt open at the neck, 
 torn, crazy mad with drink and excitement and carnival. It 
 was he and no other. She leaned, and looked, her heart 
 beating with great gulping pauses that tore her side. She 
 had known too well. She had known. 
 
 The band of rowdies, having arrived at their objective, 
 seemed a little in doubt of what they should do next. The 
 preacher's stand was empty, save for the Presiding Elder, 
 and he stood dauntless, rather to their admiration. He 
 would not reply to the genial blasphemies and profanings 
 they flung at him, or try to speak above their din, even in 
 rebuke, but stood, arms folded, neck stretched like a vulture, 
 watching for deliverance. 
 
 And now Louellen saw that the square was nearly clear 
 save for those who like herself stood on the benches near 
 to some friendly tree trunk. She saw, too, that the men 
 of the camp were forming at last, that they had heavy 
 cudgels, that they would close in. And so, though he had 
 humiliated her love and outraged it, though she loathed 
 and despised him, though he had cut himself off from her 
 forever, she had the impulse of the woman for her man. 
 She leaped from her bench and ran through the troop; she 
 seized Mart Bladen's bridle rein. 
 
 "Look around," she screamed. "Look ! They'll get you !" 
 
 He looked down and drunken laughter fell away from him. 
 He stretched his hand toward her, but she ran back, evad-
 
 46 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 ing him, and he did not follow. Instead, alert, the veil of 
 his fuddlement lifting, he saw the impending danger and 
 marked the way of escape. 
 
 "Ho-o/" he called. "Gid! Matt! Zeb! Jere! Follow me! 
 All together!" 
 
 They didn't understand, but they followed. Around the 
 preacher's stand they went, spill and pelt, and down the 
 back aisle toward the hinterland of darkness and scrub 
 growth behind the tents. A woodsroad there would take 
 them out to the county highway Louellen knew that. But 
 as they retreated to safety, and the pursuing men ran after 
 them with angry, baffled cries, she dropped down on the 
 nearest bench and burst into tears of heart-break and de- 
 spair. She had saved him, but "I'm never going to have 
 another happy day as long as I live," she sobbed.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 IT was manifest that pursuit and capture were now im- 
 possible, and presently a semblance of order was restored. 
 The men laid aside their rough weapons, the women pressed 
 back into the open square. Overturned and broken benches 
 were put to rights, damages counted. But these were negli- 
 gible. Aside from a few torn dresses, some bruises, and a 
 good bit of hysteria caused by fright and choler, there were 
 no injuries. The timid clergy once more mounted the stand 
 and received the biting welcome of the Presiding Elder: 
 "It's evident we have no stuff of martyrs here." He was 
 pinched with righteous anger, not only at the profaning 
 of the sacred grove, but because the climax of his sermon 
 had been spoiled and he had been unable to retaliate or 
 punish the wicked for their disrespectful gibes and jeers. 
 But he rallied his abashed support. "We can't let the forces 
 of darkness triumph," he declared. "Ring the bell, and 
 we will sing a hymn of thanksgiving for deliverance, and 
 dismiss the people in order and decency." 
 
 So the bell was rung, and in a highly electrical state what 
 was left of the congregation settled down. Many of those 
 who had driven in from round about had already scuttled 
 out to their buggies and surreys, packed in their tumbled 
 families and driven off. But the tenters remained, as did 
 many bolder souls, and these responded to the summoning 
 peal. The Presiding Elder had matters entirely in his own 
 hands, and Bro' Truitt and his associates hung their dimin- 
 ished heads in the background. The faithful were com- 
 mended for their courage under trial, the sons of Beelze- 
 bub were excoriated and their future state described in bit- 
 ter detail. The justice and majesty of the Creator were 
 extolled, the deliverance of His children from their enemies 
 this night cited as proof of His protection. If a faint note 
 
 47
 
 48 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 of criticism crept into the discourse as for instance that 
 His enemies were hardly sufficiently confounded and hum- 
 bled not at all to the satisfaction of the truly sanctified 
 nevertheless, wonderful and sure are His ways, and the 
 wages of sin will certainly, sooner or later, turn out to be 
 death, a comforting assurance and sustaining prop to those 
 who see sinners escape from blows and well-deserved arrest. 
 The Presiding Elder's "Amen" was echoed all over the 
 camp-ground. His hearers rallied to the hymn as an outlet 
 for pent-up feeling. Jubilantly, confidently they sang 
 Charles Wesley's stern vision of judgment terrors and judg- 
 ment raptures, fit selection for the moment: 
 
 "Lift your heads, ye friends of Jesus, 
 Partners in his patience here:" 
 
 The Presiding Elder's voice rose once more, in finality. 
 
 "And now to Thee, Great Judge, King of Kings and 
 Lord of Lords, we commit our weak bodies, and our striv- 
 ing souls, trusting in Thy goodness and mercy unto ever- 
 lasting life. And may the peace of God, which passeth all 
 understanding, and the grace of our Lord, Jesus Christ, 
 and the communion of the Holy Ghost, rest upon and abide 
 with you always, evermore. Amen." 
 
 An instant's reverent hush, and then the babble and clack 
 of comment, which up until now had necessarily been sup- 
 pressed, was flung to the night. 
 
 "I never in all my born days those young rapscallions !" 
 
 "Little Eddie was right under the horses' feet but he never 
 got a scratch. Way he hollered I thought he'd broke every 
 bone in his body." 
 
 "Mis' Truitt tore her dress skirt into ribbons, a good 
 black nunsveiling." 
 
 "I lost my pa'm leaf fan and my bonnet was hanging by 
 the strings when I reached the tent. I never see such 
 scrouging !" 
 
 "They ought to swear out a warrant. . . ."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 49 
 
 "It's a wonder to me they didn't break their horses' legs, 
 right up in the benches so." 
 
 "Wasn't the Presiding Elder hopping mad! When he 
 looked round and saw the others dropping off the platform 
 and getting away I thought he's going to pop. . . ." 
 
 "The county ought to be made too hot to hold such scala- 
 wags. . . ." 
 
 "Matt Kemp rode right by me, and I could've put my 
 hand on him." 
 
 "Oh, my! My eardrums like to burst when they got to 
 shooting." 
 
 They nodded and palpitated, denouncing, severe. But it 
 had been unquestionably entertaining and though no one 
 ventured to say so, there was unspoken approval when Miss 
 Becca Simpson, making sure that all her ruffles and ruches 
 were intact, announced shrilly: "I'm kind of glad I've 
 seen just how they do carry on, for once in my life, though 
 I wouldn't care for't as a stiddy diet." 
 
 The men, however, were of stiffer stuff. Threats of 
 prosecution were freely made. The Presiding Elder coun- 
 seled it. "I'll swear to every one," said John Henry Hyde 
 in throes of thwarted rage. Others echoed him. But when 
 the Presiding Elder had retired, Bro' Ayres demurred, ad- 
 vocating moderation. "I tell you, it won't do" he told 
 the more militant. "All very well for the Presiding Elder 
 to say prosecute, he don't live here, and he don't know 
 what a hornets' nest it'd stir up. You can't prosecute that 
 gang. There'd be blood and bad feelings all over the county. 
 They're all connected, one way or another, with good people, 
 and come right down to it, their kin wouldn't stand to see 
 'em jailed. No, we got to raise public sentiment, and get 
 some of the repr'sent'tive men of the neighborhood to talk 
 to 'em. Get their relatives to workin' on 'em, too. If 
 we bull ahead and try force we'll have a lot of folks with 
 'em, that's agin 'em now." 
 
 "You didn't talk thataway before they come," some one 
 reminded him, pungently.
 
 50 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 But Bro' Ayres was not abashed. "I guess I got enough 
 character to p'mit me to change my mind, if I see fit," he 
 retorted. "I never was one to choose a rut when there was 
 a good road alongside. Those boys ain't criminals, they're 
 just young and misguided." 
 
 "And they all got votes," added Miss Becca, satirically. 
 Laughter rippled at this, but Bro' Ayres was unmoved, and 
 in the end carried his point. 
 
 "Well, it's my opinion," confided Mrs. West to her 
 cronies, "that the men acted the part of weak sisters. For 
 all their watchers and lookouts and organization, they let 
 'em slip right through their fingers, just as usual. I'll bet 
 the women would've been quicker and really caught some of 
 'em. I wonder what's become of my girls," she added, 
 glancing out of the tent. 
 
 Her question was answered by the appearance of Annie 
 and Esther Dawson with their escorts. Seeing the group 
 within the tent, they settled down in the square, an arrange- 
 ment which satisfied the conventions. Young folks were 
 permitted to stay outside a little while after late service, 
 provided they were within earshot. The shadowy grove, 
 dark now save for the lights from the tents, took the place 
 of the best parlor. 
 
 Presently Rena, too, came into view with her swain and 
 they arranged themselves a little way from the others. 
 Louellen had not appeared, but that did not worry her 
 mother, for John Henry would take care of her. A good 
 many couples were still lingering in the farther square, 
 immersed in the dimness, the dresses of the girls no more 
 than detached clouds of pearly mist, masculine white trou- 
 sers and shirt bosom triangles high light markings beside 
 them. 
 
 Louellen had not moved from the place where she had 
 retreated after warning Mart. Her agony of tears passed 
 as quickly as it had come, and when a good bit later John 
 Henry came anxiously to find her, she was sitting, dry- 
 eyed and composed, her hands clasped in her lap, her shoul-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 51 
 
 ders drooping. She did not look up when he sat down be~ 
 side her and he thought she was angry because he had left 
 her. 
 
 "I didn't mean to go off like that," he began, "so sudden, 
 without a word. But I knew you were safe here and had 
 sense enough not to get mixed up in it. By gad, I hate 
 to think they all got away. Ungodly, shameless scoundrels. 
 I told Bro' Ay res we ought to have a stronger party sta- 
 tioned at the back there, but he wouldn't take my advice. 
 For all his talk he didn't want to capture 'em, not from the 
 first, and now he's come out and as good's admitted it." 
 
 Still she sat silent. "Are you provoked because I left 
 you?" he asked. "Why, Louellen, I couldn't have got you 
 through that crowd, you were a lot better off right here. 
 You're so sensible. . . ." 
 
 No matter how deeply she is preoccupied by a breaking 
 heart, the woman was never born who does not resent being 
 called sensible. It gave Louellen an opening for reproaches. 
 "I may be sensible," she said, "but I don't see that my 
 sense would have got me much if the posse had closed in 
 and there'd been a fight all around here. I'd have been 
 caught right in it." 
 
 "I don't see that. You could have slipped right round to 
 the other side, walking on the benches. Why, I had to go, 
 Louellen. It was all agreed where we were to come to- 
 gether, and when we'd formed to close in. But we didn't 
 foresee that the crowd would wash around so, and be so hard 
 to handle. That's why we got held up. If it hadn't been for 
 that we'd've had 'em sure, and Bro' Ayres would've had to 
 prosecute." His voice was black with morose disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 "I don't know what you expected the people would do. 
 Sit still and let the horses trample 'em down? You should 
 have stopped 'em before they got into the center of the 
 camp." 
 
 "But we couldn't, I tell you, because so many of us, 
 like me, were caught trying to get to our posts." He was
 
 52 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 exasperated by her iteration, but he still set down her mood 
 to resentment of his seeming neglect. ''Come now, Lou- 
 ellen, don't hold it against me. I did what was the right 
 thing." 
 
 "You always think you're right," she said coldly, 
 don't see that this time it amounted to so much. You 
 didn't even get your hands on one of 'em after all your big 
 talk." 
 
 "You sound as if you were glad of it," he flung back at 
 her. "I'll tell you this, though. Next week, after the camp 
 breaks up, a dozen men with the sheriff at their head is 
 going to ride around and warn these rips that this is their 
 last time. One more spree lands them in jail, no matter 
 whose kin they are or what wires they pull. There's going 
 to be law and order through this county, or they'll pay 
 for it. We know 'em, every one." 
 
 "Who were they?" she challenged. She trembled as she 
 asked the question, but a faint quick glimmer of hope told 
 her that perhaps every one did not know that Mart was there 
 . . . had not seen him, as she had. She wanted him spared 
 this public ignominy, even though he had not spared her 
 love for him. 
 
 John Henry answered her with unction, rolling the names 
 savoringly on his tongue. "There was Matt and Joe Kemp, 
 Jere Willis, Jim Thomas, Zeb Williams, Jay Dodson, Al 
 Hignutt, Gid Cummins, Haney Griffith and Mart Bladen. 
 Every one was recognized by a hundred people." 
 
 She was utterly still, vanquished. The pronouncement of 
 Mart's name and that he had been recognized by so many 
 finished it. Now he was gone from her, hopelessly, beyond 
 her resolution to recall. She wondered if another hundred 
 people had seen her run to him, and warn him. 
 
 "I suppose it stings you," went on John Henry, hatefully, 
 "that your particular friend was 'mongst them. But he 
 was." 
 
 Something in his voice told her that the measure of his 
 hate was also the measure of his suffering. She felt that
 
 One Thing Is Certain 53 
 
 he was hurt and miserable and buffeted, by the same forces 
 that had her at their mercy. Her anger and her resentment 
 against him were transformed into a swift and strange 
 pity. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, throwing out her hands in hopelessness, 
 "why do we sit here and plague each other so ? What's the 
 use of it? I didn't mean to cut at you, John Henry. I 
 don't know what possessed me." 
 
 His answer was as amazing as her own sudden turn of 
 feeling. He dropped his head against her knee like a beaten 
 child. "Don't, Louellen," he said brokenly. "Don't say 
 things like that to me. 'S'long's you're short with me, I 
 can stand it, your not loving me. But I can't stand your 
 being kind." 
 
 She had never before realized him as anything but in- 
 sensitive, adamant, all-sufficient, and in her own great need 
 of solace and tenderness she found his revelation of for- 
 lornness and need piteously touching. She put her hand on 
 his head and felt that he was shaken and distraught, dis- 
 consolate as herself, bewildered with emotion. It aroused 
 in her a curious kinship of the soul, where before she had 
 been separate and alien to him. 
 
 "Don't, oh, don't, don't," she begged. 
 
 "I can't help it," he whispered, still childishly. "I can't 
 help it. I've held on and held on, but I love you too much. 
 I love you so I'm past all holding myself. It's a sin to 
 care so much for any earthly creature. But I can't help 
 it," he reiterated weakly. "You drive, me past all endur- 
 ing," he added after a second's pause. 
 
 Louellen took impulsive, bitter resolution. She would 
 end this for all of them, now, at this moment. Now that 
 she knew Mart was incapable of truth, now that he had 
 openly flouted her trust of him, shown her openly how little 
 he cared to win her, left her humiliated, all her love for him 
 disregarded and made nothing, she could at least save her 
 pride, and safeguard herself from any like mischance, de- 
 cide here and now to marry John Henry. He loved her,
 
 54 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 and valued her. But Mart had dragged her roisterously 
 in the dust of shame. 
 
 "Don't," she said again. "I'll marry you, if that's what 
 you want." 
 
 But at his gasp of incredulous greedy joy, his violent 
 burning seizure of her, she felt her heart, already heavy 
 enough, drop like a plummet of lead, and her flesh go faint 
 and cold. She had not reckoned with possession. If he 
 had been less craving, less greedy, given her bruised spirit 
 a refuge in tenderness and restraint, understanding, he 
 might have won her forever at this moment. But now she 
 was in his ravenous embrace, numb with horror of what she 
 had done, repenting, but unable to retract; bound prisoner.
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 MART BLADEN opened sleep-drenched eyes, closed them 
 again, stretched, rolled over, blinked at the familiar white- 
 washed walls and maple chest of his bedroom, raised his 
 head and made the diverting discovery that he had slept 
 the night with his boots on. Successively he realized that 
 he had on his trousers, and his shirt. What there was left 
 of it. It seemed to have suffered. 
 
 "That dam' worthless Ephum," he apostrophized the bed 
 canopy, "I've told him a million times not to let me do this 
 when I come home blind. Bet he didn't even wait up to 
 stable Star." 
 
 He dropped back on his crumpled pillow and shouted : 
 "Ephum! Ephum!" and the call was answered by swift 
 bare feet. A black inquiring guileless face looked in at 
 the door. 
 
 "Yessah yessah, Mars' Mart. Heah Ephum." 
 
 "D'jou wait up for me last night ?" 
 
 Ephum projected himself into the room and stood re- 
 vealed in two garments of blue cotton, with a red bandana 
 around his neck for fashion. He was explanatory but not 
 abashed. More, he rejoiced at the chance to indulge his 
 native loquacity. 
 
 "No sah, yessah dat is, didn't ezac'ly wait up, en den 
 ergain I did. I set out by de kitchen do' 'twell mos' day- 
 light, en I reckon I was fin'ly ovahcome by slumbrousness, 
 foh when I wakes up wid de sun full on mah face, dah 
 was Star, down by de wat'rin' trough, all saddle en bridle, 
 en I peeps in heah, en heah you is, sleepin' lak kingdom 
 come. So I ketch Star en stable her, en rub her down good 
 en feed her en she jus' as peart ez er cricket. But you mus' 
 a' been ridin' ha'd, dat you is." Ephum was clever enough 
 to present the cared-for Star first to her master's attention. 
 
 55
 
 56 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "Y es I W as riding " Mart was still scarcely awake, 
 but he swung himself to the side of the bed, looked down 
 at his tattered disorder. "You go roll one of the washtubs 
 a big one into the back hall and fill it up with cold water," 
 he ordered. "And hustle." 
 
 "Yessah but Sally, she usin' de washtubs " Ephum 
 made no case, but merely presented the fact. 
 
 "Well, you empty one of 'em and do like I tell you." 
 
 Ephum hastened away, and Mart pulled himself up from 
 the bed, straightened, raised his arms, and with fingertips 
 against the ceiling, pulled out and braced his supple muscles. 
 His room was part of the old house built by the first Bla- 
 den, with handhewn timbers, deep window embrasures and 
 low ceiling. After he had limbered himself sufficiently he 
 began to strip and presently stood mother naked, rubbing 
 his arms, fighting off the need of sleep that still engulfed 
 him. There was a painful black bruise on his thigh, and 
 he laid a questioning finger on it. 
 
 "How in time did I get that !" he murmured. As yet he 
 had no very clear recollection of the night before. But now, 
 as drowsiness reluctantly receded, he began to remember. 
 
 He had ridden out, restless, in the forenoon, but he had 
 kept away from beaten paths and familiar haunts where 
 he would be most apt to meet the cronies he had forsworn. 
 Half way down the causeway he was overtaken by Gid Cum- 
 mins, galloping carefree with a loose rein and genial humor. 
 He had hailed Mart with joy and invited him to drop in and 
 taste some very superior early cider, just made from his 
 crop of molasses crabapples. 
 
 Mart objected. "I'm not aiming to get tight to-day," 
 he had laughed, waving the other off. 
 
 "You can't get tight on this cider," Gid said. "She ain't 
 even begun to turn. She's almost sickenin' sweet. Next 
 week, now, she'll be ra'ring." 
 
 There had seemed to be no valid reason why Mart should 
 shy at cider which had not begun to turn. So he had tasted 
 and the first cup of its smooth sweetness had misled him
 
 One Thing Is Certain 57 
 
 as to its potency. They had sat under the sycamore before 
 Gid's house, and talked, and had another cup of cider, and 
 then Gid had suggested that they get a piece of ice from his 
 ice-house, and chill some of it he thought it might not 
 taste so sickenin' sweet if it was colder. So they had swag- 
 gered down the hill to the ice-house, invaded its dark coolth, 
 hoisted out a great sawdust-covered cube of ice, and set the 
 pitcher of cider on it, and presently tried again. And again. 
 And again. When the pitcher was empty and the ice largely 
 melted, there was no question but they must go over to 
 Kemps' and tell Matt and Joe about it, and Mart had for- 
 gotten all about his resolution not to get tight. By this 
 time he was in a state of high and powerful exhilaration, 
 with the whole world his golden plaything. The only thing 
 he couldn't understand was why he had never planted an 
 orchard of molasses crabs for himself. 
 
 At the Kemps' there was the regular Sunday spree in full 
 swing, with Tillie Kemp peering fearfully from the back 
 porch, a couple of scared, untidy children clinging to her 
 skirts. The revelers had welcomed Mart hilariously, and 
 to celebrate his return to the fold after two weeks of 
 absence Joe Kemp brought out some of his five-year-old 
 apple-jack, that fiery, heady brandy of the clearest, palest 
 straw-color, with an aroma that holds all the glorified soul 
 of the fruit. They drank it neat. The consequence was 
 even as had been told at the camp-meeting, whoopings and 
 yellings that scandalized the passers-by, terrified Tillie into 
 momentary rebellion, and culminated in the raid on the 
 Harmony camp-ground. 
 
 Mart pulled it all out of his memory, bit by bit, up to 
 that glorious drunken ride through the night, the funny way 
 that people had squawked and run, Star's cleverness and 
 sure-footedness among the unsteady benches, and the more 
 careless horsemanship of the others in the gang. He remem- 
 bered their headlong escape, through the woodsroad with 
 the low crowding tree branches lashing across them as they 
 fled. But it was not until he was standing in the tub of
 
 58 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 cold water, and Ephum, under direction, was sluicing him 
 down with more of the refreshing flood, that he recalled Lou- 
 ellen. 
 
 He started and winced as from sudden pain. "Dat too 
 cole?" asked Ephum with instant sympathy. 
 
 "No no," said Mart, recovering himself. "Go get an- 
 other bucketful and pour it over my head." He stood still 
 in the tub listening to Ephum's flat hastening footsteps, 
 the vigorous creaking of the pump-handle. The ensuing 
 deluge vanquished the last of his slumber, and brought 
 back all of his memory. 
 
 He stepped out of the tub, rubbed himself with the heavy 
 hard towels that he loved, brought up the blood under his 
 fair skin. Then he went back to his room for clean clothes. 
 "Tell Sally to have me my breakfast ready when I come 
 out," he directed Ephum, as he went. But he did not know 
 that he had said the words. He was moving mechanically, 
 his mind wholly intent on the picture of Louellen, her face 
 pale with distress and keen with reproach, running to him, 
 and warning him that he might be trapped. He didn't know 
 what had become of her. She had drawn back into the 
 obscurity whence she had come. But the fact remained. 
 Louellen had seen him drunk and on the loose. Louellen 
 knew. And he had promised her faithfully, he had SM'orn 
 . . . but there, he would explain. He would tell her just 
 what had happened, how he had got into it all unawares, 
 and not by intention. He would guarantee that this was 
 positively the last time, that he would never, never again 
 be such a fool as to touch cider when he didn't know its 
 date. He formed arguments, reasons, excuses, and assured 
 himself that these would be sufficient. But there was a 
 brackish doubt in his mind. 
 
 "Judas Priest !" he swore, as he slipped into smooth re- 
 freshing linen, "I'm the damnedest fool! What'd I listen 
 to Gid for? And drink all that swill!" 
 
 Yet for the life of him he could not feel overwhelmingly 
 troubled, or even particularly repentant, he was too unac-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 59 
 
 customed to such emotions. He strode out to breakfast, his 
 boot heels echoing jauntily on the bare boards. The carpets 
 of his mother's day had long ago vanished. His sisters 
 had carried off the finer furniture, but Mart was content 
 with his scrubbed floors, his whitewash, his plain chests and 
 cupboards and tables, his uncurtained windows, and his 
 ironstone china. The beds were comfortable to sleep in. 
 And Sally was a superlative cook. These, after all, were 
 the essentials. 
 
 He ate crisp, fried side-meat, brown and sweet, from his 
 own smokehouse, and hoe-cakes made of meal and salt and 
 water, patted flat by Sally's capacious palms and baked to 
 a delicious nuttiness on a board before the kitchen fire- 
 place, in the old-fashioned way. Sally would not use the 
 good cookstove that had been his mother's pride, so what- 
 ever she cooked had the savor of the red embers, a little 
 tang of wildness that came from the heart of the burning 
 logs, hickory, oak. 
 
 Mart swam his hoe-cakes in butter, washed them down 
 with boiled coffee that had been cleared with whites of eggs 
 and into its fragrant black poured yellow cream, sluggish in 
 its richness. There was cut sugar to sweeten it, and a bowl 
 of roasted Gravensteins, windfalls, waited until his appetite 
 was sated with the heavier food. 
 
 Tall tulip trees close around the house kept it in as cool 
 a shade as the sunshine beyond was fiery. A fair day, hot 
 but not oppressive, the sky beyond the greenness a blazing 
 steady ultramarine, impenetrably far, yet with a friendly 
 nearness where it lightened at the horizon and dropped be- 
 hind the fringe of pine woods that everywhere made a 
 boundary for vision. Mart, observing it, hastily planned 
 his course. 
 
 The camp-meeting would break up to-day. The tenters 
 would load their furniture into farmwagons for their ser- 
 vants to drive home and they would follow in buggies and 
 carryalls. It would be a leisurely, unhurried process, and 
 would occupy the greater part of the day, even for those
 
 60 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 who lived reasonably near the camp-ground. And the Wests 
 were ten miles from it. There would not be the least chance 
 that he could see Louellen to-day, then. Possibly not to- 
 morrow, for as likely as not Rena would go home with her 
 and stay a day or so longer, so easy were the ways of local 
 hospitality. Yet, if he could get word to her, she might 
 slip off and come down to the beech-tree, say, to-morrow. 
 He mused on ways and means, but could see nothing imme- 
 diate. He must wait, and he hated waiting. 
 
 And there were certain persistent qualms Louellen was 
 such a strict little rascal, she'd walk into him, he knew it. 
 But when she saw how ashamed he was, how genuinely 
 sorry, how this was the last, the very last time, and no mis- 
 take about it, it would be all right. It would have to be all 
 right. He whistled as he left the table, his buoyancy rising. 
 
 "Hi Betty Martin, tiptoe, tiptoe 
 Hi Betty Martin, tiptoe fine!" 
 
 Silly and Spot gamboled round him at the sound, as light 
 of heart as he. Just for the delight of his own controlled 
 body, he ran and leaped the wide box hedge that made di- 
 vision between the front yard and the back, disdaining the 
 open gate. The dogs leaped after him, barking, ecstatic. 
 
 Ephum and Sally exchanged pleased comment at the sight. 
 
 "Frisky ez a two-year-ole ! Ain' he de beatines' !" 
 
 "Sho is. Ah certney do lak to see him all tune up how- 
 come-ye-so, en so limber look lak he made outen inja rub- 
 ber. Hark at dem dawgs ain' dey happy?" 
 
 "Dey all happy. Ah'm glad he bus' loose ergin. Tain' 
 nachel f er a gamesome young buck lak Marse Mart ter pent 
 hissef up en live lak he was Methusalum, no sah." 
 
 "Lessee thishyer's de firs' time he been out rampagin' 
 fer mighty nigh three weeks. Ah doan neveh reckerlec 
 sech a long spell er dry weddeh befo' sence he was knee- 
 high." 
 
 They joined in the rich loose laughter of the negro. They
 
 One Thing Is Certain 61 
 
 loved him and served him with as much devotion as was 
 compatible with the minimum of effort. They gauged him 
 with that expert cunning which is the negro's best asset in 
 dealing with white men. They were resilient to his moods, 
 easing him through them. 
 
 Mart went swinging on to the stables, looked at Star, 
 but sparing her, took out another horse for riding over the 
 farm, old Doll, his first mount, now saved for just such 
 easy going. She nickered with the joy of his presence, 
 nuzzled him moistly, glad of his touch, his voice. 
 
 "Here's one lady pleased to see me, anyway," he chuckled, 
 rubbing her velvet ears, and at the sound Star stretched 
 out a jealous little head from the adjoining stall, so that he 
 must go over and pet her into content. 
 
 So clear, so still was the air that he seemed to ride in a 
 vacuum cupped in crystal. The faint dust raised by Doll's 
 feet did not rise to his stirrups. The sun beat on him and 
 gave his brown hair some of its gold. It was wonderful 
 to be alive and quick in this living heat, to feel the responsive 
 horse beneath him, to see Silly and Spot ranging alongside 
 with adoring eyes turned up to him, their red tongues lolling. 
 In the grass by the lane shrill resonant crickets played him 
 along with their persistent fiddles, and far off he could hear 
 locusts' swift, thin dry trill like a hard-shaken tambourine. 
 Yellow pollen, pale and fragrant, spilled on Doll's legs from 
 trampled feathery grass, and there was the pungent fragrance 
 of bruised horse-mint, purple and bronze, coarse-textured, in 
 the green. And above, and over and through it all, the hot 
 sunshine of late summer, that seems all tenderness, serene 
 in its expended power, its fulfilled fecundity, no more the 
 fervent, exigent lover of the spring. 
 
 Mart Bladen looked with satisfaction over his fields. His- 
 wheat had been heavy, his corn would be as good as any in 
 the county. He rode all the way out to the fence that divided 
 John Henry Hyde's land from his own, and looked long at 
 the corn on the other side. He marked with jocular satis- 
 faction certain stalks on John Henry's side of the fence
 
 62 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 that were warped and blemished with smut, while his own 
 crop was clean. 
 
 " 'Taint neighborly of John Henry, letting smut get out 
 in his corn. Ought a' used more judgment with his seed," 
 he told Doll, who pricked her ears to listen, as if she under- 
 stood. 
 
 The field hands were busy with odd jobs, grubbing out an 
 old orchard, ditching the little stream that watered his pas- 
 ture, breaking a patch of new ground. He had decided to 
 do these now because other work was slack. The fodder 
 would be ready for stripping next week, then they would all 
 go into that. His hay was stacked, his wheat was threshed, 
 fanned and sacked, long since. With his thoughts still hark- 
 ing back uneasily to Louellen, he decided that he would lay 
 off two of the hands in the afternoon and let them do some 
 cleaning up around the house where he had already begun 
 a rather aimless renovation, uncertain as to just what she 
 would like to have done, and not accustomed to the process 
 himself. 
 
 Still there was a rough patch of high weeds and briers 
 back in behind the old grape arbor that might be mowed 
 down with the scythe. One man could do that, and another 
 could take the light wagon and go over to the sawmill for 
 lumber to be used in repairs for the arbor, for the steps, 
 for the kitchen lattice about the pump. This he planned, 
 then rode far down the pasture to see his young cattle, 
 stamping, tail-waving against the flies, in the shade. A 
 likely bunch, Jersey blood. They'd bring a pretty penny 
 in the fall. He singled out one, a young brown bull, that 
 he would keep. 
 
 His progress was easy, his face untroubled, but now and 
 then a keen flicker of doubt touched him. Louellen . . . 
 and last night ! He wished her eyes had not looked so big 
 and scared and shadowy. He wished her face had not seemed 
 so sharp with dismay; he wished that she had said some- 
 thing to him besides the warning. It was brave of her to 
 warn him.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 63 
 
 "I hope none of the pious old tongue-waggers saw her," 
 he thought, glowering. "They'd buzz like a nest of hornets. 
 'Twouldn't make old Amos West love me any better neither." 
 Genially he invited God to damn old Amos West's hide- 
 bound narrow notions, and all the other old sour-faces who 
 thought as Amos West did. Through these suggestions he 
 was achieving a certain tension. If he could only canter 
 his accustomed way down the river road and find Louellen 
 under the beech tree, make his confession, sue for forgive- 
 ness ! But this waiting, this not knowing when he'd be able 
 to see her it got him. Louellen could be thundering hard, 
 if she wanted. Not that he didn't deserve it, oh yes, he 
 ought to be cow-hided for being such an eternal triple 
 damned fool, but he had no notion of the mechanics of 
 cause and effect, retribution, punishment, for himself. The 
 faintest prospect of denial disconcerted, dismayed him. 
 
 He bolstered his jangling nerves with the assurance that 
 Louellen had always come round before, so she'd do it 
 again. Only . . . why had she looked at him last night 
 from such a weary distance, made him so alien to her ? He 
 had not been so far gone in drink not to feel that something 
 cataclysmic had happened to Louellen in seeing him thus. 
 
 He sighed impatiently. It hadn't been any fun real 
 fun stampeding the camp-meeting. Tame. Stupid. Flat. 
 It occurred to him, as it has to many men before him and 
 to many since, that there is a frightful lack of imagination 
 in jamborees. It was getting to be almost as driveling to be 
 a sinner as to be a saint. 
 
 "I'm ripe to marry and settle down," he decided, turning 
 Doll's head at last toward home. "That's what's the mat- 
 ter with me. Matt and Joe Kemp and the rest of 'em are 
 all right. O. K. boys and plenty of life, but they keep at 
 this thing too steady. Once in a while's enough." 
 
 He recalled uneasily Tillie Kemp's scared, meager face, 
 and with an access of mental qualms recognized that it had 
 something of the same look that Louellen had turned to him 
 as she caught at his bridle rein. He drew the back of his
 
 64 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 hand hard across his eyes to rub away the gray accusing 
 memory of that look. 
 
 But it increased, it remained with him. He ate his dinner 
 with slight appetite, and set impatiently about the direction 
 of the two men he had taken from the fields. One rattled 
 away in the light wagon, bound for the sawmill, and the 
 regular swish-ish and swoop of the other's scythe could pres- 
 ently be heard in the indicated thicket. Mart ranged about, 
 restless. At last he took hammer and nails, and set himself 
 to futile but time-filling tinkering. There was a certain 
 relief in pounding nails. 
 
 Presently he was summoned by Sally : "Somebody ridin' 
 in," she announced, importantly. "Maybe it's supper com- 
 pany." She did not go back to the house, but headed toward 
 the barn, as was customary. She would catch and kill a 
 pair of chickens for supper on the mere chance of a guest. 
 If the guests did not stay, she and Ephum would, never- 
 theless, have a special meal. So ran Sally's perfectly logical 
 reasoning. 
 
 When Mart reached the house a buggy had just stopped 
 by the horse block, and he hailed the man and girl in it 
 with unfeigned pleasure. 
 
 "Ches' and Delia! You're a sight for sore eyes. Light 
 and come in, both of you. Golly, but I'm thankful to have 
 an excuse to stop working." 
 
 Delia Layton, slender and active, jumped out of the buggy, 
 laughing nervously. She had the wide appealing eyes and 
 drooping lips of the very sensitive, and she was spoiled and 
 apt to be petulant if her will was crossed. The local judg- 
 ment of Delia Layton was that her father and mother had 
 babied her so much that she couldn't stand it not to be 
 humored in every whim. She had been a delicate child, 
 ten years younger than her last robust brother, and it was 
 true that the whole family had united to spoil and pet her. 
 
 "I reckon you weren't working so hard," she said, follow- 
 ing Mart up to the chairs on the front porch. Ches, after
 
 One Thing Is Certain 65 
 
 tying the horse, joined them, a stocky, square, good-hu- 
 mored man, as slow and steady as Delia was elusive and 
 active. 
 
 "Quite some rig you and the Kemp boys and the rest of 
 y* was running last night," he said humorously. 
 
 "We were blind," admitted Mart, grinning. "Were you 
 out there, either of you ?" 
 
 "We were both there," said Delia. "I got Ches to take 
 me over right after supper, for the evening meeting. Oh, 
 we saw you." 
 
 The two men surveyed each other with understanding. 
 This was nothing to be talked about before a woman. 
 
 "You cert'ney do pull Ches around by the ear, Delia," 
 said Mart, ignoring the last part of her remarks. "Every- 
 where you want to go he has to take you. I don't know 
 what you'll ever do when you get married you'll never 
 find a husband as easy-going as Ches is." 
 
 Delia tossed her head. "Everybody says that but when 
 I get married I guess I can manage the man." 
 
 " 'N if you can't you'll be running home asking buddy 
 to come help you," teased Mart. 
 
 "Not me," rumbled Ches. "Hands off married folks, I 
 say." 
 
 Mart flung back his head and laughed. Then, mindful 
 of hospitality, he called for Ephum. When he appeared, at 
 his usual shuffling run, Mart said: "Mix up a couple nice 
 frosted juleps and bring a glass of buttermilk for Miss 
 Delia. Unless you'd rather have shrub. Sally made some 
 first-rate tasting raspberry shrub this summer. No ? Well, 
 the buttermilk, then. And if Sally's got any cake " 
 
 "Quite the housekeeper, aren't you?" said Delia, mock- 
 ingly. 
 
 "You bet you," replied Mart, undisturbed. "I'm a reg'ler 
 dyed-in-the-wool, set-in-my-ways old bach, been keeping 
 liberty hall so long, nobody to give me any orders, or take 
 my money, or sit up for me when I come home late."
 
 66 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Delia received these strictures on the state of marriage 
 with a slight sniff. She was ill at ease, restless. Her hands 
 picked at her dress and hat ribbons. 
 
 Presently came Ephum with a tray, the juleps, frosted, 
 cold, with little forests of crisp mint above the pale mist 
 of the glass ; the buttermilk a foamy cream ; a plate of sand- 
 tarts, pale brown discs, dotted with almonds. 
 
 "Drink hearty, Ches," said Mart, lifting his glass. 
 
 "Hair of the dog that bit you," responded Ches, and his 
 good-natured little eyes smiled knowingly through the mint. 
 
 "Sally makes the best sand-tarts I ever ate," said Delia, 
 with that tinge of resentment that all women feel toward 
 the comforts of an unmarried man's establishment. "I'd 
 like to get her recipe, but I know she wouldn't give it to 
 me." She fidgeted about, crumbled her cake. The piece 
 of news she had brought fairly burnt her tongue. She was 
 dying to tell it, to see how it would affect Mart. She could 
 refrain from it no longer. "So you're going to have a new 
 neighbor," she said, and the hand that held the glass of 
 buttermilk twitched. She watched him sharply. 
 
 "That so has Salisbury sold his farm?" asked Mart, 
 with interest. "I hadn't heard didn't know he wanted to." 
 
 "No I mean on the other side." 
 
 Both men were looking at her with surprise now. She 
 was very white and she could hardly sit still. Her eyes 
 were glazed with nervous tears. 
 
 "Nothing happened to John Henry, I hope," said Mart. 
 "I like to have somebody pious next door to kind of even 
 up things along with my back-sliding." 
 
 Delia made a hard effort to control herself. She sat 
 straight, winked her eyes to drive back tears and spoke 
 louder than usual. "Oh, then you haven't heard. You 
 didn't know he and Louellen West are going to get mar- 
 ried. Fact. I heard it before we left the camp-ground last 
 night. Seems they just settled it and John Henry was so 
 entranced he had to tell it around." She paused, unable to 
 control her trembling lips.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 67 
 
 There was an embarrassed silence. "You didn't say any- 
 thing to me about it," murmured Ches, awkwardly. 
 
 "Didn't I?" she asked with bright innocence. "That's 
 funny I meant to. But it slipped my mind till just this 
 minute." 
 
 This was so plainly a lie that Ches looked indignant, but 
 the habit of humoring Delia was strong upon him and he 
 did not try to rebuke or refute her. Mart had not said 
 a word, only sat a little straighter, and turned curiously 
 grave. But at last he spoke. 
 
 "Well, now, that's real interesting," he said slowly. "Real 
 interesting. I'd always kind of depended on John Henry 
 to keep me in countenance, baching it right here along side 
 of me, but I s'pose I'll have to go it alone now." 
 
 Delia could not resist trying to finger his emotions. "She's 
 been real sly about it, I should say, letting on she didn't 
 care anything about him. I don't know why anybody's so 
 crazy about her, at that, she's not pretty, and she's so 
 quick-spoken " 
 
 "I always thought she was a real pretty girl," said Ches, 
 distressed, intent to save the situation. "I never had no 
 use for John Henry. I shouldn't wonder if you were mis- 
 taken, sis, maybe you got the news mixed up with some- 
 body else." 
 
 Delia tossed her head. "Oh, no, I didn't. But I'm sur- 
 prised Mart here hadn't heard it you know we always 
 thought you were kind of sweet on Louellen, Mart." 
 
 Mart got up, walked to the porch rail and spat over it. 
 
 "I wasn't exactly in the right state to hear all the camp 
 gossip when I was out there last night, Delia," he said, with 
 the effect of lightness, "so I take it as mighty kind of you 
 to hurry over here to-day and let me know. Yes, mighty 
 kind and cousinly." He gazed at her, stony-eyed, as from 
 a great distance. 
 
 He confused, frightened her, and she betrayed the motive 
 of it, the reason behind her haste and her excitement. "Oh, 
 Mart I didn't want to make you mad," she cried, "I just
 
 68 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 wanted you to know she she wasn't worth what you 
 think about her. She's two-faced and false-hearted 
 and " She burst into tears. 
 
 Mart and Ches avoided each other's eyes. The avowal 
 of the girl's feeling was so open, so unmistakable, that the 
 two men could not bear it. They felt that it was not decent 
 of them to see it. 
 
 "Delia's not been feeling right well," said Ches. "The 
 hot weather and all. She never could stand hot weather. 
 Come on, sis we ought to get home " 
 
 He took her arm, helped her to rise and half -led her to 
 the buggy. Mart stood still. He knew Ches did not want 
 him to speak or to act. Watching them, Delia's drooping 
 slightness, her crushed blue ruffles, made her seem like a 
 broken flower, or a storm-tossed fallen butterfly, and Mart 
 struggled with bewildered pity and a sense of shame for 
 her. He had always known that she liked him too much, 
 and had instinctively sheered away from a feeling he could 
 not return. But to-day, it had been so plain, and before 
 Ches. . . . He shook his head. Women were unaccount- 
 able creatures. . . . 
 
 But what she had said about Louellen. . . . He came back 
 from his pity and his bewilderment with a snap, like the 
 click of a gun-trigger. She must have heard something. It 
 pushed his apprehension too far. He could never wait 
 until to-morrow to know. In three minutes he had gone 
 to the stables, chosen a wicked young horse that he only 
 rode when he wanted to make speed, and put the beast to 
 its best gait for the seven-mile ride to Amos West's place.
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 THE road was heavy sand, the seven miles unending. The 
 day, so full of sunshine in the morning, had rolled up a 
 storm promise, lowering and heavy with dim thunder at 
 the North. This faced Mart as he rode, and its close heat, 
 its mutterings, its occasional lightning, were prophecies of 
 evil. It was strange and bitter to him to take this road 
 which he had always ridden with a light heart, and hurry 
 over it in fear and acute misgiving. All that he had de- 
 lighted in woods-smell of sassafras and aromatic pine, 
 flash of a goldfinch over a thistle, pokeberry clusters drip- 
 ping rich purple blood, tawny marsh lilies and cool fronds 
 of fern, quivering jewel-like bloom of touch-me-not, these 
 he did not see. He was riding with fear on his crupper 
 and the strange weight drew him from all else. 
 
 He would go straight to Louellen, demand an answer. 
 If Amos West was there and tried to bar him, so much 
 the worse for Amos West. 
 
 "If he crosses me I'll drag him out and lock him in his 
 own stable till I've had my say and know the truth," he 
 promised himself, and felt his muscles tighten pleasantly 
 in anticipation. "And if John Henry's round and puts his 
 nose in I'll do as much for him." His lips drew back over 
 his teeth. He had a stout consciousness that he could fight 
 and lick the world if it would bring him through to her. 
 
 He did not take the river road, but went straight on his 
 way to the house. There must be no sneaking round by 
 back fences to-day. He was going in at the front door. 
 
 The West house sat on a little rise in the land, called by 
 courtesy a hill in this hill-less country, back from the road, 
 as is customary with Eastern Shore farmhouses, at the end 
 of a long lane bordered with blackheart cherries, set in pairs 
 like sentinels. Beyond these, at each side, cornfields. The 
 
 69
 
 70 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 house showed white at the end of the long tunnel of green, 
 a plain house, two windows at each side of a door shel- 
 tered by a small square porch, and above, five windows. 
 All the shutters were bowed for coolness and shade and 
 this made the house look at him with blind unfriendly eyes. 
 But the front door was open, and through it he could see 
 into a hall, and beyond to the back veranda that bordered 
 the ell. Women's voices drifted out to him as he lifted his 
 hand to knock and he stood still. They had come back 
 from camp, then. 
 
 ". . . take this upstairs. . . ." He caught the words and 
 with them Louellen came into the hall from a side door 
 and faced him. She was carrying a bandbox with gay pic- 
 tures about it, in one hand, but the other she threw up be- 
 fore her as if to fend him off. Then she came slowly 
 toward him, and he saw again that fugitive likeness to kicked 
 and spiritless Tillie Kemp a likeness of the soul, not of 
 the flesh. And it hurt him so that he could not speak, 
 only returned her stare as if she were a stranger. 
 
 Then came her voice, quiet, almost flat. "Well Mart " 
 
 He put out his hands to her, but she shook her head 
 and drew back. He stepped into the hall beside her, swing- 
 ing the screen door shut behind him quietly. 
 
 "I hear you're going to marry John Henry Hyde," he 
 said. 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 "Seems he passed the word to some people last night at 
 the camp and they were riding by, and stopped in, and 
 told me. It's not so, is it, Louellen?" 
 
 She still looked at him with that strange, quiet look. "Yes, 
 it's so. I told him I would, last night, after you " 
 
 There was something queer about the house, about her 
 calmness. It seemed to put a spell on him. He couldn't 
 breathe. But he broke away from it. 
 
 "Louellen, I was drunk, I was drunk. I didn't know 
 what I was doing I never meant to touch a drop. I just 
 got going, and I couldn't hardly recollect, this morning,
 
 One Thing Is Certain 71 
 
 where I'd been or what I'd been up to. Only I remembered 
 you, looking up at me, and telling me to get out. What'd 
 you do that for, Louellen, if you felt thisaway about me? 
 Why didn't you let the constables take me, take us all?" 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't let 'em do that !" broke from her invol- 
 untarily. 
 
 "But that's not what I come about. Louellen, you wouldn't 
 throw me downstairs just because I broke out this once! 
 I'll never do it again. You're you're not going to hold 
 this against me, to keep to what you said " It was too 
 monstrous, too incredible. His confidence revived. "Why, 
 you're my girl, Louellen, you know it. I've sparked around 
 here and there, but you've held me steady and true. I never 
 asked any other girl to marry me, nor ever will. I'm ashamed 
 of last night I'm ashamed to think I didn't have more 
 sense than to get so much liquor aboard, but surely, for 
 just that once " He was walking up and down, talking 
 loud, careless of who heard him. The sense of queerness, 
 of something subtle and malign that he could not define, 
 persisted. He did not know it, but it was the touch of John 
 Henry Hyde on Louellen. But she knew, and she could 
 only stand away from him, the bandbox dropped beside 
 her, and clench her nails into the flesh of her hands. 
 
 "Mart," she said, "Mart! You promised me faithfully. 
 And then, last night, you were as drunk as the worst of 'em. 
 So I knew, it wasn't any use " She was remotely hos- 
 tile, as though the scene wearied her and she wished to be 
 done with it. But Tillie Kemp again looked out of her 
 eyes, and abased him. 
 
 "But I keep telling you, it was only this once, and I got 
 into it before I knew it. I didn't intend to. Louellen, 
 you won't forgive me ? What's got into you ? What's back 
 of all this? Has somebody been telling you lies about me?" 
 
 He changed his plea: "Send me away if you want to, 
 but don't marry John Henry. I might be able to bear it 
 if you went off to somebody who was a better man than I 
 am. But he's not. He's cold-blooded. He's cruel. He's
 
 72 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 stingy. He's mean. You don't know him you think be- 
 cause he goes to church and passes the plate and don't take 
 any liquor or hell around any that he's all right. Lou- 
 ellen " 
 
 "It isn't any use for you to take on so. It's done." 
 
 He seized her in his arms and crushed her up to him, 
 pressing his heated young body against her roughly, as if 
 to warm her out of her cold and enduring apathy. "I won't 
 let you," he said, his lips against her cheek, against her 
 hair, her ear. "It's our whole lives you're ruining, Louellen. 
 You're mine and I'll keep you. I'll never let anybody else 
 have you as long as I live. Say you forgive me about 
 last night I'll never get drunk again, so help me God. 
 Louellen, sweetness " 
 
 He loosed her as suddenly as he had taken her, feeling 
 the hopelessness of it. He might have been holding a dead 
 woman. "There's something funny about all this," he said. 
 "You act like something had changed you, somehow. You 
 don't even look the same. What've they done to you, 
 honey-love? Has your father and mother been at you? 
 Did they persuade you?" 
 
 She wanted to call to him, to shriek at him "You didn't 
 love me, you didn't love me !" but she couldn't. The 
 weight of the chains that John Henry Hyde had put on her 
 stifled her, held back her heart from its expression. She 
 could only look at him and shake her head. "It's not any- 
 thing but what I told you. I've passed my word, and I'll 
 keep it." 
 
 "But Louellen," he went on, studying her, "wasn't it so 
 what you told me the last time we met down at the beech- 
 tree? Were you just fooling with me, playing fast and 
 loose, with me and John Henry both, and then finally mak- 
 ing up your mind to take him? Didn't you care anything 
 about me? Were you just putting it on? God-a-mighty, 
 I'd kill anybody who'd tell me such a thing about you, and 
 now you stand there all drawn into yourself and as good 
 as admit it's so."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 73 
 
 He seemed infinitely young to her in his earnestness, his 
 appealing. She had thought that he did not love her, that 
 he had made light of her, had broken his word knowingly, 
 carelessly, and in the agony of shame in which she had 
 found herself she had taken the wrong way out. But she 
 could not retrace her steps. To break from the corrosive 
 passion of John Henry Hyde was more than she had 
 strength for. She knew it. She had trapped herself. She 
 was no longer free. Unwittingly, desperately unhappy, 
 she had committed herself so decisively that there was no 
 withdrawal. Well . . . she must make it clear to Mart 
 . . . and she would not let him know how much she loved 
 him. That little rag of silence she would leave to cover 
 her pride. Now all she wanted was to get him away, out 
 of her sight, so that she need not be tortured by his pleading. 
 
 "It's no use for you to take on, Mart. I told you. When 
 you rode in there last night, drunk and dirty and wild, 
 carrying on just as bad as the Kemps and Gid and the rest 
 of 'em, I knew you didn't want to keep your promise to 
 me. You said but we're just going over the same thing. 
 It's all settled, I tell you. I'm going to marry John Henry. 
 Maybe he's not quite so light and fancy as some but " 
 She could not go on. She could not honestly defend John 
 Henry to Mart. But she had the bleak tight-lipped look 
 of Amos West himself, and defied him with it, covered with 
 it the secret of her heart. Let him think she had done it 
 only because he had broken his word. Then he would never 
 suspect that she knew she had loved him more than he 
 loved her. 
 
 "Louellen good Lord how can you do it! I've loved 
 you I've been right at your heels begging for a kind word 
 or a look, like I was a little dog, for close to two years 
 you know it's those damned religious notions of yours 
 that have got you " He broke off quickly. Some one was 
 coming toward them along the back porch. 
 
 "Company? . . . Who is it?" asked Jane West, leaning 
 and peering from the light into the darker hallway. She
 
 74 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 came on in to them. "Mart Bidden! Well, my soul alive !" 
 Words failed her, but the instinct to hospitality did not. 
 "Won't you come in and set down ?" she asked, mechanically 
 opening the parlor door, and looking from one to the other 
 with searching incredulous eyes. 
 
 "No'm, thank you," said Mart. The interruption baffled 
 him, but he did not propose to end the moment thus. "I 
 just wanted to see Louellen a minute. I came in as I was 
 riding by." He held his ground, and there was something 
 so utterly mystifying about the situation, something so 
 stifling and combative in the air, that Jane West retreated. 
 
 "Oh," she said. "Oh well!" And left them alone 
 again. 
 
 "Louellen," he begged. "I can't go away and leave things 
 all unsettled like this. Come down and meet me at the 
 beech tree to-morrow late." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Next day, then, or the day after. I'll wait down there 
 every afternoon till you want to see me. To-morrow and 
 all the week. I Louellen look here, honey, no matter 
 what you do I'll wait for you till I die. I know you're all 
 upset and provoked at me now, but when you've thought 
 it over a little you'll see different." 
 
 "No. I won't. It isn't any use." 
 
 He was not used to being checked, denied. He could not 
 feel the reality of it. All this had something the quality of 
 a bad dream, it was as if she did not hear what he was 
 saying, that there was some barrier between them that he 
 could not pierce through. 
 
 "I'll wait at the beech-tree to-morrow," he went on per- 
 suasively, "and all week. Or, if you can't get there, send 
 me word, by anybody, and I'll travel the longest and the 
 worst road in the world to reach you." He could not be sure 
 that Jane West, though she had so considerately removed 
 herself from sight, had likewise gone out of hearing. He 
 must go. He caught Louellen's hand and would have kissed 
 it, but she dragged it from him.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 75 
 
 "You go away, Mart. And stay away. I don't want to 
 see you or hear tell of you again. I put my trust in you, 
 and you broke your word, as if I was nothing. I couldn't 
 trust you again even if I wanted to and said I would. I'd 
 always be afraid . . . and watching . . . and wonder- 
 ing " 
 
 It was so baffling, so unfair. She was strengthening her 
 resolution against him, he could see that. And there was 
 no defense. 
 
 "But it was only that once," he protested again, but hope- 
 lessly, "and you're breaking up my life and yours, too 
 just for what? You've got no real reason to back it up. 
 What's between you and me is bigger'n any promise about 
 getting drunk or not and you know it. But you won't say 
 so. Oh, Christ, no! You stand there and don't hardly 
 raise an eyelash and talk about broken promises and forgiv- 
 ing and not forgiving like you was God. Maybe, in one way, 
 you are God God's the fellow that can damn you down to 
 hell, isn't He? Just as sure as the two of us stands here, 
 that's what you're doing to me. But I tell you right now 
 I'd rather be going to my hell than to yours " The 
 blast of anger choked back in his throat at the look she 
 turned on him, from the depth of her torn and tormented 
 spirit. 
 
 "Maybe that's so. Good-by, Mart." 
 
 She picked up the bandbox and went upstairs, leaving 
 him standing alone in the hall. There was nothing for him 
 to do but go.
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 "PASSEL of gemmen ridin' in," announced Sally, impor- 
 tantly. She had come out of the kitchen to the grape arbor 
 where Mart was doggedly nailing new supports in place. 
 He had gone on with these repairs because it gave him some- 
 thing to do, and kept him at home alone. He wanted the 
 solitude, but he could not have borne it had it included in- 
 activity. 
 
 For three fair mornings he had measured and sawed and 
 nailed with unsparing energy, and the work was nearly at 
 an end. In the afternoons he had waited fruitlessly at the 
 beech tree, and ridden home in a state of depression each 
 day worse than the last. He was losing hope. Only this 
 morning he had debated with himself whether he should 
 ride over again, or whether he should try another visit to 
 the house. Perhaps he would write her a letter. But he was 
 unused to letter-writing and distrusted it. He could not 
 say what he wanted on paper. He had come to no decision, 
 and Sally's announcement made a break. He went impa- 
 tiently to the house probably it was the Kemps, or Gid 
 Cummins, come to talk over the Sunday escapade, and plan 
 for another. He wished them all in the bottom of the 
 river. 
 
 But it was not his cronies. Instead he saw an unfamiliar 
 group of men on horseback, and one in a buggy, Sheriff 
 Stevens, a little bent man with a game leg but a fighting 
 spirit. Behind him were Amos West, Doctor Tithelow, 
 Henry Jarrell and Robert Nuttle, the latter two substantial 
 farmers and churchmen, and James Boone, a local justice. 
 Last of all Leonidas Ayres, frankly uneasy. He had been 
 coerced into coming, and showed it. 
 
 "Light, gentlemen, and come in," said Mart cordially, 
 but his hand closed tight around the hammer handle. He 
 
 76
 
 One Thing Is Certain 77 
 
 had forgotten to drop the tool. He kept his eyes on them, 
 he was cool, smiling, unconcerned. 
 
 The little sheriff's face was not unfriendly. It would 
 have been impossible for any one of gallantry himself to dis- 
 like the straight youth before them in his clean linen, his 
 hair blown boyishly over his forehead. 
 
 "No, Mart, thank y'; reckon we won't light," said the 
 sheriff, "but we dropped in to give y' a word of warning. 
 No more sprees like last Sunday. It's going against the 
 good name of the county. Over in Kent and Talbot they're 
 saying we're lawless, that we've not the proper respect for 
 religion, that we can't control our wild elements. So we're 
 riding round to them that took part in the affair over at 
 Harmony Camp to let 'em know that it don't go. Now, 
 Mart, as one man to another, ain't we in the rights of it?" 
 
 Mart's fingers relaxed on the hammer, he came down the 
 steps, and his smile was now part relief and part ingra- 
 tiating apology. "I expect you have, sheriff," he said blithely. 
 "I've not been feeling none so proud of myself. Seems 
 like I was old enough to've climbed fool's hill before this, 
 but looks like I got to the top of it last Sunday. I was 
 drunk, blind, and that's the whole of it." 
 
 Amos West leaned forward in his saddle, swelling with 
 righteous wrath: "Yes, and we ought by rights to shut 
 your worthless whisky-soaked carcass " 
 
 "You go plumb to hell," broke in Mart. "The sheriff 
 can arrest me if he's a mind to, but I'm not going to be 
 jawed and slung dirty names at by any three feet of Metho- 
 dist whiskers, not now, nor never." 
 
 Amos West would have flung himself off his horse, but 
 Ayres and Jarrell restrained him, expostulating. A flicker 
 of grim humor appeared on the sheriff's wizened face and 
 he winked an understanding eye at Mart. "Hold up, 
 there," he said. "No need you slinging mud either, seems 
 to me. And mind what I'm telling you, for this warning's 
 for your own good, and you'll not get off so light the next 
 time."
 
 78 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "There won't be no next time for me, sheriff," said Mart. 
 "I know 's well as you do we went too far. You can count 
 on what I say." 
 
 The sheriff tightened his reins preparatory to turning. 
 "Fair enough," he answered. "Fair enough spoken. Keep 
 to it and you're all hunkydory." 
 
 They rode down the lane, Amos West still muttering thun- 
 der. Doctor Tithelow, at the gate, halted in speech a mo- 
 ment with the others and then rode slowly back. He was 
 a square, thick man, sleepy-eyed, darkly ruddy, with a thick 
 sardonic mouth. Some day he would be very fat. He got 
 stiffly off his horse, and came up on the porch. 
 
 "Set down, Doc," said Mart. "Seems right funny to me to 
 see you out as an instrument of the godly. Why don't you 
 go on with the rest of 'em to the Kemps' and so forth? I 
 s'pose they're headed for the full round." 
 
 The doctor disposed himself in a rocking chair: "What 
 made you blatt out at Amos so brash and unnecessary?" 
 he asked. "Bad blood betwixt you?" 
 
 Mart swung his feet lazily over the side of his chair. 
 "Not special, only why couldn't he talk like a man, like 
 the sheriff did, instead of lambasting me with chunks of 
 the Old Testament? And what'd you come back for, any- 
 
 way 
 
 They were old friends, these two, and there was an easy 
 understanding between them. "Oh, I had a call out this 
 way and when the committee come around and asked me 
 to ride with 'em, as a leading citizen and prominent man, 
 you understand, I thought I'd come along as far as here. 
 I wanted to hear what they said to you and how you took 
 it. I knew your father and mother pretty well, Mart. I 
 brought you into the world you were my first local baby 
 case, and I was scared to death about you, for I was green 
 as grass, just out of Hahneman, so I got a particular in- 
 terest in you. I saw Amos was ready to vent his spleen, 
 and I didn't know what might happen with a hot-head like 
 you. I thought I'd like to be round, that was all."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 79 
 
 There was real affection, inarticulate, but sweet, in the 
 words, though he had said them in his usual barking, rough 
 voice, his face staring without expression toward the county 
 road. 
 
 "That was right kind of you, Doc," said Mart. "Right 
 kind. I appreciate it." The Doctor's speech was balm 
 to his loneliness and bewilderment. 
 
 Fell a pleasant silence. Then Doctor Tithelow, sniffing 
 slightly, cocked a questioning eye: "Is that a mint-bed I 
 smell round here somewheres?" 
 
 Mart called Ephum: "Doc, here, thinks our well water's 
 kind of brackish, but he's powerful thirsty. Better mix 
 him up a julep." 
 
 "Must've had a right rousing time over at the Camp 
 Sunday night from all I hear," said the Doctor presently. 
 "Middling." 
 
 "You're a pretty crop of young hellions, you are. It's 
 all right for the Kemps, and some of the others, but don't 
 you keep at it too long. You can get too much liquor, you 
 know. I'm not opposed to liquor, by no manner of means, 
 used with discretion and for pleasure. Fact is, lots more 
 people eat themselves to death than drink themselves to 
 death. But you, you young fool, trying to swill all the 
 liquor in the state it's hoggish." 
 
 "Now lookahere, Doc I've not had any of your share 
 yet" 
 
 "You better not. Bad enough to have the country going 
 straight to the dogs under a black Republican President! 
 I couldn't stand much more trouble. But you ease up on 
 liquor, boy, I tell you." 
 
 "It don't matter what I do," said Mart, in a sudden burst 
 of bitterness. 
 
 The Doctor conceded so much. "Don't know as it does, 
 to anybody else, that is. But speaking as a physician, I'll 
 tell you flat that it'll make a lot of difference to you, your- 
 self, thirty years from now whether you go on loading up 
 on bellywash, or not. Keep sound teeth and a sound liver,
 
 80 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Mart, and you can laugh at the world and go it lively till 
 you're ninety. But shucks, who ever listens to a doctor 
 unless he'd bedrid. Well, I must be riding." 
 
 Mart did not want to let him go. "I wish you'd stay. 
 Stay to dinner, can't you? Or anyway, set still and have 
 another julep. Ephum'll mix 'em till his arm wears off, 
 and glad to." 
 
 "Boy, what was all that good advice about drinking I was 
 just giving you? No, I can't stay. Wish I could. All 
 Brady Weaver's young ones are down with the measles, 
 and I promised I'd be there before dinner. Ride in town 
 and eat supper with me some time soon, Mart. Viny's a 
 better hand with fried chicken than your Sally and my mint- 
 bed's just as flourishing as yours. Mrs. Tithelow'll be 
 pleased to have you. And so'll I. So-long." 
 
 He rode off, slumped and slouching, but he left Mart's 
 gloom a little lightened. "He's heard about Louellen and 
 me, like every one else," thought Mart, watching him go. 
 "And when he saw Amos West in that lot he come along 
 to let me know he was my friend. And no hinting round 
 to get me to tell him anything, either. I call that right 
 kind. Doc's a good fellow."
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 THE chairs in the Wests' dining room were hand-made, 
 all wood, painted dull black and striped with gray and gold, 
 and on back-splat and top cross piece stenciled with clus- 
 ters of fruit, magenta, dark mauve and green. The table 
 was plain brown walnut with turned legs heavily reeded, 
 ungraceful but substantial. There was a zinc square under 
 a stove with a shining black body and a shining brass urn 
 on top and a painted woodbox, brown. 
 
 A side table with drop leaves was placed below the South 
 window and held a melange of homely objects, a sewing 
 basket, string, the weekly paper, Sunday school leaflets, a 
 bottle of ink and two pens. At the end of this table stood 
 a dressmaker's cutting board, a yard stick, and a convenient 
 nail held a flat green calico bag of paper patterns, tied 
 with identifying scraps of the materials they had helped 
 to shape. There were no curtains, only window shades 
 of dull tan printed with a design of brown and gold. There 
 was a low cupboard with solid doors, and the only decora- 
 tions on the whitewashed walls were a mirror with a 
 basketry holder for a comb and brush underneath it, and 
 an old steel engraving of "The Battle of Waterloo." A 
 hanging lamp with its white glass shade had place over the 
 dining table. 
 
