I
[Illustration: 9007]
HE young man stood in the field road giving
directions to a robust negro who was ploughing the corn, which, in
parallel rows, stretched on to the main road a quarter of a mile
distant. The negro placed the point of his ploughshare a few inches from
the first stalk of corn, wound the line around his wrist, and clucked
to his horse. With a jangling jerk of the trace-chains the animal
lunged ahead: the polished ploughshare cut into the mellow soil and sped
onward, curling the gray earth like shavings, and uprooting and burying
the tenacious crab-grass and succulent purslane.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, but the atmosphere
had dropped a dim veil over the near-by mountain. Even the two-storied
farm-house, with its veranda and white columns, to which the field road
led up a gradual slope, showed only its outlines. However, Alan Bishop,
as he steadied his gaze upon the house, saw the figure of an elderly
woman come out of the gate and with a quick step hurry down to him. It
was his mother; she was tall and angular, and had high cheek-bones and
small blue eyes. She had rather thin gray hair, which was wound into a
knot behind her head, and over it she wore only a small red breakfast
shawl which she held in place by one of her long hands.
“Alan,” she said, panting from her brisk walk, “I want you to come to
the house right off. Mr. Trabue has come to see yore pa again an' I
can't do a thing with 'im.”
“Well, what does he want with him?” asked the young man. His glance
was on the ploughman and his horse. They had turned the far end of the
corn-row and were coming back, only the nodding head of the animal being
visible beyond a little rise.
“He's come to draw up the papers fer another land trade yore pa's
makin'. He's the lawyer fer the Tompkins estate. Yore pa tried to buy
the land a yeer ago, but it wasn't in shape to dispose of. Oh, Alan,
don't you see he's goin' to ruin us with his fool notions? Folks all
about are a-laughin' at him fer buyin' so much useless mountain-land. I'm
powerful afeered his mind is wrong.”
“Well, mother, what could I do?” Alan Bishop asked impatiently. “You
know he won't listen to me.”
“I reckon you can' t stop 'im,” sighed the woman, “but I wish you'd come
on to the house. I knowed he was up to some 'n'. Ever'day fer the last
week he's been ridin' up the valley an' rollin' and tumblin' at night an'
chawin' ten times as much tobacco as he ort. Oh, he's goin' to ruin us!
Brother Abner says he is buyin' beca'se he thinks it's goin' to advance in
value, but sech property hain't advanced a speck sence I kin remember,
an' is bein' sold ever' yeer fer tax money.”
“No, it's very foolish of him,” said the young man as the two turned
towards the house. “Father keeps talking about the fine timber on such
property, but it is entirely too far from a railroad ever to be worth
anything. I asked Rayburn Miller about it and he told me to do all
I could to stop father from investing, and you know he's as sharp a
speculator as ever lived; but it's his money.”
There was a paling fence around the house, and the enclosure was alive
with chickens, turkeys, geese, ducks, and peafowls. In the sunshine on
the veranda two pointers lay sleeping, but at the sound of the opening
gate they rose, stretched themselves lazily, and gaped.
“They are in the parlor,” said Mrs. Bishop, as she whisked off her
breakfast shawl. “Go right in, I 'll come in a minute. I want to see how
Linda is makin' out with the churnin'. La! I feel like it's a waste o'
time to do a lick o' work with him in thar actin' like a child. Ef we
both go in together it 'll look like we've concocked somethin', but we
must stop 'im ef we kin.”
Alan went into the parlor on the left of the wide, uncarpeted hall. The
room had white plastered walls, but the ceiling was of boards planed
by hand and painted sky blue. In one corner stood a very old piano
with pointed, octagonal legs and a stool with hair-cloth covering.
The fireplace was wide and high, and had a screen made of a decorated
window-shade tightly pasted on a wooden frame. Old man Bishop sat near a
window, and through his steel-framed nose-glasses was carefully reading
a long document written on legal-cap paper. He paid no attention to the
entrance of his son, but the lawyer, a short, fat man of sixty-five with
thick black hair that fell below his coat-collar, rose and extended his
hand.
