The Wiving of Lance Cleaverage

								

light in the down-dropped eyes which she jealously hid, a
rearrangement, subtle and minute, of her attitude toward the
world, showed that she needed no sight nor hearing to advise her
of the coming of the lithe young fellow who approached from the
ragged second growth of the abandoned hillside clearing. He came
straight through, paying no attention to paths--that was Lance
Cleaverage. His step was light and sure, yet it rent and crushed
what was in his way. On his back swung the banjo; his soft felt
hat was off in his hand; as he moved, the sleeves of his blue
hickory shirt fluttered in the breeze that stirred his hair, and
he sang to himself as he came. What he sang was not a hymn. His
hazel eyes were almost as golden as the tan of his cheek, and
there was a spark [7] in the depths of them that matched the
audacious carriage of his head. At his advent the Widow Griever
turned and let the fat child find her way alone.
"You Lance," she began in a scandalized tone, "don't you bring
that sinful and ungodly thing into the house of the Lord. You
know mighty well and good the preacher is about to name you out
in meetin'; and here you go on seekin' the ways of the Evil One.
Pack that banjo straight back home this minute."
She evidently had as little expectation of Lance obeying her as
he had of doing so. Her words were plainly intended merely to
set forth her own position--to clear her skirts of reproach. The
young folks about her giggled and looked with open admiration at
the youth who dared to bring such a worldly object to Sunday
preaching.
"Banjo'll let the preacher alone, if the preacher'll let it
alone," smiled Lance, unconcernedly pulling the instrument
around to get at the strings, and touching them lightly. "You go
'long into the church and get your soul saved for Heaven, Sis'
Roxy. I reckon they need representatives of the Cleaverage
family in both places."
"Well, that's whar you're a-goin'--er more so," asserted the
widow with dignity, as she turned her back once more on the
young folks and moved away. [8]
Lance took the ribbon of his banjo from his neck and flung it
over a blossoming azalea bush.



     "I'll hang my harp on a willer tree,

      And away to the wars again,"
he hummed softly just above his breath.
"I don't aim to hurt the preacher's feelings. I won't take my
banjo into his church--sech doctrine as Drumright's is apt to be
mighty hard on banjo strings. Don't you-all want to have a
little dance after the meeting's out--on the Threshin'-floor
Rock up the branch?"
The girls looked duly horrified, all but Ola Derf, who spoke up
promptly,
"Yes--or come a-past our house. Pap don't mind a Sunday dance.
You will come, won't you, Lance?" pleadingly.
Callista Gentry did not dance. She had always, in the nature of
things, belonged to the class of young people in the mountains
who might be expected at any time to "profess" and join the
church. The musician laughed teasingly.