 For this room was not only the dining room, but the 
 familiar sitting and work room of the family. The real 
 sitting room, with its cane-seated straight chairs, its two 
 patent rockers and the other rocker of bent wood, its round 
 center table and book-case-desk, its organ and sofa, was 
 not a place for family gathering, it was for company of 
 the more informal sort. Across the hall the best parlor, 
 with a plush "suite" and an easeled picture, awaited the ele- 
 
 81
 
 82 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 gancies of set entertainments and guests to whom notable 
 honors were due. 
 
 But in the dining room the family life went on. In spite 
 of its plainness the room was neither poor nor mean, for 
 it had order, cleanliness, and a comfortable lived-in quality, 
 usual in homes where life has certain fixed duties, and 
 -values, and where there is simplicity without poverty. 
 
 The dining room table had been stripped bare and Jane 
 West, shears in hand, bent over a troubled sea of white cot- 
 ton stuff and patterns. Outside, on the porch, Louellen 
 West sat and sewed her wedding clothes, with Annie help- 
 ing. Mrs. West cut out and handed the segmented pieces 
 to the girls. A bolt of cambric and a bolt of muslin were 
 the first requisites of every trousseau. Muslin might be 
 sewed on the machine, but the cambric must be stitched and 
 whipped and eyeleted and buttonholed by hand. No girl 
 of self-respect, or any sensitiveness to comment, could be 
 married in anything but underwear she had herself made. 
 Miss Stella Smith, who "sewed round," or Mrs. Sidney 
 Cline, the leading dressmaker of the county seat, would 
 undoubtedly be called on to make the wedding dress, and 
 the heavy black silk which was the sign and symbol of re- 
 spectable matronhood, and possibly another gown or two, 
 but it was inevitable that everything more intimate was 
 made by the betrothed girl. Young feminine friends, and 
 maiden aunts sent yards of crocheted and knitted lace for 
 adornment, and sometimes stitched an oddment or two a 
 fine white apron, or a fancy corset cover darted and fitted 
 like a basque but that was all the help she had. 
 
 "But it's changed sence I was a girl," commented Mrs. 
 West, cheerily. "Then you had to weave your tablecloths 
 and towels, every one of 'em, and some girls even spun 
 the flax for 'em. And you had to weave at least one pair 
 blankets, and a coverlet or two, and make your quilts, 
 it took an awful long time to get a setting-out that was 
 worth having, I can tell you, going at it nip and tuck, too. 
 Cousin Eveline Moore was five years getting ready. Alec
 
 One Thing Is Certain 83 
 
 Moore told her at last that if she didn't stop sewing and 
 weaving and buy her wedding dress, he was going to get 
 another girl who wasn't so pa'tic'ler. He said he wanted 
 a wife, not a store of bedclothes and linens. He was a 
 sight !" 
 
 The two girls had heard the story of Cousin Eveline Moore 
 and the impatient Alec many times. They disregarded it. 
 Annie took up an interrupted plaint. 
 
 "If you were only going to be married in white. It's 
 ridiculous to wear a dark wool dress." 
 
 Louellen spoke without heat and without haste, as of 
 something that did not matter : "That ashes-of-rose barege 
 will give me good wear and it'll be real pretty." 
 
 Annie pursed her lips. "You might at least have had a 
 silk." 
 
 "I'll have my black silk." 
 
 "Y-e-s but it's not the same. Listen, Louellen, why don't 
 you have it made with one of the paneled fronts rilled in 
 with cross rows of lace ruffles? That would be sweet. 
 You know like the picture in the Monthly." 
 
 "It's too fancy." 
 
 "My good land you're not a million, are you ? You're get- 
 ting married! If that's not the time to be fancy, when is?" 
 
 Louellen did not answer. Her mother, who had left off 
 cutting out and settled herself in a slat rocker between her 
 daughters, looked up from the tucks she was basting, rather 
 humorously: "I never expected to see you so sensible," 
 she remarked. 
 
 Louellen did not raise her eyes from her work. She 
 was making an embroidered band for a chemise top, an 
 elaborate pattern of daisied eyelets and fine scallops, and 
 she stabbed the material with her stiletto, twisted it care- 
 fully and drew it out before she spoke. She recalled that 
 John Henry had called her sensible that last night of camp- 
 meeting, and the memory stirred her to faint irony. 
 
 "The prospect of matrimony's quieted me down, you see, 
 Ma."
 
 84 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Annie had been looking through the open doors of the 
 hall, for though it was now late September the day was as 
 mellow as midsummer. 
 
 "Somebody's coming," she announced. "I do believe 
 y es it's a pack peddler. Oh, what fun! I do hope he's 
 got something besides tin." 
 
 The man came on, watching anxiously for a possible hos- 
 tile dog. Skilled in the ways of farm women, he did not 
 go to the front door but came directly around to the side, 
 bending under his oilcloth-covered rattling pack. He was 
 a Jew, thin, dark, his black beard touched with gray, his 
 eyes ingratiating. 
 
 "Good afternoon, ladies," he said, and his voice was soft, 
 humble. "I show you my goots nice tin very, very nice 
 new bright tin." 
 
 He did not wait for their permission, but slid his burden 
 to the porch floor, unbuckled it deftly. It was true here 
 was much tin, winking, bright, new. The three women 
 gazed critically, Annie getting up from her chair to be 
 nearer. 
 
 "I need a dipper," said Mrs. West. "There that long 
 handled one* " 
 
 "Let's get another strainer," suggested Annie. "The old 
 one won't hold out much longer. There's a good one." 
 
 "A nice liddle pan ?" asked the peddler, putting aside the 
 two pieces cfiosen, and hunting among his stock for some- 
 thing to tempt them further. 
 
 "M-m-m-m, I do like a little pan that size. If we'd get 
 two they'd be just right for Sally Lunn," urged Annie. 
 
 "I believe I'll get two-three things for you, too, Lou- 
 ellen," said Mrs. West, warming with the buying impulse. "I 
 s'pose Aunt Lena'll leave everything to do with over at 
 John Henry's, but I expect you'd kind of enjoy some little 
 special things of your own, wouldn't you ?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't care," said Louellen, stabbing another eyelet. 
 
 Her mother gave her a speculative gaze and so did the 
 peddler. He was quick to seize the hint.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 85 
 
 "Theze yong lady, she go for to marry?" he asked. "I 
 know look " He brought out a muffin pan, another dip- 
 per, a cake pan with a fluted rim. "To cook for hosband," 
 he said, rubbing his hands. Then he looked up again at 
 the indifferent Louellen and back to Annie. He waved 
 interrogative fingers at the younger girl. "Is it theze yong 
 lady who get married?" he asked, puzzled. 
 
 "No, that's the one," said Mrs. West, indicating Lou- 
 ellen. 
 
 The Jew stared at her so sharply that at last she raised 
 her eyes to meet his gaze. "But no she should not marry," 
 he said at last, hurriedly. "Something is not right, she has 
 no happiness." 
 
 The introduction of a question of abstract emotion among 
 simple barter and sale had its effect on all concerned. Mrs. 
 West remained poised and keenly thoughtful, the cake tin 
 in her hand. Annie giggled. But Louellen met the Jew's 
 eyes mockingly. 
 
 "What makes you say that?" she asked. "The man I'm 
 going to marry has a great big farm and a lot of cattle, 
 and he's a good man, belongs to the church, hasn't got any 
 bad habits." 
 
 "He is old, then," answered the Jew with cynic decision. 
 
 "No, he isn't. He's young." 
 
 "Then why are you not happy?" 
 
 "Oh, but I am. Very happy." 
 
 He had, at one side of his pack, a wrapped and strapped 
 parcel, and this he now began to open. Oilcloth, then 
 rough paper, then fine paper, then a twist of softest thin 
 linen, and at last he brought out the treasure, a shawl of 
 white crepe, soft and heavy, covered with embroidery, all 
 white, butterflies, birds with long tails, flowers a hand's 
 span across, garlands of vine with reaching, twisting ten- 
 drils, buds in curved slender calyxes, and all around a drip- 
 ping thick fringe, knotted and tied with patient intricacy, 
 inches deep. The Jew lifted it gently, spread it for them 
 to see, carefully, lovingly.
 
 86 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "My soul !" exclaimed Mrs. West. "I never saw any- 
 thing so sweet-pretty in my life. Takes your breath away." 
 She and Annie dropped on their knees beside the lovely web, 
 touched it with the lightest, inquiring, fondling fingers, 
 marveling. Louellen sat still, but she looked at it wistfully. 
 
 "She is from Spain," said the Jew, "and before that from 
 China. I I am from Spain. She has come into my hands 
 and I wait for a bride to sell her, a yong bride. And fair." 
 
 "How much do you want for it?" asked Mrs. West. "It 
 just bewitches me." 
 
 "Me, too," said Annie. "Look at that rosebud!" 
 
 "I ask but feefty dollar. She is wort much more. But 
 she come to me for liddle, and I let her go for liddle." 
 
 He was watching Louellen, but she had picked up her 
 stiletto again and did not move toward the alluring square. 
 
 Mrs. West slipped her hands under the shawl and stretched 
 it upon them. "It's a splendid size," she said practically. 
 "Upon my word, I've a great mind to get it for you, Lou- 
 ellen. You could wear it the Sunday you come out a bride. 
 It'd make everybody in church set up and stare." 
 
 Then Louellen spoke, with soft decision : "I don't want 
 it, Ma. Get it and save it for Annie if you want to, but 
 not me." 
 
 "You're crazy, sis," cried Annie. "That beauty thing 
 not want it!" 
 
 The Jew took the shawl from Mrs. West and folded it 
 rapidly, replacing it in its wrappings. "That prove you are 
 not happy," he said. "No happy woman but would want that 
 shawl to make glad the eyes of her lover. You could have 
 it you do not want it you are not happy." He finished 
 tying it in place. "Better have pan for cake, pan for bread, 
 liddle muffin pan," he went on. "Happy or not, everybody 
 eat." 
 
 "Yes," said Louellen, dryly responsive, "everybody eats, 
 whether they're happy or not. I'd like the cake pan, Ma, 
 and the other things. And that clever little trick to turn 
 over griddle cakes. And that colander. There how much
 
 One Thing Is Certain 87 
 
 is that ?" She had dropped her work now and come to rum- 
 mage in the pack with the others. 
 
 "Go in the sitting room closet and fetch me my purse, 
 Annie," said Jane West. "How much is it all?" 
 
 The purse was brought, the Jew's price named and the 
 sum paid. He wrapped up his pack silently, but when it 
 was taut and firm and he was ready to slip the straps over 
 his shoulders, and bend his back to its weight, he spoke once 
 more to Louellen. 
 
 "Better not do it," he said, as if she would understand 
 what he meant. "You think you are strong enough, but 
 you are not. I will soon be an old man. I have seen things. 
 I know. Better a little tears now, and high words flying, 
 than the long, long days of sorrow after. You are not 
 strong enough. I am only a poor Jew. But I have seen. 
 I know." 
 
 He hitched the pack to his back, caught up his stick and 
 went away. "Wasn't he funny !" cried Annie, "talking like 
 he'd known us for years. A Jew pack-peddler I almost 
 tickled right out, he was so solemn. Ma, I wish you'd 
 bought that shawl for me since Louellen was such a gump 
 not to take it." 
 
 "Annie," said Jane West, mildly, "you really ought to go 
 out a while this afternoon and begin to pick the dried lima 
 beans. First thing we know a spell of wet weather'll come 
 along and they'll mold. I could send Rachel to help you 
 soon's she's through her mopping. Louellen can't leave her 
 sewing and I'd like to finish cutting out on that cambric 
 s'afternoon." 
 
 "Oh, all right," said Annie. "Call me if anybody else 
 comes, won't you ?" She slipped away to get her sunbonnet, 
 her knitted mitts, and basket. Presently they heard the 
 sound of her high sweet singing as she went gardenward. 
 
 "I sent Annie off, so's I could talk to you, Louellen. You 
 worried me the way you answered that man," began Jane 
 West. "Fact is, I've never been right down satisfied in my 
 mind about you and John Henry. What with Mart Bladen
 
 88 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 
 
 coming to see you, so strange, right after you made up 
 your mind about John Henry, and the way you've acted ever 
 
 since." 
 
 Louellen drew a long sigh. There had always been a 
 good understanding between herself and her mother, and 
 the present queries were offered in no inquisitorial maternal 
 tone, but as one friend, concerned and affectionate, to an- 
 other. Yet, how could she tell Jane West adequately of 
 the canker of her spirit, her trapped submission, and her 
 hopeless endurance? How could she confess that she had 
 cheapened herself forever in her own eyes by offering Mart 
 Bladen a bargain he had not cared to keep, the stubborn 
 fact that all his protestations could not wipe away? No, 
 these things it was her right to conceal, even from kind- 
 ness. But she must make some response. 
 
 "I don't know what I can tell you, Ma," she began, choos- 
 ing her words. "I said I'd marry John Henry and there's 
 an end to it. What would happen if I tried to go back on 
 it now ! Pa'd drive me out of the house." 
 
 "Do you want to go back on it ?" asked her mother search- 
 ingly, "or are you just notional ? You've got sense enough 
 to know the difference. A good many girls aren't so crazy 
 about getting married. I wasn't myself." 
 
 Louellen tried hard to visualize her mother young and 
 in the same case as herself, but it was difficult. This stout 
 brisk kindly woman had she ever lain awake at night and 
 hoped to die before morning? Had those hands, so skilled 
 in sewing, so deft with butter prints and cheese molds, ever 
 clenched on each other in an agony of rebellion and bitterness 
 against life ? Had her shrewd placid eyes ever wept scorch- 
 ing tears? It all seemed unlikely, yet the statement that 
 she had not cared much for marriage brought the daughter 
 nearer to her. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not sure which it is. I know I don't feel to 
 John Henry like he feels to me. And it it he " How 
 should she tell of John Henry's strange greedy grasp of 
 her, that revolted her and darkened all the future?
 
 One Thing Is Certain 89 
 
 "I wouldn't like to have you break off with John Henry, 
 exactly," said Jane West dispassionately. "There'd be such 
 a to-do and talk, and your father would act up so, for a 
 while anyway. And a promise to marry is almost as bind- 
 ing as the wedding itself, and everybody feels that way 
 about it. But, all the same, I don't want you to marry him 
 unless you feel pretty sure it's going to be all right. Marry- 
 ing isn't like anything else for a woman, I mean. All 
 the other folks you have around you, you can get away 
 from, even your family. But a husband's a stubborn fact. 
 Just having him in the same room with you sometimes is 
 enough to set you crazy. There are times when every 
 woman, I don't care who she is, hates the man she's tied to 
 so hard that she would like to kill him. For he won't let 
 you get away from him. If he's not satisfied, he gives you 
 no peace. No matter if you think the world and all of him, 
 it's just the same. And the first years are the worst, till 
 you learn how to manage him, and make allowances, and 
 have children." 
 
 "You're not giving me much encouragement, Ma." 
 
 "I do sound gloomy, that's a fact. Maybe I was put- 
 ting it too strong. But no, Louellen, I'm not. And I can 
 say the more, because John Henry's a good bit like your 
 Pa when he was a young man. And you're a good bit like 
 me when I was a girl." 
 
 "Mother," demanded Louellen, "if you had it to do over 
 again, would you have married Pa ?" 
 
 Mrs. West laughed, the comfortable laugh of a philo- 
 sophic woman unafflicted with nerves. "If you'd asked me 
 that last week when he took the notion that I ought to 
 mend all those old sacks against next year's harvest, whether 
 or no, and they stinking dirty, and the weather so hot, 
 and right when I was putting up pickle, I expect I'd've 
 said no, no, never. Just the unreasonableness and the dumb- 
 ness of a man about little things'll sometimes fret you past 
 bearing. But take it year in and year out, your Pa and I 
 have got along pretty well. He's a good provider, and he
 
 90 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 won't so much as look at another woman, even if she was 
 as handsome as a picture, and that's a mighty comfort, no 
 matter who says 'tisn't. He's never been mean about the 
 egg and butter money, like some men, neither." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Louellen, "is this all there is to marrying 
 all? Having children, eggs and butter money, mending 
 grain sacks, a man around under foot all the time, a good 
 provider? It's just like the Jew peddler said happy or not, 
 everybody eats. Isn't there any companionship and un- 
 derstanding and and happiness that's different from 
 everything else?" 
 
 "I'm afraid you've got romantic notions," said her mother 
 swiftly, "or you're thinking about Mart Bladen. What is 
 it between you and Mart, anyway ?" 
 
 "What is there against Mart, I'd like to know?" parried 
 Louellen. "The Bladens were nice people you used to be 
 friends with his mother, didn't you? The two girls were 
 nice. Why should Pa be so awful down on Mart?" 
 
 "Permelia Bladen was as good a woman as ever stepped," 
 conceded Mrs. West. "And Mart's father was right likely, 
 too, though I never was well acquainted with him. But 
 Mart's always been wild." 
 
 "That doesn't make him wicked. You said so yourself 
 to Mrs. Truitt out at camp. You said, wildness and wicked- 
 ness are different and many a wild young man'll settle down 
 in time and be a good citizen. You know you did." 
 
 "So they do, so they do. And then again, they don't. 
 There's the Kemps, and Mart runs with 'em. All the 
 same " 
 
 "Ma," demanded Louellen, "are you arguing for Mart or 
 against him?" 
 
 Mrs. West was forced to smile. "Be switched if I know. 
 There's something mighty taking about that boy and always 
 was. I mind him as a little shaver sitting in his mother's 
 lap, curls all over his head, and laughing, as jolly and cun- 
 ning as you please." 
 
 Something constricted Louellen's throat. Mart laugh-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 91 
 
 ing! She could see him so. "But," concluded Mrs. West, 
 "I'd hate to see you married to a drinking man." 
 
 The words evoked another image of Mart Mart drunk, 
 dirty, rioting. That was how he had shown her that he did 
 not care enough. The door of communication between her 
 own heart and her mother's snapped to. 
 
 "You're not going to see me marry a drinking man, un- 
 less John Henry takes to drink. I've passed my word to 
 John Henry and I'm going to keep it. It's just as well." 
 
 Mrs. West's counsels were not all said. "Maybe it is. I, 
 myself, I favor a marriage where the man's more in love with 
 the woman than she is with him. It gives her a hold on him, 
 and on herself. It gives her a place in her feelings where 
 things can't drive in on her so hard. You don't understand 
 me now, but you will after a while. You see, Louellen, 
 when a woman cares such a lot for a man he can hurt her so, 
 in her feelings. It's good when she doesn't have to care 
 so much, and can keep out of the strain of it. Yet, to live 
 with any man, unless you think a powerful lot of him, 
 unless he matters more'n anything in the world, is past 
 enduring. Oh I want you to be contented. I'd like to 
 see you a little more excited and foolish, like Annie. I 
 wish you'd have wanted that shawl." There was wistful 
 love in her words, yearning in her eyes. 
 
 Caresses were rare in the West family. Amos West had 
 always condemned any demonstration of affection "the 
 setting up of vain idols," "weakness and vanity of human 
 ties," etc., etc. But now Louellen dropped her work, and 
 bent over her mother, hugged her, put a burrowing chin 
 into her broad shoulder, and for a moment luxuriated, as 
 does a very little child, in the secure tenderness of her 
 embrace. 
 
 "Oh, Ma you're so good." 
 
 "Don't you be unhappy, Louellen about Mart Bladen. 
 There's always some fellow like that to hang around a 
 girl and get her all excited, but if you married him you'd 
 maybe be like poor Tillie Kemp, and that's a black valley
 
 92 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 to travel. Safe things is best. I'll admit that I'd've liked 
 you to pick up with somebody who's got a little more give 
 and take to him than John Henry, and wasn't so bent on 
 religion and I don't care if it's a sin to say so. Well, 
 maybe I don't mean that I reckon I mean I wish he didn't 
 take his religion so hard and gloomy like your Pa does. 
 The day of joyful saints seems to be clear past, round 
 hereabouts, anyways. But maybe you can get him chirked 
 up and out of it somewhat, for he certainly does dote on 
 you." She patted Louellen on the back for reassurance. 
 
 Tremblingly, reluctantly, the girl answered: "It's that, 
 Ma. He he thinks too much of me. He scares me some- 
 times he turns me kind of sick." 
 
 Her mother had an instant clear vision of the passionate 
 darkness of John Henry, on fire with craving, sharp-set, 
 unsatisfied. She knew. But she could not explain it to her 
 daughter without heightening her apprehension, creating 
 disgust. She stroked Louellen's hair, held her close. 
 
 "John Henry's a young man," she said, "and he's got a 
 young man's feelings. When you're married, when he's 
 sure of you, you see, all that will pass away. It's the un- 
 certainty and the long delay that's pushed him so. You 
 kept him hanging round for a long time, Louellen, and 
 worried him considerable. Now don't you think about it 
 any more." 
 
 She resolved to drop a terse hint to John Henry. He 
 should be more cautious. Louellen wasn't one of those girls 
 who let every young spark riding by kiss and get familiar, 
 she wasn't even interested in hearing the other girls tell 
 about that sort of thing. Jane West had kept a close eye 
 on both her girls, but with a minimum of spoken precept. 
 She kissed the smooth cheek nearest her. The scene had 
 come to its climax, and she was satisfied that talking out 
 the matter had cooled its heat. 
 
 "You pick up that tinware and put yours with the rest 
 of your things," she directed in her everyday voice. "And 
 take what I got for myself to the kitchen. Don't you think
 
 One Thing Is Certain 93 
 
 you better go help Annie and Rachel a little ? You've been 
 sewing pretty steady and it gets tiresome." 
 
 She gazed after her, still not quite serene. She had an 
 acute sense of balance and fairness, Jane West. John 
 Henry and Mart Bladen. She recalled Permelia Bladen's 
 quick blue eyes, her pride in her last baby. She saw Mart, 
 warm, sturdy, engaging. And she became conscious that 
 she had betrayed her own little live streak of romance 
 that had colored her secret imaginings, helped her into a 
 humorous and contented middle age, and had caused, more 
 than once, Amos West and his strait-laced intimates to cock 
 a suspicious eye at her, albeit they could verify nothing of 
 its existence. 
 
 "If I had to do it myself," she thought, "blessed if I 
 wouldn't take Mart. But for your own daughter no 
 I couldn't prescribe it. It's too big a risk."
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 PUBLIC opinion, for the greater part, supported Jane 
 West. In this long-settled farming community, dating 
 back to the late sixteen hundreds, an appreciation of all 
 the solid virtues was universal. Yet there were two dis- 
 tinct elements, present from the first settlement, in which 
 division was made roughly along religious lines. The 
 Catholics and Episcopalians still clung to traditions of the 
 old cavalier aristocracy of palatinate days, traditions that 
 had their keynote in lavishness, lavish living, lavish spend- 
 ing, lavish hospitality, delegated authority and responsi- 
 bility in cultivating their fertile holdings, and more or less 
 of disinclination to hard manual labor. The Civil War put 
 a definite end to this sort of existence, but the type per- 
 sisted, having a real vitality. But from the very first of 
 Maryland history there had been another element, Metho- 
 dist, with a powerful flavoring of Puritan. These were 
 mostly small farmers who would not hold slaves, deeming 
 it a matter of conscience not to do so, so in order to till 
 their fields were forced to hire at a wage the slaves of their 
 less scrupulous neighbors of the big plantations. This 
 element had also a stout vitality, and since the old days of 
 slavery were over, and the fox-hunting, hard-riding, hard- 
 drinking idle squire could now no longer finance himself 
 save by selling off his land, it was the small farmers who 
 bought him up, establishing themselves firmly in his place, 
 but with a mighty difference. It was largely this hitherto 
 disregarded element which, gathering its strength, carried 
 the State Constitutional Convention of 1864, assembled at 
 Annapolis, and adopted that "Bill of Rights" which abol- 
 ished slavery in the state of Maryland forever. Yet, among 
 these, there were many who voted the Democratic ticket, 
 even in those troubled times when the way to the polling 
 
 94
 
 One Thing Is Certain 95 
 
 place lay between files of soldiers with fixed bayonets. It 
 is a matter of record that when feeling was at its height 
 one sturdy yeoman went to the ballot box with his Demo- 
 cratic ticket in one hand and an unsheathed bowie knife 
 in the other. There is no coercion for conviction such as 
 this. It has an unbreakable fiber. Freedom for such people 
 is not a word to be spoken, but a condition of living. 
 
 In the decade and a half that had passed since the 
 Civil War, the aristocratic element had waned, the Puritan 
 had been stabilized and strengthened. Basic conditions, 
 however, did not change, the farmer and his industry con- 
 tinuing paramount, the towns existing mostly as points of 
 focus for shipping of produce and the necessary distribu- 
 tion of supplies, and also for the administration of the local 
 government, the availability of the law. 
 
 Nor must it be supposed that this religious and social 
 cleavage was distinct or precise. The community was too 
 small, too near a level in means and opportunity, too long- 
 established in ties of acquaintance and kinship for that. 
 The old slave holders took what means they had and with- 
 drew to the towns and lived as well as they could, many 
 of them sought political jobs, register of wills, county clerk, 
 Justice of the Peace. To win such preferment necessitated 
 amiable contacts with all voters. General conditions tended 
 toward a democracy of feeling and understanding. 
 
 The very isolation of the community, geographically, the 
 few railroad lines, the slowness of boat transportation, and 
 their own inclination as well, kept them in partial isolation 
 from the swift impetus and fret of progress, turned them 
 to one another for interest and society. Old traditions 
 flourished, and old customs were not discarded. Everybody 
 knew everybody else, and gossip flourished pleasantly, with 
 no undercurrent of malice or spite. Death, birth, marriage, 
 church or private entertainment, travel, nothing was too 
 large or too small to furnish a grist of news and comment. 
 The solid virtues received their due share of acclamation, 
 but even their keenest appreciators were not wholly naive.
 
 96 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 The approaching marriage of Louellen West and John 
 Henry Hyde, with the attendant disappointment of Mart 
 Bladen, furnished a fruitful theme. The fact that the two 
 young bachelors should be neighbors, and both sue for the 
 same girl, was in itself unusual and exciting. It was the 
 consensus of opinion that Louellen had done well for her- 
 self, but there were rejoinders that an ultimate share of 
 Amos West's worldly goods was not wholly outside of John 
 Henry's careful reckoning. Miss Becca Simpson remarked 
 caustically that for her part, if she was Louellen, she'd just 
 as soon marry a death's head with a bone in its mouth. 
 But while this won some appreciative titters, it was held 
 to be merely one of Miss Becca's flourishes, and not to be 
 taken seriously. 
 
 Sister Truitt, on the other hand, openly acclaimed the ap- 
 proaching nuptials as the establishment of another godly and 
 righteous household, pleasing in the sight of the Lord. 
 
 Rena Massey, whose mind was set on the gauds of this 
 world rather than on the treasures of the next, was openly 
 regretful that Louellen did not see fit to provide herself 
 with a more dressy outfit. There was further peevishness 
 concealed in Rena's feeling, because most of the pur- 
 chases for Louellen's trousseau were made in Baltimore and 
 not from the Massey store. 
 
 Esther Dawson, belonging to a younger set that found 
 all marriage exciting and stimulating, would have pre- 
 ferred to see it approached with a more festive spirit. 
 
 There were other girls who were openly congratulatory 
 to Louellen for choosing John Henry, but secretly congrat- 
 ulated themselves that she had not taken Mart. He was 
 now wholly free. Of all these Delia Lay ton was the chief, 
 though since the dreadful day when she had hastened to tell 
 him of his rejection, she had not seen him. She clung des- 
 perately to the hope that after the wedding had taken place 
 he would need consolation, be more accessible. 
 
 Amos West was sincerely and honestly pleased, though 
 he felt that it was more than his just due. He could never
 
 One Thing Is Certain 97 
 
 understand why the ungodly should be allowed to flourish. 
 Prosperity, success, happiness, fulfillment of desires, he 
 considered exclusively the right of the good man and 
 woman, goodness to be interpreted in terms of austere living 
 and strict religious observance, and an abundance of intol- 
 erance for any one who did not do likewise. 
 
 He had brought up his daughters in the way they should 
 go, and that Louellen should have attracted that unregener- 
 ate profligate, Mart Bladen, was a distinct shortcoming and 
 lack of recognition on the part of Providence. Now that 
 she had seen the light and was prepared to join hands with 
 and be submissive to a true son of the church, Amos West 
 knew that the favor of the Lord was surely his. It made 
 him unusually liberal in providing Louellen with her wed- 
 ding outfit. He gave her not only money for clothes and 
 linen and a handsome set of furniture, but added thereto 
 some blooded cattle, a beautiful young driving horse, and a 
 thousand dollar mortgage, the interest of which would be 
 for her own spending. He also indicated that he desired 
 the wedding dinner to be a feast of lavishness. He would 
 send, he vowed, to Baltimore for a barrel of oysters, for 
 celery, tropical fruits, raisins, nuts, confectionery. Jane 
 West, canny, observing his state of malleability, suggested 
 that they would need more china, more glass and silver. To 
 which he replied tersely, "Get what you want," and had no 
 suspicion that his wife had manipulated him to fulfill cer- 
 tain worldly ambitions toward gold-banded plates, a crystal 
 centerpiece and a silver cake-basket. 
 
 Against all this conclusive weight of approbation there 
 were a few of Mart Bladen's associates who swore that it 
 was a double d'd shame and an outrage that any girl should 
 fancy a hide-bound spoil-sport like John Henry Hyde, when 
 she might have had a real man, but even these were in- 
 clined, under their breath, to felicitate Mart on having 
 escaped the weariness of being son-in-law to Amos West. 
 There were plenty of girls left to pick from to their way 
 of thinking a woman was only a woman, and there was
 
 98 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 little to choose between one and another, provided they were 
 young and pretty and not too prudish. These rustic men 
 of the world did not comprehend monogamy, either from 
 inclination or necessity, hence there seemed to them no 
 reason why Mart should set his heart on any girl in par- 
 ticular. 
 
 But they did not press their views on him, nor rally him 
 on his, save once. Jere Willis was the offender: "Hear 
 your girl dished you for a deacon," he jeered, soon after 
 the story got about. "That why you look so down in the 
 mouth?" 
 
 He and those around him were unprepared for what fol- 
 lowed. Mart had blazed : "You keep off me and my looks, 
 or I'll shut your mouth for you." 
 
 They had both been drinking, enough to make Jere, 
 usually good-natured, inclined to swagger. "I'll say what 
 I please when I please," he returned truculently. 
 
 Mart leaped at him on the instant and there was a very 
 beautiful fight which delighted those who were fortunate 
 enough to be present. They made a ring and encouraged 
 the combatants impartially. "Sock it to 'im, Jere," "Slug 
 'im, Mart." 
 
 Jere was a larger man than Mart, had a longer reach, 
 possessed more brute strength, but he might as well have 
 fought a whirlwind, populated with wild cats. Mart had 
 such pent-up emotion to relieve through his muscles, and 
 he was so merciless and beat Jere so cruelly, even after he 
 had yelled " 'nough," that the others interfered and dragged 
 him off. He was still crazy with senseless fury. They 
 had to hold him, overpower him. In the end he managed 
 to wrench free, and leaping on Star, rode away from them, 
 break-neck. Jere picked himself up, felt of his swollen 
 eye, spat blood from a misshapen, swelling mouth. 
 
 "What's the matter with him?" he demanded, bewildered. 
 "Can't he take a joke? I didn't know he was going to get 
 mad." 
 
 The spectators were as amazed as the victim. "And he
 
 One Thing Is Certain 99 
 
 looked so funny," commented Joe Kemp. "Like he was 
 going to cry." 
 
 "Didn't feel like he was crying none when he hit me," 
 said Jere ruefully. "Loosened my two front teeth. And 
 lookit my shirt. Bloody son of a bitch whadit he mean, 
 flying at me, like that ?" 
 
 "You oughtn' to've rigged him about losing his girl," 
 contributed Gid Cummins. "He's like a bear with a sore 
 head about getting the go-by." 
 
 "But hell what's a girl more or less?" demanded Jere. 
 "Whyn't he go whale the lights outa John Henry Hyde 
 'nstead of me? I didn't get his girl." 
 
 Something of the same question was running through 
 Mart's own disheveled head as he rode away. Why had 
 he struck Jere? Jere was blameless. Even his joke was 
 harmless enough, not as rough as much of the other "run- 
 ning" that the gang frequently indulged in with one another. 
 Yet it had been acid to Mart's wound. 
 
 The fight had sobered him, of drink and of feeling. His 
 mind turned inevitably to Louellen. Only two nights be- 
 fore, riding past her home, in futile hunger to see her, he 
 had met her with John Henry in his buggy on their sedate 
 way to Wednesday night prayer-meeting. Through the 
 thin darkness he recognized them, reined his horse to let 
 them pass. 
 
 The sight of her thus had been torment. He had felt 
 murder clutch at his impulses. He wanted to leap at John 
 Henry's throat as he had leaped at Jere, and clamp his 
 fingers in his throat and so hold him, hold him struggling 
 and gasping and choking, until he was as dead as a herring. 
 He could have done it rejoicingly before Louellen's eyes. 
 
 And now, coming from this fight with Jere, he regretted 
 that he had let John Henry and Louellen pass. Indubitably 
 it was John Henry he should have battered and beaten. He 
 pulled up Star and meditated. There was no reason why 
 it should not yet be done, satisfyingly. Perhaps, if he 
 did it, it would clear a way out of this miasma of pain and
 
 100 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 resentment and indirection through which he had, it seemed, 
 been stumbling for uncounted time, ever since Louellen had 
 told him. . . . Maybe some sort of violent action would 
 straighten things. . . . And he must do something, or the 
 pressure of the empty days would break him. 
 
 He turned Star to the road that would take him to the 
 Wests'. John Henry would be there, every night, he was 
 sure. And he was glad that he would be he'd rather 
 thrash John Henry in front of Louellen than behind her 
 back. Then she'd see who was the better man. 
 
 So he reasoned with himself, disregarding the most obvi- 
 ous facts and conclusions, as all of us do when we are in 
 the power of something stronger than ourselves. He who 
 called love a state of insanity was hideously right. Suc- 
 cessful or unsuccessful, it fosters delusions which later we 
 can only marvel at. 
 
 So Mart. As he rode he wondered why he had not done 
 this before. And why he had not been more persistent, 
 dogged Louellen's presence, compelled her. It was that 
 first visit that had held him back from going again. It had 
 all been too queer. But he now explained it all to him- 
 self, with confidence. She was angry, then, with his esca- 
 pade at the camp-meeting so fresh in her mind. Now she 
 would partially have forgotten that. Yet he could not be 
 entirely sure. 
 
 For in her denial of herself to him, he had had a rudi- 
 mentary sense of the injustice of it. She had reminded 
 him that she had given her word and she had kept it. That 
 he had given his word and he had broken it. Even-handed 
 is fate, even-handed and cruel, without leniency, without 
 kindness. Only . . . why should Louellen set herself up 
 as Fate? The bitterest taste was that she had not loved 
 him enough to forgive. He had a dim consciousness that 
 love without forgiveness, without adjustment to the indi- 
 vidual need, without tolerance, lacked its big essential. 
 Louellen had failed him. The pale, tight-lipped girl who had 
 faced him in the hallway and so rigidly adhered to her
 
 One Thing Is Certain 101 
 
 thin notions of right and wrong was not the Louellen he 
 knew and loved, the Louellen who .had warmth and life and 
 feeling. Strict justice she had dealt to him, and justice, he 
 felt, had nothing vital to do with youth and love. 
 
 But by now, he argued eagerly to convince himself, Louel- 
 len would have had time to let her anger cool, and repent 
 that she had engaged herself to John Henry. The Louellen 
 whom he loved was more real than that other, that strange 
 Louellen who had told him she was going to marry John 
 Henry Hyde. He forgot that other Louellen, pushed her 
 into oblivion. He lifted his face and swore to the unheed- 
 ing calm of the twilight sky that Louellen was not going 
 to marry John Henry Hyde. She could not. . . . 
 
 The material and conventional obstacles did not worry 
 him, or loom large in his mind, though he was aware that 
 local custom regarded an acknowledged betrothal as only 
 one degree less binding than marriage itself, and a broken 
 engagement, unless for serious cause, was a scandal, frowned 
 on by every class, discountenanced, disfavored. Mart did 
 not think of this. What to him was public opinion? He 
 had never catered to it, never trimmed or changed for it. 
 What would it be to Louellen, once he held her safe, pro- 
 tected by his love ? He would make up to her for all criti- 
 cism, all reproach. He would do everything she wished. 
 
 He remembered the swift curve of her lips, the changing 
 lights of blue that turned her eyes first teasingly, then deeply 
 tender. He put out his hand as if to touch her warm hands, 
 so small in his own. He saw the slimness of her, with the 
 strength beneath it that made her all smooth and pliant 
 curves. He conjured her before him to convince him that 
 she was really his, and that the immediate past was no more 
 than an ugly dream. He groped for words to phrase her 
 in. ... "Little dear sweetness" . . . "My girl !" . . . (He 
 was not gifted in the speech of sentiment, but these sufficed.) 
 At last he rode up to her door in confidence. By God, she 
 'must own the truth this time. When he was through with 
 John Henry ... he was ready for anything.
 
 102 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 As he had hoped, John Henry's team was there, at one of 
 the row of hitching posts. The sight pleased Mart. It 
 seemed an auspicious beginning. 
 
 He banged at the front door, and it was opened by Amos 
 West, instantly bristling. 
 
 "What do you want?" he demanded. 
 
 "To see Louellen." 
 
 "You can't see her. You can't come into my house. You 
 get off my premises and stay off." 
 
 "Don't get too brash," said Mart. "I've licked a man 
 a lot bigger than you to-day. I came to see Louellen and 
 Louellen I'm going to see, come hell or high water. Under- 
 stand that? Is she home?" 
 
 "Get out of here," said Amos West again. "I'd as lief 
 shoot you as any dog that came after my sheep." 
 
 "You got a high temper for a church member," said Mart, 
 beginning to enjoy the wordy fray. "It's poor sense for me 
 to quarrel with you again, but don't you start any shoot- 
 ing, or I might do something worse'n sling hard words. You 
 think you're not going to let me see Louellen, h'mh?" He 
 raised his voice. "Oh-h, Louellen come out here, will 
 
 you 
 
 The door into the hallway opened, but Amos West ad- 
 dressed savage admonition over his shoulder: "You go 
 back. Wait tell John Henry to come out here " 
 
 "That suits me precisely," said Mart. "I was aiming to 
 see John Henry, too." 
 
 But ahead of John Henry came Louellen, and the instant 
 that Mart saw her he knew that all his dreams were in vain. 
 She was farther from him than before. She seemed older, 
 tired, remote and alone, and something of his youth left 
 Mart Bladen's heart as he realized her. 
 
 "Oh, Mart," she said, as if his being there was no sur- 
 prise, but another weariness and pain, "why will you do 
 things like this?" 
 
 With that John Henry appeared at her shoulder. "You
 
 One Thing Is Certain 103 
 
 go back," he said, his hand proprietor-fashion on her arm, 
 "I'll deal with him." 
 
 "Let me alone," said Louellen sharply. Somehow she 
 seemed to assert herself, efface the two hostile men behind 
 her. She stood before them, a hand on each doorpost, her 
 arms spread wide and stiffly, like a crucifix, silhouetted and 
 leaning toward the man outside. "Mart," she went on, 
 "what's the use of you acting like this ? I told you before 
 I told you" 
 
 "Louellen," he said, "I can't I won't believe it. I had 
 to see you again " His voice failed. He forgot that 
 he had come to lick John Henry as he had licked Jere. He 
 forgot everything but that she was there, and near him, and 
 he could speak to her. 
 
 "It wasn't right, the things I said the other time," he said, 
 groping. "I didn't mean it when I left, you know. I 
 don't hold anything up against you, Louellen. But what 
 do you do this for?" 
 
 She stood rigid. "Go on away, Mart. It's too late now. 
 Go on away and and get some other girl, and be 
 happy." 
 
 "Don't talk foolishness," he cried. "Think I'd ever look 
 at any girl but you ?" 
 
 They became aware of indignation rolling over her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "Are you crazy, Louellen, to stand there, answering that 
 worthless rip " It appeared that Amos West was 
 seething with rage. "Go in to your mother John Henry 
 and I'll attend to him." John Henry, too, was making 
 hostile demonstrations. 
 
 "You only make things hard for me, Mart," she said. 
 "Go away and don't come back." Suddenly she shut the 
 door in his face and stood with her back against it, holding 
 to the knob. She faced her father and the man she was 
 going to marry, and held her ground. 
 
 "If either of you go out there and and touch him," she
 
 104 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 said, "I'll go out, too, and I'll go away with him, if he 
 wants me to. No, I'll go whether he wants me to or not." 
 
 The revolt was so stupendous that Amos West was left 
 fairly without words. The moment that they stood there 
 was the longest and the hardest of all his fifty-six years. 
 He snorted and choked, but he did not try to move her 
 hand from the door knob. At the end of the moment, she 
 walked past them into the sitting room. "I think " said 
 Amos West, "I think you better speak to her. I never 
 knew her to talk like this " He left John Henry and 
 Louellen together. 
 
 "You act very strange, considering how near our wed- 
 ding day is," began John Henry, rebukingly. "I don't want 
 any more of this kind of goings on, Louellen, that's flat." 
 
 "Do you want to back out?" demanded Louellen, seizing 
 instantly this slight chance to escape. "Do you want to 
 break it off ? Because if you do, I'm ready." 
 
 Her hardness, her determination brought him to in- 
 stant submission. "How can you think that?" he re- 
 proached her. "It'd kill me so near and after I've 
 waited so." 
 
 "Well, then I reckon we won't talk about this evening 
 any more, ever," she said. 
 
 Outside, in the dusk, Mart had waited. He did not hear 
 what Louellen said after she closed the door. If he had, 
 he would never have gone. He stood still, waiting, for a 
 little, until he was sure that neither Amos West nor John 
 Henry would come out. His braggart imagination, it ap- 
 peared, had played him utterly false. Now, for the first 
 time, he accepted it that Louellen would never be his own. 
 In her voice, in her rigidness, she had managed to convey 
 to him finality, and as a fate, a nemesis, a destiny, rather 
 than anything that they might will to change. And with 
 this finality came something more, a picture, etched clear, 
 of the futility, the absurdity of his coming, his broken plead- 
 ing to the girl, while Amos West and John Henry fumed 
 and snarled behind her skirts.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 105 
 
 He mounted Star and rode away, and as he went he could 
 not keep from laughing. At himself. What a fool, what 
 a saphead he had been. Why, he hadn't laid a ringer on 
 John Henry ! And what he'd said to Amos West was noth- 
 ing. It had all been nothing. It is easy to laugh at noth- 
 ing, even though there is no mirth nor heart in the laugh- 
 ter.
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 THE house was warm with generous fires, clean to the 
 finest point of cleanness. Everything that could be 
 scrubbed had been scrubbed, everything that could be pol- 
 ished had been polished. The window panes flashed like 
 jewels. No scrap of raveling or stray bit of fluff marred 
 the remotest corner of any carpet. Jane West had said 
 firmly when she attacked the task: "This is going to be a 
 real housecleaning, and not a lick and a promise." The re- 
 sult justified her phrase. It had taken Rachel, and two 
 other stalwart colored women, Jane West herself, Louellen 
 and Annie the whole of ten days to accomplish it. But 
 now it was done. 
 
 Another ten days were allotted to the preparation for the 
 v/edding dinner. Fruit cakes had been made six weeks be- 
 fore, to mellow and ripen in a big stone crock, a rosy apple 
 or two keeping them company and aiding in the process. 
 From time to time a small glass of brandy was poured on 
 their rich darkness. Amos West had no inhibitions against 
 the use of liquor in cooking. The fruit cake, though impor- 
 tant, was but the beginning of the mighty labors of the 
 kitchen. There must be pound cakes, with white almond 
 icing half an inch thick, a crisp shell of flavorous sweetness. 
 There must be no less than four great Charlotte Polonaises, 
 most tedious and delicate to bring to perfection. There 
 must be jellies, syllabubs, frozen custard. And these were 
 mere kickshaws and comfits. The real stability of the din- 
 ner would be its oyster soup, its hickory smoked hams that 
 had been scrubbed and boiled and skinned and finally baked 
 with a constant basting of sweet wine, until their clove- 
 patterned, knife-scored surfaces were all one spicy delight. 
 There must be young turkeys stuffed with chestnuts, gar- 
 landed with rings of tiny sausages; there must be chicken 
 
 106
 
 One Thing Is Certain 107 
 
 pies with crust as light as a feather; there must be molded 
 cranberries, sweet pickled peaches, mustard pickle all yel- 
 low with turmeric; sweet potatoes glazed with maple sugar 
 and laced with cider; white potatoes beaten to a fluff with 
 cream and butter ; squash and creamed onions ; there must 
 be pies, mince, pumpkin, custard, apple. And dozens of 
 beaten biscuit, loaves of white bread. The store-room open- 
 ing off Jane West's kitchen would have set Lucullus pranc- 
 ing. But, oh, the work it entailed ! 
 
 Not that that made any difference. A wedding dinner 
 was a wedding dinner in those days, and not a mere plate- 
 ful of salad and sandwiches with a cup of fruit punch 
 and a lady finger or two passed by a man hired from a 
 caterer. Jane West meant to have every bit of her new 
 china and glass in use. She was a cook of parts, and so 
 was Rachel. They were both on their mettle. Moreover 
 had not Amos West said to spare nothing? They took him 
 at his word. 
 
 The task of preparation was a frenzied delight to Annie. 
 To Louellen it was an anodyne. Her clothes were ready, 
 packed in her little trunk. Her set of furniture, her por- 
 tion of quilts and linen, had all been sent to her new home. 
 Aunt Lena Hyde had received them with mixed emotions. 
 "I expect I'll be quite as comfortable at my sister's, back in 
 York State, as here," she told Amos West who had hauled 
 Louellen's portion over. "John Henry's none too easy to do 
 for. Of course my sister's got children, but then " She 
 paused. Into her strict and maidenly mind there had 
 popped the thought that in the course of nature there might 
 be children in John Henry's house also, but she could not 
 voice anything so vulgar to a man. She changed her sen- 
 tence, snifflingly, "but then, I can put up with anything, just 
 so's I have a home, and I believe in young folks starting off 
 to themselves." A womanly sensible creature Amos West 
 thought her. 
 
 They were to be married at half past eleven, the dinner 
 would be at twelve and that over, the happy pair were to
 
 108 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 drive to Dover Bridge and, in the late afternoon, take from 
 there the river boat to Baltimore, arriving in that city the 
 next morning. John Henry had suggested that they go all 
 the way to York State to see his people, but he did not urge 
 it. Louellen, with Aunt Lena in mind as a specimen, had 
 not been enthusiastic. Her apathy was scored by Annie. "I 
 sh'd think you'd just jump at the chance to travel around, 
 sis," said that active young damsel, with reproach. But 
 Louellen had answered nothing. 
 
 As the time drew nearer her dread, her foreboding in- 
 creased. What good could come of it all? John Henry's 
 agitation, his brooding silences, his violent caresses, as vio- 
 lently checked, his flashes of temper followed by an almost 
 cringing fear of resentment, chilled and revolted her. The 
 man was eaten up with passion, and the nearness of its 
 indulgence was the only thing he could think about. The 
 vision of his coming wedding night obsessed him, and 
 Louellen hated the way he looked at her when they were 
 alone. She felt herself, dimly, his victim. She had no 
 knowledge or experience whereby to understand, and be- 
 cause she did not love him she knew no slightest response 
 to his ardors. The spurt of pity that had come to her when 
 she promised to marry him revived now and then, faintly, 
 but always more faintly. He was too clutching, too in- 
 sistent. 
 
 Yet not all her thoughts were morbid and uncertain. 
 Contact with her mother prevented that. Jane West was 
 robust and normal, and constantly concerned with the exact- 
 ness of small details and arrangements. Louellen could not 
 shudder away from the insistence of John Henry when her 
 mother wanted her to beat egg whites so they would not 
 fall from the platter held upside down, when fresh cords 
 must be put into pictures, when every dish and cup in the 
 house must be dipped in hot suds, and rinsed and wiped 
 shining dry. These and a hundred other duties must be 
 done and done well, and they were accompanied by the 
 constant flow of Jane West's talk, homely, petty house-talk,
 
 One Thing Is Certain 109 
 
 cooking talk, talk as to whether certain relatives might be 
 omitted from the wedding scene without starting a family 
 feud, reminiscences about her own wedding preparations, 
 all tinged through with an ironic, but not unkindly humor. 
 Tragedy, even imminent tragedy, cannot stalk through a 
 recipe for making soft-soap, or the anecdote of the young 
 itinerant preacher who wore ladies' stockings. 
 
 Tragedy also was obliged to hold off while the wedding 
 gifts arrived. These were largely utilitarian, for the day of 
 the wedding gift which is frankly that and nothing more, 
 it could hardly be less, had not yet arrived. Louellen re- 
 ceived a featherbed and two feather pillows, four quilts, 
 three tablecloths, a cut jet necklace from a well-to-do city 
 cousin, a set of glass tumblers and pitcher, two glass dessert 
 dishes, high-stemmed and covered, a half dozen solid silver 
 spoons, a silver butter knife and sugar shell in a box, a carv- 
 ing set with horn handles, a dozen knives and forks of pol- 
 ished black wood and steel, several pairs of towels, two pre- 
 serve dishes in knobbed blue glass, and two in knobbed green 
 glass, a vase in purple-veined imitation marble, various 
 "splashers" embroidered in red outline stitch by girl friends, 
 with pondlilies and "cat-tails" and frogs and such-like 
 aquatic subjects suitable to their future place above the 
 wash-stand, and that was all. One of her aunts sent a 
 half gallon jar of brandied fruit melange made by her own 
 secret recipe and esteemed the greatest possible delicacy. Ac- 
 cording to popular standards, Louellen's kin and friends had 
 done well by her. 
 
 As to the guests, there Mrs. West's prejudices halted be- 
 fore the bar of time-honored precedent. To a wedding all 
 of one's blood-kin must be asked whether they were desired 
 for themselves or not. So for two days before the event 
 they came from everywhere, and lent willing hands to the 
 last preparations. The stables were filled with strange 
 horses, the stable yard with buggies and surreys. Within 
 the house every bedroom was filled to overflowing. Even 
 the bride's room which, to be sure, she had always shared
 
 110 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 with Annie now was crowded by a trundle bed for three 
 little cousins. 
 
 There were Uncle Ben West and Uncle Tracy West, the 
 first a farmer, the second a cattle-buyer, and both far more 
 inclined to secular joviality than their elder brother. With 
 them came their wives, Aunt Marcia and Sarah, efficient, 
 capable women both, whose first act after arriving was to 
 get into old frocks and big gingham aprons and join the 
 kitchen forces. These two families brought their children, 
 gawky girls and boys, seven in the lot. Great-Aunt Virgie 
 West came also, severe and disapproving, but intent to miss 
 nothing. She observed only to condemn, denounce and 
 deplore, her aged nose was curled in a perpetual sniff of 
 scorn. 
 
 On Jane West's side there were three sisters, one unmar- 
 ried and subdued into deprecative spinsterhood, the two 
 others bustling matrons. One of these, Aunt Ella Devens, 
 was inclined to dressiness and the authority that goes with 
 it she even had f risettes ; and she had a watered black 
 silk for best that was reputed to have cost fifteen dollars 
 a yard. She had imparted her air of fashion and elegance 
 to her daughter Clara, a languid young lady, who found no 
 one to her liking until Rena Massey appeared, and these 
 two, recognizing kindred spirits, thereafter were much to- 
 gether in confidences concerning flounces. A half dozen or 
 so small fry swelled the total house guests to some twenty- 
 five. 
 
 So filled was the house, so many the duties laid upon 
 her by the presence of such an assembly, that for the last 
 few days Louellen did not see John Henry alone. She was 
 quite consciously glad of it. Her spirits rose a little under 
 the cheer of his absence and the steady round of chaffing 
 attention that she received. 
 
 They told her constantly that Louellen was a nice girl, a 
 pretty girl, a smart girl, that she'd captured a fine young 
 man, that she'd be so close home it would hardly seem like 
 being married "you can drive over and get a good meal
 
 One Thing Is Certain 111 
 
 any time your cooking turns out bad" and "your Mother'll 
 be right nearby to run to for advice" they commended her 
 housewifeliness, they praised her trousseau, they admired, 
 they pretended to envy. There was no dissenting voice, 
 for Louellen was a general favorite. 
 They reminded Jane West that 
 
 "Your son's your son till he gets him a wife, 
 But your daughter's your daughter all your life." 
 
 Over and through it all loomed Amos West, his severe 
 minor prophet's face quite benevolent with satisfaction. 
 His sisters-in-law tittered among themselves that it might 
 almost be Amos who was getting married, he was so pleased 
 with himself. 
 
 For all the complacent and kindly things they said to 
 Louellen, those who had not seen and known him before 
 shook their heads in secret after their first glimpse of John 
 Henry. "Temper!" said one, meaningly. "Close-fisted," 
 and "More religion," sighed another. "I sh'd think she'd 
 got enough at home. Wasn't there something about a real 
 wild young fellow courting her?" but the question was 
 stifled in "sh-h" as Louellen herself passed by. "Don't he 
 ever smile ?" asked Clara, sotto voce of Rena Massey. The 
 men folk were less critical, though Uncle Ben West con- 
 fided to his wife that the bridegroom seemed "kind of a 
 glum fellow." But as all were assured of the extent and 
 solidity of John Henry's "prop'ty" it seemed, despite the 
 few minor strictures passed, a likely match. They all for- 
 warded the wedding preparations with great interest and 
 heartiness, and since none of John Henry's people had made 
 the long journey from York State to see him married, the 
 day became peculiarly Louellen's festival.
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 THEY would not let her touch a finger to the housework 
 that morning, but sent her to her room "to prink and pret- 
 tify." There was an early and hurried breakfast, and then 
 the forces divided. The older children were told off to 
 dress themselves, and the younger ones, in their best, and 
 then to go outdoors and play, sedately, with due regard for 
 their clothes until they should be called in. 
 
 "Thank goodness it's a fine day I never see better 
 weather for early November," said one aunt. 
 
 "Happy is the bride that the sun shines on," remarked 
 another, the spinster. 
 
 "Looks like a weather-breeder to me," opined that bird of 
 ill-omen, Great-Aunt Virgie West. But she was set at 
 naught. 
 
 With the children out, the house was put in supreme 
 order and the dinner preparations begun. When it was 
 at the stage when it could be left to the colored women, with 
 Rachel to direct, husbands were haled in and buttoned into 
 their Sunday shirts, and sent out to the wood shed to shine 
 their boots. An unflurried group of dignified aunts in rust- 
 ling black silks, with looped gold watch chains, cameos, 
 fringed bracelets and smart ruches descended a full hour 
 before the time for the ceremony, ready to welcome Bro' 
 Truitt and his wife, Miss Becca Simpson, and such of the 
 kin on both sides as were not staying in the house, but who 
 drove in from nearby. 
 
 "Here comes the bridegroom looks kind of edgy, 
 seems to me," was the comment when John Henry appeared. 
 Aunt Lena, rather watery as to eyes and pink at the tip of 
 the nose, but very grand in her dark purple Bonnet faille 
 and beaver tippet, joined the swelling ranks below stairs. 
 
 Above, Louellen, with Annie and Rena for aids, and her 
 
 112
 
 One Thing Is Certain 113 
 
 mother as director, had got into her wedding dress, the ashes- 
 of-rose barege that Annie had so scorned. She was pale. 
 
 "Pinch up your cheeks a little," suggested Annie. "You 
 look like a ghost." 
 
 Obediently, silently, Louellen pinched her cheeks. She 
 was very silent. She stared at the white-faced stupid girl 
 in the mirror and found it almost too strange to believe that 
 it was she, that she was going to be married, that below the 
 guests were waiting to see her made the wife of John Henry 
 Hyde. 
 
 "If you feel faint I got some smelling salts," offered 
 Rena. Rena was very vivid in garnet surah, the overskirt 
 trimmed with so many double pleatings that she seemed to 
 stand in the foam of an agitated silken tidal wave. Annie's 
 dress was blue delaine, and she had a frill of fine white lace 
 around her throat. She was flushed and pretty and impor- 
 tant. 
 
 "Oh, sis, do you feel faint?" she asked anguishedly. It 
 seemed incredible to Annie that Louellen was not laughing 
 and excited. She acted as if getting married was of no 
 more importance than going to town for an afternoon ! 
 
 Mrs. West came forward. "I got something for you/' 
 she said. "Bend down your head, child." 
 
 Louellen bent down her head, and her mother slipped over 
 it a long heavy gold chain with a pearl and turquoise 
 studded slide. At the end was a gold watch, with encrusta- 
 tions of flowers and leaves in variously tinted gold. "That's 
 my present," said Jane West proudly. "You can slip the 
 watch right into the front of your basque." 
 
 Rena and Annie exclaimed with rapture, but Louellen 
 stood with the lovely and costly thing in her hand, looking 
 at it, still silent. 
 
 "Now girls, you go on downstairs," said Mrs. West, 
 cutting short their adjectives. "Tell Aunt Ella to have the 
 minister stand up at the end of the room between the two 
 front windows. When all's ready you come and tell me, 
 Annie, and send John Henry up the back stairs. He and
 
 114 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Louellen can come right down behind me, and you and Hance 
 be there at the foot of the stairs to go in and stand beside 
 'em. Be sure Great-Aunt Virgie's got a chair right up 
 front or she'll take a fit. Now " 
 
 They left her alone with Louellen. Wistfully, brood- 
 ingly, the mother swept the daughter into her embrace. 
 
 "My little Louellen," she said, "you do your duty and 
 you'll be happy. Only don't you go to speculating too 
 much whether you're happy or not. My land where's my 
 handkerchief !" She fumbled for it, blind with tears. 
 "You like your watch?" she asked, trying to calm herself. 
 
 And now Louellen came to life, furiously. She gripped 
 her mother's arms, she turned toward her a distraught, dis- 
 torted face. "I can't do it," she cried. "I can't ! I won't 
 marry him I hate him ! Mother mother don't make me 
 it'll kill me! It'll kill me!" 
 
 Jane West looked behind her and pushed the door to with 
 her foot before she tried to answer. "Hush!" she said. 
 "Louellen don't you get hysterical now. That's all it is 
 you're hysterical. You had too much to do these last weeks. 
 My goodness hush don't cry how'll you look ?" In 
 spite of her concern for her child she cocked an agitated 
 ear downstairs. Could they hear? She caught up Rena's 
 salts and held them to Louellen's nose. 
 
 "I don't care I don't care," cried Louellen. "It's not 
 hysterics ! But I can't I can't I hate him, I tell you." 
 
 Jane West went back frankly to primitive methods. She 
 clapped a hand over Louellen's mouth, and with the other 
 she gave her a hard quick shake. "Be still" she said, in a 
 voice that no one, not even Amos West, had ever disre- 
 garded. "Stop calling out. There's nothing the matter with 
 you but hysterics, I tell you. You act like you had no sense. 
 Get a holt of yourself. Annie'll be back here in a minute. 
 Everybody'll hear you!" She had an instant's flash of 
 what a joyful morsel of tattle this would be to the people 
 downstairs should they hear. "Set down," she went on, and 
 pushed Louellen into a chair. She went to the washstand
 
 One Thing Is Certain 115 
 
 and brought a wet towel and wiped her face, quickly, care- 
 fully. "Now you're all right," she said. "You give me a 
 turn!" 
 
 Louellen sat still, drooping, stunned into acquiescence. 
 Her mother watched her anxiously. 
 
 "That you, Annie?" she asked, without turning her head 
 as the younger girl came in. "John Henry out there ? All 
 right. You go on downstairs and wait, like I said. Where's 
 your Pa ? Tell him I want him to stand right by me." 
 
 She turned back to Louellen. "Smell the salts again," 
 she said, in her normal voice. "Now you come along " 
 
 The girl rose, obedient, piteous. At this moment she 
 could not combat she was overpowered, beaten down. The 
 gold watch dangled, a significant weight, from its massive 
 chain, and her mother tucked it into her bosom. 
 
 "Now, take John Henry's arm " John Henry looming 
 tall, twitching with nerves, held out a stiff elbow, and she 
 laid limp fingers in the crook of it. 
 
 "Bring her right on after me," commanded Mrs. West, 
 and turning, stepped majestically to the stairs but at the 
 first step she paused to see if they were following. Yes, 
 it was all right. She went on down. 
 
 Below, Annie, pink with the pleasure of being so much 
 in the public eye, waited beside a straight and stolid Hance. 
 The faces within the parlor turned with impatience toward 
 the door. Mrs. West entered, saw that all was in order and 
 took her place beside Amos. She hoped that no one would 
 detect from her look that she had just been through a scene. 
 No, they would set down any signs of agitation to a mother's 
 natural emotion. She was just beginning to get the full 
 force of the shock. She watched with a hard suspense that 
 made her pulses pound in her wrists, and her throat swell 
 and hurt. It seemed an age before Louellen and John Henry 
 came into the room. 
 
 But they were in, and behind them marched Annie and 
 Hance, straight as ramrods, highly self-conscious. Louellen 
 was white, whiter than she had been upstairs, her face set
 
 116 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 stonily, her eyes dropped. John Henry stared straight ahead 
 of him, intent, his gaze narrowed and burningly eager. 
 
 "Solemn as a funeral," breathed Clara Devens into Rena's 
 willing ear. 
 
 A hideous qualm of doubt overtook Jane West as she 
 saw them. 
 
 "But I don't see what I could've done differently," she 
 argued with herself. "The minister in the house and the 
 wedding dinner cooked. And all the relatives !" 
 
 No, she simply couldn't have done anything else. Of 
 course it was nothing but hysterics. She felt a little upset 
 herself, there was no denying it, these last few weeks, 
 and all this fuss and to-do and hurrah-boys round the 
 house was a strain. But into Jane West's unimpression- 
 able mind there crept a question that she could not sup- 
 press was even a broken-off marriage, a broken-off at the 
 last minute marriage, with all the attendant scandal, with 
 the ravings of Amos West "He'd've near about lost his 
 mind," ran her commentary with all the disrepute and 
 shaming hue-and-cry of query and criticism was it worse 
 than to have Louellen marry, feeling as she did ? Louellen, 
 her firstborn, her nearest and dearest, closest in sympathy 
 and understanding, in whose girlhood she saw her own girl- 
 hood repeated, like a dear remembered melody, to break 
 or mar Louellen involuntarily she clasped her hands over 
 her heart and, deaf to mellifluous swoopings of Bro' Truitt's 
 voice, she prayed fervently that she might not be guilty of 
 such sin. And she knew that never again so long as she 
 lived would she be sure, firmly, decisively sure, of what 
 was right and what was wrong. This tremendous moment 
 would leave her certainty of judgment warped and scarred. 
 John Henry's hawk profile she saw it now with a divina- 
 tion of Louellen's revulsion against it. She heard her 
 daughter's faint responses with a stab of terror. She was 
 driven to put her fine white linen handkerchief up to her 
 face during the prayer, thankful for the mask, and she did 
 not listen to Bro' Truitt's petition. Instead she was beg-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 117 
 
 ging, imploring, "God have mercy on her have mercy," 
 frantically, futilely. 
 
 The babble of voices, the spontaneous movements like a 
 released spring of the children who had been severely 
 quelled while the ceremony was going on, the change of the 
 ministerial orotund into the flutings of secular congratu- 
 lations, warned Jane West to bring down her handkerchief 
 and command her faculties. She moved forward and es- 
 sayed a smile, at the sight of Bro' Truitt imprinting a chaste 
 kiss on the bride's cheek. 
 
 "Let me be the first to call you Mrs. Hyde," he re- 
 marked, playfully. "And to wish you the greatest possible 
 happiness." 
 
