[Illustration: 9074]
HERE is a certain class of individuals that will gather around a man in
misfortune, and it differs very little, if it differs at all, from the
class that warms itself in the glow of a man' s prosperity. It is made
up of human failures, in the first instance, congratulating themselves
on not being alone in bad luck; in the second, desirous of seeing how a
fortunate man would look and act and guessing at his feelings. From the
appearance of Bishop's home for the first fortnight after his return
from Atlanta, you would have thought that some one was seriously ill in
the house or that some general favorite had returned to the family after
a long absence.
Horses were hitched to the fence from the front gate all the way round
to the side entrance. The mountain people seemed to have left their
various occupations to subtly enjoy the spectacle of a common man like
themselves who had reached too far after forbidden fruit and lay maimed
and torn before them. It was a sort of feast at which the baser part of
their spiritual natures was fed, and, starved as they were, it tasted
good. Many of them had never aspired to bettering their lot even with
small ventures such as buying Jersey cows at double the value of common
cattle when it was reported that the former gave four times as much
milk and ate less, and to these cautious individuals Bishop's visible
writhing was sweet confirmation of their own judgment.
Their disapproval of the old man's effort to hurry Providence could not
have been better shown than in the failure of them all to comment on
the rascally conduct of the Atlanta lawyer; they even chuckled over
that part of the incident. To their minds Perkins was a sort of far-off
personification of a necessary evil--who, like the devil himself, was
evidently created to show mortals their limitations. They were not going
to say what the lawyer had a right to do or should avoid doing, for they
didn't pretend to know; but they did know what their old neighbor ought
to have done, and if they didn't tell him so to his face they would
let him see it by their actions. Yes, Bishop was a different thing
altogether. He belonged to them and theirs. He led in their meetings,
prayed in public, and had till now headed the list in all charitable
movements.
The Reverend Charles B. Dole, a tall, spare man of sixty, who preached
the first, second, third, and fourth Sundays of each month in four
different meetinghouses within a day's ride of Bishop's, came around as
the guest of the farm-house as often as his circuit would permit. He
was called the “fightin' preacher,” because he had had several fearless
hand-to-hand encounters with certain moonshiners whose conduct he had
ventured to call ungodly, because unlawful.
On the second Saturday after Bishop's mishap, as Dole was to preach the
next day at Rock Crest meetinghouse, he rode up as usual and turned his
horse into the stable and fed him with his own hands. Then he joined
Abner Daniel on the veranda. Abner had seen him ride up and purposely
buried his head in his newspaper to keep from offering to take the
horse, for Abner did not like the preacher “any to hurt,” as he would
have put it.
Dole did not care much for Abner either. They had engaged in several
doctrinal discussions in which the preacher had waxed furious over some
of Daniel's views, which he described as decidedly unorthodox. Daniel
had kept his temper beautifully and had the appearance of being amused
through it all, and this Dole found harder to forgive than anything
Abner had said.
“You all have had some trouble, I heer, sence I saw you last,” said the
preacher as he sat down and began to wipe his perspiring brow with a big
handkerchief.
“Well, I reckon it mought be called that,” Abner replied, as he
carefully folded his newspaper and put it into his coat-pocket. “None of
us was expectin' of it an' it sorter bu'sted our calculations. Alf had
laid out to put new high-back benches in Rock Crest, an' new lamps
an' one thing another, an' it seems to me”--Abner wiped his too facile
mouth--“like I heerd 'im say one day that you wasn't paid enough
fer yore thunder, an' that he'd stir around an' see what could be
done.” Abner's eyes twinkled. “But lawsy me! I reckon ef he kin possibly
raise the scads to pay the tax on his investment next yeer he 'll do all
the Lord expects.”
“Huh, I reckon!” grunted Dole, irritated as usual by Abner's double
meaning. “I take it that the Lord hain't got much to do with human
speculations one way or other.”
“Ef I just had that scamp that roped 'im in before me a minute I'd fix
'im,” said Abner. “Do you know what denomination Perkins belongs to?”
“No, I don't,” Dole blurted out, “an' what's more, I don't care.”
