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FTER supper that evening the Bishops sat out on the veranda to get the
cool air before retiring. There was only one light burning in the house,
and that was the little, smoky lamp in the kitchen, where the cook was
washing the dishes. Bishop sat near his wife, his coat off and vest
unbuttoned, his chair tilted back against the weatherboarding. Abner
Daniel, who had been trying ever since supper to cheer them up in regard
to their financial misfortune, sat smoking in his favorite chair near
the banisters, on top of which he now and then placed his stockinged
feet.
“You needn't talk that away, brother Ab,” sighed Mrs. Bishop. “Yo're
jest doin' it out o' goodness o' heart. We might as well face the truth;
we've got to step down from the position we now hold, an' present way o'
livin'. And thar's Adele. Pore child! She said in 'er last letter that
she'd cried 'er eyes out. She was bent on comin' home, but 'er uncle
William won't let 'er. He said she'd not do any good.”
“An' she wouldn't,” put in Bishop, gruffly. “The sight o' you an' Alan
before me all the time is enough to show me what a fool I've been.”
“You are both crossin' bridges 'fore you git to 'em,” said Abner. “A
lots o' folks has come out'n scrapes wuss'n what you are in, ten to one.
I'ain't never mentioned it, but my land hain't got no mortgage on it,
an' I could raise a few scads, to he'p keep up yore intrust an' taxes
till you could see yore way ahead.”
“Huh!” snorted his brother-in-law. “Do you reckon I'd let as old a man as
you are, an' no blood kin, stake his little all to help me out of a hole
that is gittin' deeper an' wider all the time--a hole I deliberately got
myse'f into? Well, not much!”
“I wouldn't listen to that nuther,” declared Mrs. Bishop, “but not many
men would offer it.”
They heard a horse trotting down the road and all bent their heads to
listen. “It's Alan,” said Abner. “I was thinkin' it was time he was
showin' up.”
Mrs. Bishop rose wearily to order the cook to get his supper ready, and
returned to the veranda just as Alan Was coming from the stable. He
sat down on the steps, lashing the legs of his dusty trousers with his
riding-whip. It was plain that he had something of importance to say and
they all waited in impatient silence.
“Father,” he said, “I've had a talk with Rayburn Miller about your land;
he and I have lately been working on a little idea of mine. You know
there are people who will lend money on real-estate. How would it suit
you to borrow twenty-five thousand dollars on that land, giving that
alone as security.”
There was a startled silence, and Bishop broke it in a tone of great
irritation.
“Do you take me fer a plumb fool?” he asked. “When I want you an' Miller
to dabble in my business I 'll call on you. Twenty-five thousand, I say!
If I could exchange every acre of it fer enough to lift the mortgage on
this farm an' keep a roof over our heads I'd do it gladly. Pshaw!”
There was another silence, and then Alan began to explain. He almost
seemed to his father and mother to be some stranger, as he sat there
in the half dark ness, his eyes hidden by the brim of his soft hat,
and told them how he had worried over their trouble till the idea of
building a railroad had come to him. Then Miller had become interested,
after discouraging him, and had gone to Atlanta to see Wilson, and it
remained for the next day to decide what the outcome would be in regard
to the big loan.
While he talked Mrs. Bishop sat like a figure cut from stone, and Bishop
leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his big face in his hands. It
was as if a tornado of hope had blown over him, shaking him through and
through.
“You been doin' this to he'p me out,” he gasped, “an' I never so much as
axed yore opinion one way or another.”
“I'd rather see you make money out of that purchase than anything in the
world,” said his son, with feeling. “People have made fun of you in
your old age, but if we can build the road and you can get your hundred
thousand dollars some of these folks will laugh on the other side of
their faces.”
Bishop was so full of excitement and emotion that he dared not trust his
voice to utterance. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes,
pretending to be calm, though his alert wife saw that he was quivering
in every limb.
“Oh, Alan,” she cried, “don't you see how excited your pa is? You ought
not to raise his hopes this way on such an uncertainty. As Mr. Miller
said, there may be some slip and we'd be right back where we was, and
feel wuss than ever.”
Bishop rose from his chair and began to walk to and fro on the veranda.
“It ain't possible,” they heard him saying. “I won't git out as easy as
that--I jest cayn't!”
“Perhaps it would be wrong to expect too much,” said Alan, “but I was
obliged to tell you what we are going in town for to-morrow.”
Bishop wheeled and paused before them. “Ef Wilson puts up the money I'd
have enough to lift the mortgage an' a clean twenty thousand besides to
put in some good investment.”
Aunt Maria, the colored cook, came out and timidly announced that Alan's
supper was on the table, but no one heard her. She crossed the veranda
and touched the young man on the shoulder.
“Supper's raidy, Marse Alan,” she said, “en it's gittin' col' ergin.”
He rose and followed her into the dining-room and sat down in his
accustomed place at the long table. When he had eaten he went back to
the group on the veranda.
“I think I 'll go up to bed,” he told them. “My ride and running around
at Darley has made me very tired. Father, get all your papers together
and let's take an early start in the morning.”
But despite his feeling of weariness, Alan found he could not sleep.
The bright moonlight, streaming in at his window, seemed a disturbing
element. About eleven o'clock he heard some one turning the windlass at
the well, and later the clatter of falling utensils in the kitchen, and
the dead thump of a heavy tread below. He knew then that his father was
up, and, like himself, unable to sleep. Presently Mrs. Bishop slipped
into his room.
“Are you awake, son?” She spoke in a whisper that she might not disturb
him if he were asleep.
He laughed. “I haven't closed my eyes; it seems to me I have gone over
my conversation with Miller a thousand times.”
“I've give up tryin',” she told him, with a gratified little laugh.
“I think I could, though, if your pa would 'a' kept still. He's in
the kitchen now makin' him a cup o' strong coffee. He's been over them
papers ever since you come up-stairs. Alan, I'm actually afeerd he
couldn't stand it if that man didn't put up the money.”
“It would go hard with him,” said Alan. “Has Uncle Ab gone to sleep?”
“No; he's settin' in the door o' his room chawin' tobacco; he lays the
blame on yore pa. I don't think I ever saw him so irritated before. But
nobody ain't to blame but hisse'f. He's jest excited like the rest of
us. I've seed 'im lie an' snore with a bigger noise goin' on around 'im
'an yore pa is a-makin'.”