“How's Alan?” he asked, pleasantly. “I saw you down in the field as I
come along, but I couldn't catch your eye. You see I'm out after some
o' your dad's cash. He's buying hisse'f rich. My Lord! if it ever _does_
turn his way he 'll scoop in enough money to set you and your sister up
for life. Folks tell me he owns mighty near every stick of timber-land
in the Cohutta Valley, and what he has he got at the bottom figure.”
“If it ever turns his way,” said Alan; “but do you see any prospect of
it's ever doing so, Mr. Trabue?” The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “I
never bet on another man's trick, my boy, and I never throw cold water
on the plans of a speculator. I used to when I was about your age, but
I saw so many of 'em get rich by paying no attention to me that I quit
right off. A man ought to be allowed to use his own judgment.” Old
Bishop was evidently not hearing a word of this conversation, being
wholly absorbed in studying the details of the deed before him. “I
reckon it's all right,” he finally said. “You say the Tompkins children
are all of age?”
“Yes, Effie was the youngest,” answered Trabue, “and she stepped over
the line last Tuesday. There's her signature in black and white. The
deed's all right. I don't draw up any other sort.”
Alan went to his father and leaned over him. “Father,” he said, softly,
and yet with firmness, “I wish you'd not act hastily in this deal. You
ought to consider mother's wishes, and she is nearly distracted over
it.”
Bishop was angry. His massive, clean-shaven face was red. “I'd like to
know what I'd consult her fer,” he said. “In a matter o' this kind a
woman's about as responsible as a suckin' baby.”
Trabue laughed heartily. “Well, I reckon it's a good thing your wife
didn't hear that or she'd show you whether she was responsible or not.
I couldn't have got the first word of that off my tongue before my wife
would 'a' knocked me clean through that wall.”
Alfred Bishop seemed not to care for levity during business hours, for
he greeted this remark only with a frown. He scanned the paper again and
said: “Well, ef thar's any flaw in this I reckon you 'll make it right.”
“Oh yes, I 'll make any mistake of mine good,” returned Trabue. “The
paper's all right.”
“You see,” said Alan to the lawyer, “mother and I think father has
already more of this sort of property than he can carry, and--”
“I wish you and yore mother'd let my business alone,” broke in Bishop,
firing up again. “Trabue heer knows I've been worryin' 'im fer the last
two months to get the property in salable shape. Do you reckon after he
gets it that away I want to listen to yore two tongues a-waggin' in open
opposition to it?”
Trabue rubbed his hands together. “It really don't make a bit of
difference to me, Alan, one way or the other,” he said, pacifically.
“I'm only acting as attorney for the Tompkins estate, and get my fee
whether there's a transfer or not. That's where I stand in the matter.”
“But it's not whar I stand in it, Mr. Trabue,” said a firm voice in the
doorway. It was Mrs. Bishop, her blue eyes flashing, her face pale and
rigid. “I think I've got a right--and a big one--to have a say-so in
this kind of a trade. A woman 'at 's stayed by a man's side fer thirty
odd yeer an' raked an' scraped to he'p save a little handful o' property
fer her two children has got a right to raise a rumpus when her husband
goes crooked like Alfred has an' starts in to bankrupt 'em all jest fer
a blind notion o' his'n.”
“Oh, thar you are!” said Bishop, lifting his eyes from the paper
and glaring at her over his glasses. “I knowed I'd have to have a
knock-down-an'-drag-out fight with you 'fore I signed my name, so sail in
an' git it over. Trabue's got to ride back to town.”
“But whar in the name o' common-sense is the money to come from?” the
woman hurled at her husband, as she rested one of her bony hands on the
edge of the table and glared at him. “As I understand it, thar's about
five thousand acres in this piece alone, an' yo're a-payin' a dollar
a acre. Whar's it a-comin' from, I'd like to know? Whar's it to come
from?”