“Well, I acknowledge it sorter interests me,” went on our philosopher,
in an inscrutable tone, “beca'se, brother Dole, you kin often trace
a man' s good ur bad doin' s to his belief in Bible matters. Maybe you
don't remember Jabe Lynan that stold Thad Wilson's stump-suckin' hoss
an' was ketched an' put up. I was at the court-house in Darley when he
received his sentence. His wife sent me to 'im to carry his pipe an' one
thing or other--a pair o' socks an' other necessary tricks--a little can
o' lye-soap, fer one thing. She hadn't the time to go, as she said she
had a patch o' young corn to hoe out. I found 'im as happy as ef he was
goin' off on a excursion. He laughed an' 'lowed it ud be some time 'fore
he got back, an' I wondered what could 'a' made him so contented, so I
made some inquiries on that line. I found that he was a firm believer in
predestination, an' that what was to be was foreordained. He said that
he firmly believed he was predestinated to go to the coal-mines fer
hoss-stealin', an' that life was too short to be kickin' agin the Lord's
way o' runnin' matters; besides, he said, he'd heerd that they issued a
plug o'.tobacco a week to chawin' prisoners, an' he could prove that he
was one o' that sort ef they'd look how he'd ground his jaw-teeth down
to the gums.”
“Huh!” grunted Dole again, his sharp, gray eyes on Abner's face, as if
he half believed that some of his own theories were being sneered at.
It was true that he, being a Methodist, had not advocated a belief in
predestination, but Abner Daniel had on more than one occasion shown a
decided tendency to bunch all stringent religious opinions together
and cast them down as out of date. When in doubt in a conversation with
Abner, the preacher assumed a coldness on the outside that was often not
consistent with the fires within him. “I don't see what all that's got
to do with brother Bishop's mistake,” he said, frigidly, as he leaned
back in his chair.
“It sets me to wonderin' what denomination Perkins belongs to, that's
all,” said Abner, with another smile. “I know in reason he's a big
Ike in some church in Atlanta, fer I never knowed a lawyer that wasn't
foremost in that way o' doin' good. I 'll bet a hoe-cake he belongs to
some highfalutin crowd o' worshippers that kneel down on saft cushions
an' believe in scoopin' in all they kin in the Lord's name, an' that
charity begins at home. I think that myse'f, brother Dole, fer thar
never was a plant as hard to git rooted as charity is, an' a body ought
to have it whar they kin watch it close. It 'll die a heap o' times ef
you jest look at it, an' it mighty nigh always has bad soil ur a drougth
to contend with.”
Just then Pole Baker, who has already been introduced to the reader,
rode up to the fence and hitched his horse. He nodded to the two men on
the veranda, and went round to the smoke-house to get a piece of bacon
Bishop had promised to sell him on credit.
“Huh!” Dole grunted, and he crossed his long legs and swung his foot up
and down nervously. He had the look of a man who was wondering why such
insufferable bores as Abner should so often accompany a free dinner. He
had never felt drawn to the man, and it irritated him to think that just
when his mental faculties needed rest, Abner always managed to introduce
the very topics which made it necessary for him to keep his wits about
him.
“Take that feller thar,” Abner went on, referring to Baker. “He's about
the hardest customer in this county, an' yet he's bein' managed right
now. He's got a wife an' seven children an' is a holy terror when he
gits drunk. He used to be the biggest dare-devil moonshiner in all these
mountains; but Alan kept befriendin' 'im fust one way an' another tell
he up one day an' axed Alan what he could do fer 'im. Alan ain't none
o' yore shoutin' kind o' Christians. He shakes a nimble toe at a shindig
when he wants to, an' knows the ace from a ten-spot; but he gits thar
with every claw in the air when some 'n' has to be done. So, when Pole
axed 'im that, Alan jest said, as quiet as ef he was axin' 'im fer a
match to light a cigar, 'Quit yore moonshinin', Pole.' That was all he
said. Pole looked 'im straight in the eye fer a minute, an' then said:
“'The hell you say! By God, Alan Bishop, you don't mean that!'
“'Yes, I do, Pole,' said Alan, 'quit! Quit smack off!'
“'You ax that as a favor?' said Pole.
“'Yes, as a favor,' said Alan, 'an' you are a-goin' to do it, too.'