 Jane West almost shoved him away. Once more she 
 took her daughter in her arms, anxiously, leaning to kiss 
 her. And now Louellen lifted her drooping eyes and looked 
 full at her, and in that look was such arraignment, such con- 
 demnation that Jane West, unimaginative as she was, almost 
 cried out her alarm. 
 
 It was all over in a second. Aunt Lena Hyde was there, 
 openly weeping, but telling every one that she always cried 
 at weddings and not to mind her. Aunt Ella Devens was 
 there with good wishes elegantly phrased. Other aunts, 
 cousins, pressed around. Louellen was kissed and hugged 
 indiscriminately. John Henry's hand was nearly shaken off. 
 Several of the aunts kissed him, also, but Great-Aunt Virgie 
 declined this pleasure with the only witticism of her visit: 
 "I might get the habit of kissing other women's husbands, 
 and you don't know where such as that'll lead you" a state- 
 ment provoking infinite hilarity, which so pleased the old 
 lady that she repeated it at intervals for the rest of the day. 
 
 "Kind of a near shave, there, John Henry," said Uncle 
 Tracy, rallying him. "I thought Louellen wasn't going to 
 answer up at all." 
 
 "I guess not," answered John Henry. "She kept me 
 hanging on a good while without giving me much satisfac- 
 tion, but once she'd promised I wasn't scared."
 
 118 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "It's a good thing to have a woman that's not too glib 
 about answering back," chipped in Uncle Ben, with facetious 
 intent. "That's not my wife's trouble, oh, no, not her trou- 
 ble at all." 
 
 "It's not my husband's trouble, either," said Aunt Marcia, 
 neatly, thereby turning the laugh against the men. 
 
 There was more clumsy, good-natured joking, and a good 
 bit of teasing of Annie and Rena and Clara, and the other 
 marriageable damsels, productive of many blushes and 
 flutterings in the virginal dovecote. 
 
 In all the joking and laughter and general commotion it 
 passed without comment that Louellen was very quiet. John 
 Henry made up for it. He came out of his usual shell of 
 unresponsiveness and standoffishness and laughed and joked 
 with any of them. If Louellen was still pale, his face was 
 flushed deeply through his dark skin. He was assured, 
 almost boisterous. He kept a hard possessive grasp on 
 Louellen's arm. 
 
 Presently the elders of the party were summoned to din- 
 ner. There was not room for all, so the children must wait 
 for second table, at which there rose shrill complaint, quickly 
 stifled by parental admonition. 
 
 "I must say I never saw a more elegant looking table in 
 my life!" was the appreciative comment of Miss Becca 
 Simpson as she balanced her rotund little self on a chair. 
 It was fitting that the first compliment should come from 
 one who was not a member of the family, but the aunts 
 on both sides took it up and Jane West was deluged. 
 
 "It's a perfect picture." "Look at that two-colored jelly 
 piled up in blocks." "I haven't seen a Charlotte Polonaise 
 since I was a girl so much trouble to make." "And the 
 wedding-cake that's the last feather." 
 
 The wedding-cake a glittering white castle of three grad- 
 uated tiers, stood in state on a high crystal platter, with a 
 huge square Charlotte Polonaise at each side, iced in pale 
 yellow patterned like lace with silver dragees. Amber and 
 ruby jelly made jeweled battlements of color beyond these.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 119 
 
 Tall glasses of celery were sentinels to shining silver castors 
 which held the table condiments. This was the center of 
 the long table. At each end were tureens of soup, plates 
 of bread, biscuits, butter, pickles, all set with absolute sym- 
 metry. There was no decoration as such. All was there 
 to be eaten. 
 
 And it was eaten. After the soup came the hams, the 
 turkeys, the chicken pies, the vegetables, endlessly. And 
 after these the frozen custard, the cakes, the pies, the sylla- 
 bubs. Conversation, which had slacked over the heaped 
 plates of the former course, became more general now. 
 
 "But, Louellen, you've not eat enough to keep a bird 
 alive," said Aunt Lena Hyde, tactlessly. 
 
 "Oh, I've had plenty," said Louellen. 
 
 "I don't know when I've had such a meal," said Tracy 
 West. "I'd be willing to bet a levy against a fi'penny bit 
 that I've put on ten pounds. If I was home I'd unbutton 
 my weskit." 
 
 Then Louellen must cut the wedding-cake, and a big knife 
 was put into her hand. The icing crumbled with sweet- 
 ness, the perfume of the rich fruited loaves went strongly 
 over the room, dominating all the other spicy food odors.. 
 
 "I'm going to take a piece to dream on," announced Rena. 
 
 Then some one glanced at the clock. "You better be 
 getting your things on, you two," the bride and groom were 
 warned. "Takes a full three-quarters of an hour to drive 
 down to the Bridge." 
 
 "And the children are near 'bout s'tarved," added an 
 anxious mother. 
 
 Louellen went upstairs, attended by Annie and Rena. 
 She put on her new brown cashmere mantle, lined with 
 crimson, trimmed with passementerie. She put on her 
 brown velvet hat with its short curled feather, her brown 
 kid gloves. She picked up her crimson and brown knot- 
 work purse, that Annie had made for her. Her brown 
 leather valise was declared ready and snapped shut, and 
 she gave a last glance around her room.
 
 120 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "Sis, darling, I'll miss you so," cried Annie, sentimentally, 
 tears all ready. 
 
 "They're calling downstairs," reminded Rena. 
 
 Every one crowded around now, and Louellen was kissed 
 and hugged again. Then John Henry hustled her into the 
 back seat of a double buggy, with closed curtains. Rachel's 
 brother, Edward, a middle-aged negro with dignified side- 
 whiskers, was the coachman, and he had groomed the horses 
 to satin, the buckles on the harness shone, and he himself 
 was clean as yellow soap and hot water could make him. 
 
 They drove off amidst much shouting and waving. The 
 company went reluctantly back to the house, Aunt Ella 
 with a restraining hand on her frisettes, ruffled in the No- 
 vember air. 
 
 "A likely looking couple," "Louellen's the best girl " "A 
 real advantageous marriage whichever way you look at it," 
 the chorus began again. But Aunt Marcia, more observant 
 than the others, confided to Aunt Sarah, "Funny Jane never 
 kissed her good-by." 
 
 "Well, with all that push around and hurrying so " 
 It seemed a satisfactory explanation to both of them.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 JOHN HENRY and Louellen drove away into the graying 
 afternoon. A cloud had come over the sun, and a cold 
 wind blew wildly across the level fields. 
 
 "Feels like November, sure enough," said John Henry. 
 He took her hand, furtively, so that Edward would not see, 
 and he was still smiling, animated. 
 
 Louellen nodded her head, but did not answer or look 
 at him. On the pretext of arranging her mantle, she pulled 
 her hand away from him, and then took her purse in it 
 to prevent his getting hold of it again. 
 
 "I expect you're right tired," he said tenderly. "It must 
 have been an awful jam around there these last few days." 
 
 "Yes, I'm tired," she said. And with the words she felt 
 an immense weight of weariness, physical and mental. She 
 was tired, tired of battling, fighting, running for escape and 
 finding none. All of her body and her soul ached from it. 
 That last hopeless outburst before the ceremony had been 
 the final effort, and now, exhaustion. 
 
 John Henry went on talking. "Aunt Lena'll only stay 
 two-three days after we get back," he said, as if he had 
 not told her that a hundred times before, "then we'll have 
 the place to ourselves. She wants to show you where every- 
 thing is, and give you some of her pet recipes Aunt Lena 
 don't believe anybody can cook for me as well as she can. 
 And there's two-three things she does put together better'n 
 I ever tasted. You ask her about her grape ketchup." 
 
 It was that settled marital flavor about John Henry that 
 had always irritated Louellen. She had to remind herself 
 that now he had a right to employ it. She let him talk on. 
 She had her thoughts. She remembered that night of the 
 raided camp-meeting when she had promised to marry him, 
 a desperate gesture designed to bring balance to her toppling 
 
 121
 
 122 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 world. It had but overturned it completely. She had done 
 it, she had brought it on herself. She was married and 
 she'd have to do her duty. There seemed to be a lot of 
 talk concerning the duty of marriage, first and last, to 
 women, that is. Bro* Truitt, yes, and Sister Truitt, and 
 several of the aunts, had spoken of it with that insidious 
 unctuousness that promised unpleasantness. She was to be 
 a good dutiful wife to John Henry. She had publicly 
 avowed her intention to love, honor and obey him. Through 
 her fatigue, her almost drugged fatigue, she felt a thrill 
 of ironic laughter. Love John Henry ! She would as lief 
 love Bro* Truitt. 
 
 She was glad when they reached the Bridge, and there was 
 a chance to move. John Henry gave Edward a silver dollar, 
 and the negro man wished them his "Bes' respec's an' 
 hearty good wishes," but his melancholy eyes looked at Lou- 
 ellen with profound pity. In her silence, her unresponsive- 
 ness, he had, with all a negro's primitive shrewdness, read 
 her state of mind. He touched his cap and drove away, 
 leaving them there on the wharf with their valises beside 
 them, the wide river a ruffled cold expanse of steel under a 
 steel sky, the raw wind still blowing up. 
 
 They stood there without speaking for John Henry's 
 trivial talk had deserted him. With their noticeably new 
 clothes, their shiny bags, they were strange figures on the 
 little old gray wharf. There seemed to be no other pas- 
 sengers, but presently the warehouse at the side disgorged 
 the agent, a placid little man, inquisitive, chatty and kindly. 
 He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the water and ap- 
 proached them. Maybe the young lady, he suggested, would 
 be more comfortable in the waiting room. Warmer there. 
 Blew up cold so sudden that he'd started a fire. He cer- 
 tainly did hate these first cold days, seemed like they pierced 
 through you worse than midwinter. Boat was a little late, 
 but she'd be along pretty soon. He pointed a soiled stubby 
 finger and squinted up-river. Wasn't that maybe now her 
 smoke ?
 
 One Thing Is Certain 123 
 
 They looked, and saw a feather of black laid along the 
 horizon. As they waited the feather became a smudge, and 
 presently took definite shape and increasing size. At last 
 the long white steamer swam into view around the last bend, 
 as graceful and untroubled as a swan. Then sounded the 
 deep blast of her whistle. They could hear the murmurous 
 beat of the paddles timed to the rhythmic see-saw of the 
 walking beam. Gold and bright color blazoned on her great 
 round wheel boxes, warming the dull day. As she came 
 alongside, negro boys leaned out with ropes to throw, and 
 the little wharf agent became agile and muscular and flung 
 the knotted hawsers over their posts with one hand. From 
 above, the Captain, bearded, ruddy, leaned from his post 
 in the pilot house, like a benevolent Jove surveying a striv- 
 ing but hopelessly inferior humanity. Now and then his 
 voice dominated the universe with a commanding bellow. 
 The deck-hands ran out the gang-plank with a concerted, 
 not unmusical shout. Stevedores rattled past with hand 
 trucks laden with freight, and rattled back again with local 
 packages for Baltimore. They yelled to each other as they 
 ran, and a languid purser, his blue cap set at a gallant 
 angle, watched and checked them. 
 
 In the midst of this melee the saloon steward, a proud 
 fat darky in a white coat, came out and took charge of John 
 Henry and Louellen, capturing their baggage, summoning 
 them to follow him up the gang-plank into the dark cavern 
 of the lower deck, thence by shining brass-bound stairs to 
 the upper saloon, crimson carpeted, mirrored, with white 
 walls of staterooms, each door striped with gold. "Bridal 
 room, yessah?" he asked knowingly of John Henry, and 
 conducted the pair to the last stateroom aft, reserved for 
 such occasions. It was twice the size of any of the others, 
 with berths of shining walnut, draped with lace curtains. 
 There was a corner washstand with pink china ewer and 
 basin, a small table, a chair, a mirror fastened to the wall. 
 
 To be alone in a bedroom with a man embarrassed Lou- 
 ellen painfully. She stood by the door, and held it partly
 
 124 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 open. This, this sort of abominable thing, then, was mar- 
 riage. When she thought of the coming night, she felt sure 
 she would die. Yes, she would certainly die. She could not 
 look at the steward, or at John Henry either. 
 
 "I'm going out on the back deck," she said, and left them 
 in the middle of the payment for the stateroom. 
 
 Thank heaven, there were not many passengers, and those 
 who were on board were so occupied with children, lunch- 
 boxes, and, among the men, discussion of crops and politics, 
 that they paid but casual attention to Louellen, hurrying 
 past them with her eyes down, in all her new brave wedding 
 finery. Her cheeks were not pale now. They flamed and 
 burned, as if the blood was coming through her skin. She 
 put the palms of her hands on her cheeks and could feel 
 them burning through her gloves. Her thoughts whirled. 
 She looked at the cold gray water with its crest of white 
 behind the boat's stern, and wondered if it was very painful 
 to drown. With her hands now on the rail she leaned over 
 and wondered intensely if the water was very cold, if one 
 choked and smothered, if the cold water would press on 
 one, a dead and clinging weight. 
 
 "Don't stand so close," said John Henry, coming suddenly 
 beside her with that hateful grasp on her arm. "If the boat 
 gave a lurch you might go overboard. Let's sit down." 
 
 She waited while he dragged out two deck chairs from a 
 great pile, unfolded them and placed them where they would 
 be sheltered from the wind. Save for them the deck was 
 empty. 
 
 "Would you rather be out here in the cold than inside ?" 
 he asked, and she could only answer him by sitting down 
 hastily. 
 
 Then she found speech: "You needn't think I'm going 
 to to stay in that little stateroom with you to-night," 
 she gasped, feeling that shame would certainly kill her, but 
 forced to tell him. "I I'll sit up all night out here 
 or anywhere " 
 
 "Now, Louellen, don't be childish," he began coaxingly.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 125 
 
 "What's the use of going on like this ? We're married, and 
 you you got to get used to me sooner or later. You don't 
 want to make a show of yourself before the whole boat, do 
 
 you 
 
 "I don't care I I won't go in there " 
 
 Her voice had risen a little, and so did his. "I've stood a 
 good bit from you, first and last, but I'm not going to stand 
 this." 
 
 His tone implied that being now sure in possession he 
 need no longer truckle to her whimsies. They sat awhile 
 in sullen silence, but his eyes took note of her, her color, 
 her quivering lips, her soft hair, her melting slenderness, 
 the stormy rise and fall of her young breasts beneath her 
 mantle, and his unappeased hunger for her laid hold on him. 
 
 "You you don't understand," he said, hoarsely. "You 
 don't know what you're talking about. Louellen if you 
 knew how I've wanted you and wanted you it's " 
 His voice reached a fanatical cry. "I've questioned the 
 mercy of God that he should put such feelings on me 
 oh there's no use you talking like this now." There was 
 a trembling zestful emphasis on the word. It was as if he 
 thanked God that the marriage ceremony sanctioned his 
 lust, permitted him to satiate his appetite. 
 
 The proud fat darky steward opened the door and stepped 
 out on deck, ringing a proud fat brass bell, which was the 
 announcement of supper. Yellow light from the upper 
 saloon, and warmth and a whiff of hot cooked foods rushed 
 out to them with the opening of the door and restored their 
 sanity. Louellen almost ran in from the deck. She might 
 have been escaping from one of the larger carnivora. John 
 Henry followed closely after. He had no intention of be- 
 ing more than an inch away from her side until he got her 
 safely into the bridal stateroom, and the key turned on the 
 inside, by his own hand. 
 
 More brass-bound stairs and soft crimson carpets made 
 a path of glory to the dining saloon. There were long tables, 
 already set with plates, knives and forks, and goblets hold-
 
 126 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 ing red and white fringed napkins folded in jaunty tri- 
 angles. 
 
 Waiters came hurrying in a quick procession with fried 
 chicken, fried fish, potato cakes, fried oysters, cornbread, 
 beefsteak, each in its little individual dish. Hot biscuit, 
 rolls and coffee followed. It was an ample meal, excellently 
 cooked, clean. 
 
 "You didn't eat much dinner," said John Henry, in a low 
 voice. "You ought to try to make out a good supper." 
 
 They sat at the captain's table and that genial dignitary 
 offered conversation to John Henry, as man to man, con- 
 cerning the weather, and the possible roughness of the Bay 
 in a storm, and the lessening of travel in the fall until 
 just before Christmas and such-like nothings. Women 
 were not supposed to have opinions or make observations 
 publicly while men talked. There was another woman at the 
 table, but with two children, and wholly engrossed in see- 
 ing that since the supper cost the extortionate sum of fifty 
 cents apiece, they should get their money's worth. Louellen 
 was thankful for that. She had the feeling that another 
 woman could, merely by looking at her, read her stark mind. 
 
 Supper was over at last, and there was nothing to do but 
 climb again the elegance of the stairs to the upper saloon. 
 John Henry stuck close beside her, and he held her arm, 
 and unless she pulled and jerked with violence she knew 
 she could not get out of his grasp. He walked along beside 
 her. 
 
 "Louellen," he gulped desperately, close to her ear, "don't 
 look so scared. You make me feel just awful. I I'm not 
 going to hurt you." 
 
 She hardly knew in what direction they were going, but 
 he did. Arrived in front of their stateroom door he dex- 
 terously unlocked it, and with a swift glance to be sure 
 that there was no one near flung his arm around her and 
 half-lifted, half-pushed her over the threshold, and swung 
 the door to behind them and locked it. 
 
 She leaned away from him, pushing him back from her
 
 One Thing Is Certain 127 
 
 with all her strength. But he was strong, stronger than 
 she. In the close nearness of the tiny stateroom he seemed 
 to be taller, stronger than he had ever been, dark, inexorable, 
 craving, devouring. 
 
 "Let me alone let me alone," she begged, sobbingly.
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 THEY returned from their wedding trip, not so much 
 changed as revealed to each other. In John Henry Hyde 
 the humble uncertain tormented lover had turned to a hus- 
 band demanding and receiving ample submission, jealous 
 of his power, exacting, autocratic. He was thoroughly in 
 accord with Saint Paul's statement that the woman was the 
 weaker vessel, and because she was weaker she must be 
 dominated and ruled strictly according to man's wishes and 
 ideas. He had always liked to "break" the young colts to 
 harness. This satisfaction, intensified a thousand times, 
 he found in bringing Louellen to his will. All that was cruel 
 and relentless in him warred with her, submerged her. Her 
 shrinking, her helplessness, only whetted him. Everything 
 that was bestial and ugly in his nature, long hidden and re- 
 strained, but stealthily active in his imagination always, now 
 demanded and received utmost gratification. That she was 
 unwilling, unresponsive, added a morbid relish to his un- 
 healthy enjoyment. 
 
 Nor did he spare her mentally. He blotted on her clean- 
 ness of thought all possible foulness that he had long treas- 
 ured unsaid. He was a gloating reader of Leviticus, and 
 all the franker and more flavorous parts of the Old Testa- 
 ment and the Apocraypha. His imagination stank with such 
 filth, and now, to his wife, he could reveal it. If he had 
 married a robust vulgarian, as wisely obscene as himself, 
 they might, perhaps, by mutual revelation have relieved their 
 natures of such abnormality and achieved a healthy animal 
 life together. But Louellen's stunned and unbelieving loath- 
 ing piqued him only to further smearing and daubing. 
 
 As for Louellen, she at last found that state of endurance 
 wherein one suffers passively, but not actively. She could 
 feel and hear no more. Her senses refused to receive any 
 
 128
 
 One Thing Is Certain 129 
 
 further impression. She was benumbed, stupefied. She 
 could not even summon a combative disgust and hate for 
 her husband, he was so monstrous to her that she could 
 only submit in a dumb agony of mind and body. She 
 seemed to have fallen into such an abyss of foulness that 
 she could never climb out again. Her innocence was 
 stripped and polluted. She was so far away from the girl 
 of a week before that she could not imagine herself that 
 untouched, unstressed creature. She was a hundred years 
 old, nay, a thousand, and the sight of her youth in a mirror 
 was only one more lie. For she had come to feel that 
 qverything was a lie. That all the talk of goodness and 
 happiness and duty and the love of God even His very 
 existence were lies. Why, if there was a God, should she 
 who had never knowingly done an evil thing in her life, 
 have been netted and imprisoned with this creature of slime, 
 and with all public approbation and acclaim? No, there 
 was nothing, only unimaginable wrong and evil and defile- 
 ment. 
 
 There was a slight mitigation of her state after they had 
 returned to their home. John Henry was at once less with 
 her, claimed by his fields, his barns, his stables. Aunt 
 Lena's presence checked his putrescent tongue, and the sen- 
 sitive spinster was pleased and cheered by Louellen's eager 
 urging of her to stay with them, to defer her going back to 
 her people at least until the winter should be over. The 
 winters up North were so severe, Louellen reminded her 
 anxiously, and she was not strong. And she'd be so wel- 
 come to stay. Aunt Lena finally decided that she would 
 stay until after Christmas. 
 
 "Though I should think you two'd want to be by your- 
 selves," she added, a little reproachfully, as if Louellen 
 was not living up to her idea of a fond young wife. 
 
 There was a certain mitigation, too, in having work. 
 Louellen must help to cook, to look after the poultry, and 
 the dairy. There was no servant, like Rachel, at home. 
 And she had to learn the house and its ways, for every
 
 130 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 house has ways, to a housekeeper. She seized on all of this 
 as something stable and normal in her demolished world. 
 With these to think about she could cover up the things 
 John Henry had told her, push them back and down, hide 
 them a little from herself. 
 
 "You go at things too hard," Aunt Lena counseled her. 
 "You scrub when there isn't any real need of it. My gra- 
 cious, I sh'd think you'd want to be dressed up in your 
 wedding finery, out paying visits in the buggy, instead of 
 down on your knees on the kitchen floor." 
 
 Louellen could not tell her indeed, she only knew it 
 subconsciously that if you could get tired enough you 
 stopped thinking, and that her wedding finery was so hateful 
 to her that she would have burned it had she dared. 
 
 On the first Sunday after their return they were to go to 
 church, where she would "come out as a bride" and then 
 take dinner at her father's house. Aunt Lena would stay 
 at home by preference, as she knew what was expected of 
 her. Louellen had not seen her mother and father since 
 her wedding day, but Annie had driven over for an eve- 
 ning, escorted by Hance. Amos West had developed a 
 painful sciatica, and been confined to the house, and Jane 
 had stayed with him. The truth of it was that both Lou- 
 ellen and Jane dreaded to meet. There was too much said 
 and unsaid between them. Jane had not liked Annie's re- 
 port. "She's awful quiet, Ma. Not a bit lively. And he 
 kind of lords it over everything. Of course Louellen always 
 was steadier than me, but when I get married I'm not going 
 to settle down to any old seven-and-six like that, right off." 
 She put her head on one side like a wise little bird and added 
 reflectively, "I don't think I like John Henry much, Ma, 
 even if he is in the family. I don't believe I ever did like 
 him." 
 
 "You oughtn't to say things like that about John Henry," 
 warned her mother. 
 
 "Oh, I wouldn't say it to anybody else but it's true." 
 
 No, Annie had not been reassuring. Jane West had
 
 One Thing Is Certain 131 
 
 waited for Sunday impatiently, and gone to church fidgety 
 with conjectures and fears. Amos was not able to go, so 
 she and Annie drove in alone. Their pew was second be- 
 hind John Henry's, so they could see Louellen plainly, and 
 at first glimpse of her her mother's heart swelled with pity 
 and indignation. This frozen white creature her Louellen, 
 her freshness already dimmed, her youth subtly past ! She 
 took scant satisfaction in Louellen's black silk dress with its 
 jetted polonaise and plaited underskirt, her ruched dolman 
 of black velvet, though when they were made she had been 
 maternally satisfied that Louellen would "come out" far 
 more magnificently than any bride the congregation had 
 seen in years. Jane West's eyes detected something else: 
 "Why, she's lost flesh. That dress is loose on her !" 
 
 Her fiercely scrutinizing gaze went to John Henry, com- 
 placent and high-colored, satisfied, dominant, and read the 
 answer. 
 
 "Gorged," said Jane West to herself, succinctly. 
 
 Louellen could feel her mother's eyes and thoughts, was 
 naked in body and mind before her. This she had not, in 
 her preoccupation with worse matters, anticipated, and it 
 brought a final wrench of anguish to her consciousness. But 
 she kept her eyes on her hymnbook and sang with the con- 
 gregation, dropped down and bent her head in prayer, and 
 finally composed herself to give ostensible attention to the 
 sermon. She wished Bro' Truitt would preach on forever. 
 It was peaceful to sit still, even with John Henry at her 
 elbow, for he could not speak to her, nor put his gross 
 hands on her. The church was warm. A tingling whiff 
 from Miss Becca Simpson's clove-apple, as that restless little 
 person drew it from her reticule and sniffed at it, came to 
 Louellen and she closed her eyes a moment. It reminded 
 her of her childhood when she and Annie had occupied 
 themselves during one whole Sunday sermon by taking the 
 cloves out of just such a rustic trophy, and had somehow 
 managed to do it without drawing their father's severe eyes 
 upon their occupation. But when they stood up to sing
 
 132 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 the little black spices had showered to the floor, and the 
 mischief was out. 
 
 They had been punished. Louellen remembered how she 
 had cried, cried as if to break her heart. But all that was a 
 thousand years ago. A thousand years of wrong and bit- 
 terness and misery lay between. Now she was old, older 
 than her mother, infinitely more knowledgeable. She turned 
 her head a little away from her husband so that she could 
 not see him, not even from the corners of her eyes. It was 
 something to be spared the sight of his hands with the long 
 black hairs on them, and that predatory hawk's beak of his. 
 Yet she could not lose the consciousness of his presence, 
 nor of his domination. She wondered how many Sundays 
 she would have to sit like this beside him, hating him. She 
 wondered how many years she would have to live. Her 
 thoughts beat hard, like caged wild birds. 
 
 It was not so difficult to speak to her mother as she had 
 feared, for Annie pressed forward and seized her sister, 
 and in the impetus of her grasp Louellen and Jane had ex- 
 changed hand-clasp and kiss almost before they knew it. 
 Bro' Truitt was approaching, too, urbane, chastely jocular. 
 He must shake hands with them. Other friends crowded 
 near. Miss Becca pulled down Louellen's cheek for a kiss. 
 "I'll be out to see you soon," she promised, "and you better 
 not invite me to stay unless you really want me, for I've 
 got a real visiting-round fit coming on me, and it's getting 
 ,worse by the minute." 
 
 "I'm coming too," declared Rena Massey. "Let's go to- 
 gether, Miss Becca." 
 
 Louellen was glad when all this was over, and they could 
 get outside. "You ride along home with John Henry, 
 Annie," said Jane West, "and Louellen'll go with me." 
 
 But when they were in the buggy together Jane West 
 offered nothing of significance. "I was sorry not to come 
 over with Annie the other night, but your Pa's been so 
 poorly with his rheumatics. I get right out of patience 
 with him he won't do what Doc' Tithelow says, and when
 
 One Thing Is Certain 133 
 
 he's worse he gets mad. I've had to iron his back till my 
 arm's wore out." 
 
 "It's in his back, then, this time ?" 
 
 "Back and legs, both. Oh, he's got a dose. He suffers 
 a good bit." 
 
 The subject seemed ended. Louellen did not start an- 
 other. 
 
 "When's Lena Hyde going back to York State?" asked 
 her mother. 
 
 "Not right away maybe she'll stay till after Christmas." 
 
 Jane West heard this with the air of one who must look 
 a thing over on all sides before delivering opinion. 
 
 "John Henry ask her to ?" 
 
 "He don't care," fenced Louellen. 
 
 "I shouldn't think " began Mrs. West, and then stopped. 
 "Well, she's not hard to get along with," she temporized. 
 
 "No, she's real pleasant." 
 
 This seemed to put another stop in the conversation. The 
 trivialities thus far spoken meant nothing. Louellen was 
 aware that her mother was with all her strength begging 
 her to tell her, to confide in her, to let her give what help 
 and comfort she could. But the very enormity of the wrong 
 she had suffered made her keep sdlejice. She would have 
 died rather than put into words the least of John Henry's 
 marital obscenities, or even intimate them. No loyalty to 
 him held her back. It was not that. It was for herself. 
 She would hide from every living soul that she had been so 
 besmutted, so shamed. She had reached a depth where no 
 one might stoop to raise her. Her mother's silent insistence 
 distressed her, but could not compel her. 
 
 "Did you do any shopping in Baltimore?" asked Jane 
 West, at last. 
 
 Louellen roused herself. "Nothing much. We went into 
 Posner's one day and I saw some tablecloths. We went out 
 and had supper with Cousin Bob Devens and his wife. 
 She's real sweet. Very dressy, too." 
 
 "What did you wear?"
 
 134 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "My barege." (She would not say "my wedding dress.") 
 "She thought my watch was a beauty, and it was a lot 
 prettier than hers." 
 
 She looked at her mother with troubled love. This scrap 
 of gossip and compliment must serve her in place of the 
 truth she craved. And Jane West was pleased. 
 
 "I'm glad of that. What sort of a supper did they have?" 
 
 "Nothing extra. And she complained all the time about 
 the price of food, until her victuals almost stuck in my 
 throat. Of course it is high eggs twenty-five cents a 
 dozen!" 
 
 "Mercy sakes, Louellen, that's awful!" 
 
 Louellen saw that she was diverting her mother from her 
 purpose. She cudgeled her memory for more details. 
 "They used silver forks and white-handled knives with 
 silver blades, and the goblets were a new style, thin kind, 
 almost snap in your fingers. They had oyster stew and hot 
 biscuit and chicken salad, and ice cream and two kinds of 
 cake. And strawberry preserves, with a syrup as thin as 
 
 "Had she made 'em?" 
 
 "I think so. I'd never have put 'em on the table if they'd 
 been mine or, I might've drained off the syrup and cooked 
 it down thick with more sugar. She had some preserved 
 melon rind, too, but it was kind of greenish." 
 
 "She's seemingly a poor housekeeper. What kind of 
 cake?" 
 
 "One was marble, and the other was a plain loaf cake 
 with raisins, and she'd let the icing get too hard." 
 
 There was infinite possibility in the subject of the Dev- 
 enses. Having got them started and her mother's interest 
 aroused, Louellen spun them out to great length. She man- 
 aged to keep them going until they reached the lane that 
 led to the West home. The horse slowed into a walk. Both 
 women suddenly realized that this was their last chance to 
 talk alone to-day. Once in the house Annie would be omni- 
 present.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 135 
 
 They realized something more that Jane West had asked 
 for confidence and been denied it ; that Louellen had evaded 
 her, knowingly. The knowledge was a barrier between 
 them. Just as they reached the house Jane West made one 
 more effort to surmount this barrier. "You know, Lou- 
 ellen," she said, hesitatingly, "I'm always here, and and 
 thinking about you and ready to help you no matter 
 what." 
 
 She surprised a hard faint smile, almost of derision, on 
 Louellen's lips. Her answer kept the barrier definitely be- 
 tween them. 
 
 "Yes, I know, Ma," was all she said.
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 A MARRIAGE in which the woman is unwilling is not a 
 marriage, but a bondage. Nor is it a bondage that lightens 
 with time and habitude ; rather it darkens with hate, deepens 
 with bitterness, is shot through with pangs of swift and 
 terrible loathing. The woman who must live in such bond- 
 age must either break or harden. There was enough of old 
 Amos West's steel in Louellen to keep her from breaking, 
 and slowly, after the first hideous numbness and stupefac- 
 tion was over, she began to fight, not to escape from her 
 bondage, for that was unimaginable to her, but to preserve 
 something inviolable of her personality. Her vitality re- 
 vived, and so did her determination. She was married to 
 this man, and she must therefore live with him, but she 
 would, in essentials, be herself and not wholly his creature. 
 She schemed and planned for it. 
 
 It began in small matters. He disliked change with all 
 the passion of a set and narrow nature. It disconcerted 
 and annoyed him. One night he entered their bedroom to 
 find that every piece of furniture stood elsewhere than in 
 its accustomed place. 
 
 "What in time did you do this for ?" he asked with instant 
 irritation. "I hate to have things pulled around." 
 
 She had calculated her answer, and gave the only one 
 which he could not gainsay. "Mother always moved things 
 every once in so often so's the carpet wouldn't get faded 
 in spots." 
 
 His avaricious streak warned him there was sense in this, 
 so he assented, grumbling. She smiled to herself later, lying 
 beside him in the darkness, that faint ironic smile which 
 would presently shape her soft and yielding lips. She would 
 now change all the furniture, in all the rooms, as she wished. 
 He could no longer be sure of finding things as he was 
 
 136
 
 One Thing Is Certain 137 
 
 used, when he entered. It was a little thing, but not little 
 to her, for she knew he would not like it, and yet he could 
 not blame her, nor stop her. She had been feeling him 
 out, sounding him, detached and watchful under her endur- 
 ance. 
 
 In some ways he seemed to her like her own father, 
 whose narrow egotism glorified his own possessions, and 
 whose stubborn will insisted on complete domination. But 
 Amos West was not stingy and John Henry was. 
 
 This showed when in the usual farm life routine there 
 came the question of wifely perquisites. It developed 
 that Aunt Lena had exchanged the eggs and butter at the 
 store for necessities of the house and table, renewed linens, 
 small utensils, dry groceries. When there was a surplus it 
 went unquestioningly to John Henry and he watched the 
 account sharply. But Louellen made a stand. 
 
 "Mother always had the egg and butter money that was 
 over at home," she said. 
 
 "You don't need it," said John Henry, heatedly. "You 
 can trade in for everything you want, and you got the 
 interest on that thousand dollars your Pa gave you for 
 spending. That's plenty." 
 
 "Mother always had it," she persisted, mildly, but watch- 
 ing him in entire detachment, intent on gaining this small 
 advantage. "I'm going to ask Pa if she didn't." 
 
 John Henry, like many other mean men, was keenly sensi- 
 tive that he should not appear so, and he was specially 
 eager to stand well with Amos West. He could not bear 
 to have his father-in-law know his smallness. 
 
 "I don't want you carrying tales to your father." 
 
 "It's not carrying tales. I reckon there's no harm in 
 asking him. He'd think it was funny to hear you accuse 
 me of carrying tales to him." She was still calm, detached. 
 
 The matter rested there for some days, but it was un- 
 easily uppermost in John Henry's mind. Amos West had 
 recovered a little from his rheumatism, and he and Jane 
 were to drive over on Sunday afternoon. On the Saturday
 
 138 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 before, when the eggs were in the basket and the butter 
 in the tins for the store, he told Louellen casually: "I 
 don't mind if you have what's over from the trading for 
 yourself. You must take care of it, though, and not spend 
 it for trash." He saved his face by the admonition. 
 
 There was no slightest trace of tenderness in his love 
 for her; it was all cruelly possessive. Any real endear- 
 ment he would have thought soft, a weakness, and there 
 again he resembled Amos West. And in his stiff-necked 
 fanatical religious fervor. But there the likeness ceased, 
 for Amos West's Malachi-like exterior covered no fetid 
 deeps of sensual depravity. He was cold and clear all the 
 way through. Having perceived that, Louellen clung to it. 
 It helped her, strengthened her to feel her father's differ- 
 ence in that. She was glad that her mother had been spared 
 her own ordeal. She felt older, more experienced than her 
 mother. 
 
 The good understanding between her mother and herself 
 was gradually renewed, but with a difference. They man- 
 aged to bridge their unspoken chasms, but they were aware 
 of these chasms. Jane West was never quite so happy as 
 she had been before Louellen's marriage. She was never 
 quite at ease about her. The lovelessness, the strain of her 
 daughter, was always apparent to her, and it was all she 
 could do to be decently amiable to John Henry. She was 
 rejoiced when she saw Louellen rousing herself from her 
 inertness, asserting herself, and gave her little hints, mere 
 threads of suggestion. 
 
 "There never was a man so set he couldn't be managed, 
 but it's not done by nagging and fussing. Lots of women 
 say nothing and get their own way so easy." 
 
 And again: "Nothing's as bad as we think it is. We've 
 only got to live one day at a time." 
 
 Or: "There's always some means to get round things we 
 don't like. All is, we mustn't sit down and succumb." 
 
 She mentioned more than once "Being married's no 
 worse than being single after you get used to it."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 139 
 
 < 
 
 Louellen understood that this was solicitude and counsel. 
 She listened, with her new hard little smile, that had been 
 born with her first thwarting of John Henry. All very 
 easy for her mother to talk. She'd had her life. She'd 
 been through nothing nothing of the blasting experiences 
 that had seared and scarred Louellen. She would listen 
 respectfully and make no answer. 
 
 It was all of little use. Of that she was profoundly, trag- 
 ically sure. There was no escape from the mesh into which 
 she had flung herself. Her Tittle stirrings of conflict, her 
 small victories over John Henry were almost as humiliating 
 to her as if she had yielded to him and bent to his will 
 in every petty detail. To live out her life in this sort 
 of thing! The dreary flatness of it! But she could not 
 keep her from going on with it ; something within her forced 
 her to it. 
 
 There was the matter of the everyday dishes. She did 
 not like them, and he would not buy others. "These are 
 plenty good enough. Aunt Lena and I used 'em." 
 
 Secretly Louellen questioned Aunt Lena. "Do you really 
 like the dishes so cracked and heavy?" 
 
 "I think they're awful. But John Henry's near. Long's 
 a thing c'n be used he wants it used. And the best dishes 
 is nice." 
 
 Yes, the best dishes were nice, but none too nice to use 
 every day. Louellen inaugurated a wholly unnecessary 
 cleaning of the dining-room cupboard. She piled the de- 
 spised dishes on the table, and mounted a step ladder to 
 scour. It was not her fault if the ladder buckled and she 
 and the heavy pail of water fell on the table. 
 
 "You might have killed yourself," gasped Aunt Lena, 
 rushing downstairs at the sound of the crash. 
 
 It was a desperate venture. But the dishes were hope- 
 lessly smashed. Louellen, in spite of bruises and cuts, looked 
 at the table for supper set with the best dishes even as the 
 Roman conquerors reviewed their chained captives. She 
 reflected that she would have broken those dishes or broken
 
 140 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 her neck. She was amazed at her own determination. 
 
 "If you want me to," she told John Henry, with assumed 
 meekness, "I'll buy a new set, soon's I get enough money 
 ahead in trading at the store." 
 
 But something wholesome and sound within her con- 
 stantly rebelled at such petty duplicity and subterfuge. "I'll 
 soon be old and hard and mean and hateful if I keep on 
 this way," she told herself. "And yet I can't help wanting 
 to trick John Henry, he's so cock-sure that he can lord it 
 over everything and everybody. He's so bound and bent 
 on having his own way." 
 
 The house was not very large and was an easy one to 
 keep clean. She and Aunt Lena kept it going admirably 
 with scant labor. Then there were chickens to attend to, 
 butter and cheese to be made, but these were not great 
 tasks. For diversion there was prayer-meeting on Wednes- 
 day nights, service once, and usually twice, on Sundays, a 
 drive over to the Wests', an occasional visitor, a more 
 occasional visit and a Saturday afternoon trip to town. 
 
 The Hyde farm was a much greater distance from the 
 town, and off the beaten road, so there was not so much com- 
 ing and going as there had been in her old home. It all left 
 Louellen with too much vacant time. Aunt Lena crocheted 
 interminably, in a rocking chair by the fire. But Louellen's 
 youth and raw discontent chafed at such inactivity. Even 
 the extra tasks she inaugurated cleaning where it was 
 still spotless and cooking elaborate dishes were not enough 
 to keep her occupied. The nearest neighbors were renters, 
 and therefore not of her own social class. She might, now 
 and then, go to see Mrs. Staten or Mrs. Grable, but it was 
 no real interest or pleasure. And on the other side, fields 
 adjoining, was Mart Bladen. 
 
 Early in her days of marriage she had discovered that 
 the Bladen house was visible from her upper windows, 
 glimpsed through its thick trees. She had not looked toward 
 it often, but sometimes at night she could see a tiny point
 
 One Thing Is Certain 141 
 
 of light, tempting, twinkling. At first she hardly noticed 
 it, she was so dull, so wasted, so stupefied. But as her 
 forces rallied she began to look for it, to think of it, to hope 
 for it each night. 
 
 Miss Becca had told her, as part of the neighborhood 
 gossip, that the Kemp crowd had been pretty well subdued 
 since the sheriff warned them, but that there was a good 
 bit of quiet sport still going on. 
 
 "Playing cards," said Miss Becca with relish, "and cock 
 fighting, and of course drinking. They're all scamps, every 
 one." It was evident that Miss Becca enjoyed the pageantry 
 of scampishness. 
 
 Rena had added, privately, that people said Mart Bladen 
 was drinking twice as much as any of the rest. "Ever since 
 you got married," she added enviously to Louellen. Rena 
 wished that she had the power to drive a man to wild 
 courses. Dan Fisher was a perfect sheep so far as dash 
 and daring and despair went. That is, he would be if she 
 essayed to make him despair, but she did not, for the very 
 practical reason that she might get no one else she liked 
 better. 
 
 Annie had confirmed Rena's statement about Mart. He 
 was in his old courses, but "Delia Layton's crazier about 
 him than ever. Everybody thinks she's going into a decline 
 and all because she can't get him. He won't have a thing 
 to do with her." 
 
 Louellen had hugged that bit of satisfaction to herself in 
 silence. Oh, she was glad, glad that Mart would have 
 nothing to do with Delia! She could not have him, but 
 then, neither could any other woman. She looked out at his 
 gleaming, far-away light that night and flung her gladness 
 toward it. 
 
 The winter was an open one, mild, with little snow. When 
 her fits of restlessness came on her she would wrap herself 
 in a big shawl, tie her blue wool fascinator over her head 
 and run out into the air, prowl about the barn and stables, 
 pet the barn cats, give the chickens an extra feed, and
 
 142 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 sometimes wander out across the fields, keeping well away 
 from that part of the land where John Henry and his hired 
 men were husking corn. A good half mile from the house 
 across the pasture ran the creek, a clear shallow stream, 
 on its way to the river that touched Mart's acres, but not 
 John Henry's, dappled in the sunlight, its eddies filled thick 
 with brown leaves from the trees and undergrowth that pro- 
 tected it. This solitude Louellen loved. There were low 
 scraps of bank where the grass was still green, little pockets 
 of warmth and shelter in the winter sun, and when she 
 had found one of these she would sit there, watching the 
 water, dreaming, forgetful, almost at peace. 
 
 And it was here that she saw Mart Bladen. She had 
 been listless, languid, visited by faint headaches, nausea, 
 with a profound sensation of physical change and alteration. 
 So far, she had concealed it, but she was sure that she 
 was going to bear a child. She could not tell whether she 
 was glad or sorry. The heat and closeness of the house 
 oppressed her, and she had come out to find her favorite 
 place by the creek, to crouch down there, and shiver, half- 
 warm, half-chilled, and let her thoughts run away with 
 the dancing water. But presently she heard steps in the 
 underbrush and among the dry rattling leaves on the other 
 side of the creek, heard them vaguely for the water made 
 there a noisy little fall, but suddenly he had appeared on 
 the other side, his gun in his hand, a game bag slung over 
 his shoulder. 
 
 They looked at each other with no surprise. "I wondered 
 when I was going to see you, Louellen," he said. "I reckon 
 I'd better not come over there yon side's his." 
 
 The easy laughter that had been his always before was 
 gone. Now he was grave, questioning, older, and she knew 
 that as much as she had changed he had also changed, going 
 with her, her companion through separation. 
 
 "Ain't you going to speak to me?" he asked. But she 
 could say nothing, for tears were in her throat. He stared 
 at her intently. "I want to fill my eyes with you. I can't
 
 One Thing Is Certain 143 
 
 get enough of looking at you. Louellen you're not happy 
 with him." It was not a question. 
 
 She shook her head. What was the use of lying? 
 
 "I've had time to think it out," he said. "You thought I 
 didn't care enough about you, didn't you ? You were proud. 
 You felt kind of cheap, didn't you?" 
 
 So, he had read her truly, at last. . "How'd you guess, 
 Mart?" she faltered. 
 
 "I don't know. It come to me times when I was studying 
 about it all, when it was too late. If I'd only a' known, 
 I'd a' carried you off in front of the minister, but I thought 
 oh, shucks, I got some pride, too, you know, and you'd 
 turned against me so, I kept telling myself you wasn't 
 worth it." 
 
 She could only look at him, dumbly, the tears rolling 
 down her cheeks. He was blurred and unsteady through 
 her tears. 
 
 "And I kept telling myself, after you and John Henry got 
 promised that I didn't want you so much. That he'd 
 touched you and and kissed you that you wasn't the 
 same to me after that. But it was all a lie. Look over 
 here, Louellen look at me. I've had my time to think it 
 out, and I wouldn't care if you were John Henry's for a 
 hundred years, I'd still want you. S'long's there's a piece 
 of me alive, I'll want you. First I thought I'd sell and move 
 away, but then I knew I couldn't. I wanted to be close 
 to you, even when it was like this. And if you ever want 
 anything, or need anything, or there's any reason I'll be 
 right there, and you only need send me word. No other 
 woman's coming into my house. I got things all twisted 
 once, but I shan't twice. I've thought it out. I won't 
 change. I'm glad you're not happy with him, but I knew 
 you wasn't going to be. 'Twasn't possible you belong by 
 rights to me.'* 
 
 He shouldered his gun. "I been wanting to say this to 
 you, but I didn't reckon on its falling out so's I could, for 
 maybe a long time. I can't help being glad you're not happy
 
 144 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 with him, Louellen. And don't you forget. I'm near to 
 you all the time, and always will be." 
 
 Her tears stopped as he disappeared, and a serene warmth 
 pervaded her. He had lifted her out of the muck where 
 she had fallen, he had given her a place apart with him. 
 She harked back to her mother's half-forgotten words, "A 
 place in her feelings where things can't drive in on her 
 so hard." Mart had given her that, and he would be there 
 with her, always. It was strength, it was shelter, it was 
 refuge inviolate.
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 "LOUELLEN'S settled down," thought Jane West comfort- 
 ingly. "I guess it's because of the baby coming. I was 
 right worried about her at first." Now that worry was 
 lost in the excitement of looking forward to her first grand- 
 child. 
 
 It would, of course, be a boy. John Henry had his 
 heart set on a boy. To reproduce his kind was the only 
 fit tribute to his egotism. 
 
 "Upon my word, you might think, to hear him go on, that 
 he was going to have it himself," asserted Aunt Lena, her 
 maiden soul moved to protest at this apparent slighting of 
 the privilege of her sex. At family prayers he made long 
 and urgent petition for the approaching child, with an 
 openness of allusion that put Aunt Lena in a state of blushes 
 and painful embarrassment. She had long ago deferred her 
 going back to York State indefinitely. She wanted to stay, 
 and she knew Louellen wanted her. Her crochet hook and 
 knitting needles flew as never before on bootees, sacques, 
 cradle blankets. She developed a passion for fine hem- 
 stitching, scalloping. "Little teenty weenty things," she 
 said, reveling. "Sleeves no bigger'n my thumb. It's right 
 down cunning to make 'em." 
 
 Louellen smiled at her delight. Louellen had learned to 
 smile again, not the still ironic smile of her first months of 
 marriage, not her old girlish spontaneous smile, but a smile 
 of far-away, remote places, where she could look at the 
 world across unattainable distances and be amused by the 
 futility of it. 
 
 She had not ceased to find ways to thwart John Henry. 
 Doctor Tithelow was her ally there. The doctor, alert to 
 all knotted situations, had asked her at his first visit to 
 
 145
 
 146 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 him, bluntly: "Do you want me to tell your husband to 
 sleep in another room?" 
 
 "Oh, will you?" she cried, with quick intensity. 
 
 And Doctor Tithelow had done it, with a spice of cheerful 
 malice, adding a rough plain admonition. But it was Louel- 
 len who moved from the connubial four-poster to a small 
 room down the hall, a small room with a narrow white bed, 
 almost like her bed at home. She felt secure there and 
 she reveled in the luxury of its privacy. It was sheer 
 rapture not to feel her husband's hot grasp, nor later, to 
 lie awake beside him, hating him for his heavy satiated 
 sleep, hating her own body that it should be desirable. It 
 was intensified rapture that her absence from his side irked 
 and irritated him so. 
 
 She thought very little about the coming child, it had no 
 reality for her. She was two people, a woman who lived 
 in a practical plain round of accustomed things, accomplish- 
 ing mechanically, in word and deed, all that was required 
 of her. The other was a flitting spirit, absorbed in a fan- 
 tastic make-believe that had in it no gleam of truth, nor 
 hope of realization. She would not, consciously, imagine 
 herself the wife of Mart Bladen, but his face and his words 
 at that meeting by the creek side constantly preoccupied 
 her and kept her quiet in her new discomforts and nervous 
 stresses, increased her lassitudes. Not that she wanted to 
 see him again, or made any effort to do so it was the 
 custom of the time that women who are to bear children 
 should seclude themselves as if it was a shameful business 
 instead of a normal, desirable state but just the memory 
 of that one sight of him, and his understanding, and the 
 love and patience in his voice as different from that Mart 
 Bladen of six months ago as Louellen Hyde was different 
 from Louellen West just these were enough to gild her 
 days. And then, there was that twinkling light, a living 
 spark of remembrance through the night. She could lie in 
 her little narrow white bed and see it shining for her. It 
 occurred to her how furious, how filled with poison spleen
 
 One Thing Is Certain 147 
 
 John Henry would be if he knew that the mother of his 
 desired son-to-be watched for Mart Bladen's light from her 
 bed. 
 
 John Henry had apparently decided to forget that Mart 
 was ever his rival and had resumed an unintimate but neigh- 
 borly attitude, based on an occasional lending or borrowing 
 of implements or tools, a prompt hail of greeting. There 
 could never be any real friendliness between the two; they 
 were too diverse. But John Henry did not hate Mart as 
 Amos West did. Instead, it rather tickled him to say that 
 Mart was his own worst enemy, and feel superior to him, 
 stick out a smiling scornful lip at his reputed follies. John 
 Henry was secure in his gratified egotism. He had got 
 the woman he wanted and broken her to him. He was 
 prospering. He stood well in the community. If he pinched 
 pennies in a bargain he did not pinch them when the plate 
 was passed in church, for he was jealous of his reputation 
 there. He enjoyed his religion, and wanted to be looked up 
 to in the congregation. A strong hell-and-damnation doc- 
 trine suited him, because he was so sure of his own worth. 
 He liked to give his experience in class-meeting, to pray in 
 the prayer meetings, and he looked forward to being Sunday 
 School superintendent when the present incumbent, dodder- 
 ing old Henry Bishop, gave up that post. Where some 
 men seek political preferment, his ambition was prominence 
 in the church. When he was appointed a lay delegate to 
 the annual conference, he swelled with pride, and would 
 not have missed going for anything imaginable, though it 
 was very near the time for his child to be born, and Jane 
 West plainly told him that she thought he should stay at 
 home. 
 
 "Let him go, Ma ; don't say a word," said Louellen. "I'd 
 rather he was away, to tell you the truth." 
 
 "Men ain't much help round the house at such a time," 
 said Jane West, "but s'long as it's the first Still, if 
 you feel that way She ignored the deeper issue of 
 why Louellen should feel that way.
 
 148 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Jane West had come to stay with her daughter through 
 her ordeal. Her principal duty, she found, was not to cheer 
 and comfort and encourage Louellen, who was calm almost 
 to indifference, but to use the same arts on Aunt Lena, 
 who, now that the event was so near, had developed an 
 acute apprehension which expressed itself in weeping and 
 doleful prophecies. She sobbed over the dishpan and salted 
 the bread with tears, and her conversation was of nothing 
 but those who had died in childbirth, or brought forth 
 children who were hideously marked. Jane West made 
 short shrift of all this, and Aunt Lena brightened visibly 
 under her vigorous treatment. 
 
 "What'd you let her stay on for anyway?" asked Jane 
 West, wonderingly, of Louellen in confidence. "She'd drive 
 me wild." 
 
 "I don't listen to her," said Louellen. 
 
 "You don't listen to much of anything, seems to me," said 
 her mother. "I don't like it, you to be so limp and lack- 
 a-daisy. But I'm thankful enough that you ain't scared. 
 Some women take on so." 
 
 "I'm not scared," said Louellen. She was lying on the 
 lounge in the sitting room, wrapped in a dark shawl that 
 made her eyes, ringed with purplish circles, unnaturally 
 dark and shadowy. She turned her head and looked full 
 at her mother. It seemed to her that the time had come 
 to speak out. "I don't care whether I live or die, or 
 whether the child lives or dies," she said, clearly, coldly. 
 
 "My soul, Louellen, you mustn't say things like that. 
 It's a sin," exclaimed Jane West, distressed and shocked. 
 
 "Then it's a sin to speak the truth," said Louellen. Her 
 shadowed eyes stared at her mother, seemed to dare her to 
 come into the open and face the wrongness of her mar- 
 riage with her. Jane West's eyes fell before them. She 
 could not take that dare. 
 
 "You're just wrought up and not in a natural state," she 
 said. "I'm going to get you a cup of tea. Doc Tithelow 
 said you might have tea, didn't he?"
 
 One Thing Is Certain 149 
 
 "Oh yes, he said I might have tea." 
 
 "She ain't settled down at all," ran the burthen of Jane 
 West's troubled thoughts, as she busied herself with the hot 
 water and teapot. "It's all seething round inside her, just 
 the same. Oh, my goodness I wish " but she would 
 not go on with what she wished. Louellen was a wife and 
 would soon be a mother. She must submit to the inevitable 
 lot of womankind. After the baby came, reflected Jane 
 West, she'd feel differently. 
 
 The baby did not arrive until John Henry, very impor- 
 tant and conversational, had been back from conference 
 two days. It was not an easy birth. For twenty hours 
 Doctor Tithelow did not stir from Louellen's bedside, and 
 when it was over he was as exhausted as she. Aunt Maria 
 Wheeler, his colored nurse for baby cases, who had been 
 summoned a little before him, opened the door of the spare 
 room and motioned him into it. 
 
 "You lay down a spell," she said. "Us women kin tek 
 care of 'er now. I gwine wash en dress de chile, whilst 
 she's drapped off to sleep." 
 
 "Go down and tell him he's got a daughter," said Doctor 
 Tithelow, wearily, nodding downstairs where he knew John 
 Henry waited. "I believe I will take an hour's rest. I'm 
 tuckered out. Don't forget to call me." 
 
 So it was from the lips of Aunt Maria that John Henry 
 learned of his disappointment. He had counted so confi- 
 dently on a son that at first he was incredulous. 
 
 "I'm going up and see the Doctor," he declared sharply. 
 But Aunt Maria, a stately creature, barred the way. 
 
 "You ain' got good sense, man," she said scornfully. 
 "Doc Tithelow cain' change dat baby fum er gal to er 
 boy. Beside, he need his res'. Whilst you been settin' down 
 heah taken yo' ease, he been er strivin' en er strugglin' to 
 bring dat chile inter de worl' widout killin' off yo' po' li'l 
 wife. Ha'd a birth ez I yever see." 
 
 She retired with the majesty of an offended queen. There 
 was nothing left for John Henry to do but to pace about
 
 150 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 and tell Aunt Lena to shut up crying. A shrill strange 
 wail from above where Aunt Maria was washing and dress- 
 ing the new-born little girl was evidence that Louellen had 
 succeeded in thwarting him once more. After a while it 
 was still, so he ventured out into the hall and mounted the 
 stairs. Louellen had fallen into heavy sleep and her mother 
 was sitting beside her. John Henry tiptoed in. 
 
 "How is she ?" he whispered anxiously, to Jane West. 
 
 "All right now, I reckon, but it was terrible." Her stout 
 face was aged in lines of acute vicarious suffering; she 
 looked withered and drawn and old. "It was worse than 
 having one of my own," she went on. "You seen the baby ?" 
 
 Louellen stirred and opened weary sleep-drugged eyes, 
 looked at her husband. Seeing her awake, he came further 
 into the room, took hold of her hand. 
 
 "Well, Louellen," he said. "How you feeling? Right 
 hard time you had, I expect. And it's only a girl after all. 
 Maybe we'll have better luck next time." 
 
 "Ain't you got any decency?" Jane West flung at him 
 in outrage. "Talking like that ! You better go downstairs 
 again. Only a girl! And better luck next time! I don't 
 know what to think of you." 
 
 Thus lashed for the second time within the hour by femi- 
 nine anger John Henry retreated sourly. After he had 
 gone Jane West stirred about the room a little, shaking with 
 her rage. Louellen had not spoken. At last her mother 
 could not bear it. She advanced again to the bedside. "Is 
 that what he's like?" she asked, the words coming breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 Louellen nodded weakly from among her pillows. 
 
 Jane West dropped down into her chair and put her hands 
 over her face. "I'll never forgive myself," she said. 
 
 Presently she felt Louellen's fluttering tremulous touch 
 upon her shoulder. "Don't," she said. "I've stopped mind- 
 ing so much. Crying don't help. I reckon I've cried all 
 the tears in the world already." 
 
 There were great vistas of unspoken understanding and
 
 One Thing Is Certain 151 
 
 sympathy about them, and withal, submission. Short of 
 extreme physical abuse no respectable woman left her hus- 
 band. A marriage meant, without evasion, unmitigated 
 union until death. This they knew. Louellen must go on. 
 But now her mother would go on with her. 
 
 "I only kind of half-suspicioned," said Jane West, at 
 last. "I never really got at the truth of him. My poor 
 Louellen my child." 
 
 It was all the excuse she had to offer. She thought over 
 it a while, looking absently out of the window. Louellen, 
 too worn, too dragged to answer, had again fallen asleep. 
 Dusk had dropped down, a nebula of softest blue, linking 
 the sky and the earth into an uncertain world of beauty. 
 Far away, through this impalpable veil of enchanted dis- 
 tance and darkness, shone the light from Mart Bladen's 
 window, and Jane West, gazing, saw it, and knew its source. 
 
 "My soul, I wish't she'd've married Mart," she said 
 aloud, and glanced about her with instant guilt that such 
 a sentiment, so subversive to all propriety and morals, 
 should have crossed her lips. Louellen stirred in her bed, 
 turned, still asleep, a little toward the window. Perhaps 
 she dreamed her mother's words true.
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 IN the likeness, soen evident, of his first born to him, 
 John Henry Hyde found a certain consolation for the dis- 
 appointment of her sex. Little Virginia immediately Virgie 
 was a thin brown restless baby, a miniature replica of 
 her father, even to the bend of her diminutive nose. "She's 
 her father over again," that rather meaningless set form of 
 local compliment became in this case quite true. And 
 there was no question but what she had his will. She 
 wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, and if it did 
 not at once appear, she would, according to Aunt Lena, 
 "yell the roof off." Aunt Lena's enthusiasm for children 
 waned perceptibly in the moments of little Virgie's infantile 
 passions. 
 
 Louellen gathered her strength slowly. The child was a 
 care, but she was faithful to it. If she felt no overflow 
 of maternal affection for it, she was none the less a patient 
 and painstaking mother, following out all of Doctor Tithe- 
 low's directions for the baby far more carefully than she 
 did those commands he laid on her about herself. He 
 complained bitterly of this. "You'll give me a black eye 
 round about, if you don't mind what I say," he grumbled. 
 "I tell you you mustn't try to do heavy housework. Now 
 you be sensible, and don't let me catch you sweeping again 
 till I tell you you can." 
 
 Slowly she grew stronger, more herself. Yet with a 
 difference. She had her mother now for ally and support, 
 and this was a steady help to her. Jane West drove to the 
 Hyde farm whenever she could, sat with her daughter 
 through long days of comfortable talk, tendance on the 
 baby, sewing, all bound into companionship. Or she would 
 have Louellen come and bring the baby home with her, 
 and she and Louellen would watch Annie's raptures over 
 
 152
 
 One Thing Is Certain 153 
 
 the child, laughing to it, teasing it, playing with it, blowing 
 kisses into its soft little neck with absurd pleasure in her 
 irresponsibility. At such times Louellen and her mother 
 would read each other's minds, each thankful that Annie 
 was light-hearted, untouched. 
 
 Miss Becca Simpson came, to dangle glittering fascinat- 
 ing beads before the baby and to remark that she did think 
 'twas a pity the little thing had to look so like her Pa, 
 but that maybe she'd grow out of it. John Henry, she 
 further remarked, couldn't set up as a beauty, even if he 
 was a pillar in the church. 
 
 Came also Rena Massey, to confide that she and Dan 
 were going to be married at Christmas. In tittering sly 
 whispers she begged Louellen to tell her something about 
 marriage in its more personal aspects, and was startled 
 and offended by Louellen's shuddering silence. But pres- 
 ently she was chattering away about her silk dresses she 
 was to have three her ruffled petticoats, her kid gloves, 
 the brooch, clasped hands of coral on a gold mount, that 
 Dan had given her. Of course they would have to live at 
 home with her folks, at first, Rena conceded, but that would 
 save her having to do housework. She didn't want a house 
 unless they could have a big one, with Brussels carpets and 
 crystal chandeliers, and plush furniture, and gilt framed 
 pierglasses. She spoke as if such a house was already quite 
 within her grasp. She could even now see her own re- 
 splendent reflection in the pierglasses. 
 
 Three months after little Virgie had wept her way into 
 the world Louellen knew that she was to have another 
 child. At first she was utterly dismayed, the rigors of 
 Virgie's birth being fresh in her memory. Then she real- 
 ized that it offered her again the inestimable privilege 
 of her little isolated room, her untroubled sleep. Deliber- 
 ately she affected weakness and illness that she did not feel, 
 requiring the presence of Doctor Tithelow. He came, and 
 divined her need, as before. His second admonition to 
 John Henry was tinged with professional satire. He en-
 
 154 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 joyed the discomfiture of the other man's desire, his anger 
 at its denial. 
 
 "You shouldn't have married a woman who isn't strong," 
 Doctor Tithelow told him, finally. "You'll kill your wife. 
 Some one of these days I'm going to publish broadcast 
 over the county the men I know who're not fit to be mar- 
 ried." He said it with insolence, and with authority. He 
 had divined the essential coward in John Henry's nature, 
 and his hypocrisy, also the passionate need of the man to 
 stand well in the eyes of the public. It amused him to 
 see dark angry blood creep up to John Henry's cheekbones, 
 to know that he would not risk open resentment. 
 
 Coming away from the Hyde farm, he stopped in to see 
 Mart Bladen. The disgust of the interview was still with 
 him, and he voiced a bit of it to Mart. 
 
 "I don't like your neighbor here," he said briefly. 
 
 "I'm none so fond of him myself," answered Mart. "But 
 he keeps his fences up and don't bother me any. What's 
 he been up to now?" 
 
 "He's a hog, no, that's a libel on a decent worthy ani- 
 mal. What beats me is how a fine-grained nice girl like 
 Louellen West ever came to marry him. I'd have thought 
 the mere look of the man would have been enough." 
 
 "Say," demanded Mart, bluntly, "has John Henry been 
 abusing Louellen?" 
 
 "He hasn't beat her, if that's what you mean." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 Doctor Tithelow considered. He was notoriously close- 
 mouthed concerning his patients. That was part of his 
 power over them. "I reckon I said too much," he admitted 
 at last frankly. He changed the subject. "How comes 
 you don't get married ?" he asked. 
 
 "None of the girls will have me." 
 
 "You keep on drinking and rousting around and you 
 won't be fit for any girl to have. But I will admit you've 
 let up a little here lately." 
 
 Mark made a gesture of impatience, and harked back to
 
 One Thing Is Certain 155 
 
 their former topic as if they had not left it. "Of course 
 I knew Louellen wasn't going to be contented with him, 
 but I didn't count on his being mean to her. I understand 
 they've got a child. I saw Louellen once with it, in the 
 buggy with her mother." 
 
