Backwoods Girl

by Peggy Gaddis

  And Cindy? Jim’s heart stirred, and his pulses beat faster at the thought of her. He seemed to see her there before him, gentle, sweet, touching in her naivete. She would be beaten down by Jennie and Marthy, and the other women scattered about the mountain who would accept Jennie’s and Marthy’s summing up of Cindy’s character. Or, in their own minds, her lack of it.

  He had looked about him at his comfortable apartment. Compared to the mountain cabins, it was luxurious. The electric light that he had always accepted as routine, the plumbing, the automatic heat, the hot-and-cold running water—all the things that city people take for granted, and that would be a marvel and a wonder to Cindy.

  He himself had accepted the rugged mountain life and even enjoyed it, but had not that been simply because it was a novelty? A thing to be experienced, accepted, even enjoyed for a few weeks, simply because it was something so different? But what would it be like to live like that every day of his life? Would he, some day, become so fed up with it that he would turn away from it, from Cindy, from all that being married to her would mean? He had given up any hope of transplanting her to the city, at least, for a few years. Maybe he might persuade her, after they were married, after he had managed to convince her of his love. His mouth twisted bitterly as he realized how poorly he had proven that love.

  She seemed to stand before him, smiling her shy, warm, lovely smile. Once more his arms seemed to hold her close and hard against him. He was caught in a dream of the exquisite, fragrant femininity of her, as she gave herself with an ecstatic abandon that was the most perfect thing in life. How could living—no matter where—be anything but perfect, glorious, with Cindy in his arms, their lives joined together forever?

  Sure, it would take some adjusting before he could adapt himself to the rigors of her kind of life. But with Cindy belonging to him in every lovely way a woman in love can belong to her lover, it would be a glorious, worthwhile adventure.

  Dismissing his doubts that had been newly roused by Lorna’s ill-intentioned visit, he re-made his decision and boarded the train for Marshallville, quite sure that his future destiny, his hope of happiness, lay in the mountains, among the mountain people.

  It was shortly after noon when he walked into the store at Ghost Creek, smiling as Storekeeper and Marthy stared at him in amazement.

  “Well, sir, this hyer sure is a surprise!” said Storekeeper heartily. “Reckon we wuzn’t expectin’ to see you again, leastways, not ‘fore Spring.”

  Jim shook hands with him and with Marthy as he answered, “I had some unfinished business to attend to up here. You see, I’m setting up an office in Marshallville, and I’m planning to practice law up here, if the folks will let me.”

  “Y’don’t say! Well, now, I reckin folks’ll be right glad, Mister. Ain’t much lawin’ ‘roun’ hyer, lessen a feller makes hisself a little snort o’ mountain dew, and the danged revenooers get wind of it, but time’s like that, feller could sure use hisself a good lawyer,” said Storekeeper heartily. “Reckin mebbe he might want to pay you off in ‘shine, though.”

  Jim laughed. “I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” he answered.

  “I kin have your cabin ready fer you in a hour,” offered Marthy eagerly. “You had yore dinner, Mister? I could hot-up somethin’ fer you in a couple shakes o’ a dead lamb’s tail.”

  “Thanks, I ate in Marshallville.,” said Jim, and added quietly, looking from one to the other, “Right now, I have to see Cindy.”

  Marthy and Storekeeper exchanged a swift glance and stiffened. Marthy’s eyes glittered.

  Jim’s jaw set and his eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’d better make something plain, right here and now,” he said. “I’ve come back to ask Cindy to marry me.”

  “Y’don’t say,” muttered Storekeeper, and Marthy’s eyes glinted as she wrapped her hands in her apron and held them across her stomach, eyeing Jim curiously.

  “If she’ll marry me, I’m staying,” Jim went on. “If she won’t I’ll go back to Atlanta, of course.”

  There was a taut silence. Storekeeper shuffled his feet uneasily, and Marthy started to speak, but Storekeeper silenced her sternly.

  “Reckin you’re a man full-growed, Mister, and it’s your business,” said Storekeeper at last, very carefully, and once again his hand silenced whatever Marthy might have wanted to say.

  “Thanks. That’s the way I look at it,” said Jim and turned and walked out of the store. He heard a confused murmur of voices behind him as Storekeeper and Marthy burst into an argument, but he moved fast, not trying to overhear their words, not wanting to hear them.