“Then Pole begun to contend with 'im. 'You are a-axin' that beca'se you
think I 'll be ketched up with,' he said; 'but I tell you the' ain't no
man on the face o' the earth that could find my still now. You could
stand in two feet of the door to it all day an' not find it if you
looked fer it with a spy-glass. I kin make bug-juice all the rest o' my
life an' sell it without bein' ketched.'
“'I want you to give it up,' said Alan, an' Pole did. It was like
pullin' an eye-tooth, but Pole yanked it out. Alan is workin' on 'im now
to git 'im to quit liquor, but that ain't so easy. He could walk a crack
with a gallon sloshin' about in 'im. Now, as I started to say, Alan
'ain't got no cut-and-dried denomination, an' don't have to walk any
particular kind o' foot-log to do his work, but it's a-goin' on jest the
same. Now I don't mean no reflection on yore way o' hitchin' wings on
folks, but I believe you could preach yore sermons--sech as they are--in
Pole Baker's yeers till Gabriel blowed his lungs out, an' Pole ud still
be moonshinin'. An' sometimes I think that sech fellers as Alan Bishop
ort to be paid fer what they do in betterin' the world. I don't see
why you fellers ort always to be allowed to rake in the jack-pot unless
you'd accomplish more'n outsiders, that jest turn the'r hands to the job
at odd times.”
Dole drew himself up straight and glared at the offender.
“I think that is a rather personal remark, brother Daniel,” he said,
coldly.
“Well, maybe it is,” returned Abner; “but I didn't mean fer it to
be. I've heerd you praise up certain preachers fer the good they was
a-doin', an' I saw no harm in mentionin' Alan's method. I reckon it's
jest a case o' the shoe bein' on another foot. I was goin' to tell you
how this misfortune o' Alf's had affected Pole; he's been like a crazy
man ever since it happened. It's been all Alan could do to keep 'im from
goin' to Atlanta and chokin' the life out o' Perkins. Pole got so mad
when he wouldn't let 'im go that he went off cussin' 'im fer all he was
worth. I wonder what sort of a denomination a man ud fit into that 'll
cuss his best friends black an' blue beca'se they won't let 'im fight
fer 'em. Yes, he 'll fight, an' ef he ever does jine the ranks above he 'll
do the work o' ten men when thar's blood to spill. I seed 'im in a row
once durin' election when he was leggin' fer a friend o' his'n; he stood
right at the polls an' wanted to slug every man that voted agin 'im. He
knocked three men's teeth down the'r throats an' bunged up two more so
that they looked like they had on false-faces.”
Here the preacher permitted himself to laugh. Being a fighting man
himself, his heart warmed towards a man who seemed to be born to that
sort of thing.
“He looks like he could do a sight of it,” was his comment.
At this juncture the subject of the conversation came round the house,
carrying a big piece of bacon wrapped in a tow grain-bag.
“Say thar, Pole,” Abner called out to the long, lank fellow. “We are
a-goin' to have preachin' at Rock Crest to-morrow; you'd better have a
shirt washed an' hung out to dry. They are a-beatin' the bushes fer yore
sort.”
Pole Baker paused and brushed back his long, thick hair from his heavy
eyebrows.
“I've been a-waitin' to see ef meetin' ever'd do you any good, Uncle
Ab,” he laughed. “They tell me the more you go the wuss you git to be.
Neil Filmore said t'other day ef you didn't quit shootin' off yore mouth
they'd give you a trial in meetin'.”
Abner laughed good-naturedly as he spat over the edge of the veranda
floor to the ground.
“That's been talked, I know, Pole,” he said, “but they don't mean it.
They all know how to take my fun. But you come on to meetin'; it will do
you good.”
“Well, maybe I will,” promised Pole, and he came to the steps, and,
putting his bacon down, he bent towards them.
“It's a powerful hard matter to know exactly what's right an' what's
wrong, in some things,” he said. “Now looky heer.” Thrusting his hand
down into the pocket of his trousers he drew out a piece of quartz-rock
with a lump of yellow gold about the size of a pea half embedded in it.