 Doctor Tithelow grunted. "They've got one, going to 
 have another. Seems John Henry's set on having a son. 
 The first was a girl." He got up and lumbered down to 
 his buggy. "I hope there'll come a time," he said vehemently, 
 "when women'll be something to men besides reproductive 
 animals. God, when I see what the women in this com- 
 munity put up with, makes me feel that all this holler 
 Susan B. Anthony and that Stanton female's putting up 
 for women's rights might have something to it." 
 
 He left Mart sunk in deep depression, groping. A strange 
 fixed constancy toward Louellen possessed him. He made 
 no effort to see her, or to meet her; there would be danger 
 for both of them in that. But he wanted to be near her. 
 He had told her he would always wait for her, wait for 
 the chance of her needing him, and he was bound to do 
 it. He kept a place apart for her in his thoughts, in his 
 heart, even as she did for him. Otherwise his life had 
 gone on in its simplicity and aimlessness, as always. There 
 was the land to be farmed, the stock to be bred and reared. 
 In the spring and fall, hunting. Always he had his horses, 
 his dogs, and his friends, but from the more robust antics 
 of the Kemps he had withdrawn. The feeling that they were 
 childishly not worth while had persisted. Instead he and 
 Jere Willis, who had long ago forgiven and forgotten his 
 beating, Ches Layton, Haney Griffith and one or two others 
 had formed a social group devoted to riding and cards, with 
 an occasional drinking bout and cocking main, in which 
 diversions they were occasionally joined by Doctor Tithelow, 
 or Luther Gadd, or Clint Cook, town bloods, and older men. 
 So his days came and went in a slow peaceful wash of time 
 that quieted the ache of his loss of Louellen. That sore 
 was healed over, but not cured.
 
 156 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Doctor Tithelow had torn open the covering tissue, left 
 the wound bare and raw. His imagination made Louellen 
 a dove in John Henry's talons. The outrage of possession 
 by another of the woman he loved, their intimacy, brought 
 a more poignant, more unbearable pain than utter loss. It 
 was a constant twist of the knife, salt rubbed on raw flesh. 
 
 "Yes but what you going to do?" he asked himself. 
 There seemed no answer adequate to his need. He shook 
 his head impatiently. He could feel, he could act, but to 
 moralize or reflect was difficult. If there was no way 
 out, why, then, there was no way out. He would have 
 to stand it. He would have to wait. He was strangely 
 sure that it was all just a matter of waiting. And he was 
 dimly aware that he was incapable of shaping events to suit 
 his will, that he had never been able to change and remold 
 his fate. He was too close to the earth, too much a part 
 of the soil to do that. He must yield and accept, drawn 
 on or hindered by unescapable destiny. 
 
 He looked about his bare and quiet house. Far back in 
 the kitchen he could hear the shuffle and clack of Ephum 
 and Sally in desultory talk and still more desultory labor. 
 His house was bare, like his heart, like his life. Unskilled, 
 untutored in perception or knowledge of himself, he felt this 
 bareness and the strangeness, the wrong that a man with 
 his strong straight body, his youth, should not reproduce 
 his kind. He bred his sound cattle, and increased his stock 
 healthily. Silly's litter of puppies which she fawned over 
 and brought proudly to his feet, barking and growling in 
 maternal excitement; the wobbling tilt of newborn colts, 
 ridiculous in proportion, awkward, but somehow babyish 
 and appealing; ugly little helpless lambs, and fawn-eyed 
 calves with button horns, year by year all this life renewed 
 itself, as normally, as naturally as the corn and wheat of 
 his fields grew to maturity, and ripened their fertile ker- 
 nels. Only the master of the cattle, of the land, remained 
 alone. 
 
 But he would not change. Over there, in that house
 
 One Thing Is Certain 157 
 
 which he could see, set deep, like his own, in clustering 
 trees, Louellen might be the wife of John Henry Hyde and 
 bear his children. Even so, those stubborn facts brought 
 him no wish for any other woman. His loneliness was the 
 jewel of his constancy; if he could not drink clear water, 
 he would go thirsty. Delia Layton ... he frowned, be- 
 wildered. A girl oughtn't to be so hard after a man who'd 
 showed her that he didn't want her. Delia was persistent 
 with all the rigor of a spoiled child. Well ... it wouldn't 
 do her any good. Some men might find themselves whisked 
 into matrimony by a too-eager woman, but not Mart. 
 
 "If she hadn't been so darned anxious I'd have liked her 
 more," he thought. "She ought to have more sense. Even 
 Ches hints sometimes. If she was my sister I'd give her 
 a good spanking and shut her up, once and for all." He 
 had no gallant compunctions against such conclusions. It 
 was the part of the man to pursue, the woman to await 
 pursuit, and not to assist at her own capture. If she was 
 too willing she inevitably spoiled her market. 
 
 There was that within him which found it curiously 
 satisfying and good to live with denial, and with sorrow. 
 Below his roistering, his gayety, his taste for pleasure, 
 there was a strain of melancholy, of irony, inherited, per- 
 haps, from that first Bladen of the merry heart, who had 
 possessed, nevertheless, sufficient purpose to win his way 
 up from the servants' class and establish a sound if modest 
 fortune in a new world. As he worked out his future against 
 hard material conditions and took amiable pride in his 
 success, so Mart, generations away, must hold his own 
 mischance of happiness to steady and enlarge him, finding 
 himself steadfast and sure, anchored where before he had 
 drifted. 
 
 The gossips of the county, when Mart Bladen's name 
 was up for comment, had the truth of it when they said: 
 "He never got over Louellen West throwing him over." 
 
 Invariably they added : "Not that he shows it any, good- 
 ness knows. He's a case Mart Bladen."
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 LOUELLEN HYDE'S second child was a son, puny, fretful, 
 scrawny. A delicate child, hard to keep alive, but instantly 
 the apple of John Henry's eye. He was named for his 
 father, and the week after his christening was marked to 
 Louellen by her first open quarrel with her husband. 
 
 It was about money. John Henry's avaricious tendencies 
 had grown apace. The cattle, the driving horse, that had 
 been part of Louellen's marriage portion, had long since 
 been appropriated to his own profit. He had represented 
 to hei that he would "take care of the money" for her and 
 her faint demurrer had gone past him unheard. She had 
 not appealed to her father. In any matter such as this 
 Amos West accepted his son-in-law's view as just and 
 right. Did he not take care, and, to do him justice, with 
 the utmost scrupulosity, of Jane West's personal moneys, 
 giving her due account, and making it possible for her to 
 use it at any time she wished? Narrow and dominating 
 Amos West might be, but his palms had no itch, and he 
 was utterly honest. Nor was he suspicious of the honesty 
 of others. John Henry had calculated on that. He had 
 also calculated on the fact that Amos West profoundly 
 believed women to have no judgment where matters of 
 business were concerned, despite the daily evidence to the 
 contrary he had from his wife. What he observed in Jane 
 did not change his long accepted generalization as to the 
 weakness of the feminine intellect, the incapacity of the 
 sex to think for themselves, their inferiority in all things, 
 to men. 
 
 But now the mortgage which he had given Louellen had 
 fallen due. John Henry apprised her of it. He was sitting 
 poring over the precious notes and papers of his solid cherry 
 desk, key to which never left his pocket. 
 
 158
 
 One Thing Is Certain 159 
 
 "That mortgage of yours'll be due next month," he said. 
 "I think Kelly'll be ready to pay. I'll see him when I go 
 to town come Saturday, and make arrangements to bank 
 the money till I can pick up another just as good, or hear 
 of somebody who wants to borrow." 
 
 Louellen had been trying to coax the fretting baby to 
 sleep. Her bright color had changed to a yellowish pallor, 
 token of anemia and exhaustion. Rain had kept John 
 Henry in the house all day and his presence had been 
 wearisome. He thought, and said, that Louellen and Aunt 
 Lena, between them, ought to be able to keep the children 
 quiet and good, but Virgie was teething and feverish, and 
 "restless as a puppy," as Aunt Lena remarked, after an 
 hour's efforts to amuse and quiet had been in vain. But 
 now she had unwillingly dropped into slumber, and if the 
 baby could also be lured therein, there would be a short 
 eminently desirable peace. 
 
 "Won't I have to bank the money ?" asked Louellen, only 
 half listening, "Or will it do if I just give you my book?" 
 She had saved a little from her dearly won egg and butter 
 surplus, and contrary to John Henry's advice had put it 
 in the Manor bank under her own name. Her bank book 
 was a red rag to him. 
 
 "I'll bank it in my own account," he answered shortly, 
 "and invest it again soon's I get a chance." 
 
 She had never before gainsaid him directly, but now she 
 felt a flash of her old time temper. "Then I won't sign 
 the release papers, nor the receipt," she said. "Not unless 
 that money's paid right into my own hands, and I can put 
 it into my own account and invest it myself." 
 
 "What d'you know about investing?" he said, showing 
 his teeth in that ugly smile she hated. 
 
 "Maybe nothing, but I know what's mine. You've never 
 made any accounting of what you got for my cattle, either." 
 
 He was genuinely astonished. Louellen in open revolt 
 was something unexpected, amazing. 
 
 "What's got into you?" he asked peevishly. "I'll give
 
 160 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 you an accounting in my own good time. And as for your 
 not signing the receipt we'll see about that." 
 
 "Yes, we will," she declared hardily. 
 
 Their glances were knives. "You can't act like this to 
 me," he declared harshly. "I don't know why you should 
 manifest such an evil and un-Christian spirit, all of a 
 sudden." 
 
 It was his prayermeeting twang, and it added to her 
 flame. "Maybe I feel evil and un-Christian," she declared. 
 "And I tell you this : if you don't hand me over that mort- 
 gage money soon's you get it, I'll go right to Pa and Ma, 
 and tell them. I'll tell a few more people on the way, too. 
 I'd just as soon everybody 'd know what kind you are, try- 
 ing to use your wife's money as if it was your own. As 
 if you hadn't plenty and more than plenty! People'd like 
 to hear you give your experience in class-meeting when 
 they knew you'd banked my mortgage money for your- 
 self." She was amazed at the facility with which she 
 found words, the ease with which she defied her tyrant, now 
 that she had begun it. The sight of this unctuous sleek 
 man, with his increased flesh, his ruddy color, his health 
 and strength, contrasted with her own sickly bedraggle- 
 ment urged her to express her pent-up resentment. 
 
 His color flamed higher as he listened, he darkened and 
 swelled in offended dignity. Yet he knew that she had 
 struck his weak joint. He could not bear to be laughed at 
 or belittled. Nothing must be said of him except what was 
 of good report, praise, compliment. To be thrown into 
 the backwash of idle tittle-tattle was unbearable to him, 
 he winced away from the faintest prospect of it. 
 
 "You don't know what you're talking about," he said, 
 but she detected the undercurrent of uncertainty, uneasiness. 
 "Anybody'd think you distrusted me." 
 
 Her emotion made her a woman strengthened, renewed. 
 She put the child, still crying, down into his cradle and 
 stood over it. "Distrust you!" she cried, and the sound 
 of her voice rang clear and almost mirthful. "Distrust
 
 One Thing Is Certain 161 
 
 you ! I hate you ! I despise you ! I loathe and detest you 
 body and soul. What do you make of that, John Henry?" 
 
 John Henry could make nothing at all of it. "If you 
 felt thataway/* he said, "what'd you marry me for?" 
 
 "I'd like to know myself," said Louellen, bitterly. 'If 
 I'd known you as I know you now I'd never've done it." 
 
 John Henry chose to be superior, authoritative, disre- 
 garding. "You mustn't talk so. It's wild and foolish. It's 
 sacrilegious, too. Saint Paul says the woman is not to 
 usurp authority over the man. A man's got to be head of 
 his household and I intend to be." 
 
 Louellen tossed her arms. "Saint Paul ! My soul, Saint 
 Paul ! I wonder what he'd have said to you. You're going 
 to be head of your household, are you? All right, that 
 don't change anything. I've stood too much and too 
 long. And this mortgage money my money if you try 
 to put that into your pocket same's you have the cattle, I'll 
 make you smart for it. For all Pa thinks you're so godly 
 he'd never countenance that." 
 
 He got up and stalked out, saving his face. "I'll talk 
 to you when you're in your right mind. You try to get 
 yourself under control. I won't stand much of this kind 
 of goings on." 
 
 Presently she heard him out in the woodhouse, sawing 
 furiously. Aunt Lena crept in from the kitchen. "What 
 were you and him having such a towse about?" she asked 
 tremulously. "I was scared to come in." 
 
 Louellen told her. "And he needn't think he's heard 
 the last of it, either. I'll have that money, or I'll do as 
 I said." 
 
 Aunt Lena shook her head pityingly. "You don't know 
 John Henry when he gets his dander up. He'll manage to 
 get round it somehow. He's the kind that never forgets 
 anything and keeps right on worrying and gnawing till 
 he has his way. It's better to let him have it in the first 
 place and save bad feeling." 
 
 "Seems to me," countered Louellen, "we're too intent
 
 162 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 on saving John Henry's feelings. Let's save our own a 
 while." 
 
 But Aunt Lena was not to be reasoned with. "You'll 
 see. It don't pay." 
 
 And the malevolent outraged whine of John Henry's 
 saw echoed the sentiment. 
 
 Louellen felt her own enthusiasm ebbing. She suddenly 
 realized that she had spent herself in that fiery interview, 
 that she ached with weariness, that her flesh fairly trembled 
 on her bones in despairing fatigue. She sat down by her 
 child's cradle and rocked it mechanically. Even so, she 
 could not be sorry. "President Lincoln ought to've signed 
 a 'mancipation proclamation for white women as well as 
 nigger men," she said to Aunt Lena. The timid old maid 
 compressed into her hopeless answer a lifetime of cynic 
 observation. "S'far as I ever see, there's no 'mancipation 
 for white women from white men. Except death. That's 
 why I stayed single." 
 
 The other hardly heard her. She was wondering if John 
 Henry would yield, and if he did, what payment he would 
 exact for his yielding. She wondered if she would have 
 the courage, in the last stress, to go home and appeal to 
 her father and mother. Why had she started all this 
 pother about the mortgage money? What did it matter? 
 What good was money to her, and why should she want it ? 
 
 "If I could only see my way clear to to anything," she 
 thought. "But whichever way I start it don't seem worth 
 while. It all comes back to living with him. If I could 
 only get away ! If I could only get away ! If I could only 
 make it so that he'd never want me back !" 
 
 "I'll start the fire up and put the kettle on, Aunt Lena," 
 she said. "You sit here and rock Buddy. I feel's if a 
 little stirring round would do me good. When I get supper 
 going I'll call you to set the table." 
 
 Her immaculate kitchen soothed her. The floor was 
 scoured white, and so was the table top. The tins were 
 mirrors, her stove a friendly black-shining ogre, waiting
 
 One Thing Is Certain 163 
 
 to be fed the sticks of pine and oak piled in the green painted 
 wood-box. A pot of oxalis bloomed on the windowsill, 
 bright pink flowers, little impudent tossed-about bells of 
 color among the trefoil leaves and crisp translucent stems. 
 Louellen raked out the few living coals in the ashes of the 
 stove, coaxed them with crumpled paper and some scraps 
 of kindling, and the flame leaped up, responsive to her 
 craft. She piled in the wood, filled the kettle and set it 
 in place. She would make hot biscuits for supper John 
 Henry did not like the neighborhood custom of fresh hot 
 bread with each meal. She would open a jar of straw- 
 berry preserves John Henry preferred cherry. She would 
 have tea and not coffee John Henry did not drink tea. 
 While she was about it she would cream instead of fry 
 the potatoes, for he considered frying the only method of 
 rendering potatoes palatable. She would, she decided, in 
 every way make him see that it was to be open war. 
 
 "Aunt Lena'll pass away when she sees the table," she 
 told the steaming tea kettle. But she was so tired. She 
 leaned a moment against the window frame, looking out 
 at the rain. She did not want to fight and quarrel and 
 bicker. Always it brought with it a sense of inevitable 
 personal degradation. She was less herself, and more a 
 shrew, a scold, each time it happened. Again she had the 
 strong impulse to change and alter her life with a violent 
 irrevocable gesture. Once she had done it, disastrously, 
 in her marriage with John Henry. Now, to escape from that 
 marriage, why should she not do it again? Nothing, noth- 
 ing could be worse than this. She was sick, sore, wasted 
 in body and soul. And endless years of it stretched before 
 her. 
 
 John Henry came to supper like a malicious thunder- 
 cloud. Nor did the shadow lift when he saw a meal in 
 direct perversion of his explicit taste. But Louellen ate 
 with a relish, for the first time in weeks. She waited for 
 his temper to lash out at her, but it had not reached that 
 stage. It was still, brooding, sullen.
 
 164 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 They were only half way through the gloomy meal when 
 there came a sound of buggy wheels in the wide yard, then 
 steps and a heavy pounding on the door. Hance Wright, 
 his youthful face drawn into lines of distress, stood there. 
 
 "Louellen," he stammered, "I come to get you your 
 Pa's had a stroke. I dropped in to see Annie, and found 
 ?t'd just happened, and so I sent Edward for Doc Tithe- 
 low and come on over here to get you and John Henry. 
 He's well, I'm afraid he's right bad off."
 
 CHAPTER NINETEEN 
 
 AMOS WEST rallied a little, regaining for a week a little 
 movement of his limbs and his speech, thickened and al- 
 most inarticulate. A second stroke deprived him of this, 
 and his long lean old body, weatherbeaten and toil-worn, 
 lay wholly inert, unresponsive to his imperious will. Only 
 his eyes stayed alive, resigned, patient. At the end of 
 three weeks he lapsed into coma, and presently died, with- 
 out regaining consciousness. 
 
 Under this sudden unexpected bereavement Jane West 
 crumpled and broke, grieving with a passion that brought 
 rebuke from Brother Truitt, who felt that she showed a 
 lack of proper Christian resignation. She did not hear 
 him. It was strange and pitiful to see this sturdy, calm 
 woman beset with emotion so devastating. She aged a 
 decade overnight ; her resolution and her strength were 
 gone. 
 
 She wept to her daughters. "I can't understand it I 
 can't understand it! The best man that ever lived and 
 the kindest heart. Honest as the day he was. No woman 
 ever had a better husband, there wasn't any reason why 
 he should be taken and me left. He'd ought to've lived 
 twenty years more. Thirty years we've lived together, and 
 now to have him go !" 
 
 Without reserve she poured out all that was in her heart, 
 and made no effort to rouse herself into any practical con- 
 sideration of the funeral. Let others care for that. Her 
 sisters came, and all the circle of kin that had not gathered 
 since Louellen's wedding, but Jane West did not see them, 
 did not realize them. Docilely she did as they told her, put 
 on the heavy crepe, the stifling black veil that they fitted 
 to her, but she answered their sympathetic questions at 
 random, and her eyes were vacant. 
 
 165
 
 166 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "Terrible the way Jane's taking on. I wouldn't have 
 thought she'd give way like this," they told each other. 
 
 Another universal comment was : "I don't know what 
 she'd've done without John Henry." 
 
 For John Henry was in his rightful element. He man- 
 aged the obsequies, even arranging who should go in the 
 first carriages without causing any heart-burnings or un- 
 pleasantness, he displayed just the proper feeling without 
 being too overcome to attend to all the details of the dreary 
 business. He could descant feelingly to a faraway cousin 
 of the Christian virtues of the deceased, and at the same 
 time indicate to the cousin the place most convenient to 
 stable his horse. It was strongly felt throughout the family 
 that John Henry had acquitted himself well in his first 
 chance to show his abilities. 
 
 When the will was opened it was found that all Amos 
 West's property was left to his wife for her lifetime, and 
 that she was sole executrix without bond. In sad bewil- 
 derment she could only turn to John Henry. "I don't 
 know what to do," she confessed, for the first time in her 
 life. 
 
 So again John Henry became very active. It seemed 
 the best plan that the farm should be rented and that Annie 
 and her mother should take a house in Manor and live there 
 together. Amos West had not neglected to lay up treasures 
 on earth as well as in heaven, and his widow was well off. 
 Not that she cared. She sat in her accustomed chair, and 
 plaited her black skirts between weary idle fingers, giving 
 only half attention to the things John Henry told her. She 
 signed the papers he brought her without question. Now 
 and then he required the signatures of Annie and Louellen. 
 He held frequent consultations with Judge Markwood, and 
 astonished that easy-going gentleman by his sharp com- 
 prehension of the law. 
 
 In a little less than two months from the day when Amos 
 West fell stricken at his kitchen door, his widow and daugh- 
 ter were placed in a town dwelling, and the farmstead that
 
 One Thing Is Certain 167 
 
 had been his father's was in the hands of a capable renter. 
 His going had changed and disorganized all the immediate 
 life about him. 
 
 During all this time Louellen had stayed with her mother. 
 Jane West wanted her, and John Henry had not dissented. 
 So Aunt Lena kept little Virgie, and Louellen and her baby 
 lived in the old home. In spite of the grief she felt for 
 her father, and the distress at her mother's suffering and 
 failure, it was a respite for Louellen. She grew stronger, 
 her color brightened, a thread of energy and vitality crept 
 through her languor. But now that her mother and Annie 
 were in their new home where poor Jane West moved 
 listlessly and silently about, chilled by its strangeness and 
 loneliness there was no further excuse for her to stay. 
 
 Seen through the lens of her mother's grief Amos West 
 became a different person to Louellen. Nothing of his 
 narrowness, nothing of his sternness, stayed in her mem- 
 ory, only his solid goodness, his devotion, his closeness of 
 spirit to her mother. In the breaking of this marriage she 
 saw what marriage might be. This was what a man might 
 mean to a woman, if they loved each other. Her mother's 
 tears for her loss washed clear for Louellen the dimensions 
 of her own bondage. 
 
 "If it was John Henry who'd died," she thought, "how 
 glad I'd've been. Oh, this can't go on it can't. I can't 
 bear it." 
 
 In an intense depression she got into the buggy to go 
 home. 
 
 "You've stayed away too long," said John Henry, gath- 
 ering up the reins. "Man and wife shouldn't be separated 
 for no such length of time. You go upstairs as soon as we 
 get home. It'll be like getting married all over again." 
 
 The sickening first days of her marriage rose before 
 her evilly. She longed to tell him she was never going to 
 live with him again, but she shrank from the wrangle that 
 would follow. He was just a beast. She thought of the 
 quarrel they had had on the day when she had been called
 
 168 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 to her father, and a question came into her mind. She 
 asked it involuntarily. 
 
 "What'd you do with that mortgage of mine?" she asked. 
 "It passed out of my mind. You didn't ask me for my 
 bankbook." 
 
 He smiled, his arrogant, greedy smile. "I did what I 
 said I was going to do. I got the money and banked it." 
 
 "But but I never signed " She tried to puzzle it 
 out. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you did. You thought you was signing some- 
 thing about your father's estate and you never so much 
 as looked at 'em." He was laughing now, satisfied with 
 his trick. "I guess that'll teach you not to be so high- 
 headed. You been getting out of hand completely here 
 lately. You might's well und'stand you can't get away 
 with any smartness with me. I'm just as smart as you are, 
 and maybe a little bit smarter." 
 
 He waited calmly for her to say something, but she could 
 not speak. She was choked, stifled with the ignominy of 
 it. "And you can't run to your Pa now and play baby, 
 either," he added, clinching his triumph. 
 
 So he had counted on that. He had seen in her father's 
 death this cowardly advantage to himself. Now she would 
 have no support, no one to turn to for help or protection. 
 Her broken mother . . . not the Jane West of old. It 
 would be little use to appeal to her even if she would have 
 the heartlessness to thrust further trouble on her. Now 
 she was really alone. She must fight for herself, or she 
 must submit wholly . . . for always. Her resolution crys- 
 tallized. 
 
 "I'm not going upstairs when we get home," she said 
 softly. "I've had it in mind not ever to live with you 
 again, because I despise you so. Now I've made up my 
 mind. I'm not going to. If you lay hands on me, I'll 
 fight. No it won't be exactly as if we were getting 
 married all over again. ..." 
 
 "We'll see," he said. "You need discipline."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 169 
 
 She did not answer. They drove on in combative silence 
 through the shimmer and shine of the earliest spring sun- 
 shine, an iridescent promise, a teasing prophecy which 
 neither of them perceived or felt. The swelling buds of 
 the swamp maples, the mere flicker and feather of green in 
 the willows, the clustering of frail short-stemmed flowers 
 so eager to bloom, and yet so afraid of the lingering cold 
 under dead leaves, or in protected corners open to the South, 
 the excited rush and babble of tiny spring freshets in the 
 brooks, none of the generous enchantment of a world wait- 
 ing for renewal could pierce through their dark animosity, 
 their absorbed conflict. 
 
 As they drew near home her purpose hardened, her face 
 set in grim stone. Her will did not waver. She would not 
 . . . she would not. This was the end. There was noth- 
 ing good, nothing decent, nothing even remotely livable, 
 in him. He must have everything, strip her. She was to 
 have no will, no self, no rights of her own and all of her 
 resources were to be his property, existing merely for his 
 use, at his will and pleasure. That mortgage money . . . 
 
 She understood why there are murderers. 
 
 And yet she had come only to a negative decision. There 
 must be something more, positive assertion, ascendency. 
 
 At the house Aunt Lena came eagerly to meet them, and 
 little Virgie, seeing her mother, set up a shout of joy. 
 
 "You don't really need me," laughed Louellen, "Aunt 
 Lena takes better care of you than I do." 
 
 "The stay's done you good," said Aunt Lena, "and the 
 baby too. My, he's grown. It's been lonesome without 
 you. Is your Ma feeling better by this time? How I've 
 thought of her!" 
 
 The two women sat gossiping, and presently John Henry 
 came in. He hesitated for a moment, and then went on 
 upstairs. Louellen did not look at him, only sat and con- 
 tinued her talk with Aunt Lena. Presently he called, "Lou- 
 ellen." 
 
 "Ask him what he wants, will you?" said Louellen wick-
 
 170 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 edly, "I'm too lazy to go upstairs. And I expect we'd bet- 
 ter be about getting supper." 
 
 Aunt Lena came back from the foot of the stairs shaking 
 her head. "He couldn't find his everyday suit," she said, 
 "and it was right under his nose. I told him. Aren't men 
 ridic'lous?" 
 
 "Certainly are," agreed Louellen. "There now, Buddy, 
 I'm going to put you into your crib. Look how plump his 
 little hands are, Aunt Lena. Well, shall we get at supper ?" 
 
 The kitchen and Aunt Lena were a sure refuge. Lou- 
 ellen was busy at the stove when John Henry stamped 
 downstairs, and went out to the stables. She wanted to 
 scream with laughter, to shout derision at him. There was 
 a long butcher knife, thin bladed, sharp as a razor, lying 
 on the kitchen table, and time and again her eyes lingered 
 on it, her fingers itched for it. She caught herself back 
 from this. 
 
 "I wonder if I'm going crazy," she thought. 
 
 She kept up a pretense of conversation with Aunt Lena 
 during supper, and afterward lingered downstairs doing 
 little things for the children. John Henry had said little. 
 He had the air of one who bides his time but exacts full 
 payment for waiting. 
 
 Quite early he yawned and went upstairs. Louellen 
 could hear him padding about impatiently up there. Aunt 
 Lena took Virgie off to bed in the downstairs room which 
 she preferred to occupy in winter, because it was kept 
 warm and cosy by the dining room fire. 
 
 Louellen hesitated, then picked up the sleeping boy, 
 wrapped him in his blankets and slowly, with stealthy steps, 
 went up the stairs. She crept down the hall, entered her 
 little old room, shut and bolted the door, and leaned against 
 it. She was disposing the baby in the bed, wrapping him 
 more comfortably, when John Henry rattled at the knob. 
 "What you doing in there?" he demanded. 
 
 Now that the actual moment of battle had arrived she 
 was faint with the tumult in her heart.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 171 
 
 i 
 
 "I'm going to stay in here," she managed to say. 
 
 She heard a suppressed exclamation, and then, without 
 wasting words, John Henry shouldered the door with all 
 his strength. It was strong oak, and did not give. He tried 
 again again. But the door stood firm. She could hear 
 him breathing hard, in angry gulps. 
 
 Now he was still, and a moment later she heard him run 
 down the hall, downstairs. In a flash of divination she 
 knew that he was going out to the back shed where he kept 
 his tool box. He would get something, a chisel, a bar, 
 and break the lock. Then . . . 
 
 She flung the door open and listened. He had stopped 
 to light a lamp. Without knowing what she was doing, 
 in a blind, senseless panic, she too ran downstairs, unlocked 
 the front door, and fled out into the cold spring night. 
 
 She ran and ran, stopping only when she could not get 
 her breath, when the sharp pain in her side stabbed her too 
 violently to let her go on. When she had to rest, she lis- 
 tened for pursuit, but there was none. If he had tried to 
 follow he had not found her track. And suddenly she 
 knew that she had unconsciously run to Mart Bladen, that 
 his light she had marked so often from her window, was 
 shining full and clear, and very near, before her.
 
 HE was in his room, half asleep, dozing over the local 
 column of the Manor Democrat, when Spot and Silly, alert, 
 warned him there was some one near. They did not 
 bark, only stood to attention, their ruffs bristling, growling 
 low in their throats. Now and then they looked up at Mart, 
 questioningly, and edged over toward the door. They did 
 not know whether this was an intruder or a guest. Any one 
 who ran so breathlessly, so stumblingly . . . 
 
 "Mart," she cried huskily, "Mart let me in " 
 
 Her face white, her mouth weakened and panting, her 
 gray eyes dilated to black, appeared at the low window. 
 He ran to open it, to lift her over the sill. "For God's 
 sake, Louellen, what's the matter?" he cried. "Anything 
 wrong at your house ?" 
 
 She clung to him. "Put out the light," she said. "Put 
 out the light. He might be coming after me." 
 
 In the quick darkness she held to him, leaning, dependent 
 on him. "Who's coming after you?" he asked, puzzled. 
 "There, don't shake so. Nothing's going to hurt you, nor 
 nobody. I got you safe, honey. Tell me what's the 
 matter?" 
 
 "Mart," she whispered, "Mart will you keep me here? 
 Will you let me live with you? Will you take me, 
 Mart?" 
 
 The sudden apparition of her had been startling, so 
 bewildering, so amazing that he could not feel its reality. 
 Yet here she was, shaken, clinging, her soft tangled hair 
 against his cheek, her hands holding to him with desperate 
 need. Beautiful and dear a dream come true. He could 
 only hold her tighter, aching with his re-awakened love and 
 need of her. 
 
 "What do you mean, honey?" he whispered. "What do 
 
 172
 
 One Thing Is Certain 173 
 
 you mean ? Did you run away from John Henry ? What's 
 he done to you? Let me go I'll settle with him." 
 
 "No no. I only want to stay here with you. I want 
 to belong to you. I want it to be so so I can never go 
 back. I won't ever go back. I don't care what happens 
 I'm going to stay here with you, always. Mart Mart 
 when I saw your light in the window I knew I've watched 
 that light so often, night after night, till it seemed like 
 you were talking to me " 
 
 "You watched my light? If I'd known " 
 
 "Mart, I love you I love you." She would say it now, 
 turning her head to press her lips against his shoulder, im- 
 ploring forgiveness and response. 
 
 "I've never loved anybody but you," he said. "Louellen 
 my girl it's been so long " His famished love clamored 
 for her. He forgot the strangeness of her coming, the 
 utter madness of it, everything, in the darkness, and her 
 surrender, her urgency. She was here, and she was his. 
 So long denied, so long despaired of. 
 
 "I'll never let you go." 
 
 "I'll never go." 
 
 "I'll hold you 'gainst the world and all, Louellen. I'll 
 take you away " 
 
 "I only want to be with you. I don't care about any- 
 thing else." 
 
 "I love you nobody ever loved a woman so much." 
 
 "Keep me here." 
 
 "Always." 
 
 "I belong to you I belong to you, Mart." 
 
 "Do you mean that?" 
 
 "You know it. Why should I come if I didn't?" 
 
 True why should she have come? Mart knew, as well 
 as she, the immense, the overwhelming significance of her 
 coming, the gulf of shame she had willingly drowned her- 
 self in, when this should be known. But neither of them 
 thought of that at this moment. They were too aware of 
 each other, too wrapped in the ecstasy of their embrace.
 
 174 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Sighingly, longingly, they kissed, sadness and rapture, in- 
 finite regret, infinite unrest, but an irrevocable pledge. 
 
 "Long ago I wanted you to kiss me you remember?" 
 
 "I wanted to. I was ashamed to. I'm not ashamed of 
 anything now. I want you so. I'll never go away from 
 you." 
 
 They had turned back the weary months, blotted them 
 out. They could never be separated again. He could not 
 deny himself, nor her. In the darkness there was nothing 
 but themselves, their demanding love, so long refused and 
 hidden. Now, in its hour of splendor, it became a tyrant, 
 stronger than they, stronger than all the world. Its power 
 held them, enchained them, impelled them to finality. 
 
 At last they lay in each other's arms, spent with happiness, 
 warm and content, their beauty forever intermingled, their 
 hearts beating with the same pulse of transport, the touch 
 of their yearning flesh telling the endless tale of their devo- 
 tion. In his arms she was safe, protected forever. She 
 knew it. His arms held her lightly, but with infinite security. 
 
 "I knew it would be like this," she whispered, half dream- 
 ing. 
 
 "I love you so much," he answered. 
 
 The darkness lifted slowly, a veil withdrawn, slowly, 
 slowly ashen gray and cold. In this chill translucence came 
 sanity, and remembrance, realization. Louellen sat up sud- 
 denly, tearing herself from him. 
 
 "Oh," she cried. "My children my mother " 
 
 He sat beside her, trying to comfort her, troubled, driven 
 back from her, unable to reach through and hold her. 
 
 "Mart I must go. My children. Oh, I forgot. I forgot 
 everything but you. What shall I do " 
 
 She had risen, setting herself in order with desperate, 
 fumbling fingers. He swung himself up beside her. "Lou- 
 ellen you can't go back you can't go back now. I won't 
 let you." 
 
 They faced each other in the grayness, the chill, and 
 suddenly she put her hands up over her face. "I've got
 
 One Thing Is Certain 175 
 
 to. I I never could stand it. What would I do? And 
 you, Mart? And people and my mother and Annie oh, 
 I was crazy!" 
 
 "But I can't let you go back to him, Louellen." It was 
 torn from the depths of his heart, the protest. "I'll come 
 on over there and tell him, hold you back from him. I'm 
 only flesh and blood I can't stand everything, either." 
 
 But the relentless dawn forced itself in, bringing clarity, 
 reason. He knew how the country would ring with this, 
 if it knew, what degradation would be forced on her, how 
 she would be isolated, ostracized. Worse there were laws. 
 . . . His unwilling brain reminded him of a terrible case 
 some years before. The angry husband had the woman 
 jailed, sentenced. He had seen John Henry whip his horses. 
 What might he not do to Louellen? He stood back from 
 her, but his involuntary protest continued, his flesh stronger 
 than his understanding. 
 
 "I can't let you go back to him. I'd kill him first Don't 
 don't do this, Louellen." 
 
 But she was already at the door, only now she turned to 
 him again. "So long as I live," she said, "he shan't ever 
 touch me. But I must go back I must." 
 
 "But, Louellen " He was silent. The glory of the 
 night had gone from him, too. He was helpless to protect 
 or comfort her if she stayed. And his love for her told him 
 that it was better to be parted from her than to be with her 
 and have no power to shelter her as a man shields his own 
 woman. It would damn him triply deep with shame if she 
 was shamed. Only, how could he bear it to lose her again ? 
 How could he bear it! 
 
 She had watched him, she saw that he accepted. Now 
 she could go. "I don't care if 'twas a sin," she said. "I'm 
 not sorry. I never will be sorry. Don't you ever think 
 I'll be sorry, Mart. I'll be glad all the rest of my life." 
 
 She opened the door, ran out into the lightening dawn, 
 and vanished in its mists.
 
 PART TWO
 
 NOTE: The characters in the Second Part of 
 the story are largely the same as in the First Part, 
 save that Louellen Hyde has a third child 
 Judith, called Judy, and Lee Kemp, the son of 
 Joe Kemp, and another young man, one Ed Cal- 
 loway, a well-to-do farm owner, appear as mem- 
 bers of the new generation that has grown up 
 in the interim.
 
 PART TWO 
 
 AFTER SEVENTEEN YEARS 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 STRANGE and terrible, how life cools and hardens, crys- 
 tallizes from its warm and facile plasticity into forms as 
 definitely set and as rigidly patterned, but nowhere so beau- 
 tiful, as beryl and garnet schist. The inchoate impulses, the 
 chaotic passions, the indefinite possibilities of the soul that 
 have been a fluent, plenteous current, may in some sudden 
 and profound metastasis go arid, congeal into bleak ridges 
 wherein existence is as barren, as open to view and as 
 impervious to it, as in the stone waves of some extinct 
 volcano. The valleys of the sun change to the cold valleys 
 of the moon. The loveliness of youth is no measure of its 
 permanence, no warrant against metamorphosis. 
 
 Louellen West, looking backward in rare moments of in- 
 trospection, felt that she had never possessed youth. Her 
 mirror confirmed her. She had stayed slight, that com- 
 fortable plumpness and solidity that had been her mother's 
 at middle age were not Louellen's, but her suppleness, her 
 spring had vanished. Still swift and deft in motion, her 
 swiftness and deftness had become mechanical, limited, 
 without the light swing of vitality controlled and unex- 
 pended. Her face was thin, her lips pinched, tight and 
 guarded. Her eyes were faded, watchful. She had the 
 look of one whom youth has fled in dismay, finding no 
 place, no opportunity for his smiles and light vagaries. 
 
 "You've not helt your own as well as I supposed you 
 would, Louellen," was the frank comment of Miss Becca 
 
 179
 
 180 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Simpson. "But then, I needn't to talk. Since my flesh 
 went down I'm a wrinkled bag. Sometimes I'm most 
 tempted to let my hair turn gray, but then I look in the 
 glass and I say, no, I'm going to cling to the dye-bottle till 
 I'm in my coffin. I'd be bedrid if I had to see myself going 
 round with a head like a thistle-top." 
 
 Miss Becca was visiting. Time had not withered her 
 perennial need of change of scene and people. Within her 
 limited area she was as regular as the four seasons. Nor 
 had her taste for fashion left her. She was still resplendent 
 in the changeable silks she loved. 
 
 "I suppose I do look kind of funny in these big sleeves," 
 she went on, tweaking at them with her little pudgy old 
 hands, "being so short. But if you're going to be in style, I 
 say, be in it. Don't be half-way betwixt and between, as if 
 you wasn't sure what was what. I'm not so pleased with 
 the high collars though they're terrible for a neck as near 
 nothing as mine is." 
 
 The two sat in the comfortable living room of the West 
 house. It was bright with ingrain carpet in red and tan, 
 shiny oak rocking chairs, fringed chenille table covers and 
 portieres. Miss Becca gazed at her surroundings with open 
 pleasure. It was true that her rotundities were somewhat 
 reduced, and her cheeks were wrinkled, but her bright little 
 eyes still gleamed with quenchless curiosity and interest. 
 
 "I certainly like the way you've got things fixed up in 
 here. Rena told me you'd done it. And I said, well, with 
 one girl grown up and another one well on the way, they 
 got to set some beau-traps." She chuckled, shaking with 
 laughter. 
 
 "Yes, Virgie was Mead set against all the old things," 
 said Louellen at last. She had a piece of sewing in her 
 hands, and her quick needle went on as she spoke. "All 
 Mother's old cherry and walnut had to go up attic. I didn't 
 have so much of it, though, Annie wanted to keep it and 
 I was willing. She and Hance took it right along out to 
 California with 'em, and she says at first it was the only
 
 One Thing Is Certain 181 
 
 thing kept her from pret' near dying of homesickness. I 
 was glad she had it. There was plenty the same kind here 
 from John Henry's folks. My, yes. Even the darkies won't 
 take it as a gift nowadays they say it's so big and dark 
 and ugly. All the same I like it better than this mess of 
 varnish." 
 
 "I don't. Give me the new things every time. How's 
 John Henry like it?" 
 
 "He'd like anything if Virgie or Bud chose it," said Lou- 
 ellen. She made no complaint. She merely stated a fact. 
 "Of course Bud don't care anything about this stuff, or any 
 other. He's a regular boy. It'd be funny if he did." 
 
 "My, my, Louellen, seems queer to me to see you with 
 three great big children when I can mind you as nothing 
 but a little tot yourself. Tempus does fugit, as old Mr. 
 Horsey wrote to Maria Fountain. And Annie with three, 
 too, just the same selection as yours, two girls and a boy. 
 I wish your Ma could've lived to see 'em." 
 
 *Ma never was the same after Pa died," said Louellen, 
 going on with her sewing unmoved. This was Miss Becca's 
 customary epic of old times. It was recited each time she 
 came. "She just pined away. Seemed to me I could fairly 
 see her going, soul and flesh both. She never had any hold 
 on things after they moved to town. Couldn't get used 
 to it. She kept all of Pa's little things, Miss Becca, his 
 watch and his big pocketknife and his shiny black ruler 
 that used to be in his desk, and his pens, tied up together, 
 right in her top bureau drawer. The paper was all creased 
 from her opening them to look at when she was in her 
 room by herself. I've got 'em yet, just the way she left 'em." 
 
 "I've seen many a woman go all to pieces when her home 
 was broke up," said Miss Becca, rocking joyfully, "many 
 and many a one. I think the breaking up's most as hard 
 as death." 
 
 "Yes, it is," said Louellen. She dropped her sewing and 
 looked off with darkened eyes. "I remember something else 
 you know our clock with the glass door and the basket of
 
 182 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 fruit painted on it? Well, I wrapped it up and laid it in a 
 box, and Edward, he was our old colored man, he said he'd 
 nail a strip over to keep it steady and from getting broken, 
 and when he begun to drive in the nails the hammer strokes 
 echoed in the clock 'Han! Han Han!' that sort of a 
 sound, loud and dreadful and sort of wild, and right up to 
 that time I hadn't thought so much about it, but I saw 
 Mother's face. She threw out her hands like she was push- 
 ing something off her, and she opened her mouth, and her 
 eyes got wide oh and every blow Edward struck to a 
 nail the clock would holler again, 'Han ! Han ! Han !' 
 like it was begging somebody to come help it oh, me I 
 thought I should perish, it hurt me so. I went up to Mother, 
 and put my arms round her and held her, and she was 
 stiff as a tree-trunk. And then she give way and cried 
 out loud almost screams." Louellen drew a long harried 
 breath. "I've never told a living soul about that before. 
 When Annie asked me if I wanted the clock, after Mother 
 died, I said, my soul, no. Every time I looked at it I'd've 
 seen Mother, breaking her heart so." 
 
 "It's the truth," agreed Miss Becca. "Little things the 
 dead has left will hurt you worse'n a cut with a knife some- 
 times." She turned back to lighter themes, patting her 
 richly curled dark front with an appreciative hand. "Why 
 don't you touch up your hair a little, Louellen? You're a 
 sight too gray for your years." 
 
 "I haven't got the time or the inclination. I leave such 
 goings-on for gay young things like you, Miss Becca." The 
 hard-etched severity of her face relaxed into an affectionate 
 smile for her old friend. "What say we sit out on the 
 porch? It's close in the house to-day." She rose, and still 
 holding her sewing, ushered her guest through the front 
 hall to the porch. A group of rustic rocking chairs waited 
 occupancy, and at one end, half in the sunshine, an old 
 buffalo robe, a dark and hairy square with a scalloped tat- 
 tered edge of scarlet cloth, was laid flat. On it, in a tum- 
 bled heap, absorbed in a book, sat a young girl. At the
 
 One Thing Is Certain 183 
 
 sound of steps she slid the book behind her, apprehensively. 
 
 "My lands, it's Judy," exclaimed Miss Becca, blinking. 
 "Sitting so doubled up I didn't make her out for a minute. 
 Come here and give me a kiss. Well, ain't she getting tall ?" 
 
 Judy obediently rose, dropped her book and the apple she 
 was eating, revealing herself slender, but well grown, with a 
 child's manner and a child's engaging smile. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Becca, I'm glad to see you !" She frankly 
 hugged the guest. 
 
 "And I'm glad to see you," exclaimed Miss Becca, warmed 
 by this enthusiasm. "Shooting up like a weed tall as your 
 mother pret' near. And as gay as a posy." 
 
 It was true. Judy was a creature in the primary colors, 
 red cheeks, yellow hair, blue eyes, all luminous and vivid 
 with youth, untouched, fresh, delectable, yet with something 
 of sensitiveness, of frailty about her brows that her physique 
 belied, but that made her undeveloped beauty flower-like 
 and appealing. 
 
 "I hope you've come to stay a long time," she said. "I 
 do believe you're using some sort of new cologne." She 
 sniffed at Miss Becca mischievously. 
 
 "Go along," protested the old lady, delighted. "You find 
 out everything. Yes, it is a new kind I told Jeff Bangs 
 in the drug store I was sick and tired of White Rose, so I 
 got me a bottle of Jockey Club this time instead. How 
 d'you like it?" 
 
 "Grand. And I like your dress, too. It's new, too, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, miss, it is. And I've got another new one. And if 
 you come and help me unpack before supper, I'll show it 
 to you." 
 
 Judy retreated to her book and her apple, with a little 
 skip of pleasure. "All right. I'd love to." 
 
 Miss Becca looked after her fondly. "Judy don't favor 
 Virgie and Bud none, never did. Looks more like your side 
 of the family with that corn-silk hair. Not like you, exactly, 
 either. You wasn't so fair."
 
 184 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "Everybody says she's the image of Annie when she was 
 little," said Louellen decisively, a thread of vigilance in her 
 voice, "and I think so myself. Annie's hair got darker as 
 she grew older, though. Judy's got a lot of Annie's ways 
 about her, too. You know, lively, and easy hurt in her 
 feelings. I must show you the picture Annie sent last month 
 of her children, Miss Becca. Remind me if I forget it." 
 
 "I'd love to see it. Wisht Annie didn't live so far away. 
 Does she ever say anything about coming back East?" 
 
 "No. Hance has done so well out there, and they like it. 
 But I miss her seems as if it gets more instead of less, the 
 longer she's away. Her being so far leaves me without any 
 close kin, as you might say. Father's and Mother's folks 
 have thinned out so. There's no use talking, nobody can 
 keep track of cousins when they get up in the seconds and 
 thirds, unless they're somewheres near by where you can 
 set eyes on 'em occasionally." 
 
 "Ain't it so !" Miss Becca's eyes wandered back to Judy. 
 
 "What's that she's sitting on an old-time buffalo robe, 
 ain't it ? Now that takes me back time was when ever'body 
 used to have one for driving in bitter weather, but you 
 don't hardly see any, nowadays. Was it your Pa's?" 
 
 "Yes. I have it dragged out here most every bright day. 
 The sun keeps the moths away. It's a heavy old thing, not 
 any use, but there it's like life. We get all cluttered up 
 with things we don't ever use, but can't seem to throw 
 away." 
 
 "Ain't it so!" exclaimed Miss Becca again. She medi- 
 tated on the superfluities of existence dreamily. Then her 
 eyes snapped open. 
 
 "What you reading, Judy?" 
 
 "A book I got out of the Sunday School library. It's 
 called 'Juliette, or Now and Forever.' " 
 
 "Put it away before your Pa comes in," said Louellen. 
 "You know he don't like to catch you reading." 
 
 Judy gave an impatient twitch of her young shoulders. 
 "But this came out of the Sunday School library, Mother.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 185 
 
 i 
 
 He don't mind them so much. And I've done everything I 
 had to do, to-day, every single thing." 
 
 "Where's Virgie?" 
 
 "Upstairs sewing on her white organdie dress." 
 
 "Don't you want to get yours and sit here with Miss 
 Becca and me and sew on it awhile ?" 
 
 Judy looked up intently, laughter in her eyes. "Now, 
 Mother, you know I want to read. I'll get the dress done 
 in time for the rally." 
 
 But Louellen persisted. "Go and get it anyway, and I'll 
 run the hem in for you. Maybe you'll get tired of reading 
 after a little and want to sew." 
 
 Judy felt the pressure of reasons unsaid, insistence with a 
 motive unexpressed, but no less urgent. She rose reluc- 
 tantly and went into the house. 
 
 "She reads too much," said Louellen to Miss Becca, ex- 
 plainingly. "Her Pa and I don't like it." 
 
 "Makes the eyes weak, reading," agreed Miss Becca. 
 
 Presently Judy returned, her arms full of airy fabric, her 
 sewing bag dangling from her arm. 
 
 "That's real sweet-pretty," said Miss Becca. "I do like 
 to see the young girls all decked out in white. Blue sash 
 for Judy, I reckon." 
 
 "Yes, and red for Virgie. She's going to have five ruffles 
 and I'm going to have three. She's going to whip lace on 
 hers. But I told Mother that's too much work for me." 
 
 "You'll catch a beau in all that finery," prophesied Miss 
 Becca. "I und'stand Virgie's going with the young min- 
 ister." 
 
 Judy giggled. "Bud says he don't know if it's Mammy 
 Rachel's fried chicken or Virgie that Willy Todd's after." 
 
 "You Judy you ought to be ashamed," rebuked Miss 
 Becca, smilingly. "Well, I never did see a Meth'dis preacher 
 that wasn't fond of fried chicken laws knows they must 
 eat enough of it, one year's end to another. Minister com- 
 ing kill a chicken, beat biscuit, stir up a chocolate cake. 
 That's the ticket. Young Willy's a right nice boy not that
 
 186 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 I think he'll ever be the equal to his Pa in awesomeness 
 the P'siding Elder was the only preacher I ever listened to 
 who could make me feel my sins was as scarlet. Hon- 
 estly, he used to scare me. I'd go home and look at my silk 
 dresses and my dyed hair, and make up my mind I was 
 nothing but a wicked old rattle-trap, full set on vanity and 
 nothing 1 else. But the next day I'd get over it. A body 
 can't live with hell-fire forever scorching at their heels, I 
 say." 
 
 Judy had left her book, and taken a chair at Miss Becca's 
 side. Carefully she turned and pressed in the narrow hem 
 of her ruffling, her hands a little unsure, but painstaking. 
 
 "Preachers used to talk a lot more about eternal punish- 
 ment than they do now. It makes me laugh to myself some- 
 times, Miss Becca," said Louellen. "As if we didn't get 
 our punishment for everything we do right here on earth. 
 More, sometimes, than it seems like we deserve. And 
 we get punished for things we do ignorantly, or without 
 any bad intentions, just like we do for things we do with 
 our eyes open, and a full sense of wrong. Sometimes 
 worse." 
 
 "That's not orthodox," said Miss Becca, who dearly loved 
 this sort of argument. "Not orthodox at all. I don't hardly 
 think you ought to say such things in front of little pitchers 
 here. And it's only half -true, Louellen. Why, look here 
 you're neighbor to Mart Bladen. All his life he's been a 
 regular rapscallion, if ever there was one. And what hap- 
 pens to him? Nothing. He raises first rate crops, he 
 goes around with everybody, and has a good time, he " 
 
 "But Uncle Mart's a good man," broke in Judy ve- 
 hemently. "He's the kindest and he never does a mean 
 thing. He's good even if he's not pious. Can't anybody 
 be that?" 
 
 "He takes the name of the Lord in vain, swears like a 
 string-team driver, as a matter of fact. He's always playing 
 cards and cards are the devil's picture books. He gets 
 drunk, and raises Cain here and there. Not that I don't
 
 One Thing Is Certain 187 
 
 like Mart, and always did. I'm just using him as an illus- 
 tration." 
 
 "He's a good neighbor," said Louellen, her face bent 
 over her sewing. "He and John Henry get along right 
 well. John Henry used not to like him much, but they're 
 neighborly enough now." 
 
 "Maybe John Henry thinks he's going to save Mart's 
 soul. If he does, he's laid out a hard job for himself." 
 
 Judy grew very red. "Unc' Mart's soul doesn't need 
 saving." 
 
 "Ssst !" cautioned Louellen. "That's not the way to speak 
 to Miss Becca. She was only joking." 
 
 "Yes, I was," said Miss Becca, "and I'd say it to Mart's 
 face, and laugh at it with him, if he come by. So don't 
 fly up, Judy. Make allowance for old folks' foolishness." 
 
 But Judy was not to be appeased. She sat grave and 
 silent, her face clouded, busy with her work. Louellen, 
 glancing at her, was aware of her. 
 
 "Run around and ask Rachel if she made the cheese-pie 
 I told her about," she said. "I thought you'd relish an 
 old-fashioned cheese-pie, Miss Becca." 
 
 "Haven't eat one since I was here last," exclaimed Miss 
 Becca with joy. "Relish it I guess I could. You're a 
 great hand to keep on with the old ways, Louellen. 
 Goodness knows I like the newfangles they're always bring- 
 ing out well enough, and nobody, not even my worst enemy, 
 would accuse me of being behind the times, but there was a 
 flavor to the old dishes that was mighty satisfying. But 
 nobody makes 'em much nowadays. When did I ever eat a 
 piece of Togus loaf? And who makes milk-rising bread?" 
 
 "We have it now and again during the summer," said 
 Louellen. "I'll have Rachel make some whilst you're here." 
 
 Judy came back and sat down again. "The cheese-pie's 
 in the oven," was her report. "Say, Mother look there 
 comes Unc' Mart now along the road. He promised he'd 
 bring me some candy Hoo-oo hoo-oo!" She called and 
 waved both arms, then ran wildly down the lane.
 
 188 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "Mart spoils the children a good bit," said Louellen, look- 
 ing after her, impassively. "They're real fond of him, Judy 
 especial." 
 
 They could see the big man on the horse rein in at the 
 call and dismount. Judy flung her arms around him and 
 kissed him, then followed a droll rummaging through his 
 pockets, the capture of a fat paper bag, its hasty opening, 
 and a red and white peppermint found a quick road to her 
 red mouth. They walked up the lane together, the docile 
 horse with dropped rein following. 
 
 Miss Becca came to the edge of the porch to welcome 
 the newcomer. "Speak of the devil and his imps appear," 
 she called out. "We was just making mince-meat outa 
 your character, Mart." 
 
 "You better be careful, or I'll tell some of the things I 
 know about you. Miss Becca, you look prime. No use ask- 
 ing how you are, for you're younger and spryer than ever. 
 How you do it beats me, got a recipe to pass round to an 
 old man? Good evening, Louellen how's everybody?" 
 
 He stood straight and tall before them. Flesh had padded 
 his body, but not in ungainly fashion. He had grown mas- 
 sive, but not fat. His blue eyes were still clear and mirthful, 
 and though the years had put lines of dissipation in his face, 
 and lines of self-indulgence, for all that he was palpably 
 a man of strength, the diverted master of his vices, and not 
 their slave. 
 
 "You an old man!" scoffed Miss Becca. "You'll never 
 get old ! They'll have to knock you in the head if they 
 want to kill you." 
 
 "No such luck. Why, I'm getting so that if I ride more'n 
 twenty miles or so I feel it next day. And my best girl, 
 here" he flung his arm around Judy "my best girl here, 
 she likes me only for candy, and when you've got to the 
 place where cupboard love's the only thing the girls'll give 
 you, you may as well make up your mind to settle down 
 by the fire." 
 
 "Save some of that candy for Virgie and Bud," said
 
 One Thing Is Certain 189 
 
 Louellen to Judy, who was deep in the bag again. "Come 
 up and set awhile, Mart, won't you? You've been into 
 town, I suppose." She did not look directly at him, nor he 
 at her, but their manner was wholly unembarrassed. A 
 little stiff perhaps, but not enough to suggest to the most 
 suspicious that any self-conscious spark of old fires might 
 yet remain. 
 
 "Yes, do come up, Unc' Mart," said Judy, hastening to 
 bring a chair. "Here, set down by me. Oh my, these are 
 good pep'mints. No licorice?" 
 
 "He was out of licorice. You're like a six-year-old for 
 licorice." If he did not look at Louellen, his eyes dwelt 
 continually with lingering fondness on Judy. 
 
 "I love it." 
 
 "Maybe Miss Becca would enjoy a piece before you've 
 fingered it all over," suggested Louellen. 
 
 Judy, dashed, passed the candy bag to Miss Becca. 
 
 "I didn't mean to be greedy," she murmured. "Don't 
 you want some, too, Mother?" 
 
 But Louellen shook her head. 
 
 Miss Becca, a peppermint drop bulging her cheek to a 
 likeness of its former curve, exclaimed over Mart's horse. 
 "Look at that dumb beast more sense than most humans, 
 I'll bet. How'd you train it so, Mart?" 
 
 Mart reached for a candy and offered it to the attentive, 
 docile animal. "I didn't do much. Horses and dogs just 
 naturally do for you if you like 'em. Chloe here wouldn't 
 stand a minute for Ephum wouldn't hardly let him mount 
 her, for that matter." Chloe, smacking her lips over the 
 tidbit, cocked knowledgeable eyes at her master, aware that 
 she was discussed. She sidled toward him, daintily, and 
 he put out an affectionate hand, slapped her shining neck, 
 rumpled her smooth mane. She tossed her head and drew 
 away, offended. "She don't like that," he laughed, "any 
 more than Judy here if I mussed up her hair. Well, I got 
 to put for home. All very well to sit on the front porch 
 and chat with the ladies, but us farmers have got to keep
 
 190 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 an eye on the field hands this time of year. I'll bet John 
 Henry's right out with 'em this minute. Don't catch him 
 going to town any day but Sunday when it's planting time." 
 
 "It's different with John Henry," said Miss Becca. "He's 
 got a growing family to provide for. You're an old bach 
 with never a care though how you ever managed to get 
 away from the girls I don't understand. If I'd a' been 
 young when you was, Mart, you'd have had to step double- 
 quick." 
 
 "Now, Miss Becca, you know you only got to say the 
 word, any time." 
 
 "Go 'long, you scamp " she tittered, flattered. "You 
 always were the greatest hand to soft sawder!" 
 
 "Soft sawder nothing! That's the way you treat my 
 broken heart " 
 
 She loved the rough banter. "It never was broken, Mart, 
 as I heard of, but it's pretty well dinted and battered up, I 
 don't doubt." 
 
 He caught Chloe's rein, put a foot in the stirrup, and 
 swung himself into the saddle. "Why don't you come over 
 and see me before you go, Miss Becca? Sally's kind of 
 crippled with rheumatics, but she can still make a spice-cake. 
 I'd be right glad to see you. Get Judy here to fetch you." 
 
 "Yes," she retorted, " 'f raid it'll start scandal if I come 
 by myself, I suppose. My reputation can stand it, I thank 
 you even if yours won't." 
 
 "That's it," he laughed. "That's it exactly, only I was too 
 modest to make my brags about my own reputation. Well, 
 you come, anyway." He waved his hand and rode away. 
 Miss Becca looked after him admiringly. 
 
 "Just as good-looking as when he was a boy," she said. 
 "And just the same come-day-go-day Mart. It's a wonder 
 some girl didn't get him. Delia Layton tried hard enough, 
 goodness knows. Even now they say she's crazy about him, 
 and she's been married to old Al Chaires this ten years or 
 more. Everybody knows she only took Al as a last grab 
 in the grab-bag. Mart never had any time for her, and
 
 One Thing Is Certain 191 
 
 never made any bones about it. I oughtn'to've twitted him 
 about having no family, though. Seemed to me I saw a 
 shadder kind of come over his face when I did. The laws 
 knows his two sisters've got plenty, and over at Sudlers- 
 ville, where I was visiting Manie Towers week before last, 
 I heard that it's nip and tuck between 'em as to who'll 
 make the most of Mart, and get his land and his money 
 when he dies." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Becca," exclaimed Judy. "Don't don't talk 
 about Uncle Mart dying." 
 
 "Judy's real tender-hearted," interposed her mother 
 swiftly. "She never can bear to think about death. Used 
 to cry herself sick if one of her kittens died." 
 
 "I don't like the idea of it much better myself," con- 
 fessed Miss Becca, frankly. "Well, my-o, here comes John 
 Henry !" 
 
 Around the corner of the house appeared the master of 
 it, still tall and dark and gloomy of countenance, an effect 
 heightened by the beard that he had let grow in his middle 
 age, which, with the upper lip shaved bare, gave him a 
 severe and ascetic aspect. More, it was as if the passing 
 years had laid a cloud of darkness on the man, dimmed him, 
 thwarted and placed bars before him against which his soul 
 forever waged a furtive, desperate struggle. For all his air 
 of autocracy, for all his increased assertiveness and it had 
 increased there was an uncertainty about him, too slight, 
 perhaps, to be noticed by any but himself. His voice had 
 lost none of its harsh and decisive timbre. His smile was 
 still a contortion of the facial muscles, unlighted by his eyes. 
 He greeted the guest amiably enough. 
 
 "How do, Miss Becca," he said, shaking hands. "You 
 got here, did you? I thought I saw a livery team driving 
 up, but I wasn't sure. How are you?" 
 
 "Nothing to complain of. How're you? You're not put- 
 ting on any flesh, that's one sure thing." 
 
 "I guess I'm not the fleshy sort. Even if I was inclined 
 to it I'd run it off me, I'm so pushed with work. Seems'if
 
 192 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 the niggers get more worthless every year. What I come 
 round for now was, I want Judy should go on out to the 
 field and drop melon-seed for Bud." 
 
 "Judy and Virgie can both go," said Louellen, softly. 
 "I'll call Virgie." 
 
 "I don't need more'n one. Judy can do it. Run get your 
 sunbonnet, Judy, and hustle out." 
 
 Louellen's tone did not alter. "Yes, Judy, you run along 
 and help, and when you get half the field planted come on 
 in, and Virgie'll go out and finish it." She did not stop 
 sewing as she spoke. John Henry gave her a rancorous 
 glance, but was silent. "Don't stand gawping there all 
 afternoon," he said, brutally, to Judy. "Do as you're told, 
 can't you?" 
 
 Judy flushed piteously, her blue eyes seemed ready to spill 
 tears, but she was obedient. She vanished, and so, after a 
 moment, did John Henry. There seemed nothing more for 
 him to say. 
 
 Louellen kept on sewing. "I try not to favor one of the 
 girls more'n the other," she said. "John Henry kind of feels 
 Judy's nothing but a child yet, and Virgie's a young lady, 
 and he don't like to call on her for the odd jobs she used 
 to do. But there's only a little over three years' difference 
 between 'em, and I don't think there should be any distinc- 
 tion made. Virgie's too much inclined to stay in the house 
 anyway. And Judy's a tomboy when she's not got her 
 nose buried in a book." 
 
 "They're both nice girls," said Miss Becca impartially 
 "everybody says so. I don't deny Judy's a little mite my 
 favorite, but that's because she's younger, I expect, and got 
 such little kittenish cuddling ways. She sort of draws you. 
 Virgie's cooler, not so open-hearted. More like her Pa. 
 Judy's like you used to be." 
 
 "Yes," said Louellen, evenly, "Judy's like what I used 
 to be."
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 MART BLADEN, riding homeward, had no consciousness 
 of lingering sting in Miss Becca's words about his bachelor* 
 hood. The spring satisfied him, renewed his content with 
 life. Each year he loved it more, for it had ceased to waken 
 in him any troubling emotions, any regrets, any bitterness 
 of desire unfulfilled. He had closed the book of his youth, 
 accepting life as movement, yielding now as he had yielded 
 then to the inevitable march of time and circumstance. 
 There was about him no suggestion of tragedy and upheaval 
 such as had ravaged and burnt John Henry and Louellen. 
 His simple heart had served him well, protecting him from 
 the cost of too much and too intense feeling. He was not 
 insensible, but he found it impossible to look either back or 
 forward. The present sufficed him wholly. 
 