Bishop sniffed and ran a steady hand over his short, gray hair. “You see
how little she knows o' my business,” he said to the lawyer. “Heer she's
raisin' the devil an' Tom Walker about the trade an' she don't so much
as know whar the money's to come from.”
“How _was_ I to know?” retorted the woman, “when you've been tellin' me
fer the last six months that thar wasn't enough in the bank to give the
house a coat o' fresh paint an' patch the barn roof.”
“You knowed I had five thousand dollars wuth o' stock in the Shoal River
Cotton Mills, didn't you?” asked Bishop, defiantly, and yet with the
manner of a man throwing a missile which he hoped would fall lightly.
“Yes, I knowed that, but--” The woman's eyes were two small fires
burning hungrily for information beyond their reach.
“Well, it happens that Shoal stock is jest the same on the market as
ready money, up a little to-day an' down to-morrow, but never varyin'
more'n a fraction of a cent on the dollar, an' so the Tompkins heirs
say they'd jest as lieve have it, an' as I'm itchin' to relieve them of
the'r land, it didn't take us long to come together.”
If he had struck the woman squarely in the face, she could not have
shown more surprise. She became white to the lips, and with a low cry
turned to her son. “Oh, Alan, don't--don't let 'im do it, it's all we
have left that we can depend on! It will ruin us!”
“Why, father, surely,” protested Alan, as he put his arm around his
mother, “surely you can't mean to let go your mill investment which
is paying fifteen per cent, to put the money into lands that may never
advance in value and always be a dead weight on your hands! Think of the
loss of interest and the taxes to be kept up. Father, you must listen
to--”
“Listen to nothin',” thundered Bishop, half rising from his chair.
“Nobody axed you two to put in. It's my business an' I'm a-goin' to
attend to it. I believe I'm doin' the right thing, an' that settles it.”
“The right thing,” moaned the old woman, as she sank into a chair and
covered her face with her hands. “Mr. Trabue,” she went on, fiercely,
“when that factory stock leaves our hands we won't have a single thing
to our names that will bring in a cent of income. You kin see how bad it
is on a woman who has worked as hard to do fer her children as I have.
Mr. Bishop always said Adele, who is visitin' her uncle's family in
Atlanta, should have that stock for a weddin'-gift, ef she ever married,
an' Alan was to have the lower half of this farm. Now what would we have
to give the girl--nothin' but thousands o' acres o' hills, mountains an'
gulches full o' bear, wild-cats, and catamounts--land that it ud break
any young couple to hold on to--much less put to any use. Oh, I feel
perfectly sick over it.”
There was a heavy, dragging step in the hall, and a long, lank man of
sixty or sixty-five years of age paused in the doorway. He had no beard
except a tuft of gray hair on his chin, and his teeth, being few and far
between, gave to his cheeks a hollow appearance. He was Abner Daniel,
Mrs. Bishop's bachelor brother, who lived in the family.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, shifting a big quid of tobacco from one cheek
to the other; “plottin' agin the whites? Ef you are, I 'll decamp, as the
feller said when the bull yeerlin' butted 'im in the small o' the back.
How are you, Mr. Trabue? Have they run you out o' town fer some o' yore
legal rascality?”
“I reckon your sister thinks it's rascality that's brought me out
to-day,” laughed the lawyer. “We are on a little land deal.”
“Oh, well, I 'll move on,” said Abner Daniel. “I jest wanted to tell
Alan that Rigg's hogs got into his young corn in the bottom jest now
an' rooted up about as many acres as Pole Baker's ploughed all day. Ef
they'd a-rooted in straight rows an' not gone too nigh the stalks
they mought 'a' done the crap more good than harm, but the'r aim or
intention, one or t'other, was bad. Folks is that away; mighty few of
'em root--when they root at all--fer anybody but the'rse'ves.