“That thar's puore gold. I got it this away: A feller that used to be my
right bower in my still business left me when I swore off an' went over
to Dalonega to work in them mines. T'other day he was back on a visit,
an' he give me this chunk an' said he'd found it. Now I know in reason
that he nabbed it while he was at work, but I don't think I'd have a
right to report it to the minin' company, an' so I'm jest obleeged to
receive stolen goods. It ain't wuth more'n a dollar, they tell me, an'
I 'll hang on to it, I reckon, ruther'n have a laborin' man discharged
from a job. I'm tryin' my level best to live up to the line now, an'
I don't know how to manage sech a thing as that. I've come to the
conclusion that no harm will be done nohow, beca'se miners ain't too
well paid anyway, an' ef I jest keep it an' don't git no good out of it,
I won't be in it any more'n ef I'd never got hold o' the blamed thing.”
“But the law, brother Baker,” said Dole, solemnly; “without the law we'd
be an awful lot o' people, an' every man ort to uphold it. Render the
things that are Caesar's unto Caesar.”
Pole's face was blank for a moment, and Abner came to his rescue with a
broad smile and sudden laugh.
“I reckon you don't remember him, Pole,” he said. “He's dead. He was a
nigger that used to belong to old man Throgmartin in the cove. He used
to be sech an awful thief during slavery days that it got to be a common
sayin' that everything lyin' round mought as well be his'n, fer he'd
take it sooner ur later, anyways.”
“I've heerd o' that nigger,” said Pole, much to the preacher's disgust,
which grew as Pole continued: “Well, they say a feller that knows the
law is broke an' don't report it is as guilty as the man who does the
breakin'. Now, Mr. Dole, you know how I come by this nugget, an' ef you
want to do your full duty you 'll ride over to Dalonega an' report it to
the right parties. I can't afford the trip.”
Abner laughed out at this, and then forced a serious look on his face.
“That's what you railly ort to do, brother Dole,” he said. “Them Cæsars
over thar ud appreciate it.”
Then Mrs. Bishop came out to shake hands with the preacher, and invited
him to go to his room to wash his face and hands. As the tall man
followed his hostess away, Abner winked slyly at Pole and laughed under
his long, scrawny hand.
“Uncle Ab, you ort to be killed,” smiled Pole. “You've been settin' heer
the last half-hour pokin' fun at that feller, an' you know it. Well, I'm
goin' on home. Sally's a-goin' to fry some o' this truck fer me, an' I'm
as hungry as a bear.”
A few minutes after he had gone, Dole came out of his room and sat down
in his chair again. “That seems to be a sorter bright young man,” he
remarked.
“As bright as a new dollar,” returned Abner, in a tone of warm
admiration. “Did you notice that big, wedge-shaped head o' his'n? It's
plumb full o' brains. One day a feller come down to Filmore's store.
He made a business o' feelin' o' heads an' writin' out charts at
twenty-five cents apiece. He didn't waste much time on the rest o' the
scabs he examined; but when he got to Pole's noggin he talked fer a good
hour. I never heerd the like. He said ef his talents had been properly
directed Pole ud 'a' made a big public man. He said he hadn't run across
sech a head in a month o' Sundays. He was right, you bet, an' every
one o' the seven brats Pole's got is jest as peert as he is. They are
a-growin' up in idleness an' rags, too. I wisht I could meet some
o' them dum big Yankees that are a-sendin' the'r money down heer an'
buildin' fine schools to educate niggers an' neglectin' the'r own race
beca'se it fit agin 'em. You cayn't hardly beat larnin' into a nigger's
head, an' it ud be only common-sense to spend money whar it ud do the
most good. I 'ain't got nothin' agin a nigger bein' larnt to read an'
write, but I cayn't stomach the'r bein' forced ahead o' deservin' white
folks sooner 'n the Lord counted on. Them kind o' Yankees is the
same sort that makes pets o' dogs, an' pampers 'em up when pore white
children is in need of food an' affection.”
“Pole looks like he had natural capacity,” said Dole. He was fond of
conversing with Abner on any topic except that of religious matters.