  He climbed the path fast, spurred by the desire to see Cindy, to hold and kiss her. As he reached the cabin where Enoch lived, Seth came leaping to meet him, recognizing him with puppyish whines of pleasure.

  Jim stopped, startled. “Hi, Seth, what the devil are you doing this far from home?” he asked the dog aloud.

  A moment later Enoch came around the cabin, and paused, startled at sight of him. “Hello, Enoch, remember me?” Jim said.

  “Yeah, I shore do,” said Enoch, and his tone was tight and unfriendly. “What the hell air ye a-doin’ back up hyer?”

  “I’m on my way to see Cindy,” said Jim.

  Enoch’s face darkened with fury. “You stay away from Cindy, damn you,” he said. “She ain’t wantin’ t’ see you—an’ I ain’t wantin’ you to, neither.”

  “Sorry, Enoch, but I’m afraid you haven’t got anything to do with whether I see her or not,” said Jim. Then a stabbing thought shot through him, and he added with a trace of anxiety, “Or have you?”

  “I’m aimin’ to marry-up with Cindy, jest as soon as she’s able,” said Enoch harshly.

  Jim grinned at him contemptuously. “What about your mother?”

  “She’s up thar right now, a-takin’ keer o’ Cindy,” said Enoch.

  Startled, Jim demanded swiftly, “What’s happened to Cindy?”

  “I foun’ her down sick, powahful sick. All by herself up thar, nobody to fetch her a drink o’ water; nobody to feed Seth, ner milk the cow, ner feed the pigs, ner the mule. She could ‘a’ died thar, an’ nobody would ‘a’ knowed it, fer no tellin’ how long,” Enoch answered grimly. “But I seen there wuzn’t no smoke outen the chimney, an’ I broke down the door, an’ thar she wus. So Maw went up to take keer o’ her.”

  Jim felt a sickness deep within him at the picture Enoch’s words sketched. “How is she now, Enoch?” he asked after a moment. He tried to keep the panic out of his voice.

  “She’s right pert. Maw’s got her settin’ up in a chair, front o’ the fire, but Maw says she ain’t able to be left thar by herself, so Maw’s been stayin’ with her, an’ I been doin’ chores both places,” said Enoch. “And now you come along. Why’d you come back? Whyn’t you stay whar you blonged?”

  Jim nodded. “You have a perfect right to ask me that, Enoch,” he said. “I thought I belonged away from here, but I soon found out that without Cindy, no place is right for me. So I’ve come back to ask her to marry me.”

  Enoch’s eyes widened, and he straightened. “You want to marry up with Cindy? Mister, you’re talkin’ crazy. Cindy ain’t never gonna be happy nowheres but up here—,” he started to protest.

  “I know,” said Jim. “That’s why I’m planning to take up law practice in Marshallville.”

  For a moment the two men studied each other, mentally taking each other’s measure. Then Enoch turned, with a wordless growl, and stalked back to the cabin and around it to the back.

  Jim watched him, then shrugged and went on up the trail.

  ####

  Jim’s knock at the door was answered by Jennie, who stood staring at him with active hostility. “Whut do you want?” she demanded.

  “I want to see Cindy,” said Jim grimly.

  “Ye do
, do you? Well, you ain’t gonna see her,” snapped Jennie and started to close the door.

  Jim put out his hand and pushed the door back, despite Jennie’s attempt to shut him out.

  “She don’ want to see you, Mister,” snapped Jennie.

  “I’ll let her tell me that herself,” said Jim and thrust past her into the house.

  Cindy, looking thin, and small and white, sat in a big chair in front of the leaping fire. She stared at Jim, her eyes widening until they seemed to swallow her small, white face. “Jim!” she whispered at last, in a tone of awed wonder. “Jim, is it really-for-truly you?”

  “If ye’ve got five cents wuth o’ pride, you’ll tell him to git hisself outen hyer,” Jennie said.

  Neither Cindy nor Jim seemed to hear her.

  “Darling. Cindy, can you ever forgive me?” asked Jim, and totally forgetful of Jennie’s presence, he went down on his knees beside the chair, gathering Cindy’s small, rough, work-worn hands into his. “You’ve been sick, Cindy, here all alone. It’s what I’ve dreaded for you.”

