Mountain life -- Fiction; Tennessee, East -- Fiction
Royce, as he took his place upon the narrow stage, felt as if he had
issued from the tumultuous currents of some wild rapids into the
deep and restful placidities of a dark untroubled pool. The air of
composure, the silence, the courteous attention of the audience, all
marked a transition so abrupt that it had a certain perturbing effect.
He had never felt more ill at ease, and perhaps he had never looked
more composed than when he advanced and stood bowing at the footlights.
He had forgotten his assumed character of a mountaineer, his coarse
garb, his intention to seek some manner that might consist with both.
He was inaugurating his share of the little amateur entertainment with
a grace and address and refinement of style that were astonishing his
audience far more than aught of magic that his art could command,
although his resources were not slight. He seemed some well-bred and
talented youth of the best society, dressed for a rural rôle in private
theatricals. Now and again there was a flutter of inquiry here and
there in the audience, answered by the whispered conclusions of Tom
or Jack, retailed by mother or sister. For the youth of New Helvetia
Springs had accepted the explanation that he was out of a position,
“down on his luck,” and hoped to get a school in Etowah Cove. He
had gone by the sobriquet of “the handsome mountaineer,” and then
“the queer mountaineer,” and now, “He is _no_ mountaineer,” said the
discerning Judge Fordyce to a man of his own stamp at his elbow.
What might have been the estimate of the two strangers none could say.
They sat on opposite sides of the building, taking no note of each
other, both steadily gazing at the alert and graceful figure and the
handsome face alight with intelligence, and made no sign. One might
have been more competent than the other to descry inconsistencies
between the status which the dress suggested and the culture and
breeding which the manner and accent and choice of language betokened,
but both listened motionless as if absorbed in the prestidigitator’s
words.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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