“He'd make a bang-up detective,” laughed Abner. “One day I was at
Filmore's store. Neil sometimes, when he's rushed, gits Pole to clerk
fer 'im, beca'se he's quick at figures. It happened that Pole had the
store to 'imse'f one day when Neil had gone off to cut down a bee-tree
with a passle o' neighbors, an' a triflin' feller come in an' begun to
nose about. An' when Pole's back was turned to weigh up some cotton
in the seed he stole a pocket-book out o' the show-case. I reckon Pole
didn't like his looks much nohow, fer as soon as the skunk had gone he
begun to look about to see ef he'd tuck anything. All at once he missed
the pocket-book, an' told Neil that night that he was mighty nigh shore
the feller lifted it, but he couldn't railly swear to it. About a week
after that he seed the same feller comin' down the road headed fer the
store on his gray mule. Me 'n' Neil was both thar an' Pole hustled us in
the back room, an' told us to stay thar. He said he was a-goin' to find
out ef the feller stold the book. Neil was afeerd of a row an' tried to
prevent 'im, but he jest shoved us back an' shet the door on us. Neil
got 'im a crack in the partition an' I found me a knothole.
“The feller hitched an' come in an' said howdy-do, an' started to take a
cheer nigh the door, but Pole stopped 'im.
“'Come heer to the show-case,' ses he; 'I want to show you some 'n'.'The
feller went, an' I seed Pole yank out the box 'at had the rest o'
the pocket-books in it. 'Look y'heer,' Pole said, in a loud, steady
voice--you could 'a' heerd 'im clean to the creek--'look y'heer. The
regular price o' these books is fifty cents; that's what we sell 'em
fer; but you've got to run yore hand down in yore pocket an' give me a
dollar fer one quicker'n you ever made a trade in yore life.'
“'What in the hell do you mean?' the feller said.
“'I mean exactly what I said, an' you are a-losin' time.' said Pole,
talkin' louder an' louder. 'The price is fifty cents; but you got to
gi'me a dollar fer one. Haul 'er out, my friend; haul 'er out! It 'll be
the cheapest thing you ever bought in yore life.'
“The feller was as white as a sheet. He gulped two or three times 'fore
he spoke, then he said: 'I know what you think; you think I took one
t'other day when I was lookin' in the show-case; but you are mistaken.'
“'I never said a word about you takin' one,' Pole yelled at 'im, 'but
you'd better yank out that dollar an' buy one; you need it.'
“The feller did it. I heerd the money clink as he laid it on the glass
an' I knowed he was convicted.
“'They are only wuth fifty cents,' he said, kinder faint-like.
“'Yo're a liar,' Pole yelled at 'im, 'fer you've jest paid a dollar fer
one on yore own accord. Now I 'll jest give you two minutes to straddle
that mule. Ef you don't I 'll take you to the sheriff myself, you damned
thief.
“'I've always done my tradin' heer,' said the feller, thinkin' that ud
sorter pacify Pole, but he said: 'Yes, an' yore stealin', too, I reckon,
you black-livered jailbird. Git out, git out!'
“Me 'n' Neil come in when the feller'd gone, but Pole was actually too
mad to speak. 'He got off too durned light,' he said, after a while. 'I
could 'a' sold 'im a big bill o' goods at a hundred per cent, profit,
fer he had plenty o' money. Now he's ridin' off laughin' at me.'”
X
[Illustration: 9086]
EIL FILMORE'S store was about half a mile from Bishop's house, at the
crossing of the Darley road and another leading into East Tennessee.
Alan had gone down there one day to engage white labor to work in his
growing cotton, negroes being scarce, owing to the tendency of that race
to flock into the towns. With the aid of Pole Baker, who was clerking
that day for Filmore, he soon employed the men he wanted and started
to walk back home. On the way he was overtaken by his uncle, who was
returning from Darley in his wagon.
“Hold on thar,” the old man called out; “ef you are a-goin' home I 'll
rest yore legs.”
Alan smiled as he climbed up into the seat by the old man.
“I shall certainly appreciate it,” he said. “I'm tired out to-day.”
“I sorter thought you looked flabbergasted,” returned Abner, as he swung
his whip over the backs of his sleek horses. “Well, I reckon I could
afford to give you a ride. I hauled that cuss Dole three miles goin'
t'other way. He had the cheek to yell at me from Habbersham's gin-house
an' axed me ef I'd haul 'im. Then he kept me waitin' till he'd helt
prayer an' read to the family.”
“You don't seem to like him,” said Alan. “I've noticed that for some
time.”
“I reckon I don't to any great extent,” said Abner, clucking to his
tired horses; “but it ain't raily to my credit. A feller's wrong
som 'er's, Alan, that allows hisse'f to hate anything the Lord ever made.