  “Well, me an’ Enoch’s been takin’ right good keer o’ her, an’ that’s a heap-sight more’n you’ve been a-doin ,” snapped Jennie.

  “I know,” said Jim over his shoulder. “Enoch told me, and I’m very grateful to you both.”

  “Well, ain’t that nice?” Jennie sniffed. “You’re grateful to us. Whut’s it t’you, Mister?”

  “I hope that I can persuade Cindy to marry me,” Jim told Jennie, but his eyes were on Cindy. He did not even turn his head in Jennie’s direction, though he heard the woman’s gasp of surprise.

  Cindy’s eyes were wide on Jim’s face, and she had recoiled from him, fearful of what she might see in his face when she dared .to look into it.

  “I’ve treated you shamefully, darling,” said Jim. “I don’t deserve that you should ever forgive me.”

  She made a small, shrinking gesture, trying to withdraw her hands from his, but his grasp only tightened. She did not struggle.

  “Forgive you, Jim?” she whispered. “Me forgive you? Whut would I have to forgive you for?”

  “You precious darling,” Jim said, deeply touched at her humble inability to censure him for what he had done to her. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “I ain’t got nuthin’ t’ forgive you for, Jim,” she said, her voice little more than a breath of sound. “You had a right to leave me when you knowed I warn’t no good.”

  Jennie’s snort was a sound of triumph as she heard from the girl’s own lips the confession of what she herself had been firmly convinced was true. Neither Jim nor Cindy took notice of her.

  Jim’s arms closed tightly about Cindy, and he drew her close to him, cradling her against him, his cheek against hers. He felt the wetness of her tears on her cheek, and remorse ate deeply into him.

  “Never let me hear you say that about yourself again, dearest,” he said with ineffable tenderness. “You’re the finest, sweetest, dearest girl that ever lived, and I love you so much that if you don’t want to marry me, I’ll never marry anyone else.”

  She clung to him tightly at first, and then she drew back, covering her face with her hands. She burst into a storm of wild weeping. Jennie hustled indignantly forward, clucking like a setting hen who sees one of its chicks threatened.

  “Now you see whut y’done, smartie-mister,” she snapped him away from Cindy with stern, strong hands. “She ain’t been outta bed more’n a hour. She’s weak as a new-borned kitten, an’ she ain’t in no shape fer you to go shoving and hauling her ‘round. Git outten hyer, you hear me?”

  Jim stood up and moved awkwardly aside, looking down at Cindy with anxious, tormented eyes. After a long moment she controlled her sobbing enough to stammer to Jennie, “Please leave me be. I’m all right.”

  “Y’will be, soon’s we git this fellow outa hyer,” Jennie said sternly, and settled the quilt more comfortably about Cindy’s small, shaking body. Over her shoulder, Jennie said sharply to Jim, “G’wan, git outa hyer. Ain’t y’got sense ‘nough to see she ain’t fitten t’ argue with ye now?”

  “Cindy, may I come back?” Jim pleaded, ignoring Jennie, who bent above Cindy, turning her head to glare balefully over her shoulder at Jim.

  “Effen y’ain’t upsot her too much, reckin mebbe y’could come back tomorrer, “ Jennie agreed reluctantly.

  “Tomorrow?” Jim protested.

  “Well, whut d’ye wanta do? Make her sick ag’in, atter I done nussed her day and night to keep her from plumb dyin’?” snapped Jennie and ushered him forcefully towards the door. “This gal’s given me a heap o’ trouble, an’ I ain’t aimin’ to go all over it again. Now go along peaceable—afore I start gettin’ riled. Git!”

  Cindy bowed her head, unable to look at him, and Jennie closed the door behind him with spiteful force.

  “Now, whut’s all this to-do ‘bout you marryin’up with him, Cindy?” she demanded. “Reckin y’know no city feller like him ‘ud ever be satisfied hyer in the mountains. No more’n a gal like you would be satisfied down t’the flatlands.”

  “I know,” said Cindy. “I airit gonn’a marry him, Miss Jennie. He ain’t really wantin’ t’marry me, I don’t reckin. He was just talkin’, that’s all.”