Well, I 'll git along to my room.”
“Don't go, brother Ab,” pleaded his sister. “I want you to he'p me stand
up fer my rights. Alfred is about to swap our cotton-mill stock fer some
more wild mountain-land.”
In spite of his natural tendency to turn everything into a jest--even
the serious things of life--the sallow face of the tall man lengthened.
He stared into the faces around him for a moment, then a slow twinkle
dawned in his eye.
“I've never been knowed to take sides in any connubial tustle yet,” he
said to Trabue, in a dry tone. “Alf may not know what he's about right
now, but he's Solomon hisse'f compared to a feller that will undertake
to settle a dispute betwixt a man an' his wife--more especially the
wife. Geewhilikins! I never shall forget the time old Jane Hardeway come
heer to spend a week an' Alf thar an' Betsy split over buyin' a hat-rack
fer the hall. Betsy had seed one over at Mason's, at the camp-ground,
an' determined she'd have one. Maybe you noticed that fancy contraption
in the hall as you come in. Well, Alf seed a nigger unloadin' it from a
wagon at the door one mornin', an' when Betsy, in feer an' tremblin',
told 'im what it was fer he mighty nigh had a fit. He said his folks
never had been above hangin' the'r coats an' hats on good stout nails an'
pegs, an' as fer them umbrella-pans to ketch the drip, he said they was
fancy spit-boxes, an' wanted to know ef she expected a body to do the'r
chawin' an' smokin' in that windy hall. He said it jest should not stand
thar with all them prongs an' arms to attack unwary folks in the dark,
an' he toted it out to the buggy-shed. That got Betsy's dander up an'
she put it back agin the wall an' said it ud stay thar ef she had to
stand behind it an' hold it in place. Alf wasn't done yet; he 'lowed ef
they was to have sech a purty trick as that on the hill it had to stay
in the best room in the house, so he put it heer in the parlor by the
piano. But Betsy took it back two or three times an' he larnt that he
was a-doin' a sight o' work fer nothin', an' finally quit totin' it about.
But that ain't what I started in to tell. As I was a-sayin', old Jane
Hardeway thought she'd sorter put a word in the dispute to pay fer her
board an' keep, an' she told Betsy that it was all owin' to the way the
Bishops was raised that Alf couldn't stand to have things nice about
'im. She said all the Bishops she'd ever knowed had a natural stoop
that they got by livin' in cabins with low roofs. She wasn't spreadin' 'er
butter as thick as she thought she was--ur maybe it was the sort she was
spreadin '--fer Betsy blazed up like the woods afire in a high wind. It
didn't take old Jane long to diskiver that thar was several breeds
o' Bishops out o' jail, an' she spent most o' the rest o' her visit
braggin' on some she'd read about. She said the name sounded like the
start of 'em had been religious an' substanch.”
“Brother Abner,” whined Mrs. Bishop, “I wisht you'd hush all that
foolishness an' help me 'n the children out o' this awful fix. Alfred
always would listen to you.”
“Well,” and the old man smiled, and winked at the lawyer, “I 'll give you
both all the advice I kin. Now, the Shoal River stock is a good thing
right now; but ef the mill was to ketch on fire an' burn down thar'd be
a loss. Then as fer timber-land, it ain't easy to sell, but it mought
take a start before another flood. I say it mought, an' then agin it
moughtn't. The mill mought burn, an' then agin it moughtn't. Now, ef
you-uns kin be helped by this advice you are welcome to it free o'
charge. Not changin' the subject, did you-uns know Mrs. Richardson's
heffer's got a calf? I reckon she won't borrow so much milk after hers
gits good.”
Trabue smiled broadly as the gaunt man withdrew; but his amusement was
short-lived, for Mrs. Bishop began to cry, and she soon rose in despair
and left the room. Alan stood for a moment looking at the unmoved
face of his father, who had found something in the last clause of the
document which needed explanation; then he, too, went out.