I've struggled agin that proposition fer twenty-five yeer. All this talk
about the devil makin' the bad an' the Lord the good is talk through
a hat. Bad things was made 'fore the devil ever jumped from his high
estate ur he'd never preferred a fork to a harp. I've tuck notice, too,
that the wust things I ever seed was sometimes at the root o' the best.
Manure is a bad thing, but a cake of it will produce a daisy bigger 'n
any in the field. Dole makes me gag sometimes; but as narrer as he is
twixt the eyes, he may do some good. I reckon that hell-fire sermon he
give us last August made some of the crowd sweat out a little o' the'r
meanness. I'd 'a' been more merciful on sech a hot day, though. He
mought 'a' reserved that harangue fer some cold day in December when
the stove-flues wouldn't work. Ef I'd 'a' been a-goin' tell about future
torment that hot day I'd 'a' said that every lost soul was made to
set on a cake o' ice in a windy spot through all eternity, an' I'd 'a'
started out by singin' 'On Greenland's Icy Mountain.' But that ain't
what I axed you to git in my wagon fer.”
“You didn't intend to try to convert me, then?”
“No, I didn't, fer you are jest my sort of a Christian--better'n me, a
sight, fer you don't shoot off yore bazoo on one side or t'other, an'
that's the habit I'm tryin' to quit. Ef I could hold in when Dole gits
to spoutin' I'd be a better man. I think I 'll do better now. I've got a
tenpenny nail in my pocket an' whenever he starts in I'm goin' to bite
it an' keep my holt on it till he stops. Yes, you are jest my sort of
a Christian. You believe in breathin' fresh air into yore windpipe,
thankin' God with a clear eye an' a good muscle, an' takin' what He
gives you an' axin' 'Im to pass more ef it's handy. You know the Lord
has sent you a invite to His table, an' you believe in eatin' an'
drinkin' an' makin' merry, jest like you'd have a body do that was
stoppin' over night with you. Yes, I wanted to say some 'n' else to you.
As I got to the widder Snowden's house, a mile this side o' Darley, she
came out an' axed me ef I'd object to deliverin' a couple o' smoke-cured
hams to a feller in town that had ordered 'em. Of course that's what a'
old bach' like me 's heer fer, so I let 'er fling 'em in the back end.”
The speaker paused and smiled knowingly, and Alan noticed that he slowed
his horses up by drawing firmly on the reins as if he feared that their
arrival at the farm-house might interrupt what he had to say.
“Well,” said Alan, “you delivered the hams?”
“Yes.” Abner was looking straight ahead of him. “They was fer Colonel
Seth Barclay. I driv' up to the side gate, after I'd helloed in front
till I was hoarse, an' who do you reckon come trippin' out o' the
dinin'-room?
It was _her_. Ef you hain't never ketched 'er off'n her guard round the
house, you've missed a treat. Durned ef I don't like 'er better without
a hat on than with all the fluffy flamdoodle that gals put on when they
go out. She was as neat as a new pin, an' seemed powerful glad to see
me. That made me bless the widder Snowden fer sendin' me thar. She said
the cook was off som 'er's, an' that old nigger Ned, the stable-man, was
in the garden-patch behind the house, so she was thar by 'erse'f. She
actually looked like she wanted to tote in the hams 'erse'f ruther'n
bother me; but you bet my old bones hopped off'n this seat quicker'n
you could say Jack Robinson with yore mouth open. I was afeerd my team
wouldn't stand, fer fellers was a-scootin' by on bicycles; but I tuck
the hams to the back porch an' put 'em on a shelf out'n re'ch o' the
dogs. Then I went back to my wagon. She follered me to the fence, an' I
noticed that some 'n' was wrong with 'er. She looked so funny, an' droopy
about the mouth, an' kept a-talkin' like she was afeerd I'd fly off. She
axed all about Adele an' how she was a-makin' out down in Atlanta, an'
said she'd heerd that Sis was mighty popular with the young men, an'
from that she axed about my craps an' the meetin' goin' on at Big
Bethel. Finally she got right white about the mouth, an' said, kinder
shaky, that she was afeerd you was mad about some 'n' her pa'd said about
you, an' I never seed a woman as nigh cryin' as she was without doin' of
it.