 So now this spring day, warm as late June, flinging its 
 urgency on the waiting land that all the veins of life still 
 torpid and sluggish there from winter might be quickened 
 to movement and increase this day sent Mart Bladen along 
 his road home well satisfied. There were sweet odors in 
 the air, from the new leaves, from the fresh earth. He 
 sniffed them relishingly. There were so many good smells 
 that he remembered, hay-fields with the emerald clover, 
 mown down, the fallen stalks showing the gray underside 
 of their drying leaves ; sweet grass by the roadside with 
 night dew on it; white pear blossoms as heady as fruit 
 liquor; Sweet Gale that grows in the marshes, breath of 
 August afternoons ; little spicy swamp magnolias ; sassafras 
 and sweet-gum leaves ; balsam ; wild honeysuckle, matted 
 and clinging; apple pomace lifted in a thick round cake 
 from the cider mill ; fallen leaves burning in heavy autumnal 
 incense. He ran them over in his thought, dwelling on 
 them as one dwells on memories of loved faces. It was a 
 
 193
 
 194 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 good world. He spoke to Chloe. "Tired, old lady? Go 
 'long you're not tired. B'lieve I'll ride you down to Tucka- 
 hoe to-night yet, so don't go playing me any tricks." She 
 tossed her head petulantly. "That makes you mad, huh? 
 Don't you get lazy, Chloe. You're nothing but a colt, yet." 
 
 A little farther there was a tremendous disturbance among 
 the crowded roadside bushes and a white setter with brown 
 spots leaped out at him, barking, jumping, wriggling in a 
 passion of welcome so intense that it amounted to frenzy. 
 Mart leaned to pat the wildly bobbing head, and the dog 
 quieted himself, and grinned up at his master with affection 
 and comprehension. "Well, I'm a son of a gun !" said Mart. 
 "You been waiting here behind the fence ever since I started 
 to town. Caesar you old rascality ! Don't you know you 
 oughta been home taking care of the place? Ain't you an 
 old rascality, hey? You bet you are. Sticking round 
 here waiting for his master to come home, was he ? Trying 
 to snap my stirrups off, was he? Laughing and hollerin' 
 dog-fashion, was he? You're a funny one, you are." 
 
 The dog, quieted by the loved voice, ran on ahead, and 
 led the way to the house, waving his tail like a flag of joy. 
 The long lane of tulip trees, taken from the woods as saplings 
 and planted by a Bladen of former generations, had not 
 greatly increased their girth nor their spread since Mart's 
 youth. They were majestic trees of dignity and grace. To 
 Mart, riding under them, they were a comJnonplace, yet 
 to-day, in their tender spring renewal, they called him to 
 look at them. 
 
 "Tulip-trees the prettiest thing that grows," he told them. 
 "I wisht I knew just which granddaddy Bladen it was who 
 was so fond of 'em. He did a darned good trick, planting 
 'em for me." He looked on, up to the house. "Hello, 
 somebody's here. That's Doc Tithelow's shay I know it 
 by its low-hang. Hustle up, Chloe." 
 
 The chaise was just turning to go, Ephum standing at the 
 side, as he cantered up. "Hello, Mart, how are y'?" called 
 the doctor. "I was passing and dropped in, thought I'd
 
 One Thing Is Certain 195 
 
 leave a bottle of liniment for Sally. And there was some- 
 thing else Joe Kemp's dead." 
 
 "The deuce you say! When did it happen? Say, light 
 and come in, Doc. Stay to supper." 
 
 The doctor hesitated. "I don't know but I will. There's 
 no reason why I should get back to town till this evening." 
 He climbed heavily out of his chaise. "Ephum, don't feed 
 my horse too heavy he's been colicky lately. Let him have 
 a drink of water now, and feed later." 
 
 "Yessir, yessir," said Ephum, at the horse's head. 
 
 "And tell Sally Doc'll be here for supper," added Mart. 
 
 The two men went into the house as Ephum disappeared 
 with the horse and chaise. The big bare sitting room was 
 dull with coming evening. Mart stooped and lit the fire, 
 already laid, on the hearth. "We don't really need it, it's 
 so warm," he said apologetically, "but it livens things up. 
 Set down, Doc, and I'll pour you out a little nip o' liquor. 
 So Joe's gone, is he? I didn't know he was so near the 
 end. When did he go?" 
 
 "This morning. God, I'd hate to die like he did. Suffer ! 
 That man suffered like hell. All the morphine I could stuff 
 into him wouldn't ease him off. His guts were rotted green 
 with liquor." 
 
 Mart had taken a decanter of whiskey from the cupboard, 
 and a couple of glasses. He poured out the liquor, stiff 
 drinks, three fingers high. "Wait a minute." He went out 
 and came back with a thick old glass pitcher filled with 
 cold water. "Shall I pour some in, or ?" 
 
 "I'll take mine neat." The Doctor's heavy fingers gripped 
 the glass, and lifted it eagerly to his lips. "I needed that," 
 he said. "Prime stuff, Mart." 
 
 "It's the finest Baltimore rye, and I got this barrel direct 
 from Henry Walters, let's see I reckon I won't say how 
 many years ago. No use reminding myself how fast I'm 
 shoving along." 
 
 They sat before the fire, the whiskey on the table between 
 them, the flames mounting, giving color and cheer to the
 
 196 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 bleak whitewashed walls, the battered, uncared-for fur- 
 nishings. 
 
 "I reckon I'll ride over to Joe's after supper," said Mart. 
 "There might be something I could do. I don't suppose 
 Tillie'll have enough left to pay the undertaker. Old Billy 
 Galloway's held a mortgage on the place for's long as I 
 c'n remember. Now he'll close in, the damned old spider. 
 Well, Joe was a good fellow his own worst enemy, as the 
 saying goes." 
 
 "Never knew how to use his liquor. But there, he was 
 like all the Kemps, heady and go-as-you-please, and they 
 all had a queer streak. You don't recollect Joe's great- 
 uncle, old Cap'n Tom Kemp, do you?" 
 
 Mart laughed. "Just barely funny little old man, little 
 hands and feet, like a girl's, lazy as the devil, always on 
 horseback. People used to say he slept in the stable, so's 
 to mount his horse soon as he woke up. He was a curio. 
 But he could ride! I mind him galloping down the road 
 like a streak when I was a youngster in my mother's lap, 
 sitting his horse straight as an arrow." 
 
 "Yes, he was a curio. I was there when he died, and 
 he called his wife and his oldest boy. 'I'm a-dying,' he says, 
 as determined and as chipper as you please, 'and I want 
 you to promise me to bury me with my coffin half way out 
 of the ground, f'r I expect to go straight through hell and 
 back again, and then I want to look round and see what the 
 damn niggers are doing!' It was right after the 'manci- 
 pation proclamation he died. I was home on a furlough 
 that's how I happened to 'tend him. I was thinking about 
 it, there with Joe, this morning. He's got a little of the 
 look of old Cap'n Tom, only bigger, of course." 
 
 They lapsed into silence, until Ephum brought in lamps. 
 "Suppeh raidy," he announced, and they went out to a meal 
 of cold sliced ham, hot potato bread, split and buttered, 
 creamed potatoes, cottage cheese, hard-boiled eggs, sun- 
 preserved raspberries, wine-colored, thick with rich sweet- 
 ness, pound cake, a golden mound.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 197 
 
 "Sally say not much suppeh to-night," apologized Ephum, 
 "she 'low her mis'ry was so bad she di'n get roun' ter what 
 she laid out t' have." 
 
 "I guess we can make out," said Mart. 
 
 "I can always make out when I get some of your home- 
 cured ham," said the Doctor, relishingly. "That's the meat 
 I love." 
 
 "Ephum, you go on out to the smoke-house and get 
 down a ham and wrap it up and put it in Doc's shay," com- 
 manded Mart. "Don't say a word, Doc we got plenty. 
 I only hope you'll enjoy it." 
 
 "Poor Joe," began Mart presently, "he was a wild one. 
 Good-natured, too, when he wasn't in liquor, but an ugly 
 customer when he was. Tillie's had a hard row to hoe." 
 
 "She ought to've left him. Nobody would've blamed her." 
 
 "Yes, they would, too. You mightn't and I mightn't, 
 but you know most people would've said it was her place 
 to stick to him, no matter what he did." 
 
 "I suppose you're right. There's a high average of do- 
 mestic faithfulness on the surface at least all through 
 this county. I remember when I first came down here 
 from the North, when I was a young man, noticing and 
 thinking about it, and the feeling's just the same still. 
 Rough on women, though. They talk about marriages being 
 made in heaven ! Why, I could match up the people in this 
 neighborhood a damn sight better than heaven, if heaven's 
 really responsible." A shadow passed over his face. He 
 was thinking of his own tiresome shallow wife who had 
 been a weariness and a thorn to his comfortable busy ex- 
 istence. Mart did not notice. 
 
 "Yeh you're mighty smart, Doc," he answered jocosely. 
 "But don't you set yourself up too much. Just because 
 you're in at all the bornings and the dyings don't make you 
 out any divine providence, you know." 
 
 The Doctor retreated to safer ground. "It's queer how 
 little this whole community's changed in twenty years. 
 Roads are better, and the towns've grown up some. But
 
 198 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 folks are pretty much the same. Not much up, not much 
 down. The Kemps are an exception. Now, they have run 
 out. God, but Joe's place is a mess." 
 
 "You make me feel kind of mean. I've fought shy of 
 going out there for a good many years now but if I'd 
 known he was in straits " 
 
 "They're worse off'n most nigger renters." 
 
 "That's terrible." The meal was over and Mart was 
 busy lighting his pipe with the eternal fussiness with which 
 a man goes about that operation. His face, in the spurt 
 of light from the paper spill, was clouded with distress. He 
 was thinking of Joe as the high-spirited reckless companion 
 of his youth. 
 
 The two men drove in silence to the Cross Roads, Chloe 
 cantering easily beside the Doctor's chaise. As they were 
 to part Doctor Tithelow reined in. 
 
 "If there's any question about money, I'll be glad to chip 
 in, Mart, and so will a good many others round town, I 
 know. Not worth while letting Tillie know where it comes 
 from." 
 
 "O. K. I'll see what's needed. If it's not too much I'll 
 handle it myself, might just's well. Joe and me used to 
 be good friends." 
 
 At the Kemp house there were confusion and disorder. 
 Tillie Kemp, lean, haggard, bent, was scrubbing furiously, 
 a lamp with broken chimney beside her on the floor. She 
 looked up drearily as the door opened, showing no surprise. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Mart. Go in the setting room. He's not 
 been brought down yet, because the coffin hasn't come. 
 He's upstairs on the bed." 
 
 "Tillie, you oughtn't to be doing this," said Mart, pity- 
 ingly. "Where's your children? Or isn't there somebody 
 else?" 
 
 She swished the wet scrub rag in her hand nervously. 
 "I want things to be clean, at least," she said with bitter- 
 ness. "It's poor enough, but we can be clean. People 
 will be coming, and I don't want them to see the house
 
 One Thing Is Certain 199 
 
 dirty." It was evident that she was overwrought to the 
 point of hysteria. She hardly knew what she was doing 
 or saying. "I sent the children off to bed, they bothered 
 me so. And there was some folks in, but they just nosed 
 round and asked questions, and I let 'em see they wasn't 
 wanted. We got along all this time without no help, and 
 I reckon we can still manage, at least till Joe's in the 
 ground." 
 
 A door was opened cautiously and a boy's head appeared, 
 dark and scowling and unhappy. 
 
 "I told you to go on up to bed," shrilled Tillie. 
 
 Lee Kemp opened the door and stood revealed, a lad 
 of seventeen, strong but gangling and awkward. "I ain't 
 going to bed and leave you down here, Ma," he protested. 
 "I told you I wasn't. I'd've wiped up that floor for you, 
 and you know it. Good evening, Mr. Bladen " He looked 
 helplessly at Mart. 
 
 "Yes, and it'd've been as dirty as ever. What d'you know 
 about doing things right? Seems like everything's against 
 me, Mart. I I don't know what to do " Desolate 
 tears began to trickle down her gray cheeks, and she wiped 
 her eyes with her apron. Mart stooped and lifted her to 
 her feet. 
 
 "There, Tillie, there. Come on in here and let's talk a 
 little about what's to be done. Lee'll finish up the floor, if 
 it's got to be wiped up to-night. Come on in here, that's 
 a good soul." 
 
 He led the crying, shaking woman into the sitting room, 
 and an untidy, scared girl, younger than Lee, appeared. 
 "Why, here's Kate. Kate, you take your mother off up- 
 stairs to bed, and don't leave her come down again. I'll 
 stay and watch to-night. You go 'long, Tillie. That's 
 right." He spoke to her very much as he spoke to Chloe, 
 coaxing, but firm, and finally she yielded and went off with 
 Katie's arms around her. Mart shook his head as he turned 
 back to the hall. 
 
 Lee was trying to finish the scrubbing and making a very
 
 200 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 poor hand at it. "Didn't any of the neighbors come in?" 
 asked Mart. "Or offer to stay to-night?" 
 
 "Mis' Statum and her sister come, but Ma sent 'em off. 
 Ma thought they was just curious to see how poor we were." 
 Lee's voice was defiant, but his boy's face was forlorn. 
 Mart watched him appraisingly. He had long ago ceased 
 his intimacy with Joe Kemp, whose name had become a by- 
 word for worthless shiftlessness and continuous squalid 
 sprees, and he knew nothing about the boy, remembered 
 him only vaguely as an unkempt little figure that hung to 
 Tillie's skirts. But there was something about the dogged 
 defiance of the lad that touched and held him. 
 
 "Throw out that dirty water and wipe your hands," he 
 said. "I want to talk to you." 
 
 "I'll finish this first. Ma'll want it clean." 
 
 Mart lowered his height to the bare boards of Joe Kemp's 
 ramshackle floor. "Doggoned if I don't help you," he said, 
 and rolled back his wristbands forthwith. 
 
 The two worked with awkward puffing endeavor, until at 
 last the floor was clean, cleaner, at least. Then they went 
 back to the kitchen and washed their hands under the pump. 
 Everywhere were signs of poverty, shiftlessness. Lee made 
 no comment, he neither concealed nor revealed. His frown 
 and his unhappiness had lightened a little, for here was a 
 man, a real man, who was treating him as an equal. 
 
 "I expect you've been trying to work the place pretty 
 much yourself, haven't you?" Mart asked, when they sat 
 down at last. "Had right hard sledding, I expect." 
 
 "I got along all right," said Lee. "I got things started 
 good this year. But it's not any use, now." 
 
 "What you mean?" 
 
 "Mr. Calloway'll foreclose. I expect he'd've done it any- 
 way. He was threatening he would." 
 
 "Well, sir, now," Mart sucked in his breath, consider- 
 ing. "And what'll you do?" 
 
 "I'm going to work. Ma, she's going home to Grandpa 
 Hignutt's. He told her a long time back soon's Pa was
 
 One Thing Is Certain 201 
 
 gone he wanted her to come keep house for him. Kate'll 
 go along with her. Grandpa Hignutt, he'll take good care 
 of 'em, though he wouldn't do a hand's turn for Ma whilest 
 Pa was alive. Mr. Bladen Pa was all right when he 
 wasn't drunk. But everybody went against him so " 
 The boy's lips quivered as he made his incoherent protest 
 against the injustice of the world. "If folks wouldn't've 
 been so hard on Pa and kept away from him so but 
 everything he did he never got no credit. And it don't 
 leave us no chance. Everybody says 'Oh, you're one of 
 Joe Kemp's children, are you?' and I don't know it's 
 not right, somehow. I don't say he did what was right, 
 but but he wasn't half as bad as folks thought." 
 
 He gulped out the words, trying to command himself. 
 Mart saw how thin he was, how his bones showed gaunt in 
 his boyish body, how, when he turned his face toward the 
 light, his face was marked with care and anxiety far be- 
 yond his years. "He's not had enough to eat," thought 
 Mart, uncomfortably, and felt a fresh pang, remembering 
 again how he had been one of those to stay away from 
 Joe in these later years. And this forlorn child had been 
 hungry, in all this land of bounty. 
 
 Unaccustomed to counsel, he groped for words of kind- 
 ness and advice. "Shucks, now I wouldn't fret about what 
 people do or say," he began. "You let bygones be by- 
 gones. Not but what it's right for you to stick up for your 
 father." 
 
 The boy stared before him dumbly. His suffering hurt 
 Mart. Pain was so alien to him that it was harsh in an- 
 other, and he had a ready sympathy for all youth. This 
 tense, unboyish boy stirred him. 
 
 "You got any place figured out where you're going to 
 work or figured it out what you'll do ?" he asked, presently. 
 
 "No, sir. But I can hire out somewhere round. I can 
 do a man's work, any day and all day. I'm used to handling 
 a team." 
 
 Mart's ideas came slowly, but they were clear and lucid.
 
 202 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "If you don't get anything to do you'd prefer, I'd be glad 
 to take you on for the summer. I need another hand, some- 
 body that'd be responsible, and look after things pretty 
 sharp. I got to be away end of the month jury duty 
 and the niggers soldier on me outrageous when I'm not 
 right there." 
 
 Lee listened to this offer with alternating suspicion and 
 pleasure. "I you didn't just think that up to to help 
 me?" he asked, hiding a throb of quick relief behind his 
 surliness. "I don't want any charity. I can earn my way." 
 
 "I'd expect you to, if you work for me," said Mart. 
 "Don't you make any mistake you'll be on the hop from 
 sun up to sun down, and maybe a leetle mite over, some- 
 times. You'd have to do your work thorough, and no 
 slacking. And I wouldn't want to have to tell you any- 
 thing more'n once." 
 
 "You wouldn't have to." He was- touchy and conceited, 
 but humble, too. "I'd like to come work for you, Mr. 
 Bladen, if you think I'd do. You you used to be a friend 
 to Pa." 
 
 "I was always your Pa's friend." 
 
 The boy flushed. "I didn't mean " he began, self- 
 consciously. 
 
 "I know you didn't mean anything," said Mart. "Look- 
 ahere, Lee, you're pretty well tuckered out, I expect, setting 
 up with your Pa nights, and all. You lay down on the 
 lounge, and I'll set up and keep watch." 
 
 "I don't want to go to sleep and leave you set up alone." 
 
 "Don't you mind about that. You've got a hard day in 
 front of you to-morrow, son. There'll be a lot of people 
 coming and going, like there always is after a death, and 
 you'll have to meet 'em and talk to 'em, and everything like 
 that. I don't believe your Ma'll be much good to-morrow, 
 so you get some rest now." 
 
 The boy, like Tillie, yielded, but reluctantly. But Mart 
 had judged well the depth of his weariness, for no sooner 
 had he thrown himself down than he was asleep, a deep
 
 One Thing Is Certain 203 
 
 devitalized exhausted sleep. The pain and sullenness and 
 bewilderment at the cruelty and stupidity of the world that 
 had pinched him lifted as he slept and he became supremely 
 young, faintly smiling. 
 
 Mart watched him. "Poor little shaver," he thought with 
 pity and self-condemnation. "He figures that every man's 
 hand's against him on account of Joe being as he was. 
 He's had it hard, that boy. I knew folks said Joe Kemp's 
 boy was trying to work the farm, but I didn't look into it 
 at all, and here he's been a lifting and straining and striv- 
 ing and getting nowhere. Nothing at home here but Joe 
 drunk and Tillie whining. But for all that it didn't break 
 down his spirit. He's got real gimp, doggoned if he hasn't. 
 All he needs is a chance." 
 
 But he had no great altruistic motive. The boy might 
 come and work for him, and he would treat him fairly, 
 pay him, feed him, that was all. Even as he lived his 
 own life, regardless of anything but his own tastes and 
 wishes, his own ways, his own will, so unconsciously he 
 ceded this right freely to other people. Easy with himself, 
 he was easy with the rest of the world. No reformer's 
 nor uplif ter's nor regenerator's zeal ever troubled him. Life 
 was free for all to live as they wished. 
 
 The boy slept heavily, not stirring. Presently Mart tip- 
 toed out to Chloe. He wished he did not need to leave 
 her in the open yard with the cold spring breeze singing 
 about her. There must be a shed somewhere ... he walked 
 her down toward the barn and its outbuildings, going slowly 
 through the blue haze of the night. Without a lantern he 
 would not try to enter the stables, but he found a leanto, 
 and backed Chloe into it. Sleepy chickens clucked at him 
 from its interior. 
 
 "There now, old girl you can roost with the hens to- 
 night," he told her, loosening her girths, slipping off her 
 bridle. "At least you won't be out in the dew." She 
 nodded, knowingly, and he went back to the house. 
 
 Strange, to be here, alive and quick, with Joe Kemp lying
 
 204 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 dead above stairs, boisterous, jovial Joe, loose-tongued, 
 lazy if work was at hand, but alert and anxious for any 
 piece of deviltry. Mart was glad he wasn't sitting up in 
 the room with the body. Bad enough down here. This 
 house, sagging, forlorn, with its cracked window panes, 
 its broken gaping plaster, its scant dilapidated furniture 
 Mart shook his head. "Doc was right," he thought. "Joe 
 never knew how to use his liquor. That was the trouble. 
 Hope the boy hasn't inherited it. I'll have to keep the stuff 
 out of sight, once he's over to my place." 
 
 He frowned at that. It would be a nuisance, having 
 the boy around if he'd got to watch his P's and Q's. It 
 might be a nuisance anyway suppose he didn't get on 
 with the hands? Oh, well, he'd committed himself. And 
 if it didn't work out one way, it would in another. Mart 
 was not one to borrow trouble. Besides, he was secure in 
 the confidence that, on his own acres, he could adequately 
 handle any situation. 
 
 The long hours wore slowly away, and with the dawn 
 Mart bestirred himself. He woke Lee, and spoke to him, 
 putting money into his hand. He respected the boy enough 
 not to offer it as charity, as he had first intended. 
 
 "I'm going to get along home," he said, as the boy stared 
 at him, still heavy-eyed and hardly comprehending. "I 
 thought you might be able to use a little ready cash times 
 like these unexpected things come up. So you take this, and 
 tell your Mother you've got it when she comes down. But 
 understand, it's a loan from me to you, and you're to work 
 it out when you come to work for me. I'll be over again 
 before the funeral. Tell your Ma if she wants me to be 
 one of the bearers I'll be glad to do it. Understand?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Lee. "I'll tell her. Say you're 
 mighty good " 
 
 "Leave it," said Mart. "This is a business transaction 
 betwixt you and me." 
 
 But the boy went out with him into the early morning. 
 He was awake now, and rested, but he had no power of
 
 One Thing Is Certain 205 
 
 self-expression. He followed Mart very much as Caesar 
 followed him, and when he had mounted looked up at him 
 with something the same look of dumb gratitude that shone 
 in Csesar's eyes. 
 
 "I'm much obliged for everything, Mr. Bladen," he said 
 huskily. "I'll pay you back, every cent." 
 
 "Well, sir," said Mart to Chloe, once they had gained 
 the high road with the desolate farm behind them, "I'm 
 glad this night's over. We'll get home to breakfast, old girl, 
 you and me both."
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 THE funeral of Joe Kemp made but a very slight ripple 
 in the current of local events. Old Billy Galloway promptly 
 foreclosed the mortgage and got possession of the home- 
 stead, its poor stock and meager rundown equipment. He 
 put a tenant there who was half-carpenter, half-farmer, in 
 order to get his repairs made free of all cost save the lumber. 
 Tillie Kemp went home to her widower father, and took 
 Katie with her, experiencing the first peaceful days of her 
 life for over a decade. And one May morning young Lee 
 appeared at the Bladen farm with all his earthly posses- 
 sions in an old telescope bag of frayed linen and stringy 
 leather. 
 
 "I'm ready to go to work," he announced. 
 
 "Did you walk all the way here carrying that?" asked 
 Mart, wondering. "It looks like quite a heft." 
 
 "No, sir, a man give me a lift part way. I only walked 
 a couple miles. It's not so much heft only there was 
 two-three books." 
 
 "Books, hey? You like to read?" 
 
 The boy hesitated suspiciously, but Mart's easy way had 
 no hint of ridicule. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he said painfully, "but I won't do it in work- 
 ing time." 
 
 "Well, there's some books round here, up attic and in 
 the sitting room closet you can read if you want to," said 
 Mart, good-naturedly. "I reckon maybe you like to eat, 
 too. I used to when I was your age I was one of the hol- 
 ler-legged kind, never got filled up. You come in now and 
 get some breakfast. Sally'll put you in a room upstairs. 
 I sleep down." He indicated the inner door with his pipe 
 stem. 
 
 Caesar had been sniffing at the new arrival and the boy 
 
 206
 
 One Thing Is Certain 207 
 
 reached an eager hand to him. "Your dog looks like an 
 awful good hunting dog," he ventured. 
 
 "You like dogs?" 
 
 "You betcha." It was emphatic. 
 
 "I like dogs," said Mart. "And I like horses, and I 
 like to see a fellow fond of 'em. And I don't allow any 
 mean treatment of any animals on my place. I figure if 
 a man's mean to animals he's mean clear through. And a 
 mean man makes a mean animal. All these hard-headed, 
 kicking, runaway horses some man made 'em that way, 
 probably when they was colts. I don't ever say 'break' a 
 colt. I gentle my colts. You any good with horses?" 
 
 "We didn't have no horses worth a cent, and we didn't 
 have much to feed 'em. But I like horses, all right." He 
 was attacking a stack of batter cakes and spoke with his 
 mouth full. 
 
 "Soon's you're through you come out to me I'll be down 
 at the barn. I'll show you my horses." 
 
 In this easy and informal fashion young Lee Kemp took 
 his place in the Bladen domicile. Mart, watching him nar- 
 rowly at first, found that all he had said of himself was 
 true and that his nature was honest. Nor did he show any 
 signs of his bad inheritance. Rather he was too quiet, too 
 repressed, and had too much of the secret sullen air that 
 Mart had noticed on the day of Joe Kemp's death. It 
 was curiously unyouthful, almost repellent. But he was 
 civil and respectful and went at all the tasks assigned him 
 with desperate concentrated energy. Mart expostulated: 
 
 "Don't take it so hard, son. You're making me out a 
 slave-driver." 
 
 The boy's answer revealed him. "I want to do extra," 
 he said doggedly. "I want to show there's some good in 
 the Kemps." 
 
 The only persons with whom he really unbent and be- 
 came as young as his years were Caesar and Sally. Sally 
 scolded him, railed at him, carried on a perpetual sham- 
 battle with him, especially finding fault with the size and
 
 208 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 activity of his appetite. "Yo' eats lak er threshin' machine. 
 Brek mah back ovah de stove cooking foh yo'. Eat, eat, 
 eat, dass all you do. Nevah see such an eatin' boy." But 
 her grumbling was invariably supplemented by the offer 
 of some cake or sweetmeat she knew he liked. He teased 
 back at her: "Worst cooking I ever tried to get down 
 fairly sticks in my craw when I try to swaller it. Whoever 
 learned you to cook, anyway?" They would both laugh 
 inordinately at such raillery, and it would end by Lee's 
 bringing in an extra armful of wood or bucket of water 
 when Ephum had been neglectful. 
 
 As for Caesar, the dog came to love Lee with an affection 
 that rivaled his devotion to Mart. When no one was 
 around to see, Lee would play with him, wrestle him, roll 
 him over, ruffle up his ears, race him until Caesar was in 
 a frenzy of dog-delight, and the boy almost as happy. Plenty 
 of food and freedom from the weight of care he had been 
 carrying gave Lee ruddiness, and put flesh on his big bones, 
 and he even began to grow taller. But with Mart he main- 
 tained a certain reserve, and when a visitor appeared at 
 the farm he kept out of sight, would not come to the table 
 if a guest stayed for a meal, but asked Sally to give him 
 a snack in the kitchen. With the negro hands he got on 
 well, managing them with an ability beyond his years. 
 
 "Doggoned if he don't pay for himself," thought Mart, 
 more than once. "Keeps the hands up to time, and does 
 his own share, and more, right along. And he's good with 
 the team." 
 
 John Henry Hyde regarded the venture with surly dis- 
 trust. "Und'stand you got that worthless limb of Joe 
 Kemp's working for you," he said to Mart, meeting him at 
 the boundary line of their fields. "Sh'd think you'd be 
 afraid to take a boy like that into your house. He's liable 
 to steal everything you've got and light out, or maybe 
 worse." 
 
 "That's where you and me differ, John Henry," said 
 Mart, genially. "There's nothing in this God's world or
 
 One Thing Is Certain 209 
 
 out of it that I'm afraid of, and certainly not of a boy that 
 age. Don't go passing the word around, either, that the 
 boy's liable to steal. There never was any thieving blood 
 in the Kemps, nor likely to be. Their weakness is another 
 kind not that Lee shows any signs of it." 
 
 "Bad blood's bad blood, way I look at it," contended 
 John Henry. And they parted on that note, Mart adding 
 the cynical reflection as his neighbor disappeared from view : 
 "And that's what they call a good Christian! Well, if he's 
 on the road to Heaven, give me hell, any time." 
 
 Later he thought: "John Henry's not looking so well. 
 And his eyes got a sort of setness like a crazy man. But 
 shucks, he's wiry. He'll outlast me, I bet you. And 
 he'll not go crazy neither. Not any crazier than he's always 
 been. He never was quite right, to my way of thinking." 
 
 He had always kept away from thinking much of John 
 Henry. There was a certain uneasiness in all his feeling 
 about him, a sort of pity tinging his inherent dislike, that 
 had forced him to acquiesce in such small overtures of 
 friendship as John Henry offered. The gigantic incompre- 
 hensible tragedy of Mart's life that had culminated in his 
 final possession and his final and absolute loss of Louellen 
 had always been something from which he had sheered 
 away in his thoughts and his feelings. It was too big for 
 him, he had no measure of sensibility for it. So he left 
 it alone in his thoughts, he put it away from him. Only 
 he was steadfast that he would have no other woman. And 
 he knew, though he could not tell how he knew, that Lou- 
 ellen had kept her word. She had not gone back to John 
 Henry, or the soilure of her lawful conjugal intimacy. He 
 was as sure of that as he was of his own constancy. It 
 gave him a strange secret exultance to think of that, but 
 even so, there was sometimes a haze of unreality over his 
 conviction, a haze engendered by the sight, always near him 
 if not always actually before him, of what this snarl in 
 which their lives had become entangled had cost both Lou- 
 ellen and John Henry. They had not escaped unscathed,
 
 210 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 as he had. They had grown hard and strange and darkly 
 sour. They had had the bitterness of daily contention, of 
 daily contact, violently opposed. It had dried up the 
 springs of Louellen's youth and left her drab and colorless 
 and hard. It had intensified the black undercurrent of 
 John Henry's emotional life, supplied him with a sore 
 grievance, no less sore for being concealed. Worse for 
 him, for he had been beaten, yet he had the satisfaction of 
 knowing that Louellen had paid a high price for her vic- 
 tory. Lives that are lived in a smothered flame of dissen- 
 sion and opposition burn out, after a while, leaving a gray 
 and poisonous ash. So with Louellen and John Henry. 
 
 Vaguely Mart knew this thing, and yet it passed over 
 him. Even for John Henry's biased distorted view of his 
 fellowmen, his lack of tolerance, Mart could not always 
 feel his old resentment. His own tolerance, wide and ready, 
 warned him that his neighbor had been warped by powerful 
 and malignant forces, of which he, without specific inten- 
 tion, had been the lever. So Mart left John Henry and 
 Louellen alone in his mind. Here was the day. He would 
 live in it. 
 
 But he hoped that John Henry would not pass round 
 the word that Joe Kemp's boy was bad. He couldn't per- 
 mit that. Lee was working so hard to show that there 
 might be, even in this downtrodden branch of the once 
 respected and well-to-do Kemp family, thrift and industry 
 and honesty. "And if some of these overbearing Christians 
 give him a knock in the face," thought Mart, "it might 
 throw him back to be worse than his Pa. Boy his age can 
 go just as hard in one direction as he can in another, and 
 it don't take much to head him either way." 
 
 With this in mind he tried to be more kind to the boy, 
 talking to him friendliwise. Once he came on him at his 
 game with Caesar, drawn by a paean of joyous yelps and 
 barks behind the barn. The boy stood still, abashed, con- 
 fused. 
 
 "Doggoned if old Caesar isn't laughing just like a hu-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 211 
 
 man," said Mart, with reassuring mirth. "I never saw him 
 so friendly with anybody before. He won't usually let 
 anybody put a hand on him. You're quicker on your feet 
 than I thought, young man. I used to be right light myself 
 thataway. Come on, I'll race you down to the road and 
 back." 
 
 For a moment Lee stared and hesitated, but the prospect 
 of sporting competition was too much for him. He was 
 hard on Mart's heels before they had gone ten yards, and 
 beat him fairly by a good margin. 
 
 "Well, sir," said Mart, laughing and panting, "that's 
 the first step I've run in I don't know when. I'll have to 
 limber up if I'm going to run foot-races with you." 
 
 "I thought I wasn't going to beat you, you was so closet 
 all the way," said Lee eagerly. "Mr. Bladen you didn't 
 let me win, did you? It was a fair and square race, 
 wasn't it ?" 
 
 "Fair and square, except that I had a mite the best at 
 the start, so I'm licked really worse than it looked. Never 
 mind, I'm going to supple up my joints and challenge you 
 again." 
 
 The race made a new friendliness between them, and 
 thereafter Lee was less reticent, more open with his mas- 
 ter. In his heart began an intense devotion, a wordless, 
 boundless gratitude. Mart became his hero. Nothing was 
 too much trouble to do in service. In small ways he offered 
 him tribute, an extra polish on the harness buckles, tools 
 sorted and put away with care, the combing and trimming 
 of Chloe's mane, a supershine of her silken coat. If Mart 
 was out of tobacco Lee would be off to town for it before 
 Mart knew it. Boy-like he tried to walk, to talk like his 
 deity. 
 
 From his infrequent, treasured hours of reading he culled 
 certain noble swashbucklers in each of whom he saw some- 
 thing of Mart a strange mixture D'Artagnan, Wallace, 
 Richard Cceur de Lion, tinctured, it must be owned, with 
 something of a more recent hero, just then looming large
 
 212 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 in every boy's imagination, John L. Sullivan. With these 
 he wove and flung round the older man a gallant glittering 
 cloak of fancy, to which he would not have owned under 
 torture, but which was no less real for being secret. 
 
 Presently he was to have other, more likely material for 
 romance. He had taken on himself the care and upkeep 
 of Mart's fences, and made a round of them now and then 
 with a bag of nails and a formidable hammer. He had 
 found a weak spot in the top rails of the back field pasture, 
 and was intent on it when he became aware of some one 
 near. 
 
 He looked up and there was Judy Hyde, staring at him 
 with the liveliest curiosity. This then was the certain limb 
 of Satan and child of sin whose presence in their neighbor- 
 hood her father so deplored. It was fascinating to be in 
 such dangerous proximity. 
 
 "I thought you was Unc' Mart, at first," she explained 
 her presence shyly. "All bent over the fence like that. But 
 you're not as tall as he is." He wasn't a bit mean looking, 
 she thought, only rather cross. And she couldn't be afraid 
 of him he wasn't any older than Bud. 
 
 Lee flushed at the slur on his height, and forgot to be 
 embarrassed by a stranger, and a girl besides. "I'm mighty 
 near as tall as Mister Bladen," he retorted, drawing him- 
 self up to his full height. 
 
 She felt she must explain her presence. "I was looking 
 for dewberries. Did you see any over there?" She added, 
 primly, remembering her manners : "My name is Judy 
 Hyde. This is my Pa's farm." 
 
 "Yes, I know. There's a good patch of dewberries over 
 in that far field, near the marsh. Want me to show you ?" 
 
 He led the way in silence, but the sight of vines dropping 
 black luscious fruit broke down Judy's reserve. "These 
 are simply grand I wish I'd brought a bigger basket." 
 
 Lee, too, forgot to be stiff and shy. A spirit of com- 
 radeship awoke in him. "I'll get you one. You wait. I'll 
 come right back."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 213 
 
 He started off on a run, and all the way to the barn and 
 back again he was in a pleasant haze. He had never talked 
 to any girls but his bedraggled, complaining, stupid sister. 
 Judy's fair color had filled his eyes. Why, she was the 
 prettiest thing he had ever seen. And she was nice. She 
 was as nice as another boy. His thoughts were ingenuous 
 enough, but with this last ran a tingling suggestion that 
 he was glad she wasn't another boy. 
 
 He handed her the basket he had brought without a word, 
 staring again at her bright clarity. 
 
 "Much obliged I'm glad it's a good big one. I'll pick 
 enough so's you can take some up to Sally and then you 
 and Unc' Mart can have dewberry roly-poly for supper. 
 Kind of funny to give Unc' Mart his own berries." They 
 found the idea comic, and laughed together. Their friend- 
 ship was progressing with each moment. 
 
 "I'll help you pick soon's I get a couple rails nailed on 
 the fence over there." 
 
 "Look," she cried after him. "I wish you wouldn't nail 
 up that top rail. I can't get over half so easy if you do, 
 and this is the best way down to the river. I always cut 
 across here." 
 
 "You got a boat?" 
 
 "Goodness, don't I wish we had! No, Pa don't believe 
 in people going out in boats. He says it's wasting time, un- 
 less you fish, and there's nothing in the river worth catch- 
 ing. But I go down there and look at the water, and some- 
 times I go in wading. Wish I could swim." 
 
 "I can swim." 
 
 "Boys can do anything," agreed Judy, enviously. "They 
 have a lot better time than girls." 
 
 "Of course they do," agreed Lee. "Men and boys have 
 to do all the work and girls just laze round any way they 
 want. Oh, yes, boys have all the fun certainly." 
 
 "Fresh !" She turned away to her picking and he swag- 
 gered over to the fence. Yes, this certainly was a nice
 
 214 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 girl. He had never thought much of girls, judging them all 
 by the standard of his own womenfolk. But this girl 
 whew, she was pretty! 
 
 He hammered away for a while, then returned. "I fixed 
 that top bar loose, so's you can slide it back when you want 
 to climb over. Now if you'll let me have one of the bas- 
 kets" 
 
 They picked in silence for a while, stealing now and then 
 inquisitive glances at each other. "Do you like it over 
 here at Unc' Mart's?" asked Judy, pausing to eat a hand- 
 ful of berries. 
 
 "He's the grandest man!" proclaimed Lee with solemn 
 fervor. "He's been so kind and good to me. And he's 
 so easy-going and so funny!" His limited vocabulary 
 failed him when he tried to express his estimate of Mart's 
 character. But he had said enough to make Judy like him 
 intensely. 
 
 "I think so, too. I think he's the grandest man that ever 
 lived. I don't care what people say about his not being 
 religious, and not going to church. I don't see that it 
 makes the least smitch of difference." But it was clear 
 that such condemnation had hurt her, and that she felt 
 certain qualms at going against the doctrines that had been 
 ground into her since infancy. No member of John Henry 
 Hyde's household but had heard a thousand times the 
 heinousness of non-attendance at church. 
 
 Young Lee answered her with real canniness. "I don't 
 see that going to church makes folks any better, really, 
 inside of 'em, I mean, or even what they do and say ex- 
 cept they don't swear. It only makes other folks think 
 they're good." 
 
 "Why, that's so. I never thought of that." 
 
 "I don't think old Billy Galloway's a good man, but he 
 goes to church and everybody sucks up to him, and calls 
 him 'Brother Galloway.' Makes me sick." 
 
 A shadow at the sound of the name of Galloway fell on 
 Judy's ingenuous face. "Do you know his grandson? Ed
 
 One Thing Is Certain 215 
 
 Galloway, the one that's got the big farm over towards 
 Harmony Camp-ground?" 
 
 "No and I don't wanta know him if he's anything like 
 his grandpa." 
 
 Judy came nearer to him, as if for protection against 
 something insidious, unseen. "I think he's worse," she 
 half-whispered. 
 
 "Did he do anything to you?" asked Lee, ruffling bellig- 
 erently. 
 
 "No but " She shook her head. "He got converted 
 and he comes to our church, but I don't like him. Look 
 there our baskets both full. You take the big one up to 
 Unc' Mart and tell him I sent 'em with my love and 
 please not to forget how much I like licorice." 
 
 She turned to go, but Lee forestalled her. "If I knew 
 when you was going down to the river some time, maybe I 
 could get a boat somewheres, and and we could row 
 around a little, early evenings." 
 
 "Will you take me really? I'd love to go! I don't 
 know just when, but you watch out for me. I'll come 
 first day I can." 
 
 "All right. I'll watch out. I don't know if I can get a 
 boat, but I'll try. One of the hands said his brother's got 
 a boat, and he don't live so far. He's a tenant on the Salis- 
 bury place, down a ways. Say, could you go Sunday?" 
 
 "But won't it be wrong on Sundays?" She asked it 
 childishly, hoping to be convinced that it wouldn't. 
 
 "What's wrong about it?" 
 
 She knew very well John Henry's creed that all pleasant 
 things were wrong, but she wanted awfully to go out on 
 the river. "I might come late in the afternoon. We have 
 to go to church in the morning, and Sunday School, and 
 we get home pretty late. My Pa's Sup'intendent of the 
 Sunday School, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "And sometimes we bring company home with us. If 
 we did I couldn't get away. But I'll try."
 
 216 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "I'll watch out for you." 
 
 They parted with this promise. Judy kept silence at 
 home about the encounter. She had heard too often John 
 Henry's opinion of Mart's bringing the boy into the neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 "But he's a real nice boy," thought Judy. "He don't act 
 wild, or mean a bit. I like him a lot better than I do Ed 
 Galloway." She paused to find a word strong enough. "I 
 despise Ed Galloway."
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 YOUNG ED GALLOWAY, as distinguished from his father, 
 who was just Ed, second son of "Old Billy," was one of 
 those rare young men who, having sown a plenteous crop 
 of wild oats of the baser sort, had turned to the light during 
 a great revival, advanced to the mourner's bench, crying 
 repentance, and at last, after much prayerful striving, had 
 been converted from his former life into a supposedly bet- 
 ter, and certainly a more open, one. He was received into 
 the church where his grandfather, a bearded and sanctimo- 
 nious money-lender and note-shaver, shone as a leader. 
 It happened also to be the church of the Hydes. Old Billy 
 Galloway was glad and thankful for his grandson's change 
 of heart. 
 
 "Now the thing for you to do is to look round and pick 
 out some smart healthy gal and get married," he advised 
 him heartily. "And don't go cutting your eye at anybody 
 without property, neither. Plenty of pretty girls amongst 
 well-off folks, and if they shouldn't be quite so well-favored, 
 the money makes up for it." 
 
 "Got anybody on your mind?" asked docile Young Ed. 
 
 "Deacon Hyde's got two girls," the old man said. 
 "And they'll get a-plenty from both their mother and their 
 father. Fact is, as I happen to know, John Henry's took 
 over all the prop'ty Louellen was left when her mother 
 died, and has got the full say of it. We're not to say poor, 
 Eddie, but there never was a man who couldn't use a leetle 
 more." 
 
 It was counsel that fitted in well with Young Ed's own 
 scheme of things. He was twenty-seven and ready to 
 settle down. In fact his sudden conversion and general 
 change of heart had been occasioned by a hideous scare 
 administered by a more than usual fearless and vindictive 
 
 217
 
 218 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 shanty-boat wench, with whom he had been familiar. Young 
 Ed had sought the safe and narrow path in a spasm of 
 cowardly contrition. No more shady women for him. A 
 nice clean pretty young girl marry and settle down. It 
 would be a wonderful haven of peace and security. 
 
 The word about John Henry Hyde's daughters and their 
 future inheritance brought him to a seat farther up in 
 church next Sunday, where he could see them closely. He 
 did not know them well, for until now his attention had 
 been wholly engaged by another type of femininity. He 
 looked them over, impartially. Virgie, a dark and slender 
 girl at the height of her bloom, her demureness denied by 
 her scarlet sash and the wreath of poppies on her hat, in- 
 terested him, drew him. She would do very well. But 
 after the service, as he lingered, he took note that Virgie 
 lingered also, and that the young minister hastened down 
 from his place in the pulpit to her side. In the girl's flut- 
 tered complacence, her welcoming hand, young Ed inferred 
 that her feelings were centered on blonde and eloquent 
 ^Willy Todd and that it would be only to make himself 
 ridiculous if he thrust himself before her. He was disap- 
 pointed, sore and then his gaze fell upon Judy, who had 
 been screened from him by her mother during the sermon. 
 
 Judy was wearing the white organdie with three ruffles 
 and her blue ribbons, with cornflowers on her hat, which 
 deepened and darkened the blue of her eyes. Young Ed, 
 beholding her, thought that she was young, younger than 
 he wanted, but that she was worth getting acquainted with. 
 If she was too childish and namby-pamby he could hunt 
 elsewhere. In the meantime, a ride or two in his buggy 
 would commit him to nothing, and his grandfather would be 
 pleased with him for following his lead. 
 
 He renewed his acquaintance with John Henry. "I look 
 to you for a good bit of guidance, Mr. Hyde," he told him 
 piously. "It's none so easy for me to come into church and 
 act like I'd always lived a life like yours. I realize there 
 may be some who don't accept my conversion as sincere,
 
 One Thing Is Certain 219 
 
 but of course the only thing for me to do is to show 'em 
 that it is. If there's anything you think I ought to do, 
 I'd esteem it a high favor if you'd tell me. I don't want 
 to seem pushing." 
 
 The young man's deference flattered and tickled John 
 Henry's most accessible side. To be looked up to, to have 
 his aid and direction asked for, when it cost him no money 
 to give both, what could be more agreeable! 
 
 "I'll do what I can, willingly," said John Henry, with 
 humility, for it was his way to speak of himself as least 
 in the Lord's service. "Maybe, since there's to be no after- 
 noon meeting to-day, you'd ride along out and have dinner 
 with us. The Reverend Todd is coming. You ought to 
 get to know him better, now you're one of his congregation." 
 
 "I'd be pleased to, if you think Mrs. Hyde won't mind 
 an unexpected guest." 
 
 "No, no, there's always room for one more at our 
 table." 
 
 "I've got my team here, perhaps I could take one of your 
 family in the buggy with me, long's you've got the Rever- 
 end, unless he's driving himself." 
 
 John Henry hesitated. Bud had driven in a single rig 
 for this very contingency, the arrangement being that he 
 and Judy would drive home together, while Louellen, Virgie, 
 the Reverend Todd and John Henry occupied the carryall. 
 It would not be exactly conventional since there was no 
 open engagement between Virgie and the young minister ; 
 to let them drive off alone together. It would seem too 
 pointed. 
 
 "I might take Miss Judy," offered Galloway, and it was 
 so arranged. Bud would not mind going home alone and 
 it would not be politic to refuse Galloway's offer, when he 
 had made it so politely. Judy, flushed and excited at the 
 prospect of a buggy-ride with a strange young man, was 
 packed in with Young Ed, feeling that every soul in the 
 lot of home-goers from church had gimlet eyes and that 
 all these eyes were centered on her new adventure. She
 
 220 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 sat quite stiffly and talked little, -at first from shyness, 
 but before they had covered half the distance she was silent 
 from dislike. If this was the delight of having a beau that 
 Virgie and her friends giggled so about, why, then, they 
 were very silly, and she, Judy, would prefer to stay a child, 
 forever and ever. 
 
 "How do you like my trotter?" Galloway asked her as 
 they started off and got away from town. 
 
 "He's a very pretty color," replied Judy with great prim- 
 ness. But she had not spent her life near to horses without 
 knowing something about them. "But isn't he a little skit- 
 tish?" she asked, seeing how restlessly the beast pranced, 
 and how he tossed his head. She looked more closely. 
 "Why, you've got a curb bit on him." 
 
 "You're a clever girl to see that. Yes, I've got a curb 
 on him he's a runaway. But he don't run away any more, 
 not with that on. I could cut his mouth open three inches 
 and not hardly feel it, in my arms, I mean. And before he 
 near 'bout pulled my arms out of their sockets." 
 
 "A bit like 'that's cruel," said Judy. Uncle Mart had 
 told her so, many times. 
 
 "It's not cruel if he behaves himself," said Galloway. 
 It was hard to find anything to say to her, for he was not 
 used to this sort of girl, and he must be careful. But he 
 found her flesh tempting. Her cheeks were like ripe fruit. 
 
 "I wonder just how old you are?" he asked, insinuatingly. 
 
 Judy was deciding that she didn't like him, and she found 
 the question distasteful. She plucked up her spirit. "It's 
 in the family Bible, out home." 
 
 He liked that. "You're very sarcastic, I see." 
 
 Judy wondered if she was sarcastic. She didn't know 
 exactly what he meant, but it sounded fresh, and he was 
 probably making fun of her. So she wouldn't answer him. 
 
 "You like to go buggy-riding?" 
 
 She couldn't disregard that. "Oh yes." 
 
 "I'll have to take you some time." 
 
 The condescension of it reminded her of Bud in his
 
 One Thing Is Certain 221 
 
 lofty moments, such as all brothers occasionally display 
 to younger sisters, so she answered as she would have an- 
 swered Bud. "Oh, don't put yourself out." 
 
 "By George, you're sharp I thought you were just a 
 nice little girl, but I reckon you know your way round." 
 And he laughed. 
 
 There was more of this inconsequential chatter, but it 
 all ruffled and fretted Judy, for she did not like to be teased 
 and she liked even less the way he looked at her. When 
 he helped her out of the buggy, she avoided his hand, jump- 
 ing nimbly, regardless of her ruffles. She ran on into the 
 house. Young Ed's horse was a good one, so they had 
 reached home before the others, and there was no one she 
 could tell but Rachel. She hurried to the kitchen. 
 
 "Mammy Rachel, Pa sent me home with Young Ed Cal- 
 loway and I certainly don't like him. He makes me think 
 of a toad. His hands all cold and kind of damp! And 
 he's got toad's eyes." 
 
 Rachel, busy with dinner, stopped to lean and peer. 
 "Whut Galloway is dat you say Young Ed ? En you ridin/ 
 round wid him? Yo Paw mus' be plumb outen he haid. 
 He ain' fitten " She stopped, drew down her upper lip 
 and stuck out her lower one until its yellowish lining showed. 
 This was her way when deeply suspicious or angry. "You 
 stay in here and holp me twell de res' of 'em git yere," 
 she commanded. "Comp'ny er no comp'ny, he's trash. 
 When he gits his hoss put up he c'n set in de pa'loh en 
 twirl he thumbs, ef he be so minded. You go on up de 
 back stair en tek off yo' hat en git yo' ap'on. I gotter 
 dozen lil chores right yere f'r you." 
 
 She kept Judy by her side until the others came, but, 
 peering in at the dinner table, later, she saw that Ed Gallo- 
 way was seated beside the girl. Judy was her darling and 
 she had always resented the way John Henry Hyde treated 
 her. So now she tossed her head angrily and sniffed and 
 muttered in the kitchen. Young Ed had roused two active 
 dislikes. But John Henry was pleased with him.
 
 222 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 He took Judy sharply to task for her indifference. "I 
 don't want to see any more such uppishness as you showed 
 to-day to company in this house. Nobody to meet Mr. 
 Galloway when he got his horse put up, and he having to 
 sit on the porch till we got home. Either you'll behave 
 properly, or you can't come to the table." 
 
 To which Judy answered nothing, for she was afraid of 
 John Henry's violence against her. He had whipped her 
 cruelly many times when she was smaller, and he never 
 spoke to her save harshly. But she talked it over with 
 Virgie. 
 
 "Did you like him, Sis? Did you think he was nice?" 
 
 "No," Virgie admitted. "I didn't care much for him. 
 But he's real well off, and he's got a fine team." 
 
 "He uses a curb bit on his horse. That's awful mean. 
 And he sat there talking to Pa and Mr. Todd like butter 
 wouldn't melt in his mouth. I wish you'd tell Mr. Todd 
 maybe he'd talk against him to Pa. I don't want him to 
 come here to see me." 
 
 Virgie was sympathetic. She could afford to be, as a 
 girl singled out for the attentions of the young minister. 
 All the same, she was prudent. "Don't say anything in 
 front of Pa, but if Ed comes round again treat him very 
 cool, and show him you don't like him, and he'll probably 
 go off and hunt up somebody who'll be nicer to him." 
 
 "If treating him cool will get rid of him, I'll make kirn 
 think he's in Greenland's icy mountains," promised Judy, 
 vindictively. "Oh, Sis I don't want a beau anyway, not 
 till I get to be as old as you, and then maybe I'll get a. nice 
 one like Mr. Todd." 
 
 "He is nice, isn't he?" said Virgie with rapture. "And 
 don't he preach powerfully? I shouldn't wonder if he got 
 to be Presiding Elder like his father was. Oh, wouldn't I 
 be set up !" 
 
 "You'll make an awfully good minister's wife. You al- 
 ways know just what to say and do, and you never get 
 excited and act foolish." Judy was wistfully admiring of
 
 One Thing Is Certain 223 
 
 Virgie's behavior, but now she giggled : "And for goodness' 
 sake, Sis, don't go round wearing such dumb looking clothes 
 as old Mrs. Truitt used to wear. 'Member her bonnets? 
 looked just like a crow's nest." 
 
 "I thought about that," confessed Virgie. "Of course, I 
 suppose I'd have to give up wearing red, and that's a pity 
 for it's so becoming to me. But I don't think a minister's 
 wife ought to wear red, unless it's very, very dark, garnet 
 color, maybe, or something like that. But I wouldn't have 
 to wear tacky things. Still, I won't have much choice on 
 a preacher's salary." 
 
 "Maybe he'll soon get a better charge." 
 
 "Oh, he's bound to. But I wish I'd have money of my 
 own, a little. If Ma hadn't been so silly and let Pa take 
 all Gram 'ma West left her " Even Virgie, his favorite, 
 had no illusions about her father, but she glanced about 
 uneasily as if for fear he might hear her, and she lowered 
 her voice. 
 
 "Oh, Virgie hush!" cried Judy. It was disloyalty to 
 their Mother. 
 
 But Virgie had a mind of her own, and she could re- 
 member. "Ma couldn't help it he nagged at her so. For 
 a good man, Pa certainly does like to lay up treasures here 
 on earth." 
 
 "If he hears you! Oh, it isn't right to say things like 
 that." 
 
 Virgie had half scared herself. She went back to safer 
 topics. "If Pa gets set on your being nice to Ed Galloway, 
 you'll be in for it." 
 
 "Oh, Virgie, you don't think he will?" 
 
 Virgie was in guile her father's own child, as shrewd 
 as he. 
 
 "Don't let him see how you feel, then. You know how 
 he is." 
 
 Judy knew how he was. She had lived all her young 
 life in the shadow of his displeasure. He had denied her 
 as much schooling as the others, he never gave her the
 
 224 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 small indulgences which he sometimes vouchsafed Bud and 
 Virgie. Once or twice when he had been specially partial 
 and unfair, her mother had risen in unaccustomed spirit 
 and fought it out with him. Judy was painfully aware 
 that these encounters did not better her lot, save for the 
 moment, rather that they increased his venom against 
 her. 
 
 As a very little child she could recall pressing up to John 
 Henry with the two others, in his rare moments of demon- 
 strative affection for them, and always finding herself re- 
 pulsed. Virgie and Bud sometimes gained his knees and 
 the circle of his arms, but never Judy. "Take this child 
 away," he would command Louellen or Mammy Rachel. 
 If there was a treat of a handful of peaches or apples from 
 the orchard, Judy did not share it, unless her mother in- 
 tervened and saw justice done. Punishment, swift and 
 severe, attended any small childish mischief, or willfulness. 
 As she grew older, she learned to keep away from him, out 
 of his sight as much as possible, or silent at least when 
 she must be before him. But slowly there had dawned 
 on her horizon a friend, a refuge, Mart Bladen. 
 
 He had found her first along the roadside, where she 
 was trudging along from an errand to one of the tenant 
 homes, and had asked her name, put his hand on her head 
 and looked at her long and hard, and at last picked her 
 up and taken her home before him on his horse. He had 
 kissed her when he put her down and rasped her face a 
 little with his unshaven beard. But she had not minded. 
 His size, his fairness, the strong careful circle of his arms 
 made her love him. 
 
 "I'll come by some day soon and bring you some candy," 
 he had promised. Fairly shy until now, she found her 
 tongue at the prospect of sweets. "Lickrish," she had said, 
 firmly. And he had laughed and kissed her again and 
 promised. 
 
 He had brought the licorice, and later, other sweets, so 
 that she learned to watch and wait for him, and tacitly it
 
 One Thing Is Certain 225 
 
 was understood that this was a pleasure, a tie, which her 
 father did not deny her. But she knew he did not like it 
 any better for that, and that he grudged it to her. Once in 
 a while he had been violently angry about it; scenes she 
 remembered, black splotches in her mind. He was civil 
 enough to Mart when they inevitably met, but behind his 
 back denounced him as an unregenerate sinner, diatribes 
 that made Judy clench small fists, drove her out of the 
 room to cry her eyes red against Mammy Rachel's com- 
 forting shoulder. 
 
 Still, that was her father's way. He despised and ex- 
 coriated all those who did not walk the same path of devo- 
 tion as himself, and at last Judy came to find his indictment 
 of Mart almost impersonal. Only she thought that Uncle 
 Mart must guess how her father felt, for tease and coax 
 as she might, he never set foot across the Hyde threshold. 
 Judy would run across the fields to the Bladen house, stop 
 for dinner if her mother had given permission, and perched 
 on a chair made high-seated with old agricultural reports, 
 would share Mart's meal, and chatter her heart out to him 
 as she could do with no one else in her small world. This 
 was a rare pleasure for both of them, but now that she 
 had grown so tall that the agricultural reports were no 
 longer requisitioned, she went less often, for John Henry 
 was beginning to look with more and more disfavor on 
 these occasional visits. She would sometimes slip away 
 when he was not at home, and those chances were few. But 
 Mart remained her luminary and she his faithful satellite. 
 
 The image of Young Ed Galloway troubled and dis- 
 turbed her. Up until now she had been utterly content 
 with childish things, and beaux were something to look 
 forward to in the far-away future when she would be as 
 old as Virgie. It was far more desirable to slip off late 
 of a Sunday afternoon and go rowing in a battered old 
 boat with Lee Kemp, who was as much mere boy as she 
 was mere girl, than to receive the mature attentions of 
 Young Ed with his trotting horse and new buggy. His
 
 226 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 teasing familiarities with their undercurrent of hidden 
 knowledge were hateful to her, the more as she did not 
 know how to parry them, and John Henry's insistence that 
 she should be amiably receptive to these advances held al- 
 ways a sinister menace of punishment if she disobeyed. 
 
 Something in Lee's isolation, his unhappy childhood which 
 she could divine, the ban he was under with all good people 
 like John Henry, made a bond of sympathy and confidence 
 between them. And there was his expressed hatred of 
 old Billy Galloway at their first meeting. Judy remembered 
 that. On the first time that she managed to meet Lee for 
 the coveted "boat-ride"" she alluded to it. 
 
 "Why don't you like the Galloways?" 
 
 Lee was frank. "Old Billy held the mortgage on my 
 Pa's farm .and he never let him have a chance to get ahead. 
 If he was back with the interest a day old Billy 'd ride up 
 and take our chickens, or maybe a couple calves. Once 
 he drove off our best cow. She wasn't much, but she was 
 the best we had." 
 
 "I never heard anything so mean." 
 
 The boy laid down his oars and regarded fiercely the 
 placid silver river. "I'd like to grind him right down 
 in the dust, I would. The things he said to Pa and 
 right so Ma could hear 'em! Old Billy Galloway is a 
 dirty dog, and I don't care if he does set in the Amen 
 corner and give money to the missionaries, I'd say so to 
 his face." 
 
 "I'm awful sorry," offered Judy, with intense sym- 
 pathy. There were tears in her eyes, and Lee, seeing this, 
 felt a strange stricture of pleasure and oain in his green 
 boy's heart. 
 
 "It's nothing to take on about now," he assured her 
 gruffly. "Only some day I'm going to get even." 
 
 That was all that was said of them on the first after- 
 noon. But when Judy spoke again of the Galloways it 
 was Lee's turn to ask questions. 
 
 "Are they friends to your Pa?"
 
 One Thing Is Certain 227 
 
 "Yes I guess so. Pa and old Mr. Galloway talk to- 
 gether a lot about things at the church and now " She 
 paused unhappily. 
 
 "Now what?" 
 
 It came with a burst of helpless anger. "That Young 
 Ed keeps coming to our house. I wouldn't care if he'd just 
 talk to Pa and Ma, or eat supper, maybe but but he's 
 always wanting me to go buggy-riding. I hate him." 
 
 "Oh, Judy !" cried Lee, betraying himself in the anguish 
 of his cry. "Don't you go with him. You won't, will you?" 
 
 "I can't help it." And here was anguish to match her 
 hearer's. "Pa makes me." 
 
 He did not know that he was falling in love with her, but 
 he did know that he could not bear the thought of her 
 riding with Young Ed. 
 
 "How can he make you? You're most grown." 
 
 But freedom was far beyond Judy's vision. She could 
 only look at Lee, unable to explain. Her eyes plead with 
 him to understand that she was young and soft and with- 
 out adequate resistance, a dependent, too gentle to resist 
 the impact of an authoritative will. A little of this got 
 through to Lee. But he was not appeased. 
 
 "Does Ed Galloway want to go with you?" he demanded 
 with jealous vehemence. 
 
 "He makes out like he does. I don't know." She 
 plucked up spirit. "I never say a pleasant word to him, 
 and he just acts as if it was funny. He knows I don't like 
 him, and yet, he acts like he's my beau. Only, I wouldn't 
 let him, you know, really be, no matter what Pa said or 
 did." 
 
 "No, don't you, Judy. He's not fit, honest. Galloway 
 blood's mean blood." He stopped and flushed with hot 
 remembering unhappiness. "People say Kemp blood's 
 mean blood, too, but it ain't so. My Pa was wild, but he 
 wasn't mean. Don't let Ed Galloway go with you, Judy." 
 
 "I won't," she promised, but added: "My Pa's awful 
 stern when he says somebody's got to do something."
 
 228 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "Your Pa looks stern," conceded Lee. "I meet him on 
 the road sometimes and he looks like he wanted to drive 
 right over me." 
 
 "He probably didn't mean it," apologized Judy, knowing 
 full well that he probably did mean it. "He looks stern 
 at everybody." 
 
 "Well, I never did nothing to him, and I don't owe him 
 any money, so he needn't look at me thataway," declared 
 Lee truculently. 
 
 "All right, but don't holler at me about it." 
 
 They laughed, and peace was restored. It was so quiet 
 there on the river, and they kept close to shore, a shore 
 fringed with pine and leaning bushes. Beyond their fluted 
 rim of shadow the water was a lake of cool, prism-tinted 
 sunlight, without enough current to break the sheen. 
 
 "It's nice here. I like it better here than anywhere." 
 
 "Do you, honest?" 
 
 "Honest and true. I always wanted to go boat-riding." 
 
 He stammered, flushed, at putting a daring thought into 
 words : "I'm glad I'm glad it's me you I mean I'm 
 glad I can take you, and and not anybody else." 
 
 "It wouldn't be nearly so nice with anybody else," an- 
 swered Judy, simply enough. "I like you ever so much." 
 
 They were not at all self-conscious with each other, but 
 alternated between a playful give-and-take, not without its 
 brusque touches, and a serious puzzled discussion of the 
 world as they found it. Rarely they had shy moments, 
 and these were Lee's rather than Judy's. No disturbing 
 emotions palpitated between them. They were not yet 
 awake and aware. But Judy's "I like you ever so much" 
 warmed and cheered the listening boy. 
 
