Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1916)

MOTION PICTURE per, too ; but me, I hate him like a pizen snake !’’ "Casper's a han'some fellow — " the doctor's voice was troubled. As in a vision, he saw the coarse, reckless features of the young mountaineer ; his thick, red-lipped smile ; his small, bold eyes and heavy hands on this slim girlcreature at his side. The vision sickened him, but he was stubborn. “Casper's one o’ yore own people, April,” he said slowly. “A mountainlass must make a mountainwife. Keep yore eyes on the hills, honey — an’, mark my words, thev’s trouble for the hill-gal that looks down into the valley " A sudden, vivid rose colored her round, childish cheeks, and the tight breast of the faded calico rose on the • swell of her breath. She would not quite meet his eyes. "Hyar we are home !” she cried hastily. “Good-by, Daddy-Doc. Thank you fr totin’ me." The old man watched the slim figure vault lightly over the wheel and run up the weedy path to the cabin, vanishing into its dusk like an extinguished sunbeam. He sighed heavily, feeling, on a sudden, old and helpless. ‘‘G’lang Dapple !’’ he said — “g'lang!” In the low-roofed cabin, odorous with old bacon-scents and crowded living, Tom Fagan and his crony, Casper, sat huddled over a pack of greasy cards. As April entered, a look passed between them — a greedy, covetous look : the young man’s greedy of 'the girl ; the other man’s, of something else, something that clinked in Casper's hip-pockets as he struck them with his open palm. “Four hundred,” muttered he, following the slim figure with his small, blinking eyes. “Come on. You-all knows you dont keer nothin’ for her, Tim, an’ never have.” “A father’s feelin’s comes high,” grinned Fagan. “Five hundred’s my figger — not a d — n cent less. An’ you're gettin’ a bargain at that, too!” He chuckled evilly. “I reckon they’s others would give hit, yes, an’ more ■” "What d’ye mean?” The younger man’s voice was ugly. “Ef ye try any low-down tricks with that gal I may be a crook an’ a counterfeiter an’ all that — an’ so are you, Tim Fagan — but I mean honest by April. I wants her fr my woman — lawful ; an’, by the devil ! ef I thought ” “Quit thinkin’, Casper,” growled Fagan ; “hit’s yore deal.” “Whar you-all been, April?” complained Martha Fagan, shifting her snuff-stick to one corner of her slack mouth. “ ’Pears like you’re never hyar when I want you, gal.” Tho her words were whining and fretful, the dim eyes that looked at the girl were full of a passionate pride. In the way of mountainwomen, Martha never voiced her love for April, but, if the girl could have read the starved, dreary heart of her, she would have been amazed. It was the only passion left the woman. Life had sucked the blood from her hollowing, gray cheeks, the joy from her heart, the hope from her soul ; it had worn her and bleached her and shriveled her, stolen youth and beauty and love; but it had left April, and, looking up at her young, warm beauty now, Martha Fagan was content. “I been journeyin’ with Doc.” The girl glanced merrily down at her mother’s face. “What you-all think he said?” she laughed. “He said he wondered where I came from to be so different from the other gals Why, mammy, what’s the matter?” For the small, wizened face had suddenly gone deathly white. Martha Fagan stole a hunted look at the cardplayers and leaned back against the chimney, one claw-like hand on her breast. "The Doc war — talkin’ — plumb foolish, April,” she said, with difficulty, between blue lips. "Haint you-all my baby, I’d like ter know? Reckon he war hyar when you war borned ” “ ’Course I’m yore baby, mammy!” said the girl, wonderingly. “Doc war only funning. What makes you-all look so?” “Hit war jest my old mis'ry,” said Martha. ■ “I been feelin’ plumb ornery lately. Reckon some sassafras ’ll set me up peart again.” She turned, with an effort, toward the basket on the bench by the fire. “Hit’s corn-bread an’ aigs an’ bacon for the artist-man in the holler,” she said, resuming her natural whine. “Reckon you-all have t’ tote it down, April. Yore pap haint fitten to talk to when he an’ Casper’s playing kyards.” April bent her face suddenly over the basket, to hide the color that sprang to her cheeks. “All right, mammy,” she said, dutifully, “I'd jest as soon. Hit’s a sightly evenin'.” “Hit looks moughty dark-like yender,” worried her mother. “The holler’s four miles away, an’ hit’s gittin’ plumb late ” “Dont you-all fret,” said April, gaily. “A few drops o’ rain-water wont melt me, I reckon.” She passed out into the sunshine sedately enough, but when she had turned the clump of mountain-ash, already in new, vivid leaf, her steps broke into a little dance. The unhidden blush on her round cheeks was like carmine velvet ; her eyes were shy and eager, and her breath panted between parted lips. It was her fifth trip to “the holler,” and four of them had been made with this same sense of tumultuous adventuring. April did not confess to herself the secret of her fast-beating heart or dancing steps, yet her behavior in itself was a confession. At the turn of the path, a noisy mountain-brook, leaping down hill, left a still pool lying in the sunshine beside the way. April knelt down beside this pool and peered expectantly into the water. It was the only mirror she had at which to array herself for love’s eyes. Snatching off her sunbonnet, she smoothed her golden glory of curls into staider order ; she unbuttoned the top button of her tight dress, freeing a warm column of throat, and thrust a handful of scarlet maple-buds into her belt. Then, still dissatisfied, she remembered, suddenly, her cherished brooch, a thing of gilt and colored stones the Doc had given her on her last birthday, and turned back to the cabin to get it. As she neared the door, loud voices arrested her feet, and her thoughts tripped over her own name on Casper’s tongue. “I tell ye, once an’ fer all, I’ll give ye four hundred fr April an’ no more,” he was saying angrily. “Take hit or leave hit — I dont keer !” "I’ll take hit,” snarled the deep voice of Tim Fagan. “Hyar — hand it over now. Whar’s the gal, Martha?” “Gone a-walkin’.” The woman’s tone was sullen. "D — n hit!” roared Tim. “Well, when she gits back, you-all kin take her t’ th’ Forks an’ git that thar circuit rider t’ splice ye " April waited to hear no more. Blindly, she stumbled away from the cabin, down the path, basket swinging recklessly from her arm. The trip seemed hours long — full of strange pitfalls for her frantic feet. Overhead, the clouds drew on across the sky, and a livid twilight fell, but April did not heed. Her one thought was to reach “the holler,” where— -she had a strange, unreasoning feeling — she would be safe from brutal fathers who sold their daughters like cattle, and from Caspers with their thick, wet lips and horrible, strong hands. Jerry Gordon was cutting kindling to replenish his supper-fire when the tragic little figure stumbled, at last, into the clearing beside his tent. At the sight of' the stormy look on her face, he sprang to her side with a little, involuntary cry. “April ! What’s the matter, dear ?” Fie had not meant to say that, but the tiny, tender word slipped out (Twenty)