“I told 'er I was at the fust of it; but I'd noticed how worried you've
looked heer of late, an' so I told 'er I'd been afeerd some 'n' had come
betwixt you two. Then she put her head down on the top rail o' the fence
an' helt it thar fer a good minute. After a while she looked up an' told
me all about it an' ended by axin' me ef I thought she was to blame in
the matter. I told 'er no; but her old skunk of a daddy had acted sech
a fool that I couldn't hold in. I reckon I told 'er jest about what I
thought o' him an' the more I raked up agin 'im the better she seemed
pleased. I tried to pin' er down to what she'd be willin' to do in a
pinch ef her pa continued to hold out agin you, but she was too sharp to
commit 'erse'f. It jest looked like she wanted to make up with you an'
didn't want no row nuther.”
The horses stopped to drink at a clear stream of water which ran across
the road on a bed of brown pebbles. The bridles were too tight to allow
them to lower their heads, so Alan went out on the heavy tongue between
the pair and unfastened the reins. When he had regained his seat he told
the old man in detail all that had happened at the dance at the hotel,
ending with the advice he had received from Rayburn Miller.
“I don't know about that,” Abner said. “Maybe Miller could call a halt
like that an' go on like nothin' had happened. I don't say he could nur
couldn't; but it's fool advice. You mought miss it, an' regret it to
yore dyin' day.”
Alan looked at him in some surprise; he had hardly expected just that
stand on the part of a confirmed old bachelor like his uncle. The old
man's glance swept dreamily over the green fields on either side of the
road across which the red rays of the setting sun were streaming. Then
he took a deep breath and lowered the reins till they rested on the
backs of the horses.
“My boy,” he began, “I'm a good mind to tell you some 'n' that I hain't
mentioned fer mighty nigh forty yeer. I don't believe anything but my
intrust in that town gal an' you would make me bring it up. Huh! Ray
Miller says you kin pass 'er over jest as ef you'd never seed 'er, does
he? An' go on an' pick an' choose agin. Huh! I wasn't as old as you are
by five yeer when the one I'm talkin' about passed away, jest a week
after me 'n' her 'd come to a understandin'. I've seed women, women,
women, sence I seed 'er corpse that day amongst all that pile o' wild
flowers that old an' young fetched from the woods whar me 'n' 'er used to
walk, but ef I live to be as old as that thar hill I 'll never forget my
feelin'. I kin see 'er right now as plain as I did then, an' sometimes
my heart aches as bad. I reckon you know now why I never got married.
Folks has poked a lots o' fun at me, an' I tuck it as it was intended,
but a lots o' times what they said made me suffer simply awful. They've
picked out this un an' that un, from spring chickins to hags o' all
ages, shapes, an' sizes; but the very thought o' givin' anybody her
place made me sick. Thar never was but one fer me. I may be a fool, but
I believe I was intended fer her. Shucks! Sech skip-abouts as Miller
may talk sech bosh as that, but it's because the Lord never give 'em the
glory o' the other thing. It larnt me the truth about the after-life; I
know thar's a time to come, an' a blessed one, ur the Lord never would
'a' give me that taste of it. She's som 'er's out o' harm's way, an' when
me 'n' her meet I 'll not have a wrinkle, an' I 'll be able to walk as
spry an' hopeful as I did when she was heer. Thar ort to be punishment
reserved fer hard-headed fools that separate lovin' young folks beca'se
one ur t'other hain't jest so many dollars tied in a rag. Don't you
listen to Miller. I don't say you ort to plunge right in an' make the
old man mad; but don't give up. Ef she's what I think she is, an' she
sees you ain't a-goin' to run after no fresh face, she 'll stick to you
like the bark on a tree. The wait won't hurt nuther one of you, either.
My wait ain't a-hurtin' me, an' yore'n won't you. I never seed a young
woman I liked better 'n I do the one you selected, an' I've sent up many
a petition that you'd both make it all right.”
The old man raised his reins and clucked to his horses.
“Uncle Ab,” said Alan, “you've made a better man of me. I've had a lot
of trouble over this, but you make me hope. I've tried to give her up,
but I simply cannot do it.”
“She ain't a-goin' to give you up, nuther,” replied Abner; “that's
the purty part about it. Thar ain't no give up in 'er. She ain't that
sort. She's goin' to give that daddy o' her'n a tussle.”