 "I'm lucky. First Mr. Bladen lets me work for him, 
 and then I meet up with you. I never had such a good 
 time in all my life before I came here." 
 
 "I'm glad you came. I wish I didn't have to sneak off 
 to go boat-riding, though. I had to tell Mammy Rachel, or 
 I never could manage it."
 
 One Thing. Is Certain 229 
 
 "There's no harm in boat-riding." 
 
 Judy pursed her mouth. "In our house everything you 
 enjoy is wrong, no matter how harmless it is." 
 
 Lee stared with pity, but he had heard of this stern 
 doctrine before. "Well, don't get caught, that's all." 
 
 "I won't. If I did oh, Lee, I believe Pa'd whip me 
 with a gad." She turned terror-pale at the imaginary pres- 
 ence of John Henry in anger. 
 
 "Did he ever?" asked Lee indignantly. 
 
 "Once. He used often to switch me, and that stung, 
 but it wasn't so bad. But once he got fearfully mad 
 and it was about Unc' Mart but don't you ever tell him. 
 Unc' Mart brought me a pink hair ribbon, and after he'd 
 gone Pa snatched it and flung it into the stove, and I 
 cried, and he started to whip me with a big stick, and and 
 Ma came in, and snatched it away from him, and put 
 me behind her and and " she stopped and covered her 
 eyes with her hands, and went on in a low voice "and I 
 thought he was going to strike her, too, but he didn't. 
 They just looked at each other, and and Ma said, 'There's 
 the whipping post for men who beat children and women.' 
 And Pa stomped out. But he never hit me that way again. 
 There, I never told anybody but you." 
 
 Lee's hands shook on the oars. He wished they were 
 cudgels and he could beat Judy's father with them. "Don't 
 you hate him?" he asked at last. 
 
 This was a distance Judy could not follow. "Why 
 no. He's my father. 'Honor thy father and mother/ you 
 know " 
 
 The sordid recital had brought a shadow on the day. 
 The sun had withdrawn behind a cloud, and the water was 
 gray and forbidding. Lee knew that his hour was ended, 
 and he rowed without a word to the little cove where 
 tangled bushes hid the small sandy crescent of the landing 
 place. 
 
 Judy jumped out quickly. "Good-by," she said; "I'll try 
 to come again soon."
 
 230 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Lee watched her go, then pushed off and began his half 
 mile row to return the boat to its owner. "John Henry 
 Hyde's as mean as old Billy Galloway," he muttered, pulling 
 at the oars with all his strength. "They're the two meanest 
 men in the world." 
 
 He was still brooding over this matter when he came in 
 to supper and he sat silent and withdrawn until through 
 the meal. It was his first dark mood for a long time, and 
 Mart saw it with surprise and sympathy. 
 
 "This is most too nice an evening to feel grum," he sug- 
 gested at last, and the words broke through the boy's trou- 
 ble. He followed Mart around to the front porch where 
 he was wont to smoke his after supper pipe on summer 
 evenings. 
 
 "I got something on my mind," he said worriedly. Mart 
 could not help a twinkle of amusement, but he did not 
 show it. 
 
 "Want to talk to me, do you?" he asked kindly. "Fire 
 away." 
 
 "You remember that day I went down to mend the 
 fence and Judy Hyde come along picking dewberries and 
 sent you up some for supper?" 
 
 Mart nodded. At Judy's name he became curious, at- 
 tentive. 
 
 "She said she wanted to go boat-riding and so I bor- 
 rowed a boat and took her two-three times on Sunday 
 afternoons. And she she has to sneak off to go. She 
 says Mr. Hyde would prob'ly whip her if he knew it. 
 And, Mr. Bladen she told me " He went on and told 
 the story of how Judy's father had whipped her with the 
 heavy stick, and as he told it his eyes glittered with tears 
 of sheer rage and helplessness, and as Mart listened, the 
 blood suffused his face in rage, and the two men were wrapt 
 in intense sympathy by their suffocating indignation. 
 
 "She said not to tell," said Lee, at last. "But I thought 
 you ought to know. I I won't take her out boat-riding 
 again if you think maybe it would get her in trouble at home.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 231 
 
 It's not any harm, going boat-riding, but, but Mr. Bladen, 
 I don't care if they do call Mr. Hyde a good man and 
 all, and he a deacon in the church and sup'tendent of the 
 Sunday School, I think he's mean. I think he's mean as 
 a skunk." 
 
 Mart heaved a deep and angry sigh. "What did you 
 come to me with all this tale for, Lee?" he asked. "What's 
 the idea?" 
 
 "I just thought somebody ought to know who could do 
 something. I thought maybe some time she might need 
 somebody to help her out, if Mr. Hyde was mean to her 
 again. And you being friendly over there, and all, and 
 knowing them so lo^g, and she calling you Uncle, and 
 anyway, Mr. Bladen, you can do anything with anybody 
 if you've got a mind to. So I thought you ought to know. 
 Yes, and there's something else. She told me that first. 
 Mr. Hyde, he's trying to make her go with Young Ed 
 Galloway. Makes her go buggy-riding with him. And she 
 don't like to." 
 
 Mart Bladen answered this with a vile and satisfying 
 oath. "What's that Young Ed Galloway? I heard he'd 
 turned pious and joined the church since Rilly Ford tried 
 to knife him, but I didn't hardly believe it would last. But 
 for him to come near Judy and for John Henry to connive 
 at it" 
 
 He got up and walked up and down, and swore again, 
 while Lee watched him with admiration and satisfaction. 
 The gross and obscene words were sweet to his ears, ex- 
 pressing his own feelings wholly, and proving that Mart 
 was thoroughly at one with him. At last Mart was able 
 to speak coherently: 
 
 "It was the right thing for you to tell me, Lee, but it 
 must stop with us, you understand. All this is betwixt 
 you and me. Neither one of us can do anything, of course, 
 because nobody can interfere in another man's family mat- 
 ters. Outsiders can't mix into things like this. Under- 
 stand?"
 
 232 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "I thought maybe you'd go over there and lick tar out 
 of Mr. Hyde," suggested Lee, rather disgusted with the 
 policy of caution. "Pa used to tell how you licked Jere 
 Willis, once prettiest fight, Pa used to say, he ever had 
 the good luck to see." 
 
 "Yes, and look if I licked John Henry Hyde who d'you 
 suppose his spite would be took out on? No, Lee that 
 wouldn't do her any good." 
 
 "That's so. He'd treat her worse'n ever. Say, Mr. 
 Bladen, d'you think I ought to take her out boat-riding 
 again, if it might make trouble for her with her father?" 
 
 This was a matter to be considered. "I don't know's 
 that makes any difference," Mart decided at last. "I don't 
 believe, hardly, that he'd lay hand on her to whip her. 
 Judas Priest! I wisht she'd told me! Plucky young one! 
 I wonder. . . ." He felt walled, boxed in. If he made 
 any move, any definite and open move for Judy, what an 
 odd palatable morsel it would make for gossiping tongues. 
 No, his hands were tied. Yet, Ed Galloway why, Ed Cal- 
 loway was muck! Not to Mart Bladen did conversion and 
 public repentance wash away such sins as young Ed's. 
 
 "You like Judy ?" he asked Lee abruptly. 
 
 "Yes, sir, 'deed I do," answered Lee promptly, and all 
 was so clear now between himself and Mart that he could 
 so answer with emphasis and feel no confusion. Mart, 
 seeing this, was relieved. "They're just children," he told 
 himself. But he continued his catechism: 
 
 "You two ain't been sweetheartin' any, off boat-riding 
 so?" 
 
 Young Lee went red up to his neck and over his ears 
 and forehead, but he didn't falter. "No, sir. I'm too poor 
 to think about making up to any girl, and she she don't 
 think about such things, neither. That boat-riding was 
 just was just to pleasure her. She said she wanted to 
 go. And she's friendly and nice to me." 
 
 "M-m-m, yes. Well, son you keep it just so. And 
 take her again, if she can go. And if you hear anything
 
 One Thing Is Certain 233 
 
 more, you tell me, but keep your tongue still about it 
 everywheres else. And if it should fall out that John Henry 
 hears of you taking her out, and comes at you over it, let 
 me know, right away. And just one thing more. This may 
 not be anything at all maybe we're building a mountain 
 out of a mole-hill. So don't get all worked up and go 
 floozing around, unless you're pretty sure you're not mak- 
 ing yourself ridiculous, or letting Judy in for any trouble. 
 See what I mean ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I reckon so." 
 
 The talk was over. Lee went off to make his self-ap- 
 pointed evening round of the barn and stables, Caesar loping 
 round him. He was no longer sullen or dull or loutish and 
 awkward. Good food, freedom from present shame and 
 worry, the prospect of a future, responsibility that he could 
 carry, the self-respecting amount of his wages, friendship, 
 these had made him over, quickly, because youth is resilient 
 and responsive. 
 
 "Doggoned if he's not getting to be a real good-looking 
 boy," thought Mart. "Holds his head up and answers like 
 a man. Sensible, too, for all he's only a kid. Clean and 
 decent. A sight better than that smear of a Young Ed 
 Galloway. A-a-a-gh!" He spat heavily over the porch 
 rail to get the taste of Ed Galloway's name out of his 
 mouth. But he remained there in the summer dusk, 
 thoughtful, a heavy crease of worry between his brows. 
 It had been so long since his emotions had been strongly 
 engaged that he was bewildered and unhappy by their 
 arousing. Though he had counseled Lee as best he could, 
 he was not sure that his counsel was the best. He did not 
 want to be disturbed from his quiet way. He hated the 
 unknown. The kinship of his open quiescent fields was 
 strong upon him. They could live in quiet, and in peace, 
 accepting sun and rain, plowing time and harvest. So 
 would he live, and everything beyond that disturbed him. 
 And yet, and yet, he must not fail Judy. If Judy was in 
 danger of being pushed into the hands of Young Ed Callo-
 
 234 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 way. . . . Mart Bladen rose and stretched his strong arms 
 as one who would do battle. 
 
 "Ephum/' he called. "Ephum. You go saddle Chlce 
 and tell Lee to saddle up a horse for himself and we two'll 
 go ride down the river-road. I got a prejudice against 
 sitting still on a night like this." 
 
 It was the first time he had ever asked the boy to ride 
 with him, and it marked the beginning of a new and closer 
 companionship, a real affection between them.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 JOHN HENRY HYDE was finding life intolerable it 
 pressed upon him as a crown of thorns. He had reached 
 the time when a man must look back to satisfactions, and 
 forward to larger ones, if he is not to find the path toward 
 age crushing in its narrowness and uncertain end. His 
 will fretted and rebelled against passing on into this uncer- 
 tainty without having been paramount. He saw no com- 
 pensations. What to him, in his corroding thoughts, were 
 his fertile, docile farm lands, his productive cattle! What 
 to him was his exalted position in the church ! What to 
 him were the two children of his likeness, the ordered rule 
 of his house, when against these he felt the constant humili- 
 ating sting of Louellen's long-time rebellion, outwardly 
 smothered, and concealed, but flaring now and then into 
 its old strength, always to his confusion. And the fresh 
 untouched fairness of Judy that was another cankering 
 sore. He hated both these women, hated and feared his 
 hatred, being assured that it was deadly sin and would 
 drag his soul to hell. If he went to hell, he gloomily 
 assured himself, it would be the fault of Louellen, pri- 
 marily, and Judy, secondarily. He longed to destroy them 
 both, to destroy and hurt Louellen as he had destroyed her 
 in those first glorious days of his marriage, when he had 
 mastered her utterly, mind and body and spirit. Longed 
 to destroy Judy, because she was what she was. 
 
 He told himself that he was sick with longing for per- 
 fect righteousness, that because he had been denied the 
 right of headship in his house, because he had not been 
 able to bring it about that he should rule them all, as was 
 right, he had been guilty of sin. His diseased and ingrown 
 egoism assured him that all he needed for perfect happiness, 
 for perfect, godly happiness, was dominance, the rightful 
 
 235
 
 236 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 dominance that should be his over all the lesser creatures 
 of his household. This dominance, achieved, would blot 
 out his sin of weakness, establish him again. It was so 
 he justified himself in his thoughts. 
 
 All unconsciously this crisis had been provoked, induced, 
 by Judy's adolescence, her bloom and beauty. While she 
 was a child he had overlooked her, pushed her away from 
 him mentally and physically, save when he could gratify 
 himself by some act of petty tyranny, some unmerited 
 harsh punishment for her. These punishments, these un- 
 fairnesses had served as outlets for his venom. But now 
 she was too big to whip, and he could not drive her into 
 spasms of terror as he had when she was smaller. She, 
 like her mother, had somehow escaped him. It was torture 
 to him, her escape; torture to see her fairness, her light 
 loveliness against Virgie's dark coloring that made the 
 older girl so satisfying a replica of himself in youth, espe- 
 cially so since in Virgie there was a greater regularity of 
 feature, a softer delicacy of contour than had ever been 
 remotely suggested in his own person. Yet she was unmis- 
 takably Hyde. Bud also, with just enough of Louellen 
 in him to make him normal, and with his mother's eyes. 
 But Judy lovely, shining, laughing John Henry could not 
 look at her without finding her an offense to his eyes and 
 to his soul. 
 
 Louellen Hyde was aware of the deepening and clouding 
 of her husband's spirit, but she did not know its cause. His 
 increased fervency at family prayers, his augmented an- 
 tipathy to Judy, his insistence on the smallest religious 
 duties, his intensified unctuousness at church and Sunday 
 School, these Louellen saw, but did not correlate. To her 
 he was merely "harder to deal with." At times she added 
 to this that he "was getting downright queer." But after 
 all, he had always been hard to deal with, he had always 
 been queer. Her loathing for him had hardened into a 
 habit of regarding him as non-existent. In her assured 
 rescue of body from him, now confirmed by many years,
 
 One Thing Is Certain 237 
 
 she had ceased to be so fearful of him, dearly enough though 
 she had bought that rescue. First by such quarrels as she 
 had never even imagined that she could take part in, by 
 actual physical resistance, violent and prolonged and savage, 
 and finally by the turning over to him without question all 
 her inheritance from her mother, buying herself with his 
 avarice, yielding to his greed in one direction where she 
 would not satisfy it in another. 
 
 This being accomplished, she had turned to the plain 
 material duties of everyday life, the cooking, the cleaning, 
 the dairy, the sewing, the care of her children. The rest 
 of her was dead, dead from her battle with him, and with 
 herself, utterly dead, in feeling, in affection, for she had 
 battled with herself as well as with John Henry, and she 
 had killed her love for Mart in reprehension of her sin 
 with him, had killed all memory and thought of him, had 
 made him nothing in her life, in her mind. His light no 
 longer beckoned and supported her. She had learned to 
 contain herself, to stand alone. She averted her eyes from 
 his light, from him. She killed the youth in her, the 
 warmth, the weakness. She was glad when these things 
 were dead. 
 
 Only for her children was she a little bit alive, and for 
 Judy most of all. But her aliveness to Judy did not make 
 her partial. Even-handed, Louellen dealt with exact jus- 
 tice amongst her three. If Judy had a new dress or rib- 
 bons, so did Virgie, and Bud was not neglected. A treat, 
 or indulgence from her and they were rare enough was a 
 triple one. Duties and chores were divided rightly. So 
 far as she could she would not suffer John Henry to deal 
 with them otherwise than she did herself, and every slight, 
 every neglect, every unkindness to Judy from him she 
 warded off or checked when it was possible. She could 
 not always succeed, but now and then, when his harshness 
 was too flagrant, she made an issue of it and rose to defend 
 her youngest with a cold and determined passion that al- 
 ways drove John Henry into retreat. Yet when she did
 
 238 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 this there was in her eyes that which said she was not 
 really sorry John Henry felt this hatred of Judy. Only she 
 would not suffer it to blight the child. 
 
 But she was not soft with Judy, nor would she allow her 
 to make capital out of her protection. In the matter of Ed 
 Galloway, Louellen presently took her to task for break- 
 ing the current law of hospitality, thus upholding John 
 Henry's will. 
 
 "You mustn't be rude to people who want to do some- 
 thing nice for you. He's come all this way to take you for 
 a buggy-ride. You ought to be pleased." 
 
 Judy saw that her mother did not understand, and like 
 many young things called before the bar of elder justice, 
 could not explain. 
 
 "I don't like Ed Galloway," was all she could offer. 
 
 "You mustn't take likes and dislikes and be notional 
 as if you were a baby. You're most grown up and you 
 should act with reason." 
 
 "Oh, Mother, I don't want to be grown up if I've got 
 to go buggy-riding with people I hate." 
 
 "Why don't you like Ed Galloway?" 
 
 "He teases me. And he looks at me funny." 
 
 Louellen had not heard the gossip of the shanty-boat girl 
 and the subsequent row. That was gossip which so far had 
 circulated only amongst the men. Young Ed was to her 
 a prosperous youth, not prepossessing, especially, but cer- 
 tainly not repulsive. She knew of old the tale of Judy's 
 quick prejudiced likes and dislikes. 
 
 "You'll have to get over talking that way about people 
 and feeling that way. I think myself you're a little too 
 young to receive attention from young men, but I don't see 
 as an occasional buggy-ride matters " 
 
 Contrary to her custom Judy burst into open defiance: 
 "I won't have Ed Galloway for a beau. I won't I won't. 
 Not if Pa gets mad and whips me to death I won't. I hate 
 him. He's got toad's eyes. He's got toad's hands all cold 
 and wet." Her helplessness, her resentment, the failure
 
 One Thing Is Certain 239 
 
 of her mother to comprehend, had worked her to the pitch 
 of frenzied tears. 
 
 Louellen was aghast at the tornado. She took Judy in 
 her arms, not untenderly, and rocked her as if she were still 
 a child. "My goodness, don't take on so. You don't need 
 to have Ed Galloway or anybody else you don't want for a 
 beau. Your Pa wants you to act nice to him, like he wants 
 you to act nice to everybody that comes round, but he don't 
 mean anything else. There don't cry." She pushed back 
 the heavy fair hair and kissed the hot tormented forehead. 
 Judy was babyish, so, her hair pushed back, her body soft, 
 clinging, palpitating with sorrow. "You'll make yourself 
 sick crying like this." 
 
 Judy had read John Henry's purpose more truly than 
 Louellen. "Pa'll make me go with him," she persisted. 
 
 "Now, Judy now." 
 
 "He will I know it. Pa likes to make me do it because 
 he knows I hate Ed Galloway." 
 
 "You mustn't say things like that. It's not true. You 
 know how your Pa feels about all the church people, and 
 how he wants us all to be specially nice to them." 
 
 "But it is true. It's not the church people. It's me 
 and Ed Galloway. Pa's always had a spite against me. 
 Oh, Mother, why has he? Why? I never do anything 
 worse than Virgie and Bud do, but Pa " 
 
 Louellen rose suddenly, spilling Judy out of her arms 
 in a convulsed resurrection of feeling. The stiff mask she 
 had forced over her face broke and vanished. She pressed 
 her hands against her heart. 
 
 "No, Judy, no," she called out in a strange high voice. 
 "Don't talk like that. Don't say such things." 
 
 She frightened and quieted Judy, misinterpreting. "Oh, 
 Ma, I didn't mean it. I didn't. I'm sorry ' but her 
 mother had gone, leaving her twice confounded. She was 
 not any further on the way to be rid of Ed Galloway's 
 obnoxious attentions and she had somehow unexplainably 
 hurt and agitated her quiet Mother. She ground her teeth
 
 240 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 against the unfairness, the incomprehensibility of the world. 
 
 "I hate being grown up," she cried to the silence of the 
 room, "I hate it as much as I hate Pa." 
 
 It was the first time she had ever admitted that she 
 hated John Henry, and it frightened her that she had ad- 
 mitted it. She had repudiated hatred for him when Lee 
 had suggested it. But now she found it was there, that it 
 had always been there. She hated her father. She was in- 
 dubitably a wicked girl and on her way to lose her soul. 
 Well, lose it or not, she would stand by the truth. She 
 did hate her father, and she knew that he hated her. Why, 
 she could not fathom. She had always been afraid of him, 
 but now she feared him more, for hate is a cold and terri- 
 fying guest for the warm heart of youth. "I don't under- 
 stand. I don't understand. And I'm so unhappy." 
 
 To Louellen Judy's questions were so many knife thrusts. 
 At first she could not bear them. After a little the long 
 years of repression and deadness came to her aid, dulled 
 the pain of the questions, forced her to consider coolly: 
 "What is expedient? What is wise?" 
 
 The answer was obvious. She must speak to John Henry, 
 tell him that he must not force Ed Galloway on Judy, that 
 she was too young, she had not yet reached the time when 
 any young man coming courting is welcome. It was not 
 a pleasant errand, but Louellen saw no difficulties beyond 
 the usual ones of John Henry's obstinacy and self-will. 
 She had contended with him before, and she could again, 
 though she always avoided it if possible. But for expedi- 
 ency alone, this thing must be done. 
 
 In the Hyde home after supper there was an hour when 
 the master of the house sat alone in a bare small room off 
 the dining room, that had been Aunt Lena's bedroom, but 
 after her death was made by John Henry into a sort of 
 office, for here was his locked desk, his farm accounts, his 
 bank books and private papers, as well as small litter of 
 farm journals, a bottle or two of homemade liniment and 
 salve for cattle, folded carriage robes, an extra whip, boxes
 
 One Thing Is Certain 241 
 
 of cantaloupe and melon seed saved and dried against next 
 year's planting, and the like. Pictures of Roscoe Conkling 
 and Grover Cleveland hung on the wall, faint tribute of an 
 exiled son to heroes of his native state. It was a room 
 ceiled and walled in narrow pine planking, oiled to a pleas- 
 ant ruddy brown, but the air was always close and stuffy, 
 so that there was an oppressiveness about the place that 
 suited John Henry. He liked to be in there alone, turning 
 over the records for Sabbath School attendance, the reports 
 of teachers, making out orders for leaflets, answering occa- 
 sional letters from other Sunday School superintendents, 
 secure in his place in the church and the community. He 
 did not like to be disturbed, and so he frowned when Lou- 
 ellen came in, and the frown was more severe because of 
 what, in these last few months, he had been thinking of her, 
 but about which he had held his tongue. 
 
 "Well?" he cut at her sharply. 
 
 Louellen did not feint or go at him roundabout. "Are 
 you planning that Young Ed Galloway shall go with Judy ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "What if I am?" 
 
 "It won't do, John Henry. She despises him, he's some- 
 how got her dead set against him, and she's too much of a 
 child to see how foolish it all is, yet. She's pretty young 
 to have anybody coming to see her and taking her round, 
 anyway, and she's got it into her head that you want to 
 make her go with Ed." 
 
 "It's not for your interference." 
 
 "I'm not interfering. I only want you to see how mat- 
 ters stand. You're going at it all the wrong way by com- 
 pelling Judy very likely she'd be flattered and tickled to 
 have a beau if you hadn't made her think she was being 
 forced into it. She'll just act so offish to Ed that he'll shy 
 away of his own accord." 
 
 The black vein of anger swelled in John Henry's fore- 
 head. Under his pent brows his eyes gleamed strange and 
 ugly. "She'll do nothing of the kind. Young Ed's come
 
 242 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 to me seeking help and counsel in his heavenward way. 
 He's seen the light, he wants to follow Jesus. If a young 
 man who's not afraid to confess his sins, and walk in the 
 true path, finds himself inclined toward Judy she's very 
 lucky, considering everything." He flung the last word at 
 her slurringly. 
 
 She did not wince or draw back. Rather she studied 
 him. It was so, what she had faintly felt, John Henry 
 was harder to deal with, he was more queer. He was 
 always at his worst when he got going with his religious 
 twang, but here was something more something fanatical, 
 excessive, something before which she had a premonition of 
 helplessness. 
 
 She tried to be reasonable, feeling all the while that 
 reasonableness to John Henry was sheer waste. "But you 
 can't make a girl like a young fellow when she doesn't." 
 
 "It doesn't matter to me whether she likes him or not. 
 All I want is" 
 
 "What do you want ?" 
 
 "To get rid of her!" 
 
 There was such spleen in the words that Louellen turned 
 to silence as the best answer. It seemed worse than useless 
 to say anything more, it would only provoke and drive him 
 further. 
 
 "And you're not to meddle, Louellen hear me ? I won't 
 have it. You've always set yourself against me, interfered 
 and connived. But this time I won't have it. That girl's 
 got to be disciplined disciplined. She'll do as I say, 
 she's possessed of a fro ward and contentious spirit, and it's 
 got to be broke." 
 
 "Judy was right he's making her do this specially be- 
 cause he knows she hates it so," flashed through Louellen's 
 mind, watching him darken with brooding menace. She was 
 beating against stone walls. Heretofore, despite John 
 Henry's violence and bluster, she could drive him back, but 
 now no. 
 
 But it might be only a fit of temper. This was a quieting
 
 One Thing Is Certain 243 
 
 thought, and with it came her decision to let the matter 
 rest, for if she went on he would only be further inflamed, 
 perhaps do something unpremeditatedly cruel to Judy. She 
 left him without another word. There was nothing to do 
 but wait and see . . . wait and see. . . . She shook her 
 head in a sort of dumb negation. She too, like Mart, saw 
 troubling vistas. Like him, she was reluctant to tear up 
 dead tissue and find live nerves beneath. She did not want, 
 ever again, to feel emotion that she could not put aside. 
 She was used to the cold and arid conflict of wills in small 
 matters between herself and John Henry, but this was 
 something which presaged more, perhaps another hideous 
 long-drawn melee like those of their younger days. She 
 did not feel the force, the will, to undertake it. If there 
 was only some one to help her through, some one to steady 
 and strengthen her. Annie and Hance? No they were 
 too far away. Her searching thoughts wheeled slowly, 
 painfully round her known and knowing circle. 
 
 She tried to reassure herself. Possibly John Henry 
 would recover from his obstinacy, and modify his course. 
 He had done so before. But this time . . . she could not 
 be sure. Strange, to have the ground, so long solid beneath 
 her feet, suddenly shake into an open crevasse. Ah had 
 it been insecure all the time ? She knew it had, she knew it 
 had. Yet now the peril had befallen, she was conscious of 
 how much she had dreaded it, how she had willed that it 
 should not befall. Security had been cut away from her 
 by the sharpness of John Henry's malignity. 
 
 She could hear Virgie and Judy in the sitting room, at 
 the organ. Virgie was playing last Sunday's hymns with 
 the dragging mechanical emphasis with which they were 
 sung by the congregation. Judy began to sing, softly, a 
 little thread of sweetness turning the monotonous chords 
 of the player to harmony. Bud's voice joined in presently, 
 humming an incorrect bass, careless and rough, but all shot 
 through with youth, youth, crystalline, closed to all but 
 itself. Louellen, listening, looked back at her own youth
 
 244 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 as to a green hill, far away, for it was of that they sang. 
 And at last she could not bear it. 
 
 "Judy," she called, "come here, I want you." 
 
 When Judy came she said: "We'll go along out and 
 shut up the little chickens." Together they went out into 
 the night, a night of stars, softly dark yet softly luminous, 
 so that it was not hard to see their way, and the trees and 
 shrubs were clear dark shadows, alive and friendly in the 
 night air. 
 
 "Walk in the path, it's dewy," cautioned Louellen, and 
 drew Judy nearer to her to keep her from the touch of the 
 grass all silver-fringed with the night's distillation. Judy 
 caught her mother's hand, and they made their way down 
 toward the huddle of chicken coops, with sharp gables for 
 all the world like miniature houses, that stretched beside 
 the wagon sheds. 
 
 "I spoke to your Pa, Judy, about Mr. Galloway," she said 
 at last, "but I didn't get much satisfaction. For some rea- 
 son or other he's taken a fancy to him, and well, I don't 
 want you to deceive your Pa exactly, but if you could not 
 make it quite so plain how much you don't like the young 
 man, it'd be better all round. Likely if you do your Pa'll 
 kind of forget about it after a while, and it'll all blow over. 
 And you'll likely have other young men coming round. It's 
 easy to get rid of one when there's several." 
 
 It sounded possible, thus artfully placed before her, and 
 Judy naturally was a docile child. Being feminine, living 
 under the shadow of arbitrary masculine authority, she 
 was used to various ways of evading it while seeming to 
 acquiesce. And if other, nicer young men came round. 
 . . . Still ... Ed Galloway . . . 
 
 "Mother, I just hate Ed Galloway. I don't want to pre- 
 tend to be nice to him. Not even for a little while." 
 
 "I know you don't want to, Judy, but Mother thinks it's 
 best. And I'll keep a close watch on you, and be right 
 beside you. It can't do any harm to try it." 
 
 Judy sighed with impatience. On a night like this, with
 
 One Thing Is Certain 245 
 
 the whip-poor-wills calling, and the scent of flowers blow- 
 ing from the garden, the image of Ed Galloway must ob- 
 trude itself, and she to be nicer to him ! This was a night 
 for dreams, for beauty, for all far-away unattainable lovely 
 things. 
 
 "I don't want to." But she was yielding. 
 "I know you don't. But you'll do it, anyway." 
 "Yes'm. I don't have to be very nice, do I?" 
 "No, just polite like you'd be to anybody." 
 Louellen was relieved. She felt thaf the situation was 
 robbed of its tensity. John Henry, without opposition, 
 would find his bluster nullified, exploded. Judy's deception 
 would be harmless enough. There would be no need any- 
 where for drama and scenes, no raking up of perished 
 wrongs and fancied rights. They could all keep on in 
 their same even dull groove, and that was what Louellen 
 desired more than anything. 
 
 "I think I'll sit here on the side porch awhile," said 
 Judy listlessly, as they returned to the house. "It's so nice 
 out this evening." 
 
 "All right a little while but remember it's real damp." 
 She sat still, perched on the porch rail sidewise, looking 
 at the stars, subdued, restless, desolate of heart, discovering 
 what a mixed and miserable thing life is. She did not 
 hear the sound of steps, but presently some one whispered 
 her name through the night, cautiously, not to alarm her. 
 "Judy Judy! It's me Lee Kemp." 
 He stood in the darkness looking at her anxiously. Even 
 in the night she could see his eyes bent on her with anxi- 
 ety, solicitude for her. "I couldn't stay in the house, and I 
 come on over here to see you. I was thinking about you," 
 he went on, drawing nearer. 
 
 "I'm all right," she whispered back, carefully. "I'm glad 
 you come." 
 
 He drew nearer, cautiously, sat on the edge of the porch 
 below her, at one side, well out of the sharp segment of 
 lamp-light that came from the open door. His silent com-
 
 246 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 panionship was soothing to her restlessness, comforting to 
 her distress. 
 
 After a while he whispered again: "Come boat-riding 
 Sunday?" 
 
 "I will if I can." 
 
 "If we'd go up the creek a ways there's a place with a 
 lot of dandy pond lilies. I found it the other day. We can 
 get some." 
 
 The magic of silence in companionship held them again. 
 
 "It's such a pretty night," she whispered at last. 
 
 "Oh, yes." Then, after a little, with pride : "Mr. Bladen 
 lets me go riding with him most every night. To-night Doc 
 Tithelow and a coupla others're over there playing cards." 
 
 "I wish I could ride." 
 
 "Oh, shucks no girls rides round here except that Kros- 
 sey girl from Two Johns, and folks think she's touched 
 in the head." 
 
 "I don't care, I'd like to." 
 
 "Well, it's fine. Mr. Bladen lets me take one of his 
 best horses, one he rides himself sometimes." 
 
 "Unc' Mart's good." She hugged to herself the thought 
 of Unc' Mart, gracious and generous to all the world, but 
 with a special tenderness for her, Judy. She wasn't alone 
 in the world. Unc' Mart was always fond of her. And 
 now Lee. . . . She was glad Lee had come, more than 
 glad. In the dark he looked as tall and broad as a man 
 grown, and his hair was a thick cap of darkness, with his 
 dark eyes beneath, catching points of light. 
 
 "Your honey suck' must be in bloom I keep smelling 
 something sweet." 
 
 "Yes, it's down on the arbor." 
 
 After a little while he got up, noiselessly. "I better go. 
 Your folks wouldn't like it to have me hanging round here." 
 
 "Well, I like it," she assured him. 
 
 He dropped his hand to the porch railing and inad- 
 vertently it fell on hers, and for a moment their two hands 
 lay cupped together, warm, tingling, shy. "Good night,"
 
 One Thing Is Certain 247 
 
 he whispered. "Don't forget about Sunday." And was 
 gone in the darkness. 
 
 In the darkness Judy raised the hand he had touched and 
 put it against her cheek. And almost on the instant her 
 mother's voice, unaware, summoned her within.
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 "You'RE a little spitfire, you know," said Young Ed Cal- 
 loway. "I don't know where you get so much darned 
 freshness. But it suits me pretty well." 
 
 It was a Sunday afternoon, late midsummer, burning with 
 heat. Judy, in her white organdie, sat wearily in the shade 
 of the twin maples in front of the house, where they had 
 dragged chairs hoping to find some scrap of air or coolness 
 there. 
 
 She was wishing with all her heart that Young Ed 
 would go, and let her run away to the river and to Lee. But 
 there he sat, stuffy from eating too much of the excellent 
 dinner Mammy Rachel had reluctantly put before him, red 
 from the heat, sweat standing on his forehead, his hair shin- 
 ing and oily, altogether a distasteful thing to look at. He 
 came almost every Sunday afternoon now, and Judy, keep- 
 ing her word to her mother, treated him with toleration 
 which he construed for interest. 
 
 Her forced kindness had averted the conflict with John 
 Henry, though perhaps it had disappointed him a little too. 
 He wanted to make her obey him, he wanted the pleasure 
 of coercing her, and seeing her bend and perhaps break 
 under the weight of his compulsion. Her seeming acqui- 
 escence left him no chance for this, but he watched her 
 hatefully to detect the least sign of dismay or intolerance. 
 
 But Judy was learning guile. She went buggy-riding 
 with Young Ed, she talked with him when he came, she 
 accepted his attentions at the church festival where he 
 bought ice-cream for her and sat beside her while she ate 
 it, and then assuming that his expenditure entitled him to 
 some privilege, remained at her elbow for the rest of the 
 evening, completely spoiling it for her. She slipped away 
 from him for an hour on the pretext of helping to wash 
 
 248
 
 One Thing Is Certain 249, 
 
 ice-cream saucers with the elder women of the church, pre- 
 ferring soapsuds to her swain. 
 
 But she did not find it quite so hard to endure him for 
 another reason than doing as her mother wished. She had 
 a secret refuge in her friendship for Lee Kemp. Young 
 Ed's distasteful jocularities could be passed over, almost 
 forgotten, if she could slip away, now and then, and meet 
 the tall dark boy and talk with him in desultory calm com- 
 panionship, assuaging his loneliness with her own. To be 
 sure the hours with Young Ed still irked her, and made 
 her wonder consumedly what pleasure there was in having 
 a beau who was just that, a beau, and nothing more, not 
 a friend, not a playfellow, uncongenial, unsympathetic at 
 every point. His teasing seemed to her always the last 
 word in flatness. 
 
 "I don't think I'm a spitfire," she answered gravely to 
 his accusation. It seemed to be necessary to answer some- 
 thing. "I've got a better temper than you have." 
 
 "There what did I say. You're a regular spitfire, tell- 
 ing me I've got a temper." 
 
 "You have. You've got a bad temper. I've seen you 
 whip your horses too much not to know that." 
 
 "My grandfather says, 
 
 'A woman, a horse and a walnut tree 
 The more you flog 'em, the better they be,'" 
 
 he misquoted lazily. 
 
 "It's a silly thing to say. How could you beat a walnut 
 tree?" 
 
 "You know a lot about what's silly and what's not, don't 
 
 you 
 
 'I know when people are silly." Oh, why did she have 
 to sit there and talk this absolute drivel when down 
 at the river. . . . She tried to still the devil of impatience 
 in her breast. Why did every one always go off and leave 
 them alone together? It was all right for Virgie and Mr. 
 Todd, they liked it. But she hated it.
 
 250 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "I'm not going to fuss with you, though you look mighty 
 pretty when you're mad. I was going to tell you about 
 the tournament." 
 
 "Is there going to be another tournament? When?" 
 A tournament was something she did not need to pretend 
 interest in. 
 
 "Oh, long in the fall when it gets cool. I thought maybe 
 I'd ride, if you was going to be there." 
 
 "Pa wouldn't let Virgie and me go to the last tournament 
 because it was held by the Catholics but lots of other peo- 
 ple went other church people, I mean." 
 
 "I reckon your Pa'd let you go if I asked him, wouldn't 
 he?" 
 
 "Maybe he would," she said, knowing full well that he 
 would. 
 
 "If I should win the prize maybe you'd enjoy being 
 crowned the Queen, huh? Put some of the older girls' 
 noses out of joint to have a pretty little thing like you come 
 along and carry off the honors. It'd all be written up in 
 the county paper, too." 
 
 "Better wait till you get the prize before you talk about 
 that," offered Judy, ironically. 
 
 "I can't make you out. You never give a fellow any 
 encouragement. Maybe that's why I'm so crazy about you." 
 He recognized the eternal truth that the man male prefers 
 to be the pursuer, not the pursued. 
 
 "If you ride, what name would you take?" asked Judy, 
 evading the vexed question of encouragement, which she 
 had heard before. 
 
 "I don't know. Anything to suggest ?" 
 
 "Let's see what's your farm named? It's Oak Hill, 
 isn't it? Why don't you call yourself Knight of Oak 
 Hill?" 
 
 "I'd kind of like something more fancy." 
 
 She came out with the brutal truth: "I think you'd be 
 funny with a fancy name." 
 
 His red face became redder, suffused with anger at the
 
 One Thing Is Certain 251 
 
 sting. "Much obliged for your very complimentary re- 
 mark." 
 
 Judy was not sorry to have annoyed him. Perhaps now 
 he would go. "Oh, you're welcome," she returned, casually. 
 
 He choked back his resentment. "Maybe Knight of Oak 
 Hill would be the best. What's your Pa's place called?" 
 
 "It hasn't got any name. I wish it had. Unc' Mart 
 Bladen's place is named Tlaindealing.' Isn't that nice? 
 His great-great-great I don't know how many great- 
 grandfathers named it so. And the old Salisbury place is 
 named 'Hab-nab-at-a- Venture,' from the very first grant. 
 I wonder how they ever got such names ?" 
 
 "Your Grandpa Wfest's old place was part of 'Liden's 
 Venture' tract, and there's another farm down the county 
 called 'Liden's Folly.' I don't think it was the same Lidcn." 
 
 Her interest in the names of farms vanished. She 
 wished he would go, oh, how she wished he would gol 
 "Isn't it hot?" she said. "It gives me kind of a headache." 
 
 "How'd you like it if I was to hitch up and we'd take 
 a little spin ?" 
 
 "In this dust and heat? It'd be awful. And your poor 
 horse'd die." 
 
 "You think a lot more about my horse than you do of 
 me." 
 
 A barbed speech quivered on the tip of Judy's tongue, but 
 she restrained it. "Are you going to practice up for the 
 tournament?" she asked languidly. 
 
 "You bet you. I'm going to rig up a pole-and-ring down 
 in the pasture and get me a lance and ride there every 
 evening. I'll be able to pick off the rings with my eyes shut 
 in a couple weeks. You unde'stand I'm going to take you 
 to the tournament." 
 
 What little pig eyes he had! Pig's eyes or toad's eyes, 
 she couldn't decide which. "If Pa lets me go," she made 
 proviso, hoping fervently that he wouldn't. 
 
 The weary hour wore away and the fingers of shade 
 crept slowly, slowly, lengthening dreamily, almost imper-
 
 252 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 ceptibly, and the maple leaves began to whisper faintly of 
 the coming evening, softly, turning here and there a silver 
 leaf-palm to beg for the cool relief of its coming. Judy 
 yawned, once, twice. "It's the heat," she said, and let her 
 eyelids droop. Young Ed was not proof against such signs 
 of drowsiness. At last he went to the barn and hitched up 
 his horse and drove away. 
 
 Instantly Judy's drowsiness left her. She ran upstairs, 
 slipped into her blue calico day dress, hurried down the 
 back way, snatching her kitchen sunbonnet as she went. 
 Mammy Rachel, sitting in somnolent leisure on the back 
 doorstep, watched her go. 
 
 "Don' you stay too late," she cautioned her. "Yo f Pa's 
 gotter nose sha'p as er houn' dawg fo' smellin' trouble. Ef 
 he come atter me, wheah I gwine say you is ?" 
 
 "You make up something," said Judy, laughing. "He 
 don't mind if I just go out for a walk around." 
 
 "Walk eroun'," grumbled Rachel, left to herself. "Walk 
 eroun' soun' like nuffin' tall." 
 
 She ran through the heat, she did not feel it, but she was 
 scarlet with exhaustion and dripping sweat when she 
 reached the river-bank. Lee, his troubled face clearing 
 magically, was waiting by the moored boat. "I'd about 
 given you up," he said, "but I thought I'd wait till sun- 
 down." 
 
 Judy made a weary gesture of disgust. "It's that Ed 
 Galloway. He came home with us from church and he's 
 been hanging round ever since, sitting there, like a bump 
 on a log, till I could've screamed." 
 
 She dropped into the boat, and Lee took the oars. 
 
 "I wish you didn't have to be bothered with him," said 
 Lee. "It makes me so mad I can hardly stand it, thinking 
 of you with him." 
 
 "It makes me mad, too. Him and his old tournaments! 
 A lot I care about it !" 
 
 "Tournaments is there going to be a tournament?" 
 
 She told him all that Young Ed had said of it and he lis- 
 tened with excited attention. "I wish I had a horse," he
 
 One Thing Is Certain 253 
 
 said at last. "My, I'd like to ride in a tournament with a 
 lance and everything." 
 
 "Ask Unc' Mart for a horse." 
 
 "I don't ask any favors of anybody not even of him." 
 
 "You're too proud." 
 
 "I'd rather be too proud than not proud enough." 
 
 The remembered annoyance of Young Ed's stay had van- 
 ished and she was cooler, fanning herself with her sun- 
 bonnet. There was a little drift of air along the water to 
 help her. "You're touchy, too," she persisted, with a 
 sparkle of teasing. 
 
 He was serious, disregarding her. A bitter suspicion 
 was in his mind. "Did Ed Galloway say he'd crown you 
 Queen if he won ?" 
 
 "He won't win what's the use of talking about it?" 
 
 "But did he say so?" Manhood was coming to him 
 swiftly under the spur of jealousy, the boy in him was 
 dying. 
 
 Judy felt the change, responded to it by a spurt of shy- 
 ness. 
 
 "He did say something about it but it's not likely Pa'll 
 even let me go. And if I did go, Ed wouldn't win. He 
 don't ride so good." 
 
 "But he's got good horses. And he'll be practicing up. 
 Oh, Judy look here I'm nothing I'm nobody now 
 I'm like the dirt under your feet, but if but if " He 
 stuttered, faltered, not knowing how to go about this 
 avowal, drawn from him unawares. He could not say it, 
 he did not know how to say it, and so the words changed, 
 changed to a lesser import, in themselves, but not to a lesser 
 import in the saying. 
 
 " if I if I should somehow get a horse and ride in 
 that tournament and you and you should be there and 
 I should win the most rings would you would you let me 
 crown you the Queen, there before all of 'em?" 
 
 Judy was not aware of the change in him. She had not 
 changed, she was still the child, frank, untroubled by any
 
 254 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 stirring of dim organic memories. "Of course I would. 
 Why not? And what do you want to talk that queer way 
 for? Dirt under my feet! If I said that to you you'd be 
 raving." 
 
 He was resolved, relieved somehow, by her unawareness, 
 her plain speech. He did not answer her, nor did he speak 
 to her again of the tournament. But it filled his heart with 
 resolution. He would place himself, clearly, honestly be- 
 fore the world as a youth of dash and gallantry, able to com- 
 pete with other youth, and not just Joe Kemp's boy, almost 
 a pariah, almost as low down as a poor-white. He saw him- 
 self thus, winning, with people whispering about him, 
 smiling with kindness and understanding. He saw himself 
 with the prize, the crown, striding triumphantly before all 
 the gazing eyes, and bringing it to Judy, offering it with a 
 fine gesture. Not for nothing had he pored over Walter 
 Scott. 
 
 "It'll be kind of like 'Ivanhoe,' " he said aloud, glowing, 
 to Judy, not answering her words. 
 
 "D'you think you can get a horse somewheres?" 
 
 "I got to get one," he answered briefly. 
 
 "You going to ask Unc' Mart, after all?" she teased. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I don't see how I can." 
 
 "Well, while you're thinking about it, you'd better row 
 back. I certainly have got to get home look at the shad- 
 ows. If I'm not there for supper " 
 
 As she stepped out of the boat he reminded her: "You 
 promised that you know " 
 
 "What did I promise?" 
 
 "You promised if I won you'd let me crown you the 
 Queen." 
 
 "Oh that. Yes, of course I promised." 
 
 "Well, I'm going to do it. I'll make Ed Galloway look 
 like a monkey on a stick." 
 
 "Don't you make too many brags beforehand," she 
 warned him. But he knew she wanted him to win. 
 
 But he was in a corner. He had no horse, he had no
 
 One Thing Is Certain 255 
 
 remote chance of getting a horse, and he would not put his 
 case before Mart, for the pride about which Judy had 
 twitted him choked him silent. He could not, in all honor, 
 even practice tournament riding with any of Mart's horses, 
 without telling him. And yet he must, he must ride in 
 that tournament. He must win it. He must crown Judy 
 the Queen, there before them all, triumphantly. If he could 
 only do this, he saw his future established and the dis- 
 esteem of his father, the reproachful shiftlessness of his 
 family, wiped out. He would have shown his mettle, con- 
 clusively. His imagination ran riot in strange secret igno- 
 rant ways, knowing so little of the motives that actuate the 
 average mass of men and women, confident that with this 
 one show and display of himself as conqueror, he must win 
 all public esteem. No more hateful antagonistic looks from 
 John Henry Hyde, and others of his ilk. No more half- 
 pitying, half-patronizing asides from his father's old cronies : 
 "That's Joe Kemp's boy ain't he like?" No more and 
 here he touched the peak of his desire seeing Judy in 
 secret, hidden ways. No, he could be open, he could dis- 
 possess Ed Galloway, he could he could he must not 
 dream farther, or more particularly. Only, in whatever 
 future he would win, Judy must share. 
 
 All this, he reminded himself presently, got him no horse. 
 There was not an available animal anywhere on his horizon. 
 A good horse one that would do him credit, would cost 
 a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars, perhaps more. 
 The sum was infinitely beyond him. Even if he had a 
 horse, he had no place to stable it, and its feed would 
 have to be bought. He was so solitary, so full of young 
 touchy pride that there was no one to whom he could 
 turn to ask a favor like this, except Mart, and his very 
 idolatry for the older man kept him from doing it. Mart 
 Bladen had done enough for him, more than he had ever 
 expected or hoped for. He would not ask him for the 
 least thing. 
 
 The difficulty was presently resolved by Mart himself,
 
 256 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 very simply. He did not guess Lee's secret preoccupation, 
 but he did hear of the tournament and one night, when he 
 and the boy had gone to ride together, he spoke of it. 
 
 "It's going to be quite a splurge, they say. Wish I was 
 younger I'd take Chloe here and show my dust to every 
 man Jack of 'em. What say, now, Lee, you practice up a 
 while with Florrie, and enter? Would you like to?" He 
 had spoken with careless, generous kindness, unaware of 
 how the boy's whole soul was centered on just this one 
 thing. Lee's silence perplexed him. "Don't do it if you'd 
 rather not but I thought, maybe, it'd be kind of fun for 
 you. And I know I can trust you to look after Florrie." 
 
 Tons of weight were lifting from Lee's heart, and his 
 throat was choked with a lump as big as his fist. His voice 
 shook with fervor. "I'd rather do it than anything in the 
 world, Mr. Bladen. I'll never be able to thank you I'll 
 take such care of Florrie " 
 
 "Why, I know you will," said Mart, surprised and a little 
 troubled by the boy's agitation. "Why in time didn't you 
 tell me you wanted to enter, you young scoundrel? You 
 knew I'd let you have a horse, didn't you?" 
 
 "I didn't like to ask." 
 
 "I supposed you thought more of me than that. But 
 you take Florrie, anyway, and rig up a ring-pole somewhere 
 on the place, or maybe two or three of 'em, and I'll give 
 you some fine points about tournament riding. You can 
 take some old harness rings, and a good straight hickory 
 for a lance " Mart went on elaborating the preparations, 
 his own anticipation and excitement growing as he talked. 
 It would be as much fun for him as for the boy. It would 
 be great ! 
 
 And in the dark beside him Lee rode, not trying to listen, 
 and not daring to lift his hand to wipe off the tears that 
 were running down his cheeks. He could not let Mart 
 know that he was crying he was not sure himself what 
 he was crying about. All that he knew was that a miracle 
 had happened, and that he was the happiest boy alive.
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 IT was a hot, late summer, humid, yet parchingly dry. 
 All the wetness of the days was this wet, sticky, oppressive 
 heat, that mocked the parched earth, scorched the grass 
 and leaves, brought suffering and leanness to beasts and 
 frayed and fretted the nerves, depleted the strength of hu- 
 man beings. 
 
 This stifling, reeking heat, this succession of sweating, 
 breathless days, piled up still farther, deepened the darkness 
 of the cloud on the mind of John Henry Hyde. His se- 
 verity increased, and his unreason. 
 
 He worked his field hands so viciously that two of them 
 left, in the night, as negro workers often do, feeling that 
 they can never successfully oppose their wills against a 
 white man, but must evade him to escape his will. So, 
 being short of labor, he worked himself each day to the 
 point of exhaustion. He would come in at night staggering, 
 weak, but borne on by his fanatical will, his brows knitted 
 into their line of wrath, his burning restless eyes seeking 
 offense. He would sit silent, too tired to speak, until his 
 strength was a little recruited, and then he was ready to lash 
 out at Louellen, at Mammy Rachel, occasionally at Virgie 
 and Bud, but most often at Judy. And at his lengthy cere- 
 monial of family prayers he would pray bitterly and humili- 
 atingly for her froward and contumacious spirit, until she 
 was reduced to stinging tears. 
 
 One by one he deprived her, with particularity, of each 
 thing that he knew gave her pleasure. 
 
 "You're not to go over to Mart Bladen's any more," he 
 told her bitingly. "You're too big a girl to go running into 
 the house of a man of Mart's loose character. And you're 
 not to run out to the road to speak to him as he goes by. 
 Nor take presents from him." 
 
 257
 
 258 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "But why why?" asked Judy. "You always used to 
 let me." 
 
 "Because I say not, that's why, and that's sufficient 
 reason. He's a man of well-known bad character, and he's 
 harboring that son of Joe Kemp's, the worst rip and drunk 
 ever lived in this county. I know very well that nothing'd 
 suit you better than to collogue with just such riff-raff. But 
 you're not going to do it." 
 
 Judy dared not answer him further. John Henry's allu- 
 sion to Lee Kemp filled her with confusion perhaps he 
 had guessed in some uncanny fashion that she knew the 
 boy. But no, if he had known that, further execration 
 would have been her portion, perhaps some sort of cun- 
 ningly devised punishment. 
 
 Another perpetual complaint he had against her was her 
 laughter. She had always stilled it in his presence, but 
 now she checked her mirth, always so easy to come, so light, 
 so gay, when there was not the slightest chance that he 
 might be within earshot. 
 
 "The crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter 
 of a fool," he quoted at her, hearing her, and alluded in his 
 prayers that night to her lightness and vanity, signposts on 
 the way to perdition. 
 
 Virgie and Bud sympathized, but that was no ease to her. 
 Louellen, to whom she turned in passionate resentment, 
 urged her to be quiet, and patient. "Your Pa's all over- 
 wrought with the trouble he's been having with the drought, 
 and the crops drying up," she said. "He's not himself. 
 But if you don't say anything he'll come around presently." 
 
 "I wish I could go away," wept Judy. "I wish I could 
 go away and never come back. Send me out to California 
 to Aunt Annie, won't you, Mother? Write and ask her if 
 I can't come stay out there with her till Pa gets over his spite 
 at me." 
 
 "Your Pa would never let you go. And I haven't got the 
 money myself. I wisht I had. I believe to my soul I would 
 send you."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 259 
 
 "I don't see why I have to stay here and stand it." 
 
 Louellen was thinking of the money that had been hers, 
 and how she had given it over into John Henry's eager 
 hands as part of the price of her deliverance from his de- 
 sires. Now she wondered if it had not been better to have 
 lived with him again, better to have yielded to him, than to 
 be penniless when her need was so great for Judy. Oh, 
 to have that money, even a little of it ! The driblets of egg- 
 and-butter money she obtained vanished as quickly as they 
 accumulated, in clothes for herself and the two girls, in 
 linen for the house, and small things for the kitchen, cur- 
 tains and the like. John Henry's avarice would not have 
 tolerated that she save anything substantial from this 
 source. She thought of writing to Annie, and telling her 
 need but that was impossible. The self-contained spirit 
 of the Wests forbade it, save as a last resort. Besides, she 
 owned it to herself, she wanted Judy near her. She wanted 
 Judy, her baby, her own. . . . 
 
 "Hard words break no bones, Judy," she said, crisply. 
 '"You must just think of your Pa as a sick man and not 
 responsible for what he says, and forget about it. And 
 try not to provoke him any more than you can." 
 
 "His hard words hurt me as much as if he broke my 
 bones," Judy returned resentfully. "I'm afraid to breathe 
 when he's in the house. The only times he treats me half 
 way decent is when Ed Galloway's here, and I'd rather he'd 
 be mean than have that old toad hanging round." 
 
 "Well, try and be as careful as you can." 
 
 "I am careful. I try not to do a thing. But it don't 
 make any difference he prays for me just as mean. 
 Mother, I just wish I had a chance to pray for him some 
 time out loud. Wouldn't I read his title clear ? Oh, my !" 
 
 "You mustn't talk that way about him. It's wrong it's 
 sinful." 
 
 Judy shrugged her shoulders unconvinced. This was a 
 queer world she had reached, this grown-up land, where 
 you had to have hateful beaux hanging round, and where
 
 260 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 your own father took a hard spite on you, and made your 
 life miserable. But it was plain that she would receive only 
 negative consolation from her mother. 
 
 In Mammy Rachel, however, she had an open champion. 
 To that ample bosom Judy could fly, sure of a refuge and 
 unstinted sympathy. The old woman had never liked John 
 Henry. She had come to Louellen only because Annie had 
 gone so far away, and her loyalty demanded that she should 
 serve a West. Between her and the master of the house 
 there had always been an unspoken antipathy, expressed, on 
 Rachel's part, by a disregard of his tastes and wishes 
 wherever possible, by neglect of and indirect disobedience 
 to all his orders. All this is the habitual negro way of 
 showing dislike for those in authority over them, and only 
 Rachel's excellence as a servant, and the fact that her wages 
 were low, prevented John Henry from driving her out of 
 his house. She made him uneasy, she had a moral supe- 
 riority over him that he would never acknowledge, but 
 which he felt. She did not respect him, and he knew it. 
 She could film her eyes, gypsy fashion, and give him a 
 blank stare when he scolded her that made him feel his in- 
 adequacy before her. It had been so from the first day she 
 came, and now she eagerly welcomed the chance to take 
 Judy's part, to comfort and sustain her. 
 
 "Nemmine, my lammie, nemmine," she told her. "Happy 
 times on dey way to you, sho's yo' bo'n. Trouble fus', do. 
 My lef eye been ertwitchin' en ertwitchin', en dat a sho' 
 sign er trouble on de way. But tain' gwine las' dat sho' en 
 certain." 
 
 She gave Judy plain counsel, too, as to Ed Galloway. 
 "Ef he try puttin' his han's on you, my honey, you haul off 
 en blam him in de face, good en plenty. Doan you let him 
 hug you up ner kiss you, ner tek a holt er yo' han's. Dem 
 Galloways ain' no good blood, en he am' gwine tech my 
 lamb, dat he ain'. Ef he try any his fresh ways wid you, 
 you knock him erway, en use yo' finger nails on him ef he 
 tries ter keep on. Yo' heah me, chile?"
 
 One Thing Is Certain 261 
 
 "He did try to hold onto my hand," confessed Judy, "but 
 I pulled it away from him. He makes me sick. Oh, if Pa 
 just wouldn't ask him here to dinner all the time !" 
 
 "I'd like ter put groun' glass in his biscuit," grumbled 
 Rachel. "Back in slave times my mammy tole me erbout a 
 ooman took a pizen hate on her marster, en she bake him 
 up a lil cake, all full er nuts en raisins, wid fine groun' 
 glass in it, en he die en nobody neveh did fine out whut 
 ail 'im. All de cullud folks, dey know." 
 
 "Oh, that was awful! She committed murder. She 
 might have been hung." 
 
 Rachel nodded a sibylline head, smiling faintly. "Lots 
 er things go on in slave times dat nobody ain' know about, 
 honey. Bad things. Yes, ma'am, an' I'll tell you who dat 
 ole man was he uz ole Billy Galloway's fadder dishyer 
 go-lightly Young Ed's grea'-gran'pa, dat who." 
 
 Beyond these dark revelations, Mammy Rachel was of 
 practical help. If John Henry sent Judy supperless to her 
 room, Rachel smuggled up food to her, instantly and surely. 
 When he forbade her to go again to Mart Bladen's, Rachel 
 instituted herself as scout and spy. 
 
 "You go, honey, you go erlong," she said. "I'll keep 
 watch en ward ovah you. Yo' Pa a sly ole fox, but he ain' 
 so sly ez Rachel." 
 
 "But if he finds out he might send you off," demurred 
 Judy. "I don't want you to run risks for me." 
 
 Rachel laughed joyfully, welcoming contention with John 
 Henry. 
 
 "Yo' Pa ain' gwine sen' me off, neveh, no time, nohow," 
 she said. "I lak ter see him try it, dass all." 
 
 "Well, I'm just going this once to tell Unc' Mart what 
 Pa said. I think it's only right to do it. I wouldn't want 
 Unc' Mart to think I didn't love him any more and was 
 acting offish on my own will." 
 
 So when John Henry was making one of his regular 
 trips to the newly established creamery, she took the short 
 cut across the fields between the two farms. It was not
 
 262 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 much used, this path briers clutched her calico skirt, and 
 she had to put up a warding hand to keep the crowding 
 sassafras and pokeberry from her face. There was a patch 
 of clay where the path dipped into a gully and this she edged 
 round carefully, balancing on grass hummocks and stones. 
 Presently she reached the boundary line, scaled the fence, 
 and dropped down into Mart Bladen's orchard, where the 
 twisting half -obliterated path led her through, and out 
 again, near the stables. She could hear some one whistling, 
 and knew Mart's favorite tune: 
 
 "Hi, Betty Martin, tiptoe, tiptoe " 
 
 The familiar lilt of it, her own forlornity, sent her in to 
 him at a run, eager to be with some one warm and living 
 and responsive. He was stooping over a feed bin when 
 she caught him round the neck. 
 
 "Oh, Unc' Mart dear and darling I'm so glad to 
 see you " 
 
 Such fervent demonstration was unusual, but he straight- 
 ened, beaming, and hugged her a welcome. "Why, you 
 little rascal how'd you sneak up on me? I ain't seen you 
 for a month of Sundays. Lemme look at you. Hey, 
 what's all this for?" For her eyes had filled with quick 
 tears, their blueness deepening, darkening behind the with- 
 held shower. 
 
 "I did sneak up, Unc' Mart. Pa says I'm not to come 
 over here any more that I'm not to run out to the road 
 to hail you as you go by, that I'm not to let you bring me 
 any candy nothing." 
 
 "What's all this ?" He put his arm around her, and they 
 sat down together on the feed bin in the shadowy hayscented 
 barn, a cave of coolness in the heat. 
 
 She repeated it, her head against his shoulder. She 
 poured out all her woes. He listened, troubled, frowning, 
 wondering. There was a dark, a menacing significance 
 back and beneath this he could not tell what. 
 
 "And what does your Ma say, honey?" he asked at last. 
 
 Judy told Louellen's warning. "And Unc' Mart, Mammy
 
 One Thing Is Certain 263 
 
 Rachel's the only one who really takes my part. She's 
 watching out for me now, so's I could come over here to 
 see you. Oh, Unc' Mart, you know I think the world and 
 all of you I don't want not to see you. I think more of 
 you than anybody there is, anywhere. You're awful dear 
 to me, somehow, even if you aren't real blood-kin." 
 
 The arm about her trembled, tightened a little. "As 
 God's my witness, Judy," said Mart Bladen, "you're dearer 
 to me than everybody and anybody in this world. I want to 
 see you happy. I want oh, what's the use my hands are 
 tied. What can I do ?" 
 
 "But I didn't expect you to do anything. I only came 
 because I wanted you not to forget about me, even if I 
 didn't see you so often. When Pa's away, safe away, you 
 know, I'm coming sometimes. But maybe it might be long 
 times in between " 
 
 "No I don't want you to, Judy. I want you to bide 
 by what your Ma says. If she thinks you ought to do like 
 he says then you do it. She's right there and she knows 
 best." 
 
 He recalled his talk with Lee now two months past. 
 "You been out boat-ridin' with Lee a good bit, ain't you, 
 Judy?" 
 
 "Only now and again. It's so hard to get away from Pa. 
 He's got eyes in the back of his head, and he can see pret' 
 near a mile, seems to me." 
 
 "Then he don't know you been going?" 
 
 "Oh, my, no. If he did well, he'd be crosser'n ever. He 
 don't like Lee and he don't think you ought to keep him 
 here. He's said that all round the neighborhood. That's 
 one reason why he don't want me to come over here any 
 more, because Lee's here." 
 
 Mart Bladen shook with his unuttered profanity. "But 
 yet he sent you out buggy-riding with Young Ed Galloway." 
 He spoke incautiously, though he was determined on cau- 
 tion. No use to set Judy against John Henry. It was 
 hard enough for her as it was. And if Louellen had coun-
 
 264 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 seled patience. . . . He wished life would not bewilder 
 and entangle him so. He did not like it. He was in a 
 smothering, uncertain region, with Judy clinging to him 
 like a helpless kitten, soft and round-eyed and needful of 
 his protection, and his hands what had he said? his 
 hands tied his head in a bag. God, what a mess ! 
 
 "How old are you now, Judy?" 
 
 "I'll be sixteen my next birthday." 
 
 Sixteen two years before she was of age. Meantime, 
 tight in John Henry's paternal grasp. He knew the stand- 
 ing that John Henry had in the community. A man not 
 liked, but respected for his rigid piety, his substance. The 
 unruly daughter who went against a man like that would 
 be wholly condemned. Mart struggled with the stiff prob- 
 lem of things as they seem and things as they are. Hard 
 to tell in such case whether to do the right thing or the ex- 
 pedient, the politic. With Louellen, he chose the expedient. 
 He hardly listened to what Judy was saying, explaining 
 her dislike, her horror of Young Ed. 
 
 "... I just despise him. I like Lee lots better." She 
 finished. 
 
 "Lee ever come over to see you?" asked Mart, suspi- 
 ciously. 
 
 "Why, no, Unc' Mart, only once or twice when I was 
 sitting out on the porch by myself of an evening. He knows 
 Pa wouldn't like him to come over there, and he don't want 
 to come where he's been talked down so. He's touchy. 
 But sometimes he comes because he's sorry for me. And 
 we just sit there and don't say anything. But I like to have 
 him come, even so." 
 
 "Hmm yes. Well, now, look here, Judy, you better do 
 like your mother says. I'll try to get along without you, 
 though Lord knows I'll miss you. And when you're a 
 little older, maybe happier times'll come. . . ." 
 