  “Well, he shore sounded right much like he wanted to,” Jennie pointed out grimly, her hands on her hips, studying the girl sharply. “Reckin y’don’t need me t’ tell you my boy’s eatin’ his heart plum’ out with wantin’ ye, Cindy. And Enoch’s a mountain man. Same’s you’re a mountain gal.”

  Cindy raised her eyes for a fleeting moment to meet Jennie’s that were sharp and avid with curiosity. “You heerd me tell Jim I ain’t fitten t’marry nobody,” she said desolately. “Effen Enoch knowed ‘bout me, he wouldn’t want to neither.”

  “Well, I dunno. Fellers that’s purely honin’ fer a gal ain’t none too choosey, seems like,” said Jennie, her voice soft now as she drew up a chair and settled herself with pleasurable anticipation. “–Course, I’m his Maw, an’ I know a right smart ‘bout him, but seems like I don’t know scarcely nuthin’ ‘bout you, Cindy. I heerd a lot o’ talk, ‘course.”

  Cindy drew a deep, hard breath and quietly, without mincing words, not trying to spare herself, she told Jennie the sordid story of her sojourn in the flatlands. Jennie listened, her eyes widening, but without speaking a word until Cindy had finished. It was apparent that she had had no inkling of Cindy’s past.

  “So y’see, Miss Jennie, you wouldn’t want Enoch to marry me,” said Cindy desolately when she had finished.

  Jennie sat wide-eyed, staring at the girl, and then she turned her eyes towards the fire, savoring the ugly story. “Well, now, jest think o’ that! You a’nd your Granny keepin’ a thing like that all t’your own two selves, and none o’ us guessin , ‘ she mused aloud at last. “Reckin, effen y’ve told me the rights of it, it warn’t altogether your own fault.”

  Cindy was startled, her eyes wide. “Oh, thank you, Miss Jennie,” she stammered.

  “’Course, I ain’t got no way o’ knowin’ how Enoch’ll feel.” She cautioned Cindy against too much optimism. “But him a-wantin’ you like he does, reckin he’ll be able to forgive you a whole lot. ‘Course, mountain men is right peculiar-like. He may say he’ll forgive ye, an’ then when you been married a spell, an’ mebbe the young-’uns have started to come, time he gits mad at ye, he may throw it up to ye. Special if he’s got a skinful o’ mountain dew in him.”

  There was a silence between the two women, and at last Jennie turned to Cindy. “Way I see it, effen Enoch still wants you, spite of this thing happenin’ to you, reckin I won’t stand in his way,” she said at last with the tone of one who realizes how magnanimous she is.

  “I’m thankin’ ye kindly, Miss Jennie,” said Cindy.

  “Reckin mebbe you’ll be a hea
p sight better off married up with a mountain man than some city feller, come to think about it,” said Jennie. “Wonder whut that city feller had in his mind, him comin’ back like that? Reckin mebbe he still believes the Injun gold is here?”

  Cindy shrank slightly. “I don’t think he ever really believed the Indian gold was here,” she protested.

  Jennie regarded her thoughtfully. “Funny, you allus talk like us mountain folks, ‘til you mention Injuns. Then you don’t never say it like the mountain folks. I allus wondered ‘bout that.”

  Cindy flushed beneath the criticism. “I guess it’s because I’m part Indian,” she admitted. “Granny said her father always told her that Indians felt like being called `Injuns’ instead of ‘Indians’ was a insult. Like Negroes not wantin’ to be called anything but Negroes. Granny always taught me to say Indians.”

  “Well, now, I do say!” Jennie was bright-eyed with interest. “Don’t that beat all? Worryin’ ‘bout whether Injuns was insulted or not.”

  “Well, I reckin they’re people,” said Cindy.

  Jennie only looked more amused.

  CHAPTER 17

  When Enoch arrived, just before dusk, to do the chores, his mother was waiting for him, and as he came in, she was swinging a shawl around her shoulders and tying an old-fashioned knitted scarf about her head.

  “You set hyer and jaw with Cindy a spell,” she ordered, “whilst I do the milkin . I ain’t used to bein’ housed-in all day, an’ I’m a-wantin’ out fer a spell.”

  Enoch blushed furiously as she winked at him, and gave him a rough slap on the shoulder. “That thar city-feller’s tryin’ to beat your time, son,” she said baldly. “Better get busy and sweet-talk Cindy ‘fore it’s too late.”