 "That's what Rachel says. She says they're bound to 
 come. All is, I don't see how I'm going to stand Pa till 
 they get here." Her frankness had no malice in it. It was
 
 One Thing Is Certain 265 
 
 a plain question, a matter of endurance, and her eyes turned 
 deep with tears again at the thought. 
 
 "Oh, land sake !" exclaimed Mart, getting up and stamp- 
 ing about. "We got to contrive something. Now there's 
 that old holler oak tree out along the road, 'bout half-way 
 betwixt my front gate and yours. I'll drop a bag of licorice 
 or pep'mints in there every time I come from town, honey, 
 and thataway you'll know I'm thinking about you. And 
 you might stick me in a little note every so often, telling 
 me the news. How about that? And I'll put a flea in 
 Lee's ear not to come over to your house no more, since 
 John Henry's so down on him. He's mighty taken up with 
 practicing for the tournament " 
 
 "Oh, Unc' Mart, you did loan him a horse?" She was 
 radiant, her tears instantly dried. "He said he wouldn't 
 ask you, you'd done so much for him already." 
 
 "That fool boy, all eat up with pride! Yes, I loaned 
 him a horse, and he's riding every evening, down in the back 
 pasture lot. But I think I'd a little ruther he didn't come 
 over to your house. If John Henry found it out he might 
 make out he come for some bad purpose, stealing or some- 
 thing." 
 
 "Then I'll put a note in the hollow oak for him, too, 
 sometimes." 
 
 Mart looked crest-fallen. "Now you won't do any such 
 a thing. That oak tree's our post office, yours and mine, 
 and I won't have any young sprig cutting in on me." 
 
 "You're an old jealous." 
 
 "Maybe I am, maybe I am, miss. But you got to hunt 
 up another holler tree if you want to leave any notes for 
 Lee in 'em." 
 
 She stood on tiptoe to reach the height of his shoulders, 
 with her hands clinging fondly about his neck. She held 
 her lips for his kiss. "I got to go now Pa might be back. 
 Good-by, Unc' Mart, dear Unc' Mart, you old jealous. 
 Don't forget the licorice."
 
 266 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "You little rascal don't you fear. And no notes for 
 Lee in my tree. You remember that." 
 
 Their good-by sparkled between tears and laughter, but 
 when she had gone Mart Bladen sat disconsolately, humped 
 over, on the feed box. For the first time he felt the en- 
 croaching finger of age upon his spirit, cold, unpitying. He 
 must say nothing for Judy. He must do nothing for her. 
 She was taken from him, cut away from him with ruthless 
 malice, and he could not stir to prevent it. 
 
 "Looks like John Henry's got the best of me this time," 
 he thought, drearily, "but what's he getting at, exactly, I 
 wonder ? Maybe he's going plumb doggoned crazy after all. 
 God knows he never was none too well balanced. We'll 
 have to wait and see . . . wait and see. I'd a heap ruther 
 go right on over and wring his stringy neck. . . ." He 
 clenched his fist with a satisfying tensity of muscle. But 
 that too availed nothing. They must all leave things as 
 they were. They must wait. He raged against this need 
 of waiting. Was Judy's golden untouched youth to be 
 marred or wasted or unfulfilled? No, no he could not 
 endure that. But still again he felt his old unwillingness 
 to be entangled with the tragic movement of life, to be 
 impelled and forced by it, rather than to move serenely 
 through the days, master of all his movements, his own will 
 supreme, ruler of his own small cycle. 

 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 THE boy, Lee, was a great solace. More and more Mart 
 turned to him, made him a companion, a son. He had never 
 been drawn to the broods of his sisters, they resembled 
 too much his brothers-in-law, and that is always a sure 
 means of family alienation. It is the child that bears the 
 stamp of our own blood to whom we are instinctively 
 drawn, in whom we recognize points of superiority. And 
 among the children of Mart's two sisters there was not one 
 who carried the Bladen look, the Bladen laughter. 
 
 But Lee, though he was dark, though he was silent, and 
 apt to be serious to moroseness, had a kinship for Mart in 
 his way with the farmhands, his way with the land, his 
 way with the horses and his love for Caesar. More, there 
 was his humble, unselfish, unasking devotion a devotion 
 that would have brought response from one far less re- 
 sponsive than Mart. Mart turned to that devotion, began 
 to lean on it. 
 
 To the men with whom he drank and played seven-up, 
 he swore that he liked that boy of Joe Kemp's, that he had 
 first-rate stuff in him, that maybe he was a throw-back, or 
 got changed in the cradle, but that he hadn't an ounce of 
 his father's wildness, the Kemp shiftlessness. He told 
 stories of his cleverness, his handy ways, his energy and 
 ability. Gradually, as in anything a little out of the 
 ordinary brought to their attention, the community began 
 to look with interest and kindliness on young Lee. Occa- 
 sionally some one would wag a dismal "Blood will tell" in 
 answer to favorable comment, but for the most part, save 
 among the strict Sabbatarians who regarded Mart himself 
 as a soul past redemption, a sinner incarnate, the boy gained 
 a certain standing. 
 
 Now and then an older man, some one of Mart's friends, 
 
 267
 
 268 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 would stop him, and engage him in friendly aimless talk 
 for a moment or two, and Miss Becca Simpson, meeting 
 him on the street of Manor where he had gone on an er- 
 rand, seized his hand and shook it with vivacity. 
 
 "You Lee Kemp, aint you?" she demanded, her little 
 black eyes peering at him brightly. "I thought I knew 
 you. You're getting to be a man grown, and a right fine- 
 looking one, too. How's Mart Bladen getting along? You 
 tell him he's to come in and see me next time he comes to 
 town, or I'll be downright mad at him." 
 
 Lee delivered the message word for word, and did not 
 try to conceal his gratification of being spoken to by so 
 notable a personage as Miss Becca. "She was real nice," 
 he added. "Funny-looking, but nice." 
 
 With the tide of public favor set in his direction he felt 
 no bashfulness in entering his name for the tournament, 
 dated now for a Saturday early in October. He, too, like 
 Young Ed, had been in a quandary as to what name he 
 should ride under, for every youth taking part adopted for 
 the occasion a fanciful title. 
 
 "Why don't you call yourself 'Knight of Plaindealing' ?" 
 asked Mart, at last. "I always used to ride under that 
 name." 
 
 "You don't mind, Mr. Bladen my using the name of 
 your farm?" 
 
 "Of course not. Where you get all these hifaluting ideas 
 beats me anybody might think, to hear you talk, I didn't 
 have no interest in you. But you don't need to use that 
 name less'n you want to. Now there was your great- 
 grandpa, up the county, he had a place called 'Come-by- 
 Chance' you might go back to him and use that name. 
 He was a fine, high-stepping old feller, the old folks used 
 to say." 
 
 "I think 'Knight of Come-by- Chance' sounds too true," 
 said young Lee grimly, after thought. "I'm too much a 
 come-by-chance myself. Not that I mean any disrespect 
 to my great-grandpa, but I don't want folks to laugh at
 
 One Thing Is Certain 269 
 
 me. I'd a lot rather" he hesitated, coloring, choking with 
 the love he had for Mart, which it would be unmanly to 
 reveal "I'd a lot ruther call myself 'Knight of Plain- 
 dealing' than anything, Mr. Bladen, if you don't mind." 
 
 "Go ahead and do it then, and quit this hemming and 
 hawing." 
 
 But beneath Mart's brusqueness was deep satisfaction and 
 Lee felt it and was warmed by it. 
 
 He had practiced faithfully for the tournament. With 
 Ephum's help he had set up two posts, with an arm on one 
 side, making great inverted L's. On the tip of the arm 
 was the fork which held the ring, which the riding knight 
 must pick off with his lance while his horse is at full gallop. 
 There would be three of these posts in the real tournament, 
 set some seventy feet apart. 
 
 The knights would wear wide ribbons in their favored 
 colors, passed from shoulder to hip, and tied jauntily, and 
 it was the custom to wear also a wide felt hat, turned up 
 at the side, and decorated with a long plume, ravished from 
 the headgear of a complacent female relative, and sewed 
 there by her hands. For the rest, ordinary clothes sufficed, 
 there was not enough of the assured fantastic in the tem- 
 perament of the local youth to countenance further deco- 
 ration. 
 
 Lee was at a loss how to obtain the requisite feather, 
 unless he went direct to Miss Stafford's Millinery Em- 
 porium and bought it, and such a proceeding was against 
 all tradition, both romantic and financial. Mart saw his 
 quandary and forestalled him. 
 
 "Now about a feather for your hat," he said, one evening, 
 after watching Lee and Florrie in their regular joust after 
 the small elusive rings. "You leave that to me. I'll go 
 round to Mrs. Dan Fisher's Rena Massey that was and 
 borrow you the grandest plume in the state. That woman's 
 got more folderols and gee-gaws and rigamajigs than any 
 other ten women in town put together. She'll loan me one 
 and glad to do it."
 
 270 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 It was as he had said. Rena, expanded into a perma- 
 nent stoutness that did not prevent her good-nature, her 
 coquettishness, and even some of her prettiness remaining, 
 opened a bandbox of discarded trimmings, and banteringly 
 offered Mart his choice of half a dozen feathers. 
 
 "If 'twas only for yourself, I'd say take the red one," 
 she giggled, "or this bright yellow. Nothing was ever too 
 gay for you, Mart." 
 
 "Yes, you'd like me to look like a nigger parade, I reckon. 
 I tell you the young folks nowadays are all sobersides com- 
 pared to what we were. Now what do you think about 
 that kind of roan-colored one?" 
 
 "That's not roan, silly that's brown. Well, that's a 
 real pretty feather and a nice length." 
 
 "Sure you can spare it?" 
 
 "Anything to you." 
 
 "There you go, making me wish you was Dan Fisher's 
 widow 'stead of his wife." 
 
 "Oh, you horrid thing to say such a thing about Dan." 
 
 "You brought it on yourself." 
 
 Rena's silver bangles clinked about her plump wrists as 
 she wrapped the feather in soft paper. She was as keen 
 for fashion as ever she had been, the additional surface she 
 had acquired to display the styles did not displease her. 
 
 "Seen anything of your neighbors lately Louellen or 
 any of the family?" 
 
 "Well, John Henry and I go to prayermeeting regular 
 together, as usual." 
 
 "Mart, you're a case. 'Twouldn't hurt you to go to 
 prayermeeting now and then. That reminds me I hear 
 Young Ed Galloway's setting up to little Judy, Louellen's 
 youngest girl. I reckon John Henry'll be pleased, seeing 
 how Young Ed's turned a new leaf and joined the church. 
 My, he was a wild one, too." 
 
 "No," said Mart, reflectively. "He wasn't wild, Rena. 
 He was dirty. There's a difference." 
 
 Rena's eyes brightened at the prospect of gossip. She
 
 One Thing Is Certain 271 
 
 dropped her voice : "You mean that shantyboat girl ? Dan 
 told me something about it." 
 
 "I didn't mean a thing, I just said he was dirty, and I 
 know it. That's all. Thank you for the feather, Rena. I'll 
 bring it back when the tournament's over." 
 
 Again this business of Young Ed Galloway hanging 
 around Judy ! People were beginning to talk about it now. 
 And she was nearly sixteen but girls didn't marry as early 
 as they used to. But what could he do? If he made a 
 move he'd just put trouble on Judy and Louellen both. A 
 man couldn't interfere with his neighbor's family affairs. 
 That was as true now as it had been when Judy had come 
 to tell him good-by. He realized that he had not been think- 
 ing so acutely of Judy since young Lee had made this com- 
 ing tournament such an outstanding affair. He was vastly 
 concerned that Lee should make a good showing. Indeed, 
 he was sure the boy would win, though he did not tell 
 him so. 
 
 Lee himself was confident, but fearful, too. Strategically 
 he tried to conceal from Mart his anxiety, his dependence 
 on this one day for all the status of his future. But he 
 could not help building on it, seeing it the doorway to all 
 he wished for, all he wanted. His hopes went up, up, up, 
 knowing no limit to their flight. Only now and then was 
 he troubled by the steadying dart of "What if I shouldn't 
 win?" He must win he must. He went to sleep at night 
 with his pulses beating that refrain to him, and woke to the 
 same rhythm. And all through his slumbers were great 
 dreams of himself riding riding riding fast and straight 
 as no one had ever ridden before, snatching off the pendent 
 rings with a debonair lightness, acclaimed by cheering 
 crowds, and at the last bringing the golden crown that would 
 be the guerdon of the queen, proudly, openly, to Judy's wel- 
 coming hands, her proud and wonderful smile! Always 
 somewhere at the back Ed Galloway, a mean and defeated 
 figure, slunk away into a limbo of obscurity whence he could 
 never return. But he confided none of this dream pageant
 
 272 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 to Mart or even to Judy in their now most infrequent 
 meetings. 
 
 Only he reminded her that she had said he might crown 
 her queen if he won. And once, he almost betrayed him- 
 self and the height of his imaginings, his pyramided hopes, 
 in an exclamation : "I'd never hold up my head again if I 
 don't win. I'd be ready to clear out of the neighborhood, go 
 off somewhere, and not come back till I was somebody folks 
 couldn't talk down." 
 
 "Oh," cried Judy, startled. "Don't go away, Lee. Why, 
 what would I do?" 
 
 He looked at her meaningly. "You could wait till I come 
 back," he said. Then, desperately: "You wouldn't marry 
 Ed Galloway, would you, Judy?" 
 
 "Mercy no. I tell you I don't want ever to get mar- 
 ried." She was thinking of the eternal conflict between her 
 parents, the spectacle of her mother's dreary existence. 
 
 Lee let the matter rest. He had no right to say more. 
 Anyway, she had promised she wouldn't marry Ed Callo- 
 way. And anyway ... he was going to win the tourna- 
 ment. . . . 
 
 The tournament had been put off from early October 
 until later because of the continued unseasonable heat, but 
 items in the Manor Democrat kept it alive. Entries were 
 coming in. George Willis would ride as Knight of 
 Tuckahoe. Thomas Stevens would ride as Knight of Wye 
 Mills. Church Hill had a representative, and two enter- 
 prising youths would come from Centerville to uphold the 
 honor of Queen Anne County in feats of horsemanship. 
 Later it was announced that Judge Markwood would de- 
 liver the Charge to the Knights, an occasion for flowery 
 oratory. Cicero Smith of N. had donated the use of his 
 trotting track for the occasion as every one knew from 
 the first he would. The editor of the Democrat urged 
 attendance of the tournament "to encourage our young men 
 in their quest of chivalry and to show how impossible it is 
 that this much-vaunted new invention, the horseless car-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 273 
 
 riage, can ever supersede, in usefulness or beauty, that 
 favorite domestic animal, equus caballus. Let this be our 
 challenge to the soulless inventor who would supplant our 
 noble steeds with noisy, ill-smelling machines let us show 
 the everlasting glories of the horse and uphold the famous 
 standards of Southern horsemanship in deeds of derring-do 
 on Saturday P.M. at Smith's Race Track, while youth and 
 beauty smile maidenly approval on the scene." 
 
 Young Ed Galloway read the notice to Judy, smiling with 
 his own approval, tickled with the phrases. 
 
 "Your Pa's going to let you go," he added. "I asked 
 him if I could take you. And I've persuaded Brother Todd 
 to attend, because I heard the Episcopalian minister was 
 going, and I didn't think the Methodists ought to be left 
 unrepresented, officially, I mean. Two preachers will lend 
 tone to the affair, and even if it is a trotting track, I don't 
 see that it makes any difference. So the Reverend made 
 up his mind to go, and he'll take Virgie. I told your Pa 
 that, too." 
 
 "I'm glad Virgie's going," said Judy, ungratefully. 
 
 Young Ed did not notice the omission of her thanks. 
 "I'm going to call myself Knight of Oak Hill, as you 
 thought would be best, maybe you noticed the name 
 amongst the entries." 
 
 "Yes, I noticed it." 
 
 "And my little horse why, he can pretty near take off 
 the rings himself. I'll bet you I crown you Queen of Love 
 and Beauty before 'em all." 
 
 "I wish you'd leave me alone," said Judy, provoked to 
 sudden overwhelming, helpless anger. "I don't want to go 
 to the old tournament, and I don't want you crowning me 
 Queen either. I don't see what you come round here for 
 anyway. You know I don't like you and don't want you. 
 You ought to be ashamed to run after a girl who don't like 
 you any better than I do." 
 
 "I like a spitfire, that's what," proclaimed young Ed. "I 
 don't give a snap for a girl that's got no spirit, and comes
 
 274 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 honeying round a fellow. Besides, you look awful pretty 
 when you're mad don't you know that? I expect you do, 
 and that's why you get mad at me so much. You just whet 
 up my appetite when you fly out at me, Judy. Besides, I 
 know I got your Pa's blessing." He smiled teasingly, se- 
 curely. More and more Judy's luscious youth appealed to 
 him. He was beginning to think very surely now of mar- 
 rying her. After the tournament if he won by crowning 
 her Queen of Love and Beauty he would serve notice of 
 his intentions publicly. No man crowned a girl in a tour- 
 nament unless they were engaged or meant to be. 
 
 "I'll drive down here for you early Saturday afternoon, 
 and we'll go right out to the trotting track. One of my 
 hands is going to bring my riding horse in for me." 
 
 "I'll ride in town with Virgie and Mr. Todd," said Judy, 
 seeking a way to escape. "Then you won't need to come 
 all this way." 
 
 "I don't mind it. That nice long ride in town and back 
 with you is the best part of my day, barring the time when 
 I hand you the winner's prize." He swaggered away, 
 assured that luck was with him, enjoying the sensation of 
 Judy's futile rebelliousness. "She needs a snaffle, that's- 
 what," he told himself, and saw himself the man to apply 
 it. A wife like that, a good girl, "never a fellow before 
 me," who spiced her beauty and her virginity with resist- 
 ance would be something worth having in the way of 
 women. Being so young, so inexperienced, he could soon 
 break her to subserviency. More than ever he realized how 
 wise he had been to cut away from his other associations, 
 and join the church, to go in for peace by way of holiness. 
 He had been skeptical about such benefits at first, but since 
 he'd found Judy to play with, he saw, as never before, how 
 well it pays to be good.
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 THE trotting track of Cicero Smith of N. was an in- 
 formal and little used field, roughly laid out with a half- 
 mile circular course; and further embellished by a few 
 tumbling sheds for the horses, an unroofed ramshackle 
 grandstand, and a judges' pagoda, not much larger or more 
 important than a dirty gumdrop. 
 
 That was all there was of it, but it was happily located 
 only a quarter of a mile or so from Manor, which made it 
 easily accessible to the town, and those town bloods who 
 wished to try their horses' speed. Occasionally minor races 
 were held there, real races of a sort, preliminary to the 
 larger races of the county fairs. But for the most part it 
 was a desolate, deserted place, edged with scrubby pine, and 
 a lesser close growth of beggar's lice, Spanish needle and 
 the more potent, vigorous sand-burr. 
 
 Nevertheless it was a race track, and it could be used for 
 tournaments, so the row of posts, three of them, were set 
 up there, and a course agreed on and laid out much devas- 
 tation ensuing thereby to the summer's growth of rank 
 weeds. 
 
 The entries had increased at a high pace. So much so 
 it was deemed advisable to omit the usual preliminary "trial 
 ride" of each contestant. 
 
 "Folks can't stay out here all night," quoth Cicero Smith 
 of N., facetiously, who was master of ceremonies, and a 
 jocund soul, delighting in his semi-public character. "We'll 
 have to give the lads three rides each, and let it go at that." 
 
 It was so arranged. Cicero Smith would be one of the 
 judges, and Doctor Tithelow another. Luther Gadd, the 
 popular county clerk, a debonair middle-aged man whose 
 twin appetites for sport and good living ate up his income 
 to the last penny, without a care for the morrow, was the 
 
 275
 
 276 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 third judge, and these three would see that all the require- 
 ments of speed and distance were carried out. A committee 
 of ladies would take care to ravish the best of the town 
 and country gardens for the late chrysanthemums and orna- 
 mental grasses to form special winners' trophies, flat 
 bouquets stiffly backed with green fans of arbor vitae. 
 There was high excitement when it was learned that the 
 Ladies Guild of the Episcopalians proposed to set up a booth 
 and serve hot coffee, sandwiches and fried oysters, for the 
 benefit of their organization. A ripple of talk arose and 
 the Methodist ladies suggested that their Ladies Aid should 
 run an opposition booth, but in the end they decided against 
 it. "It'll be a lot of work," quoth Miss Becca Simpson 
 crisply. "Let the Episcopalians do it. They need the money 
 worse'n we do. Besides, suppose it should rain and all that 
 food had been fixed beforehand." The tag of that speech 
 carried the decision. 
 
 But the day was clear, with a cool West wind, but a 
 warm autumn sun to gild and glamour the dinginess of the 
 racetrack, to fling a melting blue haze through the sparse 
 pine woods about it, a day to lift the heart to laughter, to 
 irresponsibility, a day subtly tuned to festivity. It would 
 have been impossible to work on such a day. 
 
 The crowd gathered early. In the morning people rode 
 over and drove over from Queen Anne and Kent Counties, 
 up from Talbot, even from Dorchester. They hunted up 
 old friends and distant relatives, and stayed to dinner, and 
 those who had no claim on private hospitality ate bounti- 
 fully at the hotel. The country people drove in, parked 
 their buggies and surreys and dearborns at the racetrack, 
 brought out huge baskets of lunch and enjoyed their dinner 
 in the open. The enterprising Episcopalian ladies, antici- 
 pating this, were on the ground early with their booth to 
 supplement such cold viands by their hot food and drink. 
 Two colored women fried oysters over an open fire, in a 
 huge kettle of fat, and a white-coated colored man served 
 them, and with them beaten biscuit and huge tin cups of
 
 One Thing Is Certain 277 
 
 coffee, while the President and Secretary of the Guild di- 
 rected, assisted and received the money. 
 
 Early in the afternoon, as soon as the mid-day dinner 
 was over, the townsfolk and their guests came trooping 
 leisurely out to the track. Many of them drove and chose 
 to watch the tournament from their vehicles rather than 
 from the rickety heights of the grandstand. The younger 
 faction, however, congregated on the grandstand and there 
 was a distinct line of cleavage between town and country 
 youth. The town girls, assured as to style and charm, 
 chattered, visited round amongst their various groups, dis- 
 playing an ostentatious sparkle and sociability, while the 
 country girls gathered closely together and watched, half 
 envious, half scorning. They would not have confessed 
 that they longed to achieve the easy, voluble flutter and 
 swing of the town girls, but their secret hearts were eaten 
 with such longing. 
 
 The men mostly stayed down near the track, pretending 
 indifference, talking desultorily of crops and local politics. 
 Many of them went to join their women when the hour for 
 the beginning of the tournament drew near, only the half- 
 tamed spirits remaining in masculine solidarity. 
 
 Virgie and Judy, self-conscious in new dresses and hats, 
 sat on the grandstand between the town and country fac- 
 tions, belonging to the country side by rights, but because 
 of the companionship of the Reverend Todd feeling that 
 they must acknowledge him as a town affiliation, for, as 
 soon as Virgie and he were married, they would be towns- 
 people. The Episcopalian minister, an urbane white-haired 
 little old gentleman, sat with his wife and two daughters 
 in the midst of the town crowd. 
 
 Mart Bladen had ridden in early, with Lee, and they had 
 had dinner at the Hotel, and come out together to the track, 
 keen-edged with excitement, but speaking little. Mart now 
 and then ventured something confident, half-boastful, varied 
 with superfluous words of caution as to horsemanship in 
 a crowd, and the like. Lee hardly heard him. He was
 
 278 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 centered, intent, his eyes glittered and his pulses pounded. 
 He sat very straight in the saddle, and pulled his wide hat 
 down to shadow his face, lest his eagerness be betrayed to 
 the crowd. When it was time for him to join the riders 
 Mart had managed an easy "Luck!" and left him. Then 
 the older man had gone to the grandstand and presently 
 spied Judy. A reconnoitering look told him that John 
 Henry was not near, so he went over to them, spoke to the 
 young minister, pinched Virgie's cheek, and settled his 
 bulky weight beside Judy. 
 
 "If this plaguey plank seat holds," he told her, "I figure 
 I'm as safe here as anywhere. Ain't it a nice day ! Honey, 
 you get that last little poke o' candy?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Unc' Mart. My, they were so good. You get 
 my note?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. Who brought you in? The young rev- 
 erend?" 
 
 A shadow fell across Judy's face. "That Young Ed Cal- 
 loway brought me. He's riding. He says he's going to 
 win the prize and crown me queen. I don't wish anybody 
 any bad luck, but, oh, if something should happen to him, 
 I'd downright laugh, indeed I would." 
 
 "You rest easy about his crowning you. He's not got a 
 chance in the world of winning. There's a dozen boys out 
 there that's better with a horse than he is." 
 
 "Unc' Mart," she whispered, lest Virgie should hear. 
 "D'you think Lee's going to win?" 
 
 "I figure he's got a right good chance," Mart returned 
 cautiously. "But there's a heap of smart riders here to- 
 day, from all around. Still, I figure Lee's got a chance. 
 By jolly, I wish they'd start up." 
 
 Presently came a little restless wave of expectancy, a 
 ripple of turned heads, and exclamations : "They're coming ! 
 They're coming!" And in the sunlight, at full gallop, the 
 massed knights drove down the track in rough troop for- 
 mation, pulling up their horses with a tremendous effect, 
 while the crowd clapped and cheered. As the applause died
 
 One Thing Is Certain 279 
 
 i 
 
 away Judge Mark wood's massive figure rose in the front 
 of the stand, frock-coated, heavy- jowled, deep-eyed, silver- 
 haired. In orotund flowery periods he gave a short, ringing 
 Charge to the Knights, while the restless horses sidled and 
 danced and pawed the ground, resenting such close contact 
 with so many strangers of their kind, and their riders had 
 all they could do to keep them in hand, what with ribbons 
 and plumed hats to manage as well. 
 
 Cicero Smith, Doctor Tithelow and Mr. Gadd took their 
 places in the judges' stand. The riders galloped off to the 
 end of the course to get their lances, and await their turns. 
 A bell rang. The tournament had begun. 
 
 Oscar Gooden, the auctioneer, was the marshal and, in 
 a voice of mighty power, he bawled out the name of the 
 first rider. 
 
 "Jeems Aaron Harbison Knight of Lloyd's Regulation." 
 
 Thundering down the line of gibbet-like posts came young 
 Jeems Aaron, lying low on his horse's neck, his reins loose, 
 guiding his steed with leg-pressure according to the best 
 local precepts of riding, his lance a dart of determination, 
 his plume a streaming, defiant pennon, his red sash a chal- 
 lenge. Jeems Aaron was good. He won every ring, and 
 trotted back to the music of cheers. 
 
 "If all of 'em do as well as that they'll have to ride off 
 a lot of ties at the end," said Mart, nervously. He was 
 looking out for Lee, impatient until he should come. He 
 was surprised to feel how hot and cold his hands were 
 going. 
 
 Helpers ran out and put new rings in place. Again Oscar 
 Gooden lifted his voice: 
 
 "Albert Stell Knight of Cordova." 
 
 Albert was not so clever as his predecessor. He had to 
 retire with only two rings dangling on his lance, and the 
 work of the helpers was accordingly shortened. 
 
 Now they came fast. "Knight of Tuckahoe ! Knight of 
 Betterton! Knight of Goldsboro! Knight of Potters 
 Landing !"
 
 280 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 A waggish country lad brought a laugh by having him- 
 self announced "Knight of the Plow and Harrow," and 
 rode a lumbering old farm-horse, whose clumsy gait sent 
 the spectators into shouts of joy. Nevertheless, when the 
 boy retired with two rings, he was cheered and clapped 
 as none of his predecessors had been. He grinned his 
 acknowledgment and ducked a roguish red head. 
 
 Young Ed Galloway was called, and won two rings. His 
 horse was a piece of prancing satin, clean-limbed, true-bred, 
 "Got lots more sense'n Young Ed himself," growled Mart 
 into Judy's ear. 
 
 "Knight of Plaindealing," Oscar Gooden's voice was a 
 clarion of triumph to the two in the grandstand. They 
 leaned, Judy clutching Mart's arm, forgetful of who might 
 see, breathless, projecting their anxiety, their hope for him, 
 to bring him whirling down the line of posts, to steady his 
 lance for the rings. . . . He bent his young body, so that 
 he and the horse were one . . . Florrie . . . more than 
 ready for the word, ran straight and at the top of her 
 pace. . . . 
 
 "By Judas, he got 'em all three," said Mart. "What 
 did I tell you!" 
 
 He had told her nothing, but that made no difference. 
 Voices near them, not unfriendly, said, "Who was that?" 
 And other voices answered, "Joe Kemp's boy don't you 
 know?" and Mart glanced round at the speakers in a sort 
 of vicarious paternal pride, flinging one leg over the other, 
 leaning back with perilous negligence on the wavering 
 boards. "Well begun is half done," he quoted sagely. 
 "I'm as wrought up as if I was doing it myself, darned 
 if'm not. Lee's one ring ahead on Young Ed on the first 
 round, Judy. Notice that?" 
 
 They did not watch the next contestants, so much there 
 was to talk about, to tell each other in what Lee had done. 
 Judy's cheeks had mounted flaming color. 
 
 "Oh, he will win, Unc' Mart, he will, I know it," she
 
 One Thing Is Certain 281 
 
 kept saying, over and over again. Virgie pinched her on 
 the arm to make her keep quiet. 
 
 "People are looking at you," whispered Virgie primly. 
 
 "He's got a likely chance a likely chance," was all Mart 
 could babble in reply. But he could not sit still. "Reckon 
 I'll go down amongst the riders before his turn comes 
 again," he said to Judy. "I'll just say a steadying word 
 or two to 'im. He'll be pret' near off his head, I shouldn't 
 wonder." 
 
 The round began again the riders past all smiling. They 
 were in earnest now. The redoubtable Jeems Aaron let 
 his lance waver for an unlucky second and missed two of 
 the rings. The droll Knight of the Plow and Harrow 
 scored one and missed two, and some of those who had 
 made poor scores on the first round redeemed themselves 
 now. Young Ed Galloway made a perfect score. 
 
 And then again came Lee. . . . He, too, wavered, missed 
 one. His second score was two. Still, so far he was tied 
 with the best, all save one slender dark youth from Queen 
 Anne County, who won every ring on both rounds and led 
 them all. He was cheered by a Queen Anne faction, but 
 louder voices besought the native sons not to be beaten 
 by an outsider. 
 
 "Come on, boys show 'em what home folks can do," 
 rose a shrill far-reaching cry from a little man in a plaid 
 great-coat and dingy cap, out in front of the grandstand. 
 And the crowd caught and echoed the cry. "Come on 
 home folks !" The colored man who had served fried 
 oysters faithfully to the hungry crowd climbed on a chair 
 and waved his white jacket. "Home boys come a-run- 
 nin'," he begged, and the crowd laughed and cheered him. 
 
 On the grandstand every one was standing, shifting, 
 swaying, and the aged timbers beneath them creaked warn- 
 ingly, but they held, so no one heeded. 
 
 "Come on ! Come on ! Come a-runnin' Home Folks " 
 
 The shouting and the press worried and fretted the
 
 282 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 horses they were skittish, hard to manage. They did not 
 understand. They were not trained to this sort of thing, 
 and they hated it. They reared and shied, and kicked. The 
 Knight of Betterton was thrown and his plume broken and 
 rolled in the dirt. He got up, limping and white, clutching 
 a smashed collar bone. Some one caught his horse and 
 helped him to friends. He was out of the third round. 
 
 "Hustle 'em up, Oscar," shouted Luther Gadd. "Run 
 'em off fast's you can, or else we'll have more accidents. 
 The devil's in the horses." 
 
 Oscar hustled 'em. His big voice boomed and bellowed. 
 He hardly gave his helpers enough time to put the new 
 rings back in place they had to run to get out of the 
 way. But Oscar kept on hustling 'em. 
 
 Only the youths who had kept their heads and their 
 horses calm scored on this round. Jeems Aaron was a 
 prey to the prevalent madness, and took only one ring. 
 Other boys who had scored well before missed every ring. 
 The horse of the Knight of Queen Anne was determined 
 to rear at every post, and had to be fought the whole way, 
 so that his rider won only two rings. Still, his score was 
 good. Young Ed's thoroughbred showed her mettle and 
 ran true once more. Her master won three rings, tying 
 with the Queen Anne boy. 
 
 Judy waited, hands clenched. She thought she would die 
 of the suspense. She did not see how she could live until 
 it was over. Virgie's polite little comments and the Rev- 
 erend Todd's answers had no part in her consciousness. 
 She stood up with the others and waved and shouted. Oh 
 . . . would Lee never ride again ? . . . Was he never com- 
 
 ing 
 
 She saw Mart climbing up through the crowd toward 
 her. "What is it?" she cried out to him. "Why don't he 
 come?" And then she knew by Mart's face that something 
 had happened. 
 
 "He ain't going to ride the third time, Judy," he said. 
 "That old plow horse got rampaging round and lashed out
 
 One Thing Is Certain 283 
 
 and caught Florrie square on the hock and she's gone dead 
 lame. I think she'd stand up to one more round, and I 
 told him to go ahead, but he won't do it. It's all up." He 
 made a gesture of finality. 
 
 It was unbelievable tragedy. "He's not going to ride 
 again? He's lost?" asked Judy. "Oh, Unc' Mart. . . ." 
 She could not believe it. 
 
 "Ain't it the damnedest luck ! Didn't even get a chance. 
 I give that young red-head a piece of my mind crazy kids 
 like him oughtn't to be allowed on a horse. But that wasn't 
 no good. By Judas, I'd ruther've lost every horse I had in 
 the stable than have this happen. I went over and asked 
 Doc Tithelow if he couldn't borrow a horse for the last 
 round, but it's against the rules. All three rounds on the 
 one horse." He shook his head, sunk in despair. 
 
 "But where's Lee gone to, then?" asked Judy, anguished. 
 
 "He's back there in the stable shed, trying to fix up 
 Florrie. She's right bad cut. I s'pose it wouldn't've been 
 right to've ridden her again, but yet. ... I told him to go 
 ahead. He wouldn't hear to it. Just set his mouth, and 
 jdidn't answer me." 
 
 The turbulent crowd was seething, shouting all about 
 them, for Oscar was still hustling 'em. And now a mightier, 
 more intense roar drew them from their depths. "What 
 is it?" asked Mart, craning over the crowd. 
 
 The third round had been finished, and the four who had 
 tied for high score were riding it off. Queen Anne's horse, 
 still fractious, lost him the prize. Oscar's voice quieted the 
 surrounding roar, dominated it. 
 
 "Knight of Tuckahoe one on the Finals! Knight of 
 Wye Mills one on the Finals ! Young Ed Galloway two 
 on the Finals and WINNER!" 
 
 "Unc' Mart, take me home take me home, will you? 
 Before he finds me out and crowns me?" Judy clutched 
 Mart Bladen's arm again, now in an agony of appeal, 
 won't stand it I won't. If he tries to hand me that old 
 bunch of flowers I'll I'll throw it right smack in his face.
 
 284 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Take me home. . . . Please, Unc' Mart. . . . Please. . . ." 
 Mart stared down at her, the old-time light of deviltry 
 
 lighting in his eyes. "By God, Judy, I'll do it. Here 
 
 quick. . . ." 
 
 They were gone before Virgie and the Reverend Todd 
 
 had missed them.
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 "I SENT a boy out to the track with word for Lee to ride 
 my horse home," said Mart heavily. "Told him to leave 
 Florrie at Jack Evitt's he's good as any vet'rinary I ever 
 saw. He'll take good care of her." 
 
 The two were riding home in a hired buggy, dreary with 
 disappointment. Judy was trying not to cry, but tears she 
 could not control welled up in her eyes and she had to 
 keep winking them away. Now and then they brimmed 
 over. 
 
 "D'you think Florrie's lamed bad ?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't know, and blamed if I care. I'd've been willing 
 to lame every horse in my stable to have the boy win. And 
 he would've won, too, if he'd had a chance. He was just 
 euchred out of it by hard luck. He can ride Ed Galloway 
 to a standstill, any day, give him a sound horse." 
 
 At the name of Ed Galloway, Judy shivered. "I'll bet 
 he was mad when he didn't find me. But I couldn't've 
 stood that. I s'pose he'll tell Pa." 
 
 For the first time Mart roused himself to see the folly 
 of this precipitate retreat, the possibilities of unhappiness 
 to Judy. "Look here, Judy I'm as thick as a mule. We 
 oughtn't to've come away like this. What'll Virgie do? 
 She'll be looking for you she'll be anxious. It'll probably 
 start a regular towse. You'll have to say you got sick or 
 something." 
 
 Judy shook her head. She, too, was now looking ahead. 
 "Pa won't believe me. He well, I don't know what he 
 will do, Unc' Mart. But I don't care. There's some things 
 I can stand, and some I can't. For all Ma says I might 
 as well fight it out with him as let him make me do the 
 things I hate. Only ... I don't know. . . ." She was 
 groping. Revolt was hard for her, she knew her own de- 
 
 285
 
 286 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 pendence, her own solitude. "I wish I had told Sis, 
 though." 
 
 "Let's go back maybe we'll meet 'em on the way." 
 
 "We might meet Ed Galloway on the way, too." 
 
 "I reckon I can deal with Ed. What say, Judy? Shan't 
 we turn round and go back? If you come home with Virgie 
 and her beau, the Deacon won't have any handle against 
 you." Mart too was in the maze of uncertainty. To ex- 
 pose Judy to any more of John Henry's malicious hatred 
 was a culminating stroke of the day's disasters. He felt 
 the need of caution, subterfuge, but was helpless to devise 
 them, so foreign were they to his use. The unfairness of 
 it all, his own helplessness, made him falter. He looked 
 at her almost timidly, and with the somber bitterness that 
 her division from him always roused in him. 
 
 "I reckon we better go back, hey?" 
 
 He turned the buggy without more ado, and they drove 
 rapidly back toward town. Soon they began to meet the 
 home-comers from the tournament, and the road grew thick 
 with dust-clouds. At last, as he had supposed, they met 
 Virgie and the minister, distracted, deep in anxiety. 
 
 Virgie exclaimed and flung out her hands to them. "Oh, 
 Judy what became of you where've you been? ... I 
 been almost crazy. . . ." 
 
 Mart helped Judy out of the buggy and in with the other 
 two. 
 
 "She was feeling right poorly," he lied carelessly, "and 
 1 started taking her home, and then it just struck me about 
 you, Virgie, and how you'd take on don't know why I 
 didn't think of it at first but I'm a plumb dolt sometimes 
 so we come on back to find you. You better take her 
 home and get her to bed she's right wrought up and 
 upset." 
 
 "You poor child!" Virgie put a sympathetic arm around 
 her. "She looks all to pieces and I'm most so myself 
 what with Ed Galloway looking for her, and carrying on 
 like mad, mercy, what a time, and all the folks talking,
 
 One Thing Is Certain 287 
 
 and me not knowing. ... I declare I didn't know if I was 
 en my head or my heels. . . ." 
 
 "It was fortunate we met you, Mr. Bladen," added the 
 Reverend Todd, precisely. "Every one was highly con- 
 cerned." 
 
 "I reckon so. ... I reckon so ... yes . . . highly con- 
 cerned. ... I was myself. These chills or maybe it's a 
 touch of malaria they come on so sudden and violent. 
 Never mind, Judy. . . . You're all right now." 
 
 She had dropped against her sister's shoulder, but now, 
 as he leaned for her over the wheel to take her hand, she 
 opened her eyes, as blue as his own, and looked all her 
 helplessness, all her forlornness, all her fear, silently 
 through to him. Her gaze did not accuse, it did not ap- 
 peal. It only told him that she was a child, and miserable, 
 and alone, and that with his relinquishment of her, she had 
 no protection, no help. "What am I going to do ?" her eyes 
 asked him. And he had no answer. 
 
 He stood by the roadside and watched the buggy drive 
 out of sight before he continued his way back to town. 
 He was engulfed in unhappiness. "If I only dared take her 
 and do for her," he thought. "If I only dared say. . . . But 
 it would be the worst thing that could happen to her. And 
 to Louellen. And I got to send her back to John Henry. 
 . . . Under his roof. . . ." 
 
 He had forgotten Lee as completely as he had been con- 
 cerned with him before. Not until he got back to town 
 did he remember. He took back the team he had hired 
 to the livery, and went mechanically around to the Evitts' 
 stable. The streets were still filled with people, and there 
 was a buzz and rustle of comment which he could not 
 escape. He heard the story half a dozen times within two 
 squares how Young Ed, the winner of the tournament, 
 had been awarded the prize, but when he sought the girl 
 he meant to honor, she was gone, vanished, utterly disap- 
 peared. How Young Ed had become first bewildered, then 
 angry, made a show of himself.
 
 288 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 ". . . Slammed the crown and the flowers on the ground 
 and put his foot on 'em and swore like a trooper. Said 
 if he couldn't crown the girl he wanted there shouldn't be 
 no Queen . . ." guffawed one diverted gossip. 
 
 "Judge Markwood gave it to him good and hot, though," 
 chimed in another. "Shut him up, and made everybody sit 
 down, and awarded the first prize to Tom Stevens, Knight 
 of Wye Mills told Young Ed his actions was a disgrace 
 to the county, he did, cursing before ladies, and carrying 
 on so. Never heard the old Judge come out so strong. 
 So George he crowned Nettie Percy from over Wye way 
 the Queen. . . ." 
 
 "What become of Young Ed?" asked Mart, interested in 
 spite of his preoccupation. 
 
 "He flung off in a pet. Everybody laughing at him say 
 it'll be many a long day before he'll live that story down. 
 And the joke of it was the girl who give him the slip's 
 just a little young thing, John Henry Hyde's youngest ' 
 you must know her, Mart John Henry's your neighbor 
 pretty little thing she is, too, nothing but a child. She's 
 a spunky young one, to trick Young Ed like that. And her 
 Pa's on Young Ed's side, they tell me, too." 
 
 "I tell you one thing," offered another pleased com- 
 mentator, "this'll cost Judge Markwood old Billy Galloway's 
 support in the campaign this fall, sure's the world." 
 
 "It won't do him any real hurt," said another. "Old Billy 
 Galloway can't help the Judge much, one way or t'other. 
 The Judge is too solid for him." 
 
 Mart went on, turned down an alley, found the Evitts' 
 stable, all this gossip whirling in his head like bees swarm- 
 ing. Lee was coming from the door, a new Lee, older, 
 graver, aged out of boyhood, transmuted definitely into a 
 man grown. 
 
 "You got the word I sent?" asked Mart. 
 
 "Yes, sir. Mr. Evitts says Florrie'll be all right. He 
 don't think she ought to be left to stiffen up, though. He 
 said I'd better ride her out to your place to-night. I
 
 One Thing Is Certain 289 
 
 thought I'd borrow a horse to ride and lead her. I hate 
 to, though, it hurts her so to walk." He spoke as a mature 
 man, not asking for Mart's decision. "Mr. Evitts said he'd 
 lend me his mare. I was just putting the saddle on her." 
 
 "All right," said Mart. "I'll go and get Chloe, and meet 
 you out in front of the Court-house." 
 
 It was dusk when they started from town, slowly, ac- 
 commodating their pace to that of the limping, drooping 
 Florrie. Mart sent sidelong glances at the boy beside him. 
 
 "No use feeling down in the mouth," he said, affecting 
 a cheerfulness of his own. "You'd've won, sure's shoot- 
 ing, if you hadn't had hard luck. It was all that pesky red- 
 headed kid's fault." 
 
 Lee did not answer. Mart tried again. 
 
 "Anyway, 'twan't no satisfaction to Young Ed, winning, 
 if all I hear's true." He told the story of Judy's evasion 
 of him, and the tale he had heard of Young Ed's anger 
 and Judge Markwood's rebuke. "So you see, might've been 
 a sight worse," he concluded. 
 
 At last Lee burst from the fastness of his own concen- 
 trated thought. "It's not any use, Mr. Bladen. 'Twasn't 
 just luck. I was careless I ought to've watched out better 
 and kept away from that old horse when it got to cutting 
 up. It was my fault. And it just shows me one thing 
 'tain't no use for me to stick around here any longer. I 
 meant to set myself up as somebody if Fd've won. I 
 thought people would see then that I was some account and 
 could do as well as the next one. But now, I'm right where 
 I was before, and that's nowhere. I figure I'd better get 
 away clean away, go clear out of the state, out West, 
 maybe, and make my way where nobody knows me. I'm 
 not so dumb but I could, I reckon." 
 
 "But look here, boy," expostulated Mart, surprised, 
 chagrined. "I don't want you to leave me. You and me 
 get along fine. I like to have you round the house " 
 
 "So long's I'm here I'm just somebody folks thinks you're 
 kind to," said Lee, with bitterness. "I'm not nobody of
 
 290 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 myself. I want to be somebody where people don't know 
 about my about my kin, and mark me with it. You been 
 mighty kind to me, Mr. Bladen, and maybe I'm not grateful, 
 the Lord knows, but what chance've I got around here, 
 honest? You know, just as well as I do. I'd set my heart 
 on to-day, and it turned into nothing. No, sir, I'm a-going 
 to get out, to get clear away." 
 
 Mart felt depths he must not penetrate, reserves he must 
 not probe. "Well, if you're set on it a man can't be much 
 different or do much different than he feels, I say. So 
 maybe it'd be for the best." 
 
 Lee's disappointment, his defeat, the annihilation of his 
 hopes and plans, drove him into open confidence. "And 
 look here, Mr. Bladen. There's Judy. Judy Hyde. I 
 reckon you can see how I feel towards her. But what 
 chance I got? John Henry Hyde'd run me off the place 
 with a shot gun if I went up there open, and I've had to 
 sneak around like I was a skunk stealing chickens when I 
 go to see her. But if I go off and earn some money and 
 get somewhere, I can come back and court her as open and 
 above board as anybody, with my head up and money in 
 my pockets. John Henry couldn't say nothing against me, 
 because, because " He hesitated. He did not know how 
 to say it. "I'd be somebody. See?" 
 
 Mart saw, but he also saw a valid objection. "Yeah, son 
 but whilst you're away she might very easy get married 
 to somebody else. D'you think of that?" 
 
 "No not Judy. She'd wait for me, and I know it. 
 She's not the fickle kind." 
 
 "All women are the fickle kind." 
 
 "Judy's not. Anyway I can't marry her now. I'm too 
 young and so's she, and now, whilst she's too young to 
 marry anybody else is the time I ought to be putting in my 
 best licks at getting on in the world. I'll never get any- 
 where around here never." 
 
 The despair in his voice, his determination showed how 
 he had hypnotized himself into an utter belief in what he
 
 One Thing Is Certain 291 
 
 said. Mart recognized it, and acquiesced in it. "If you 
 feel so strong thisaway, maybe you've got the rights of it. 
 When d'you want to light out?" 
 
 ''In the morning. You don't need me any longer the 
 heavy work's done, and there's nothing but the fall plow- 
 ing and the corn husking." Mart could feel the undertone 
 of wild impatience to be gone, he saw that the boy was 
 putting a strong curb on himself, that the day's emotions 
 had been a stormy ordeal. 
 
 "Don't you want to wait a day or two and kind of mull 
 it over?" 
 
 "No no, Mr. Bladen. There's no use waiting." 
 
 "Maybe not. But seems to me kind of a far venture. 
 S'pose it don't turn out exactly like you're figuring on." 
 
 There was an instant of feeling silence, and then the 
 boy's cry came from his heart. "I ain't going to think 
 about that. I got to try it, anyhow. If I didn't I might 
 just as well give up, and and be like the rest of the 
 Kemps." 
 
 "Well, sir I guess you're right, and don't you mind 
 what kind of spoil-sport things I been saying. That's noth- 
 ing but age talkin' to youth, like it always talks. Got any 
 place in mind to strike out for?" 
 
 "I thought I'd go to Chicago and hunt me a job at the 
 stock yards. There was a piece in the paper said they paid 
 big wages out there. And if I don't like the city I'm going 
 out to some of them ranches you hear about, and maybe 
 buy me a little bunch of cattle, and see what I can do." 
 
 It was the vaguest, most nebulous of plans, but it was 
 a plan, and it impressed Mart accordingly. "Well, sir 
 that sounds right reasonable. Want I should lend you a 
 little cash? I'd be glad to. Might call it an investment." 
 
 "I can get along. I been saving my wages." He was 
 not ungracious, but he was already remote, absorbed in that 
 future that was to blot out the past, assuage the wounds 
 of poverty and defeat. 
 
 "Wisht I'd've done something like that when I was a
 
 292 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 young man," said Mart meditatively. "But no, I never 
 thought of it. I was like a field-mouse, I had me a snug 
 bed and I stayed in it." 
 
 He began to think of how it would seem to have Lee 
 gone. "I'm goin' to miss you right smart, Caesar and me 
 both. And Sally, too." 
 
 "I'll miss you-all. I'll miss you more'n I'll miss my 
 own blood-kin." 
 
 "I never took much stock in all the talk about blood-kin, 
 and how you ought to like 'em, and do for 'em just because 
 they come from the same root and branch as yourself," 
 spoke Mart. "My sisters are the two most wearisome 
 women in the whole of the state of Maryland, and their 
 children's ugly-mannered and greedy, and why shouldn't I 
 see it even if I am their uncle ? They was right nice young 
 girls, my sisters, too, but now they're fat and bossy. No, 
 I don't hold with blood-kin ties. Always seemed to me 
 mostly a kind of conceit, when a man or a woman cracks 
 up his family and all his relations just because they got 
 the same name." 
 
 He was aware that Lee was not listening, but it eased 
 him to speak these casual nothings. Events were crowding 
 on him too fast. He did not have time to get done with 
 one situation before he was in the thick and press of 
 another. First Judy, then Lee, and now Judy and Lee 
 inextricably intertwined. It had been a confusing, hateful, 
 miserable day. For consolation he dwelt on the story that 
 Judge Markwood had publicly "dressed down" the objec- 
 tionable Young Ed. Mart wished he had been where he 
 could have listened. He had heard the Judge in invective 
 before this, and he was amazing. Lost in such reflections 
 they turned in at the home lane, Florrie still limping pain- 
 fully, Lee wrapt in a vision of winning fame and wealth 
 in the unknown West, Mart a little bemused under the 
 stresses of the day. 
 
 Manlike, they discussed no details of Lee's going. But 
 in the evening, after supper, Judy was mentioned again.
 
 One Thing Is Certain 293 
 
 "You ought to say good-by to her," said Mart. 
 
 Lee looked at him somberly. "If I went over there her 
 Pa'd not let me see her. Oh, I know it. But she'll under- 
 stand. I told her once I was going off if things didn't 
 come out right." He paused, knitting his brows. "And look 
 here, Mr. Bladen, I can't lose a day. I been going over it 
 in my mind. Young Ed'll be sore and mad at her now for 
 tricking him, and running off, and he'll stay away from 
 her, so I don't need to worry about him. And she prom- 
 ised me straight out she wouldn't marry him " 
 
 "She did !" 
 
 "Yes, sir, she did. I asked her, because I couldn't take 
 no chance on that. But look how pretty she is ! Even 
 with Young Ed out the way there's bound to be a pack 
 of other fellows after her, once she grows up a little more. 
 She's the prettiest girl anywheres round you know she is. 
 So I got to hustle. Saying good-by ain't anything. She 
 knows how I feel." He looked up at Mart with perfect 
 trust. "And then you're right here alongside of her you 
 c'n take care of her." 
 
 Vehement words rushed to Mart Bladen's lips. "I take 
 care of her," he wanted to cry out. "Of all the people in 
 the world, I've taken less care of her than any. I've been 
 worse to her than John Henry himself " 
 
 But he was silent. He drew a long troubled sigh. These 
 things must never be said confession, however relieving, 
 must never be made. "I'll do my possible," he promised, 
 "but you know I got no right to interfere in any man's 
 family affairs, like I told you before." 
 
 As Lee was going upstairs to bed he gave a short boyish 
 chuckle. "There's one bright spot in this thing, Mr. Bladen 
 when I think how swelled up with mad Young Ed Cal- 
 loway is I could laugh, blest if I couldn't. That's some- 
 thing, ain't it?" 
 
 Mart agreed that it was. 
 
 In the morning Mart drove him to the train, and shook 
 his hand wrenchingly. "Good-by and good luck. You're
 
 294 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 i 
 
 welcome to come back any time you're a mind to. And 
 drop me a postal card every now and then, so's I know 
 where you are and how you're getting on." 
 
 Lee answered haltingly. "Yes, sir yes, sir, I'll do it. 
 And say look here, Mr. Bladen you'll tell Judy about me 
 going off and and let me know how she is and what's 
 going on her Pa, you know he's been so down on her " 
 
 "I'll do my possible for Judy and you, too," promised 
 Mart again. 
 
 But when the train had gone and he turned to go home, 
 he had again that flash of feeling that life had wholly 
 deluded and hoaxed him, denied him. He had done noth- 
 ing. He had achieved nothing for himself or for others. 
 And that the simple content in which most of his days was 
 passed was something stupid, thin and poor. He did not 
 rebel against his life, as did John Henry. But his face was 
 clouded, and his heart beat wearily. Once again he felt the 
 creeping premonition of empty age. 
 
 "I'll get me a drink of whisky soon's I get home," he 
 thought. "I need a little stim'lant, dull's I feel. I'm going 
 to miss that boy, doggone him I don't know why he had 
 to get this idea in his head and yet I do see and young 
 folks are rash, they can't wait for things to turn round to 
 'em, but they've got to up and fix matters themselves. And 
 I promised him I'd see to Judy, but how I'm to do it beats 
 me, without coming right down to trouble with John 
 Henry." 
 
 He drove in past the house, calling Ephum to come and 
 unharness, got out of the buggy and left it before the 
 stable. As he did so he saw with impatience that the upper 
 barn door was open, swinging in the wind. 
 
 "Damn those niggers," he cursed. "They've broke that 
 ketch again, or else they've just left her open for careless- 
 ness." 
 
 Into the barn he went, climbed the stairs to the loft, and 
 straddled through the loose slippery hay that blocked his 
 way. He reached for the door, but as he did so, it swung
 
 One Thing Is Certain 295 
 
 back, away from him. Cursing and growling his impatience, 
 he reached again, leaning far out, caught at it as it came 
 a little nearer to him, missed, over-balanced and fell. His 
 great body flung out of the high door, desperately agitated, 
 like some great manikin, galvanized and sprawling and 
 clumsy, as he clutched and kicked to try to save himself. 
 There were stones below. 
 
 But it was no use. He went down, turning a grotesque 
 and tragic somersault, struck and lay stilL Ephum, coming 
 lazily to unharness, found him there and raised a mighty 
 cry of terror and dread. 
 
 "Sally!" he shouted. "Sally! Marse Mart done fall en 
 kill hissef ! Oh, Lawd in heben oh, mah Lawd. . . /'
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 IT was no use trying to keep the story of the tournament: 
 from John Henry. He got it all, roused to instant suspi- 
 cion when Virgie and Judy both came home with the Rev- 
 erend Todd, and without Young Ed. Before the minister's 
 callow dignity John Henry managed to be calm. He made 
 no comment, save moderate exclamations at the unusual 
 quality of the tale, but he darted toward the drooping, un- 
 happy Judy a glance of such black censure that she winced 
 and shuddered. The Reverend Todd was looking at Virgie 
 and did not see that. But Louellen saw it, and so did 
 Rachel, who was standing, out of vision, at a crack of the 
 kitchen door. Rachel had smelled trouble, and she meant 
 to hear it first-hand. 
 
 "You better go to bed, Judy," said Louellen. "You do 
 look poorly, and that's a fact." 
 
 It was a slight defense and futile, this getting her out of 
 sight and hearing of John Henry. No sooner had the Rev- 
 erend Todd departed than John Henry summoned the err- 
 ing one before him. 
 
 "You go on out, Louellen," he said; "I'm going to talk 
 to the young lady alone." 
 
 "No, I reckon I'll stay," said Louellen, sitting down. 
 
 "You go out, I tell you. It'll be better for all concerned." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You go." 
 
 "I'm going to stay right here and listen to every word 
 you say to Judy." 
 
 "I suppose you're afraid somebody'll harm your pet. I 
 suppose you're afraid she might be punished for making 
 herself and her family a by-word and a laughing-stock 
 through the whole county and putting an open slight on a 
 fine young chap like Ed Galloway. I suppose you want to 
 
 296
 
 'One Thing Is Certain 297 
 
 uphold her In such -doings, as you've always upheld her in 
 all her frowardness and contumacy." 
 
 Louellen tried to be reasonable. "I don't uphold Judy 
 when she's done something wrong, and you know it. But 
 I'm not going to have her scared half out of her life and 
 nagged and hollered at by you over nothing. She don't 
 like Ed Galloway and you forcing him on her the way you 
 do sets her against him worse'n ever and drives her into 
 doing these ridiculous things, because she's nothing but a 
 child, and when a child's in panic, it'll cut and run, every 
 time. And that's all that Judy did to-day. She might've 
 done a lot worse." 
 
 She was aware that she was not changing his mood, or 
 softening it, but rather deepening and intensifying it. But 
 she must make her protest, cost what it would. She felt 
 in him something more harsh, more inexorable, than she 
 had ever known before. 
 
 He did not answer her except to show that strange cruel 
 smile of his she knew so well, and to open the stair door. 
 "Judy come down here," he called. 
 
 After a moment Judy came. She had taken off her new 
 frock, and put on an old wrapper, faded blue, the collar 
 unbuttoned, showing the babyish softness of her throat. 
 She had braided her hair. The childishness, the defense- 
 lessness of her, the fear in her eyes, hurt Louellen so that 
 she could hardly bear it. But she did not go to her as she 
 wished to do. An open embrace might only incite John 
 Henry to deeds of perverse madness. 
 
 "Well, Miss," said John Henry, still with his stiff smile, 
 "perhaps you'll explain now why you acted the way you 
 did this afternoon." 
 
 "I can't explain." She didn't lift her eyes. 
 
 "You'd better try." 
 
 "There wouldn't be any use. You wouldn't Relieve me." 
 
 "Is that the way to answer me?" 
 
 Judy was silent for a moment. "I don't know any other 
 way to answer you," she said at last desperately. "I was
 
 298 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 up there on the grandstand and when Ed Galloway won 
 I knew he'd come and crown me Queen before everybody 
 and I couldn't stand it. So I run off." 
 
 "You run off alone, I suppose. Where did you run to?" 
 
 Judy dropped her head, her voice was very low. "I run 
 off with Unc' Mart. He was right there and I asked him 
 to take me away and get me out of sight so's Ed Galloway 
 couldn't find me. And he did. And when we'd come a 
 piece he said he was afraid Virgie'd worry too much and 
 we turned around and come back and met Virgie on the 
 road. And I came on home with her. There, that's all 
 of it." 
 
 "You knew I'd forbidden you to have anything to do 
 with Mart Bladen, a drunken sot, a notorious evil-liver." 
 
 "You only said I shouldn't go over there to his house 
 nor run out to the road when he come by. That's not the 
 same. I couldn't help his being on the grandstand." 
 
 John Henry was working himself up into a passion of 
 denunciation, walking back and forth, his dark vein twitch- 
 ing, his hands uneasy. He came up to Judy and stared at 
 her. Foul words bubbled to his lips. "You vicious little 
 b-bitch," he broke out, his voice snarling, thick with rage. 
 "You stinking little trull. By rights I ought to take a gad 
 to you and " His arms shot out, he caught and shook her 
 with all his strength, as if he would tear her in pieces. 
 Judy did not cry out she was a rag in his hands but 
 Louellen leaped at him, caught his arms, wrenching, 
 fighting. 
 
 "Stop it," she cried out wildly. "John Henry! I'll call 
 in the farm hands and have you tied up " 
 
 She did not know what she was saying, nor did he. He 
 flung Judy aside violently. "Go upstairs to your room," 
 he commanded, "and don't let me see you again till I've 
 decided what punishment's fit for you " 
 
 He strode into his own little den, and banged the door 
 hard behind him, turned the key. Judy looked at Louellen 
 and Louellen at Judy. "Go back to bed," whispered Lou-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 299 
 
 ellen. "I'll come up presently, and we'll talk. Did he 
 hurt you much ?" 
 
 "No," said Judy, dazed. "He didn't hurt me much 
 maybe my arms " She touched the places where he had 
 grasped her. "Mother Mother I don't know what to 
 do " She was trembling, stricken with utter terror. "He 
 looked so ... do you think he means to whip me? . . ." 
 
 "You go on upstairs," repeated Louellen. "No, he shan't 
 touch you again, not ever." 
 
 She was far from feeling the confidence she expressed, 
 but she must drive that fear from Judy's eyes, must re- 
 assure her. "Run on, dear," she urged, "before he comes 
 out again." At the thought of John Henry's reappearance 
 Judy scuttled away. 
 
 Louellen stood, looking at his closed door, bending to- 
 ward it a little in the concentration of her indecision. 
 What to do? Her thoughts went madly round and round, 
 flying always in pain, in apprehension. At last she went 
 slowly to the door and put her face close to the crack of it. 
 
 "John Henry," she said. He did not reply. The con- 
 soling wish came to her that he might be dead, stricken 
 with the sudden apoplexy of anger, and for a moment she 
 hesitated, relishing the thought. She spoke again, her 
 words like pebbles chipped against glass: "John Henry. 
 You listen to me. If you ever lay your hand on Judy 
 again, I'll go to the next prayermeeting, and when they're 
 giving in experiences I'll get right up before the church 
 full and tell everything everything about you and about 
 me. Understand me? I mean it. I'll do it if I have to 
 crawl there. I'll make the county ring." She waited for 
 an answer, but none came. Again she thought of the pos- 
 sibility that he might have had a stroke, but she did not 
 care. "He's locked the door, so if anything's happened to 
 him I can't get at him." 
 
 Long ago, when they were first married, she remembered 
 how she had wished for death for herself. Now she stood 
 there coolly wishing death for John Henry without a quiver
 
 300 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 at the wickedness of it. But she was trembling, trembling 
 more than Judy. 
 
 Weakly she went over to her chair and dropped down, 
 overpowered. Her mind was intent on what she had said 
 to John Henry, through the door. It was the first time 
 she had ever put that threat into words, though she had 
 often dreamed of it. 
 
 "I'll do it," she vowed. "I'll do it as sure as I live if he 
 touches Judy again. He's been warned. I don't care if it 
 pulls the whole world down on my head, I'll do it. To 
 speak to her that way. . . . He ought to be tied up like a 
 mad dog. It'd be gall and wormwood to his pride and 
 vanity to have people know. . . . His place in the church 
 and folks praising him up that's his meat and drink. If 
 it was only me he took his spite out on, and not Judy!" 
 Again she faced the grimness of the innocent bearing the 
 punishment of the guilty, pressed the sharp thorn of that 
 knowledge into her heart. And in her heart there pressed 
 also a sharp doubt, a doubt that made her scorn herself, but 
 which persisted in spite of that self-scorn, a doubt that 
 asked her if she had courage, strength, daring enough to 
 brand John Henry Hyde and herself, publicly, as she had 
 warned him she would do if he ever touched Judy again in 
 violence. Her doubt reminded her dispassionately that al- 
 ways at the crux of action she had failed she had failed 
 to break off her marriage with John Henry, she had failed 
 to stay with Mart though she had fled to him! Always, 
 always she had failed. It was not unlikely that she would 
 fail once more. Terribly she feared her weakness, recog- 
 nizing it, hating it. 
 
 Virgie and Bud ventured in, looking about them awfully. 
 
 "What'd he do to her, Ma? What'd he say?" asked 
 Virgie. "I'd never have told him in the world if there'd 
 been any way to have kept it. But there he was, at me 
 and of course Will Todd didn't know, and he out with 
 everything. Was Pa awful mean with her?" 
 
 "Yes, he was," said Louellen, "and he's in there now
 
 One Thing Is Certain 301 
 
 thinking up a way to punish her. I don't know what's to 
 come of it all." 
 
 "If I'd only known what she was up to, I'd've begged her 
 to stay and let Ed Galloway crown her and not make a 
 fuss. But she was gone in a wink. I was so upset. Only 
 some people said she'd gone along with Unc' Mart, and so 
 well, it was awful mortifying, with Ed at such a pitch. 
 Only I don't like him, and so I wasn't sorry for him." 
 
 Louellen looked at her two older children doubtfully. 
 She was not sure how much she ought to tell them, or how 
 little. "I'm going upstairs to Judy," she said. "Tell Rachel 
 to put supper on, and you go ahead and eat. We're an hour 
 late with it now." 
 
 The house imperceptibly shook down into its calm 
 monotony of routine. Rachel appeared, stormy at the vio- 
 lence done her favorite, her under lip projecting in magnifi- 
 cent barbaric anger, banging plates, rattling knives and 
 forks with vindictive emphasis. 
 
 "How anybody especk suppeh gwine tas'e lak suppeh, dis 
 hou' de night ! All dry up erwaitin', settin' on top de stove. 
 Er lot ah keer ! Ah doan keer ef it choke some people to 
 def, so ha'd en dry." She directed a poisonous glance to- 
 ward the closed door behind which John Henry was con- 
 cealed. 
 
 Virgie and Bud gave a helpless look. "Come on, let's 
 eat," he said, his boy's appetite asserting itself. "I'm hol- 
 low to my toes." 
 
 Silently they slipped into their places, began to eat 
 quickly, so as not to disturb the man in the little room 
 beyond. 
 
 "Going to call him ?" whispered Bud. 
 
 Virgie shook her head. 
 
 "It may make him madder yet if he knows we went on 
 and had supper without him." 
 
 Rachel had paused to hear them. The old woman gave 
 them a scornful glance, walked heavily over to the door 
 and banged on it with her fist. "Suppeh raidy," she called
 
 302 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 in full voice, mockingly, defiantly, through to the angry 
 demon hidden there. Then she stalked off to the kitchen, 
 swinging her shoulders, head up. 
 
 Virgie and Bud waited, but there was no sound. They 
 went on eating, exchanging meaningful looks, now and 
 then. 
 
 "Home sweet home," whispered Bud. "No place like 
 home, thank goodness."
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 DOCTOR TITHELOW wiped his fat efficient old hands on 
 the towel Ephum had brought. "You want the truth?" he 
 asked judicially. 
 
 "If you can tell it," replied Mart with rough humor. 
 These weeks of complete helplessness had changed him little. 
 Even his eyes did not show his suffering. His ruddy color 
 had faded but not noticeably. Perhaps the ringer touch of 
 silver at his temples had widened. But that was all. He 
 lay there in his bare disordered bedroom, propped with pil- 
 lows, inert, unbroken in temper or in mirth. 
 
 Still the doctor hesitated. "Go ahead, spit it out," urged 
 Mart. "Nobody ever said of me yet I was a coward." 
 
 "Here it is then. You've got a year at the most. Maybe 
 less. But not more. I wish to God I could tell you some- 
 thing different." 
 
 "A year's plenty if I've got to lie here with a broken 
 back," said Mart. "Yes, sir, a year's plenty. But at that I 
 might fool you." 
 
 "I hope you do." 
 
 "Let's lay a bet on it. I'll put up Chloe against that 
 prize pair of beagles of yours that I'm right here two years 
 come Christmas. I'll put it in my will that you're to get 
 her in case I lose. What say, Doc?" 
 
 "I always have hankered after that mare," said the Doc- 
 tor, rising to his spirit. "I'll go you, damn if I don't." 
 
 "That's O. K. then and you better make up your mind 
 to kiss your beagles good-by. By Judas, I don't feel a bit 
 like dying." 
 
 "I wish you had a nurse here, some good sensible woman 
 who'd make you comfortable." 
 
 "Now for God's sake don't begin again to talk about a 
 nurse for me. I had to drive Sis Mollie and Sis Rhoda 
 
 303
 
 304 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 out the house as it is. They set me crazy. No, sir, Ephum 
 and Sally and I've stuck together a right good while and I 
 guess we can make out to the end." 
 
 "Why don't you send for that boy of Joe Kemp's to 
 come back he'd be a lot of help to you? I kind of liked 
 that boy." 
 
 "No I won't do that. He was so set on going and to 
 hi'st him back here to hang around an old cripple ain't fair 
 to him. Post card come from him only yesterday, and he's 
 got a good job out in Chicago, and he's tickled to death 
 with himself. No, sir, I put no claim on anybody, and 
 never did. And if my time's so short all the more reason 
 why I should get along as I am." 
 
 "All the more reason why you should be comfortable, 
 and have good care, you pig-head." 
 
 "Well, I won't have anybody, so there's the long and 
 short of it. Now see here, Doc, Ephum sleeps right out- 
 side my door he's put up a pallet for himself, and I can't 
 stir but what he's awake and ready to do for me. And 
 when I'm awake if he's back in the kitchen or out any- 
 wheres, I got this bell here and I sound it. I don't know 
 of anything that could suit me better. Of course, if I get 
 much worse, or more helpless say, Doc, am I going to get 
 much worse, suffer much?" 
 
 "You'll maybe get more helpless, but you won't suffer 
 much. And I want you to stay absolutely quiet. If you 
 try to roust around you'll maybe go out like that." He 
 lightly snapped a thumb and finger. "Take it easy and 
 don't worry any more'n you can help." 
 
 Mart laughed. "Fine advice to give a man who's always 
 been up and around, and mostly lived on horseback. Judas 
 Priest, that's what irks me the most, that I'll never throw 
 a leg over a horse again. I have one of the hands exer- 
 cise Chloe every day right down the lane here where I can 
 watch him, and sometimes it makes me want to cry when 
 I see her, with Caesar racing alongside, looking up as if 
 he was wondering why I wasn't on her."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 305 
 
 Caesar, lying by the bedside, heard his name and thumped 
 an acknowledging tail. 
 
 "The time gets heavy, I know," said the Doctor, his voice 
 a little hoarse. 
 
 "You betcha it does. Doc, what say we have a little game 
 of seven-up? You got the time?" 
 
 "If I hadn't, I'd take it." 
 
 "I'm just aching to feel the cards under my fingers. 
 They're there on the stand. What stakes shall we play?'* 
 He was all eagerness, his infirmity forgotten. 
 
 The Doctor lifted a makeshift table, legs sawed off, to 
 stand across Mart's body, and brought the cards. They 
 settled to the game. 
 
 When it was over Mart had won a dime, and was cor- 
 respondingly cheered. The Doctor was actually peevish,, 
 and this dislike of losing which was always manifest in him 
 at cards raised Mart's spirits further as a friend's small 
 weaknesses always amuse and elate. But as his guest put 
 on his coat to go the sick man's face fell. 
 
 "Drop in every time you're passing, won't you, Doc?'* 
 he begged. "And tell any of the boys you see to ride out 
 and have a game. I may be bed-rid, but I'm still able ta 
 play cards." 
 
 "Yes, I'll tell 'em. And I'll be back myself to get my 
 revenge or else to lose some more of my hard-earned 
 money." He turned at the door. "By the way, I pretty 
 near forgot one piece of news I only heard this morning. 
 Maybe you know it already. About your neighbor over 
 here John Henry?" 
 
 "No I haven't heard tell of any of John Henry's doings 
 since I fell out the barn-loft maybe longer. We never 
 did have much put, John Henry and me, and lately we had 
 less'n ever. What's he up to now?" 
 
 "You know his oldest girl Virgie the one that's to be 
 married to the young Methodist minister along in the New- 
 Year?" 
 
 "Yeah I know 'em all."
 
 306 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "Well, now I hear they're going to make it a double wed- 
 ding and marry off the little one Judy to Young Ed Cal- 
 loway at the same time. You remember the to-do there 
 was at the tournament, about her dishing him, and all. I 
 guess there wasn't much to it. But I want to tell you, 
 Mart, that it's a living crime to put a girl that's hardly 
 more'n a child, as pretty and as sweet as a posy, into Young 
 Ed Galloway's claws. There's a taint in his blood, and 
 hell's bells, look at the life he's led ! Of course he's all for 
 piety and hymn-singing now but it wasn't so long ago 
 when he come down to my office pretty near out of his 
 mind. He thought he'd got a touch of something no man 
 wants, off that shantyboat girl he was thick with for so 
 long. And anyway, even if he was clean as a whistle, the 
 whole Galloway connection's bad. Not that I ever thought 
 much of John Henry Hyde but that youngest of his never 
 seemed like him she was more like the Wests, and they 
 were good people, all the way through." 
 
 "I don't believe it, Doc I don't believe Judy'd let her- 
 self be pushed into marrying Young Ed I don't believe 
 her mother 'd stand it. I can think anything of John Henry 
 and I kind of like to think as bad as I can of him he's 
 the sort that makes you feel thataway." 
 
 "I don't know but it's the talk that's a-going round." 
 
 Mart watched the door close behind him, not sorry that 
 he had gone. So, it had come. The little scraps and 
 hints that had been before he recalled Rena had become 
 something definite. While he had been lying there helpless 
 and suffering, John Henry had somehow compassed his 
 desire, to do the worst that he could with Judy. He had 
 bullied and brow-beaten the child, somehow, God knew 
 by what evil ways, into a forced consent. She had broken 
 her promise to Lee and he was breaking his, as well, and 
 he had meant to look out for her. Sweat, sweat of suffer- 
 ing more acute than had yet gripped him, stood out on his 
 forehead. He fetched a heaving sigh. 
 
 Twice before he had had premonitions, warnings of age,
 
 One Thing Is Certain 307 
 
 futility, but he had never thought it would be like this from 
 such a silly senseless accident. That when the great need 
 came for him to act he should be physically helpless! In 
 all his life he had never been anything but active, strong, 
 full of power and vigor. Now his helpless legs, his 
 weighted hips, mocked at the memory of that strength. 
 
 A darker, more tormenting thought shot through his rage 
 at his helplessness. Doc Tithelow had said that death was 
 near it might come in a year it might come sooner. Mart 
 knew that he had been told the truth, he was conscious in 
 himself of the waning of his life-force. Something within 
 warned him that the steel of his strength, the fiber of his 
 vitality were alike eaten through, and might at any time 
 break. 
 
 And after that nothingness. 
 
 He closed his eyes and began to talk aloud to himself, a 
 habit new to him, come since his accident, his enforced 
 helplessness. 
 
 "I wonder if there is a God. I wonder if there could be. 
 I don't recollect that I ever speculated whether there was 
 one or not. But anyway, if there is, you listen here, God, 
 I've got something to say to you. Things are getting pretty 
 thick for me. I've lived my life free and easy, I know. I've 
 always liked a good horse and a pretty woman not that I 
 was ever loose with women, for I never had no taste for 
 that and a game of cards and a bottle of good whisky, 
 and I'd rather go fox-hunting than to prayermeeting, any 
 day. So far as I'm concerned I'll stand on my record, and 
 take my chance of hell-fire, whenever you say so, if you've 
 got any say to it. But I'm not going to leave little Judy 
 here with that old chinwhiskered hypocrite John Henry 
 Hyde egging her on to marry a buzzard like Young Ed 
 Galloway. Ed Galloway! By cripes, I don't know what 
 the young men are coming to to-day. I was wild enough 
 but I wasn't rotten. Let him get his filthy paws on my 
 Judy? Not much! I've left most everything slip by me 
 in the past, and done nothing, and I've held my peace and
 
 308 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 stood back when I ought to've done something to John 
 Henry, no matter what confusion come of it. But if this 
 is true I'm going to put my invention on it, and till I see 
 some way out, I give you fair notice, God, that I'm not a-- 
 going to die, not for all Doc Tithelow says not if you 
 was to send old Gabriel himself after me and he bust a 
 lung blowing on his trumpet and that's flat." 
 
 He opened his eyes again, and felt better. He could 
 even smile a little, thinking what a fool he was to have 
 made believe there was a God and talked to him as man 
 to man. All the same he had stated his case, he had made 
 it clear to himself as well as to this mythical Deity whose 
 existence he had never actively questioned, but had also 
 never actively accepted, just what he had to do before the 
 coming of that final unescapable nothingness that was on its 
 way. Despite his utter helplessness he had never before 
 felt such power. He had found at last the alkahest, 
 whereby his sluggish acquiescences, his viscous aimlessness 
 might be transmuted into swift piercing purpose, a swift 
 weapon for the breast of his enemies. 
 
 But over and beyond this he was aware of a terrible 
 loneliness, a new emotion for him, who had always been 
 peacefully self-sufficient. It had come with his purpose, it 
 was part of a different soul which had invaded him, pos- 
 sessed him. Strength was vouchsafed him, but this, this 
 isolation, this desire for some one of his own, some one 
 bound to him by ties of love, and not obligation, or self 
 interest, some one to be near him, to understand as he went 
 down into that nothingness which he could see so clearly, 
 if he could have this, before, the afterwards did not 
 matter. 
 
 He stared around his neglected bedroom, and discovered 
 that just now, when he must so soon leave it forever, he 
 was really seeing it for the first time, its bare walls and 
 ugly 1870 furniture painted yellow and gray, its torn 
 rag carpet, and the careless paraphernalia of riding 
 sticks, dog muzzles, medicine bottles, soiled linen, smoky
 
 One Thing Is Certain 309 
 
 lamps and tossed-down papers, accumulations of years. 
 He felt a quick distaste for it all it had been all right to 
 live in, but it was mighty slovenly to die in. Yet he loved 
 it. It was home. 
 
 He could not quite believe it yet, for all his ready accept- 
 ance before the Doctor, that he was so soon to leave all this, 
 and his loamy acres that he had tilled for so many years of 
 good harvests, as his fathers had done before him. He 
 had said to himself, sometimes, since the accident, that if 
 he had to lie helpless in bed he'd just as well be in his coffin, 
 yet he had not expected a sentence of death, this definite 
 limiting of his time. Again he brought himself back from 
 his wandering speculations with a jerk. After all it 
 mattered very little about him his day was done. But 
 Judy, there she had her years of experience to come. She 
 must be safeguarded by his failing hands. That was the 
 thing he must think about that and none other. 
 
 He had expected her to come to see him every day since 
 his fall, every day that he was conscious for at first he 
 had lain in a stupor, an enveloping fog, part shock, part 
 opiates, from which he had emerged but slowly. She had 
 not come, and he was sure that she had been prevented by 
 John Henry. He threshed his arms about impatiently, im- 
 potently. He swore. He gnawed his fingers. What a 
 trap he was in, what a devil's own trap!
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 JOHN HENRY HYDE, behind the locked door where he had 
 carried his overflowing bile, his loosened self, had listened 
 with unhearing ears alike to Louellen's warning and 
 Mammy Rachel's scornful summons to supper. His own 
 caution, his own guile rebuked him, cautioned him that he 
 had made a fool of himself, that he had gone all the wrong 
 way to get what he wished. Not that he regretted shaking 
 Judy. It had been a rich, luscious satisfaction to set his 
 fingers in her soft flesh and feel her helplessness in his 
 hands. He had enjoyed it. But after all, this was not what 
 he wanted. His sick imagination told him that there were 
 other things that might be done to her that would be far 
 worse for her, a far more lasting and destructive venge- 
 ance. 
 
 In young Ed Galloway he had seen the perfect instru- 
 ment, ready to his hand. By giving Judy to young Ed he 
 would ostensibly be a good father, marrying a daughter 
 worthily, both as to worldly goods and as to religion. And 
 in the younger man he knew there was a beastliness akin 
 to that which lived in his own breast, that had found no 
 expression save in those first years when he had had Lou- 
 ellen all innocent and soft, to break, to tear, to smear and 
 dominate. But Louellen had cheated him, had, in the end, 
 been too strong for him, had flung him back, denied his 
 beast, and escaped him. All the same, there had been a 
 time. . . . 
 
 Even so would young Ed deal with Judy, and by getting 
 her young, he would have more chance to break her abso- 
 lutely, to accomplish a complete compulsion, a lasting, hu- 
 miliating control. John Henry gloated over the hope of 
 Judy violated, anguishad, wasted. If he could have given 
 her to young Ed Galloway without marriage, it would 
 
 310
 
 One Thing Is Certain 311 
 
 have been a perfect thing to him. But marriage was neces- 
 sary for his own good name. He had no mind to lose that 
 in ruining Judy. Oh, but he wanted her spoiled, her bright 
 color dimmed and paled, her laughter silenced, her youth 
 extinguished. His distorted passion pressed him to this 
 purpose. It was all clear to him now. He knew that this 
 was what he needed, desired. 
 
 But he knew also that he had gone too far. No need for 
 him to hurt and affright Judy now young Ed would do 
 that for him later. The thing was to get her in young Ed's 
 power, and this unforeseen fiasco of the tournament and her 
 running away, young Ed's humiliation before all the crowd 
 would break off his suit. So, the necessity was to mend 
 these broken ties, to weld them firmly. His devious brain 
 turned hungrily to ways and means by which this must be 
 done. 
 
 He drew out of his meditation as Louellen came down- 
 stairs to her own belated supper. To her surprise he was 
 calm, even self-reproachful. 
 
 "I'll allow I was a little too harsh with Judy," he told 
 his wife, "but I was so provoked with her foolishness. I'm 
 not going to punish her, though, only that I won't allow 
 her to go off the place except when she's with you and me. 
 She's got to stay at home till she knows how to behave her- 
 self in public. You tell her that, Louellen. And tell her 
 she's got to apologize to Ed, provided he's in any humor 
 to listen to an apology." 
 
 Louellen, listening to such reasonable proposals, was as 
 relieved as amazed. This was concession far beyond any- 
 thing she had anticipated, and her whole consciousness, 
 which, in spite of her misgivings as to her own strength, 
 she had steeled to further conflict, relaxed, advanced to 
 meet toleration with cooperation. 
 
 "I think she ought to apologize, too," she granted, "and 
 I believe she'll see it in the same way when she's soothed 
 down. She's only a child yet, John Henry, you keep for- 
 getting that. She's never been around much, out amongst
 
 312 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 people, like Virgie has, and she gets excited and flies off 
 the handle and does childish things." 
 
 "Hmm, yes," conceded John Henry, his eyes on his plate. 
 "I expect you're right. I'll just ride over to see Bro' Callo- 
 way to-morrow and tell him I'm ashamed and sorry this has 
 happened, and sound out how he feels. And in a day or 
 two, provided he holds no grudge, I'll bring him out to 
 supper, and every thing'll be smoothed over." 
 
 Louellen started to say that if young Ed bore a grudge 
 better let him bear it and keep him away, but she withheld 
 the words. After all, Judy had behaved very badly, and 
 an apology would not be out of place. If John Henry's 
 violence could be quieted so easily, it seemed but a small 
 price to pay. 
 
 Early the next day he drove over to young Ed's farm, 
 and found him surly and unwelcoming. John Henry put 
 on an air of awkwardness, and softness, ingratiating, 
 halting. 
 
 "I don't suppose you're glad to see me, Brother Galloway, 
 and I can't expect you to be. But I couldn't rest until I'd 
 told you how ashamed I am that any one of my family 
 should act so badly toward you. I want to apologize for 
 her." 
 
 Young Ed burst out into reproaches: "I don't lay it up 
 against you, but it's not agreeable to be made an out-and- 
 out fool of, before everybody in four counties. And after 
 I'd laid myself out to get the prize, nearly run my best 
 horse off his legs. ... I don't know what you call it, 
 but I call it mean and shabby." 
 
 "I call it worse than that, Brother Galloway, but you 
 must remember that she's little more'n a child." He remem- 
 bered Louellen's arguments and used them. "She's not 
 used to being out amongst folks, and when she saw herself 
 brought out before everybody to get crowned, she had a 
 fit of flusters and run away, just like a child will do. That's 
 no excuse, but it's a reason, at least. I wish I might ask 
 you to overlook it."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 313 
 
 "Any other girl'd've been tickled to death. She's the 
 queerest girl I ever see. I don't know what keeps me run- 
 ning after her she's been as cool and uppish ever since 
 the first. . . . And now this. I'll never hear the last of 
 it long's I live. She's made me a joke for every Tom, 
 Dick and Harry on the Shore." 
 
 He was finding it a relief to air his grievance. He re- 
 garded John Henry with less disfavor. "Of course I know 
 you don't uphold her in it." 
 
 John Henry considered. Was this the moment? Would 
 there be a better one? He thought not. 
 
 "I don't uphold her in it, and she'll know better herself, 
 when she thinks it over. In fact, she's given every evidence 
 of being utterly sorry now. She wants to apologize to you." 
 
 "She does ?" Young Ed's face lighted. 
 
 "Of course she does. She's just a little flighty, and un- 
 certain, like all young girls, but she's got a good heart, and 
 she really esteems you very highly, and values your atten- 
 tion." 
 
 "She's got a queer way of showing it." 
 
 "But you must have realized it, for though you say she's 
 been cool and uppish to you you haven't found her less 
 attractive for that. Maybe you felt that underneath all that 
 was a real liking that she was too bashful to express. . . ." 
 
 Young Ed's jaw dropped. The analysis caught his vanity. 
 "By God, there might be something in that." 
 
 John Henry passed over the taking of the Lord's name 
 in vain, which normally he would have reprobated. He 
 was closing in on Young Ed. "Yes, I've thought that all 
 along. And as for making you a laughing-stock, Brother 
 Galloway, there's one way you could turn the tables on all 
 the laughers and make them see that the way she treated 
 you was nothing but what it really is, a piece of childish 
 excitement, foolishness, as you might say." 
 
 "Could I, how?" He was greedily eager. 
 
 "If you married her," said John Henry, coolly. "I dare 
 say it's odd for the father of a girl to speak so plainly,
 
 314 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 but of course I knew that a young man of your character 
 and standing had no other motive in mind in paying atten- 
 tions to my daughter than marriage, and you must have 
 known that I welcomed such a connection, because of your 
 being a church member, in good standing. For I've always 
 wanted to see my daughters united to worthy Christian 
 men, and the fact that the Reverend Todd has selected 
 Virgie to be his help-mate has been a great gratification 
 to me. You surely must be aware that no consideration 
 of worldly goods has been in my mind. My children will 
 all be amply provided for." 
 
 He was clever enough to leave it there, for a moment. 
 Young Ed was getting the picture entire, his mind taking 
 up one detail after another. True enough people couldn't 
 laugh at him if he married the girl he'd have vindicated 
 his right to her. And he had been thinking of marrying 
 her ! And his old grandfather had been after him to clinch 
 the matter. Of course it was unheard of that any father 
 should literally hold a man up and tell him to marry his 
 daughter, unless there was some pressing reason behind it, 
 but then again it was true what John Henry said about 
 there being no worldly considerations in his mind there 
 couldn't be. John Henry Hyde was a notoriously well-to- 
 do man. Ed could not help a fleeting wonder that his osten- 
 tatiously moral present had so completely obliterated his 
 highly colored past in the mind of so strait-laced a man and 
 strict church man as John Henry, but who was he to ques- 
 tion the ways of Divine Providence? He had not the least 
 suspicion that it was his past, and the poorly glossed over 
 marks of it on him, that gave him his value as a counter 
 in John Henry's game. He did not, in his wildest imagin- 
 ings, suspect John Henry of any sort of game. No, he 
 merely seemed to Ed a worthy but gullible creature whose 
 open simplicity of speech and act gave him yet another 
 attraction as a father-in-law. 
 
 The longer these various arguments revolved in his mind, 
 the more convincing, the more inviting, they became. It
 
 One Thing Is Certain 315 
 
 was amazing that no such solution had occurred to himself. 
 Marriage. How easy! How simple! He could hold up 
 his head with his fellows and reply to their banter: "You 
 think you know a lot, but you're not so much after all. 
 That little girl's going to marry me fact yes, we've made 
 it all up. Oh that nonsense at the tournament pooh 
 we'd just had a little spat, that was all. She didn't mean to 
 let me down so." He could hear himself saying it. It 
 would explain, it would reinstate him. The sullenness 
 gradually cleared from his face, he regarded John Henry 
 almost affectionately. 
 
 "You're perfectly correct in thinking, Brother Hyde, that 
 I had no intention except marriage when I started going 
 with Judy. I don't even like to hear you hint at anything 
 else." (Might as well get all the credit he could out of it!) 
 "Of course I was considerable wrought up by yesterday's 
 proceedings, but I can see it, now you've put it to me, just 
 how it happened. I certainly appreciate your coming over 
 here this morning to have this little talk. I reckon now, 
 what would you advise me to do, exactly?" 
 
 John Henry was ready with his remedy. "Why, just act 
 like nothing had happened. Stay away a few days, till she 
 begins to miss you, and then drop over to supper, casual 
 like, say about Thursday. You'll see, pretty plain, how 
 she feels. I won't mention that I've been over." 
 
 "Nor I won't. Say, if we can make it up all right, I'd 
 just as soon have the wedding pretty quick." 
 
 John Henry paused, his foot on the buggy step, ready 
 to get in. 
 
 "Virgie and Brother Todd are to be united along in the 
 New Year," he offered. "The Presiding Elder himself will 
 perform the ceremony. I don't see any reason why it 
 shouldn't be a double wedding, if you're agreeable." 
 
 There was only one thing lacking, meditated John Henry, 
 as he drove away, and that was the consent of the pros- 
 pective bride. He promised himself that he would effect 
 that.
 
 316 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 At first he said nothing about it, leaving Judy under the 
 ban of his displeasure, but not much more so than usual. He 
 ignored her, apparently, and she kept out of his sight as 
 far as possible. She was still dazed with the outrage of his 
 violence, and upon that came the news that Lee Kemp had 
 gone away for good, and that Mart Bladen was lying near 
 to death from a fall, an accident as yet unexplained. Be- 
 side these calamities John Henry's anger dwindled to 
 nothing. 
 
 "Let me go over and see Unc' Mart," she had begged 
 Louellen, from the first. "Let me go, Mother. I'll slip 
 over when Pa's away. He'll surely expect me to come. I 
 want to see him myself." 
 
 But Louellen was unexpectedly firm. John Henry was 
 so mild she could not see him roused up again. "You can't 
 do a thing for him, Judy, and both his sisters are there. 
 Besides, they tell me he's in a stupor most of the time. I'd 
 rather you'd not go. Some way or other your Pa might 
 get hold of it, and then we'll have all this to-do over again, 
 worse than ever. No, you stay on the place, like he told 
 you." 
 
 "But, Mother it's Unc' Mart." 
 
 But Louellen would not yield. To deny Judy this was a 
 small price to pay for peace at home. She could not alto- 
 gether trust John Henry's abatement of wrath. Possibly 
 he was having Judy watched. . . . She would not have 
 him provoked again. 
 
 As for Judy, first Mart's illness, then the going of Lee, 
 first one, then the other, deluged her with grief. Her 
 whole world had gone awry ever since that day of the 
 tournament. If Lee had only come to say good-by! "He 
 was so discouraged when he lost the tournament he just 
 cut and run," she told herself. "Oh, if I could only do 
 that, too." 
 
 She did not know where he had gone and she did not 
 dare ask any one save Mammy Rachel, and the small tidings 
 that the old woman brought back to her were not reassur-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 317 
 
 ing. "Folks say he way out West somewhere nobody 
 doan know jes zacly where," she reported. 
 
 To be thus bereft, thus roughly deprived of all solace, 
 subdued and destroyed Judy's will. She was pale and tame 
 when Young Ed made his promised supper visit, and re- 
 peated the apology John Henry had dinned into her, with 
 real feeling. She had so suffered she could understand how 
 cruel it was to make any one else suffer. She was ashamed 
 before him, she did not dislike him so much. And she 
 could say, "I am sorry I was rude, I really am," and look 
 at him as if she meant it. He, observing her confusion, 
 her loss of color, set it all down to her feeling for himself 
 and was pleased accordingly. 
 
 Slowly and with craft, John Henry urged Young Ed's 
 suit for him, letting him keep silence, and Judy, being hope- 
 less, came slowly, slowly, more and more under the influence 
 of that dominant aggressive will that was never tired in 
 beating back her own. What was the use of struggling! 
 Lee was gone ! Unc' Mart was as good as gone. She was 
 in such depths of despair as only youth can ever know, the 
 same despair that had gripped Lee after the tournament, 
 the despair that leaves no way of escape, no loophole for 
 the future, the despair that brings one to a blank wall, and 
 leaves one there, beating against it. 
 
 Beating against it, yes, for a while, but after a little one 
 ceases to beat. One stands, with arms dropped, waiting, 
 waiting for nothing but the imperceptible passage of time. 
 And the heart plays a funeral march, and all the move- 
 ment of the soul and the body is ordered to fit its dreary 
 tempo. 
 
 A strong impulse from without will carry one, then, in 
 any direction, even in the direction one would normally 
 never go. So with Judy. And John Henry's persistent, 
 nagging will supplied the motive that pushed her ever 
 nearer to Young Ed. 
 
 It was not until he actually made it clear that he expected 
 her to marry Young Ed at New Year when Virgie married
 
 318 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 Willy Todd that she knew where she had been driven. She 
 turned to Louellen in a gust of rebellion. 
 
 Louellen had been watching events anxiously, but help- 
 lessly. Young Ed still was to her harmless enough, not 
 prepossessing, to be sure, but not impossible. Perhaps 
 through marriage to him lay Judy's escape from John 
 Henry, she had thought, and so she had kept silence. She 
 was ignorant of Lee, and Judy's feeling for him she was 
 unaware that they even knew each other, and she passion- 
 ately wanted Judy away out of the house, out of John 
 Henry's sight, out of earshot, out of his power to injure. 
 Her sense of expediency saw Young Ed as a possible means 
 to that desirable end not the best means, perhaps, but at 
 hand and available. And now came Judy in this fresh 
 distress. 
 
 "But Judy " expostulated her mother, "I thought you 
 had made it up that yob liked Ed Galloway. You've been 
 nice and pleasant to him lately. I didn't say anything be- 
 cause I didn't want to urge you " 
 
 "But Mother Mother to marry him to live along of 
 that terrible toad's face and toad's hands Mother you 
 won't let me do it you won't you can't mother ' 
 
 Swift across Louellen's mind came that day of her own 
 wedding when she had clutched as frantically, as hysteri- 
 cally at her own mother and begged deliverance from one 
 she hated and had not received it. Perhaps Ed Galloway 
 had revealed himself to Judy even as John Henry had to 
 her. The thought shook her soul. 
 
 "I can't I can't" Judy was crying. "I'll kill myself 
 first. Ed Galloway's a dreadful man I won't marry him! 
 And he'll make me do it Pa'll make me do it. Oh, I'm 
 afraid of him he'll make me do it this is what he's been 
 up to all this time to make: ine do something I hate so's 
 to hurt and punish me but I won't I won't " 
 
 "Hush," said Louellen, "Hush! No, you shan't nothing 
 shall make you " But instantly she knew that Judy's 
 words were true, that again she had divined the hidden ma-
 
 One Thing Is Certain 319 
 
 lignancy of John Henry, had seen through to his secret pur- 
 pose. And Louellen knew more that the matter was 
 past her hands to remedy. That nothing she could say or 
 do would swerve John Henry now. He had tricked them 
 all. 
 
 She thought again of her threat to tell her threat to tell 
 publicly, before every one. So John Henry had risked that. 
 He had thought she could not do it. And could she would 
 she? Again she doubted. Could she stretch out her arms 
 against the enclosing pillars, and like a blind Samson bring 
 the whole tradition of their respectability, their decent pride, 
 down on their heads, felling them all in never-ending 
 ignominy and shame? If it was on herself and John Henry 
 alone yes ! But Virgie and Bud would be crushed beneath 
 the ruins and Judy, most of all. To what worse destruc- 
 tion might such revelation bring Judy! No, not yet not 
 yet John Henry's risk was sound. It had not been her 
 threat of confession that had held his hand from Judy. 
 She saw that now. But he meant to have his way with 
 her, nevertheless, and a vision of what that way meant to 
 John Henry was vouchsafed her. 
 
 And then she spoke, as though the words had come to her 
 not from her usual self, but from some inner volition that 
 had seized and mastered her, that directed her through 
 some hidden and unconscious revelation, toward the one 
 quarter whence real help might come. She took swift and 
 desperate resolve. 
 
 "You wait till your Pa's out of the house," she said, "and 
 then you go over to Mart Bladen's and tell him I sent you. 
 Tell him the pass you're come to, and the fix you're in, and 
 ask him what to do. Be sure to tell him I sent you. He'll 
 understand that." 
 
 "But Unc' Mart's sick in bed helpless " 
 
 "I know. But still I've got a feeling that he'll do 
 something. You tell him I said he must do something. 
 That it's his turn to see to you that I've done my 
 possible "
 
 320 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "But, mother that's a queer thing to say " 
 
 "Never mind you say it. I'd go with you, but it's better 
 not. I'll stay here and if your Pa should come in I can 
 keep him from finding out you're gone. Listen I think 
 he's going now." 
 
 They listened. Heavy steps diminishing to silence 
 warned them that the master of the house had left it. 
 
 "He'll be down at the barn, with the hands. You go 
 right along now. And tell me what I said you was to say 
 to Mart." 
 
 Judy repeated the message like a child. "That he must 
 do something. That you'd sent me. That it's his turn to 
 see to me, and that you've done your possible is that all, 
 mother?" 
 
 "Yes, that's all. Slip on your cape and run." 
 
 She did not kiss her, or even put her arms around her, 
 but when she saw her run down the lane and turn the 
 corner by the spring house, Louellen Hyde dropped down 
 and buried her face in her hands. "If I wasn't so weak I 
 wouldn't've done it," she cried, defending herself to her- 
 self, "But there's nobody else. There's nobody else." 
 
 There had been urgency in her mother's voice that lent 
 wings to Judy's feet. She ran with all speed down the 
 faint twisted path, briars catching her cape, branches sting- 
 ing across her face. Somehow, without her knowing, 
 dreadful unseen forces had been loosed about her, and she 
 could not tell what they would do to her. She knew nothing 
 of why she was sent to Mart it was strange before, her 
 mother had counseled her not to go. And Mart himself 
 had seemed loath to make any move to help her when she 
 had come to him before. Now she was to go to him to 
 ask for help. Presently she forgot to think, she ran so 
 fast. .
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 IN Mart Bladen, lying still, straining against the weak- 
 ness that bound him, stirred a strange faint memory 
 Caesar was standing, growling softly, as Spot and Silly 
 had once stood and growled. And some one was running 
 breathless even as some one else had once run breath- 
 less, panting . . . Instinctively he looked toward the 
 window, where, on that night, he had seen Louellen's white 
 distracted face. . . . He listened for Louellen's voice. . . . 
 He was sure he could hear her calling to him. 
 
 But it was the door that was burst open, and it was Judy 
 who entered, to run to him, dropping down beside his bed, 
 burrowing her head into his shoulder, holding tight to 
 him. 
 
 But just as at that other time he demanded, "What's the 
 matter what's the matter, honey? Anything wrong over 
 at your house ?" 
 
 "Nothing but me nothing but me Oh, Unc' Mart, 
 I've wanted so to see you. Did you think' queer of my not 
 coming? I wanted to Pa wouldn't let me " 
 
 "I supposed as much. Here, you sit on the side of the 
 bed. My, but you're a welcome sight ! I've been thinking 
 about you a whole lot." 
 
 "And I was thinking about you. Oh, that was one rea- 
 son I've been so unhappy. But I'm forgetting " 
 
 "Forgetting?" 
 
 She drew away from him, settled herself more quietly 
 on the bed, holding tightly to his hands. She fixed her eyes 
 on his earnestly: "Ma sent me over here. She said you 
 must do something. She said it was your turn to do some- 
 thing for me, because she'd done her possible." 
 
 "Louellen sent me that word?" It was a long-silent 
 
 321
 
 322 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 voice speaking to him a voice he must answer. "Lou- 
 ellen? What for, Judy what's behind it?" 
 
 And now she told him the rest. She was being forced 
 to marry Ed Galloway . . . no, Pa didn't threaten her ex- 
 actly, but he kept at her. . . . He kept telling her what a 
 slight she'd put on him, and how this was the only way to 
 make it up. . . . That he'd make her a good husband. . . . 
 That everybody thought she was going to marry him, and 
 it would be another and more dreadful slight if she tried 
 to back out of it. ... 
 
 "I don't know how it is," she confessed at the end. "I 
 don't want to do it, I hate Ed Galloway, but Pa keeps at 
 me so somehow I don't seem to have any will of my 
 own left. I'm afraid . . . I'm afraid he'll make me do 
 it." She paused, recollecting her other grief. "Oh, Unc' 
 Mart, what made Lee go off without leaving any word 
 for me?" 
 
 "But he did, Judy, he did. He left word with me, and 
 then I had to fall out the loft like a sack o' meal, and 
 couldn't bring it to you, and I've been so wrop up in my 
 own self I let it go by, anyway. I might've got a letter to 
 you, I suppose. But I kind of thought every day you'd 
 slip off and come to see me." 
 
 "What word did he leave me, Unc' Mart please?" 
 
 "He left word you was to wait for him, and that he'd 
 come back soon as he could come with his head up, and 
 money in his pockets. And he asked me to look out for you 
 till he come." 
 
 She sighed, her young face strangely sad. "I wish he 
 hadn't gone. It was most too late that message, wasn't 
 it, Unc' Mart?" 
 
 "No, it's not," cried Mart loudly. "You're not in such 
 a bad fix yet, Judy. You're all shook up now, and excited. 
 Stay here with me a little while, and let's see what we can 
 do. I've got out of worse coils than this, by Judas Priest, 
 I have." 
 
 Confidence is catching and youth unconsciously takes its
 
 One Thing Is Certain 323 
 
 key from the nearest loudest note. Judy dropped a little 
 of her anxiety. She looked round her practically. 
 
 "I might redd up this room," she offered. "It looks like 
 a hurrah's nest. I don't see why Ephum lets things get 
 so bad." 
 
 "It's more me than Ephum," said Mart, absent-mindedly. 
 He watched her as she moved about, picking up the scat- 
 tered papers, hanging up clothes, carrying out dirty 
 tumblers, wiping dust away. It was dear and wonderful 
 to see her thus engaged, her yellow hair a light in the dingi- 
 ness, her grace a leaven to the barrenness. But he did not 
 forget that the problem he had set for himself had now been 
 literally thrown at him for solution. He must not fail Lou- 
 ellen and her trust. In the short time yet allowed to him 
 he must do that for Judy which would keep her life un- 
 spoiled for the living of it, give her herself, inviolate, body 
 and soul, for the future. 
 
 "I could hire her for a nurse," he mused, "but John 
 Henry Hyde'd raise the neighborhood, and being under age 
 he could take her back by force, if he was so minded. And 
 he'd be so minded. Even if he let her stay, it'd only be for 
 the little while I've got left and then she'd be right back 
 where she'd started. If I was to make my will and leave 
 her everything I've got, the Deacon'd get his claws on every 
 cent before a month was out, and more'n likely Sis Mollie 
 and Sis Rhoda would make a fuss and contest it and in the 
 end Judy might get nothing. That Lee ain't coming back 
 till he's done something worth showing, and there wouldn't 
 be any use his coming till he did. If she run off with him 
 they'd have it hard and poor. I don't want to leave things 
 thataway. Well, I served notice on the Lord that I wasn't 
 going to die till I'd got some plan to make Judy scot-free 
 and independent, but I hadn't any idea He was going to 
 take me up so quick. But I'll match Him. I'm not going 
 to let John Henry push my little Judy into Ed Galloway's 
 filthy paws " 
 
 He opened his eyes wide and stared at Judy as he slowly
 
 324 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 followed the first gleam of possibility. Why, it was very 
 simple. So simple that it was strange he had not thought 
 of it in the very first moment. It was a way, he assured 
 himself, that would bring about all he desired, all that Judy 
 needed. It would even provide safeguards for her future 
 that otherwise he could not give. As for himself he could 
 have lifted his great voice and hallooed for joy. He need 
 not die alone and uncompanioned. Here was also the way 
 out of his loneliness, out of his darkness. 
 
 Yet it was daring daring even for Mart Bladen who 
 had never shirked a hurdle, however high. He thought 
 of the risks of it for this was a high hurdle indeed. Un- 
 easy qualms made themselves vaguely felt, but he would not 
 yield to them, yet he knew he must act quickly before they 
 had time to strengthen. Act first and repent afterward, had 
 been one of his pet jests. He did not mean to exchange it 
 for anything cooler and less foolhardy now. 
 
 Was it selfish? well then, he meant to have something 
 for himself. Now at the last. It was for such a little time. 
 Later there would be Lee or maybe some other clean lithe 
 boy with clear eyes and a heart to break and be mended by 
 Judy. Lee would understand. He would write to him. 
 Write to him fully, plainly. He would not care. If he did, 
 it could not be helped. Since he could not defend his own, 
 Mart must use such defense as he could choose. And 
 
 "Judy," he began, "stop fussing round the room and 
 listen to me. You don't want to go back home, do y' ?" 
 
 Judy came to the foot of the bed and answered somberly. 
 "I haven't got any other place to go. Pa'd come and get 
 me back anywhere I went. And then it'd be worse than 
 ever." 
 
 "Would you like to stay over here with me ? I'd buy you 
 lots of pretties, and you could have a riding horse and 
 everything you want." 
 
 "And I could take care of you and nurse you and see 
 that your room was all clean and neat," flashed Judy with
 
 One Thing Is Certain 325 
 
 instant response. "But there, what's the use of talking 
 about it. Pa'd be more against that than anything." 
 
 Now for the crucial moment. Mart Bladen's voice shook 
 a little. "There's one way you could stay and John Henry 
 couldn't help it. Suppose I was to send in town for a 
 license and get Judge Markwood out here he's a justice 
 of t'-ie peace, too, you know and he should marry you and 
 me, Judy? How about that? Then you'd have a right to 
 stay and do as you please and go as you please, and the 
 Deacon might ra'r till he gets tired, and that's all the good 
 it'd do him. As for Young Ed pooh that'd be the end 
 of him. 'Twouldn't be nothing at all but having Judge 
 Markwood say a few words before us, and then, I could 
 take care of you, Judy. And you'd have to take care of me, 
 for the little bit of time I'm going to be here. You could 
 keep things redd up and boss Ephum and Sally and give 
 me my medicine and read the paper to me. Come what 
 say? Don't you want to swap off trouble for peace and 
 kindness ?" 
 
 He watched her narrowly and was relieved to see that 
 she was not shocked, nor surprised. She met his eyes as 
 she had always done, like an honest child. "But Unc' 
 Mart," she said, "I never said anything, but I always laid 
 out in my mind that I'd marry Lee when I grew up. I 
 think he means to come back after me, too. Only he went 
 off so funny " 
 
 Mart could not help laughter. "Judy," he said, growing 
 serious, "I've got a year to live, and that's all. You might 
 as well know that. For all you're a child in a lot of ways, 
 I want you to remember that I told you everything, fair 
 and square. Going through the marriage ceremony with 
 me won't mean a thing except that you'll be out of John 
 Henry's power and jurisdiction forever, and you'll live here 
 in this house, like like you was my child. When I go, 
 you'll be free and independent, with my prop'ty, for I'll 
 leave it all to you. I want you here with me for that year, 
 Judy. I want you round, laughing and teasing me, and
 
 326 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 eating licorice and bothering Sally. I want you to take care 
 of me, and I want to take care of you, like I said. After- 
 ward, if Lee comes back, you'll be free and happy, I hope, 
 waiting for him. It won't be my fault if you're not. 
 There's the whole case, plain." 
 
 She ran to him, put her arms around him. Only one 
 thing was clear to her, but it was enough. "Unc' Mart 
 you don't mean it only a year ! Oh, Unc' Mart ! Yes, yes, 
 let me stay here with you I don't care about Lee or the 
 prop'ty or anything, only to stay here and take care of you." 
 Her loving, grieving tears wet his cheek. 
 
 "There, there what a freshet!" he said, half teasing. 
 "Don't do that, Judy. We got to move and move quick, 
 now, else the Deacon might put a spoke in our wheel after 
 all. Dry up your eyes and reach me down the ink-bottle 
 and a piece of paper, and then call Ephum and tell him to 
 have one of the hands saddle up to ride in town. I think 
 I'll send for Doc Tithelow, too. I don't want any question- 
 ings later on." 
 
 He laboriously wrote his letter while Judy looked on, 
 wondering, yet palpably trusting. Ephum was called in and 
 dispatched with his instructions, and following him, Sally 
 was summoned. 
 
 "Miss Judy's going to be here for dinner," said Mart, 
 "so you want to fix up something that'll please a sweet 
 tooth." 
 
 "Now we're started," he went on to Judy. "There's a 
 room right over this one, upstairs, used to be my mother's. 
 You go on up and look at it and see if you like it, and if 
 you want any new things for it, because it'll be yours from 
 this time on. You can just projeck around all over the 
 house, if you want to. I'll have to depend on you to get 
 everything fixed up to your liking, you know." 
 
 She went eagerly, diverted. He heard her light steps 
 running up the stairs and smiled.
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 JUDGE MARKWOOD and Doctor Tithelow had been aston- 
 ished, but after an explanation, approving. 
 
 "It's thisaway with me. I want to leave her my prop'ty 
 and if she takes my name I can do it, and keep Sis Mollie 
 and Sis Rhoda off it, and more'n that, she'll be shut forever 
 of John Henry Hyde's devilishness. He's set and deter- 
 mined to marry her off to Young Ed Galloway, and she run 
 off over here in desperation. I don't see what else there is 
 to do. She's the only human being I care a silver three- 
 cent piece for, or that cares a silver three-cent piece for me. 
 I been fond of her ever since she was knee high to a pint 
 cup, and watched her grow up and all. You know what 
 marrying her to Young Ed would be, don't you? And 
 maybe I was figuring one for Judy and two for myself, for 
 it's a mighty gratifying thought to me to have her round 
 for the little time I've got to stay." 
 
 "John Henry Hyde ought to be tarred and feathered," 
 snorted Doc Tithelow. "Young Ed Galloway's tainted and 
 he knows it, as well as any man in the county." 
 
 The Judge nodded his head augustly. "He comes of 
 bad stock," he pronounced. "If I had a daughter and he 
 came courting her, I'd send my nigger out to beat him. I 
 wouldn't dirty my own hands with him." 
 
 "You can tie us up rock-bound, can't you, Judge ?" asked 
 Mart. "She's under age, but will that make any differ- 
 ence? And before you go I want you should draw me my 
 will." 
 
 "It will be binding," said the Judge, "even though she is 
 a minor. Hyde wouldn't dare start annulment proceedings. 
 It could be brought out that the girl fled to you from the 
 prospect of being forced into marrying young Galloway. 
 I'll see to Hyde if he attempts to make trouble." 
 
 327
 
 328 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 "Call me as a witness," added Doctor Tithelow with a 
 chuckle. 
 
 "Then I guess we'd better send for her and get this over 
 with," said Mart. "Until I've got a legal hold on her I'm 
 none too sure of what John Henry might do." 
 
 "I'll call in Ephum and Sally," said the Doctor, and 
 stepped to the door. "Come on, Judy," he said, "I've got 
 a bad fever patient down in the Neck and I've got to get 
 along." 
 
 Judy appeared simultaneously with the two servants. 
 
 "Stand over here by the bed," said the Judge, looking 
 at her kindly. She did so, and took affectionately the hand 
 Mart held out to her. She was neither excited nor even 
 deeply interested, save that she had escaped from home. 
 Unc' Mart said this was all right and that had satisfied her 
 docile, unmolded mind. 
 
 The brief and businesslike words of the civil ceremony 
 being said, Ephum relieved an awkward moment. 
 
 "Sally and me p'sents our best respecks en fair wishes," 
 he said, grandiloquently bowing and scraping. "Sally, you 
 go right erlong en stir up a cake en I'll kill a couple chickens. 
 We cain' eat no such trash as po'k dumplings en apple pie 
 to-day." 
 
 "That's the right idea, Ephum," spoke the Doctor. "Well 
 now, everything's fixed up according to law and order 
 and I'll have to be riding." 
 
 "No, you stay and witness my will," said Mart. "Run 
 on out, Judy." 
 
 The will was very short, and after the Judge and the 
 Doctor had gone, Judy poked her fair head into the room 
 again. 
 
 "Say, Unc' Mart," she said, "oughtn't I go home and 
 tell Ma?" 
 
 "I don't believe I would. If the Deacon gets the idea 
 that she connived at this he might blame her and say a good 
 bit more'n his prayers. Besides, I don't want you under 
 his roof no more."
 
 One Thing Is Certain 329 
 
 She paused a little, puzzled by her change in status. 
 
 "Well am I going to stay right along now? I'll have 
 to have my clothes and things, Unc' Mart." 
 
 "You fcan ride in town to-morrow and buy yourself some 
 clothes," he promised. "I expect you can get along till then. 
 Set down and read me the last Democrat till dinner's ready. 
 Or maybe you'd like to talk about how you'd want to fix 
 up this old place." 
 
 The abilities of that notable housewife, Jane West, had 
 not been wholly lost in her granddaughter. Judy assumed 
 a mature air and spoke with emphasis. 
 
 "I reckon I would. Everything's got to be cleaned 
 mercy, I could scrub for a week and not get done! And 
 new paint! And whitewash! And curtains!" 
 
 "I don't want this place all prettified up like a dollhouse," 
 he teased. "Next thing you'll want to tie a ribbon round 
 my neck." 
 
 Judy could tease as well as he: "A blue one to match 
 your eyes, Unc' Mart. You'd look fine!" 
 
 "You got blue eyes, too, you know," he said, "so I reckon 
 you'll have to wear the ribbon for me. But maybe we 
 might whitewash up a little, though I'm not going to 
 promise about the curtains. Everybody's told me all my 
 life that I'd finally be ruined by women's whims, and I'm 
 not going to have it come true at this late date. Besides, 
 I want to see out the window. It's the most life I get." 
 
 "I forgot." She was instantly contrite. "Unc' Mart 
 will people call me Mrs. Bladen now?" 
 
 "If they know what's what, they will." 
 
 She reflected on this. "I'm glad. You've always seemed 
 more like my own folks than any of them, except Mother, 
 and now you really are." 
 
 He was startled. "Did you ever say that to your Ma?" 
 
 "I don't think so, but it's true, all the same. I'm going 
 out in the kitchen and get me some bread and sugar. I'm 
 hungry. I've hardly eaten a bite to-day I've been so worked 
 up." She came back a moment later, to say a little wor-
 
 330 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 riedly : "Pa'll be so mad at me now ! But he can't do a 
 thing to me, can he?" 
 
 Mart's answering shout followed her : "You bet he can't." 
 
 But he was not so sure. John Henry Hyde was tena- 
 cious and revengeful. "And if he begins to speak," Mart 
 Bladen told himself, "there's no knowing to what lengths 
 he'll go. If I was a sound man instead of being laid here 
 in this bed like a log, I'd not be afraid of him, for I could 
 stop him no matter what he said or did. But thisaway 
 He felt a rising tide of apprehension. It would not wait 
 John Henry's retaliation. It would be immediate, and vile. 
 Mart knew the man. "He'll strike like a rattlesnake," he 
 thought restlessly. 
 
 Even while he waited there was a sound of hurrying 
 heavy footsteps on the doorstone, and John Henry him- 
 self strode in at the door, his face twisted with anger. Be- 
 hind him came Louellen Hyde, hatless, dishevelled by haste, 
 fear incarnate. 
 
 "Where's the girl?" demanded John Henry. 
 
 Mart Bladen's bed was high and he was well propped 
 with pillows. He stretched his right hand toward the 
 bell that would summon Ephum, but did not ring. 
 
 "This is right neighborly of you, John Henry," he said 
 softly, "right neighborly. Won't you sit down? And 
 you, too, Louellen." His voice changed to anxious gentle- 
 ness when he spoke to her. She leaned toward him, her 
 hands clasped, entreating. 
 
 "If you're harboring Judy " began the Deacon, but 
 Bladen interrupted him. 
 
 "I reckon you might call it harboring. Judy's here and 
 she's going to stay. Judge Markwood brought out a license 
 an hour ago and married her to me. What you got to say 
 to that?" 
 
 The room was full of breathing, battling emotions. The 
 black vein in John Henry's head jerked with the violence 
 of his fury. His whole body shook with emotion, and his 
 mouth twitched and panted like a man in epilepsy. He
 
 One Thing Is Certain 331 
 
 lifted lean strong hands in crooked threatening gestures. 
 He turned on his wife. 
 
 "All these years I kept silence," he began at last, the 
 words like blows. "All these years I forgave you your 
 mortal sin, Louellen, and overlooked your transgression. 
 And now you plot and scheme with this vile and wretched 
 man, this wretched sinner who ain't more'n a step from the 
 devil's clutches and with eternity staring him in the face, 
 you plot and scheme with him for this abomination. Woe 
 unto" 
 
 "You keep a civil tongue in your head, John Henry," 
 warned Bladen, "and don't begin the woe-untos here. I 
 can't get up and tackle you, but, by God, I'll find some way 
 to mark y' if you don't heed me." 
 
 But Louellen Hyde took up the gage and her loathing 
 and hatred leaped from her as a sword of shining steel in 
 the hand of desperation. 
 
 "You kept silence, John Henry," she flung at him. "You 
 kept silence. Yes and why ? Lest something should come 
 out that would reflect against your good name! Lest you 
 shouldn't set so high in the church. They was the reasons 
 why you kept silence. You knew the truth from the first. 
 But there wasn't a thought in your mind, there wasn't a 
 thing you did, or a wish of your innermost heart that wasn't 
 self, self, self. You spared yourself the finger-pointing and 
 the nastiness of it as well as me, and you'd never' ve spared 
 me if you could' ve spared yourself without it. And you've 
 always been cruel and hard with Judy, punished her and 
 ruled her far different from the others because you knew 
 you could best hurt and spite me by doing things to her. 
 You've done your best to kill every little spark of life in 
 the child, and you was trying to drive her into a marriage 
 that would've been worse than mine with you, if such a 
 thing can be. But now she's delivered out of your hand. 
 She's free of you. And you'll keep silence still, same as 
 you've always done, else " 
 
 She stopped and turned. The door from the kitchen was
 
 332 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 flung open and Judy ran in, precipitate, flushed, laughing. 
 
 "Oh, Unc' Mart, Sally's made a cake big's why 
 Mother Father !" 
 
 The three elders were held in hideous immobility, silent, 
 darkened, rigid, waiting. At last it broke. 
 
 "Don't call me father," spat John Henry. "There's your 
 father!" 
 
 He pointed to Mart Bladen. 
 
 Something more terrible than all that had gone before 
 clashed and smothered through the room, and the man on 
 the bed struggled with furious impotence to rise. 
 
 "You damned old " But Judy stopped him. 
 
 "Why " she stammered, looking from one to another 
 piteously. "Why what " 
 
 "Yes, it's true," went on John Henry, gloatingly, "and 
 your mother's connived at your marrying him. Lot's 
 daughters! Incest! I wonder God don't strike you dead, 
 Louellen." 
 
 He gloated over them, an old hawk, who has made his 
 kill, filled, replete with revenge. "You're not done with 
 this!" he threatened. "I'll see to you all of ye!" He 
 turned and left them. They heard his footsteps on the 
 gravel path, toward the road. Let them find some way out 
 for themselves, now, these abominable sinners, their self- 
 righteous cadences said. He was done with them! Yet 
 in his going he acknowledged defeat, and the three left be- 
 hind forgot him before he was out of earshot. 
 
 "Mother," cried Judy. "Mother, is it true? Is Unc' 
 Mart really my father?" 
 
 Louellen Hyde went to the bed and took Mart Bladen's 
 hand. She spoke as a woman who has been both afraid 
 and ashamed to love, yet has loved greatly and now is 
 neither ashamed nor afraid. 
 
 "It's true. I was promised to your Unc' Mart and we 
 had a misunderstanding and I took your Pa. And no sooner 
 was I married, young fool that I was, when I found out 
 what marrying without love means. It makes you hate
 
 One Thing Is Certain 333 
 
 your body and it dries up your soul. That's what it did 
 to me, anyway. Maybe there's some who can submit and 
 be dutiful, but if so they must've got a different man than 
 I did. And once when I was desperate, I come over here. 
 I was bound to get away from John Henry bound to. 
 But I wasn't brave enough to stay. I went back. Oh, 
 Mart, I wisht I'd've stayed. I wisht I had." 
 
 "No," said Mart Bladen. "You couldn't've done differ- 
 ent. I didn't blame you for going back. It would'ye been 
 more than you could've stood." 
 
 "I've stood worse things," said Louellen, thin-lipped. 
 
 Their hands held and clung, their eyes met across a great 
 waste of unlived years. He who had been so careless and 
 so strong and so alive was now a broken cripple, near to 
 death. She who had been so fresh and beautiful and proud 
 and pliant, was now stiff-set and coldly staid and sallow. 
 There was no going back for them. They knew it and they 
 turned involuntarily to Judy, pledge of their love, with 
 all of life before her. 
 
 "You think it's all right, Louellen?" asked Mart. "You 
 know full well it's nothing but marrying in name. She's 
 my daughter, and she's mighty close in my heart. I'll 
 shelter her and take care of her, just as you have. I 
 couldn't figure out no other way to get her free of John 
 Henry for good and all. And I wanted somebody of my 
 own. You understand, Louellen ? You trust me ?" 
 
 "You know I trust you. I wisht I always had. When 
 I sent her, I didn't know what you'd do, but I was at the 
 end of my rope, and I didn't know where to turn. But I 
 had a feeling that somehow you'd take care of her, once it 
 was put before you. And you have. And don't take any 
 thought about John Henry. I'll see that he keeps his mouth 
 shut. I I'm glad Judy's going to be here with you, Mart. 
 It's right she should be." 
 
 Her voice changed to commonplace. "Now, listen here, 
 Judy, I'll pack up some of your things and send 'em over 
 this evening. And I'll be coming over to see you now and
 
 334 One Thing Is Certain 
 
 then. Bud and Virgie'll be over, too. You better not 
 come home till your Pa gets cooled down some. Take 
 good care of your Unc' Mart." 
 
 The naming of him so quieted Judy's whirling thoughts. 
 She was so used to the Deacon's venom that it had touched 
 her lightly. Her mother's quiet, and her plain unexcited 
 words of farewell made the wild scene she had just now 
 had part in unreal and impossible. 
 
 "You better let me prop you up again, all comfortable," 
 she said to Mart when they were alone. "You've got your 
 pillows every whichaway." 
 
 She shook the pillows and readjusted them. "It's queer," 
 she went on, half to herself, half to him. "I always loved 
 you better than Pa. I reckon I oughtn't to call him that." 
 
 "Yes, you ought," said Mart, firmly. "Things must seem 
 to go on just like they always have. Nobody must ever 
 know what was said here to-day except us four. We won't 
 even talk about it 'mongst ourselves. That's for your 
 mother's sake, as well as yours, Judy." 
 
 "Oh, yes I see. Anyway, Unc' Mart, I'm glad, I'm 
 glad's I can be that you're my father. I'm glad, whether 
 we talk about it or not." 
 
 "You're a good girl, Judy," he said. He leaned wearily 
 among the pillows. The emotions of the day had shaken 
 and weakened his failing body. But he was happy, happier 
 than he had ever expected to be. Life at the very door of 
 death, had yielded him rich largess, bounty far beyond his 
 deserts. He had no fear of the outcome of this fantastic 
 means by which he had contrived to bring Judy by his side. 
 It would be to her protection, development, bloom, and 
 later, freedom. For him it meant the warmth of a sustain- 
 ing devotion in the approaching chill. 
 
 After he had gone, she would go on, free, confident, and 
 later there would be love and a good man for her, children 
 to play through these dull rooms, and run breathless under 
 the shade of the tulip trees even as he had done. It was 
 right that it should be so. She was his child, his own. On
 
 One Thing Is Certain 335 
 
 this very bed where he now lay she had been conceived, in 
 such ecstasy of tenderness, such helpless beauty of passion 
 that the moment had turned all his life to constancy, had 
 cleared and established his heart in a secret garden, sweet 
 with the flowers of remembrance, refreshed by a never- 
 failing spring of sureness that love freely given, freely re- 
 turned, making no claims, yielding, accepting, without fear 
 or complaint, is forever justified and right. 
 
 The old laughter came again to his eyes. He waved his 
 hand jauntily as one who would give greeting. His lips 
 moved. He was saying, inaudibly, but with fervor of 
 gratitude : 
 
 "Much obliged, God."
 
 TOURNAMENT RULES * 
 
 I. The distance shall be 120 yards, the time 11 seconds and the 
 entrance fee $1. 
 
 II. The rings shall be \y 2 inches in diameter excepting in the 
 riding off of ties in which case the rings shall be one inch in 
 diameter and all rings shall be wrapped. 
 
 III. There shall be three Judges, one Marshal and two assistants 
 or two Heralds, two Timekeepers and one Flagman. 
 
 IV. At the appointed time the Knights shall all come mounted 
 upon their steeds to the Judges' stand to hear the reading of the 
 rules and the charge to the Knights. 
 
 V. After the reading of the rules and the charge to the Knights 
 the Marshals shall conduct the Knights to the point of starting. 
 
 VI. Each Knight shall have one trial ride at three rings \ l / 2 inches 
 in diameter. 
 
 VII. Each Knight shall have three rides at all three rings \ l / 2 
 inches in diameter for the prizes. 
 
 VIII. After each Knight has had three rides at all three rings the 
 Knight who is found to have carried the highest number of rings to 
 the Judges' stand shall be entitled to the first prize with the privilege 
 of crowning the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Queen of the 
 Tourney. 
 
 IX. The Knights who are found to have returned the second, 
 third, fourth and fifth highest number of rings shall be entitled to 
 the second, third, fourth and fifth prizes with the privilege of 
 crowning the first, second, third and fourth maids to the Queen of 
 Love and Beauty, the Queen of the Tourney. 
 
 X. The Prizes shall be: first prize, $15; second prize, $10; third 
 prize, $8 ; fourth prize, $5 ; fifth prize, $3. 
 
 XL If at the end of the prize rides any two or three or more 
 Knights shall be found to have returned to the Judges' stand the 
 same number of rings these Ties shall be ridden off and the rules 
 governing the prize riding shall also govern the riding off of Ties 
 except that the rings for the riding off of Ties shall be one inch in 
 diameter. 
 
 XII. Any Knight passing through the first Arch and attempting 
 to take first ring must continue on through the course and a second 
 ride shall not be given to any Knight except on account ot an acci- 
 dent to the Knight, or his horse, his saddle or bridle or some ob- j 
 struction visible to the Judges comes in his path. 
 
 XIII. If because of an accident to the Knight or his horse, his ! 
 saddle or his bridle, or if because some obstruction comes in his 
 path the Judges see fit to give to any Knight a second ride he shall 
 ride for all three rings. 
 
 XIV. The Knights shall abide strictly by the decision of the j 
 Judges. 
 
 XV. After the riding all the Knights must come mounted to the j 
 Judges' stand to hear the result of the tilting. 
 
 * See Chapter Nine for a description of The Tournament. 
 
 NOTE. These rules, which for many years governed all Maryland tourna- 
 ments, were obtained through the kindness of Mr. J. Owen Knotte, of Denton, 
 Caroline County. 
 
 336
 
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