Slowly and heavily the Major walked out upon the veranda. He stood upon
the steps leading down into the yard, and he saw Louise afar off
standing upon the river's yellow edge. She had thrown her hat upon the
sand, and she stood with her hands clasped upon her brown head. A wind
blew down the stream, and the water lapped at her feet. The Major looked
back into the library, at the door wherein Pennington had stood, and
sighed with relief upon finding that he was gone. He looked back toward
the river. The girl was walking along the shore, meditatively swinging
her hat. He stepped to the corner of the house, and, gazing down the
road, saw Pennington on a horse, now sitting straight, now bending low
over the horn of the saddle. The old gentleman had a habit of making a
sideward motion with his hand as if he would put all unpleasant thoughts
behind him, and now he made the motion not only once, but many times.
And it seemed that his thoughts would not obey him, for he became more
imperative in his pantomimic demand.
At one corner of the large yard, where the smooth ground broke off into
a steep slope to the river, there stood a small office built of brick.
It was the Major's executive chamber, and thither he directed his steps.
Inside this place his laugh was never heard; at the door his smile
always faded. In this commercial sanctuary were enforced the exactions
that made the plantation thrive. Outside, in the yard, in the "big
house," elsewhere under the sky, a plea of distress might moisten his
eyes and soften his heart to his own financial disadvantage, but under
the moss-grown shingles of the office all was business, hard,
uncompromising. It was told in the neighborhood that once, in this
inquisition of affairs, he demanded the last cent possessed by a widowed
woman, but that, while she was on her way home, he overtook her,
graciously returned the money and magnanimously tore to pieces a
mortgage that he held against her small estate.
Just as he entered the office there came across the yard a loud and
impatient voice. "Here, Bill, confound you, come and take this horse.
Don't you hear me, you idiot? You infernal niggers are getting to be so
no-account that the last one of you ought to be driven off the place.
Trot, confound you. Here, take this horse to the stable and feed him.
Where is the Major? In the office? The devil he is."
Toward the office slowly strode old Gideon Batts, fanning himself with
his white slouch hat. He was short, fat, and bald; he was bowlegged
with a comical squat; his eyes stuck out like the eyes of a swamp frog;
his nose was enormous, shapeless, and red. To the Major's family he
traced the dimmest line of kinship. During twenty years he had operated
a small plantation that belonged to the Major, and he was always at
least six years behind with his rent. He had married the widow Martin,
and afterward swore that he had been disgracefully deceived by her, that
he had expected much but had found her moneyless; and after this he had
but small faith in woman. His wife died and he went into contented
mourning, and out of gratitude to his satisfied melancholy, swore that
he would pay his rent, but failed. Upon the Major he held a strong hold,
and this was a puzzle to the neighbors. Their characters stood at
fantastic and whimsical variance; one never in debt, the other never out
of debt; one clamped by honor, the other feeling not its restraining
pinch. But together they would ride abroad, laughing along the road. To
Mrs. Cranceford old Gid was a pest. With the shrewd digs of a woman, the
blood-letting side stabs of her sex, she had often shown her disapproval
of the strong favor in which the Major held him; she vowed that her
husband had gathered many an oath from Gid's swollen store of execration
(when, in truth, Gid had been an apt pupil under the Major), and she
had hoped that the Major's attachment to the church would of necessity
free him from the humiliating association with the old sinner, but it
did not, for they continued to ride abroad, laughing along the road.
Like a skittish horse old Gid shied at the office door. Once he had
crossed that threshold and it had cost him a crop of cotton.
"How are you, John?" was Gid's salutation as he edged off, still fanning
himself.
"How are you, sir?" was the Major's stiff recognition of the fact that
Gid was on earth.
"Getting hotter, I believe, John."
"I presume it is, sir." The Major sat with his elbow resting on a desk,
and about him were stacked threatening bundles of papers; and old Gid
knew that in those commercial romances he himself was a familiar
character.
"Are you busy, John?"
"Yes, but you may come in."
"No, I thank you. Don't believe I've got time."
"Then take time. I want to talk to you. Come in."
"No, not to-day, John. Fact is I'm not feeling very well. Head's all
stopped up with a cold, and these summer colds are awful, I tell you. It
was a summer cold that took my father off."
"How's your cotton in that low strip along the bayou?"
"Tolerable, John; tolerable."
"Come in. I want to talk to you about it."
"Don't believe I can stand the air in there, John. Head all stopped up.
Don't believe I'm going to live very long."
"Nonsense. You are as strong as a buck."
"You may think so, John, but I'm not. I thought father was strong, too,
but a summer cold got him. I am getting along in years, John, and I find
that I have to take care of myself. But if you really want to talk to me
about that piece of cotton, come out under the trees where it's cool."
The Major shoved back his papers and arose, but hesitated; and Gid stood
looking on, fanning himself. The Major stepped out and Gid's face was
split asunder with a broad smile.
"I gad. I've been up town and had a set-to with old Baucum and the rest
of them. Pulled up fifty winner at poker and jumped. Devilish glad to
see you; miss you every minute of the time I'm away. Let's go over there
and sit down on that bench."
They walked toward a bench under a live-oak tree, and upon Gid's
shoulder the Major's hand affectionately rested. They halted to laugh,
and old Gid shoved the Major away from him, then seized him and drew him
back. They sat down, still laughing, but suddenly the Major became
serious.
"Gid, I'm in trouble," he said.
"Nonsense, my boy, there is no such thing as trouble. Throw it off. Look
at me. I've had enough of what the world calls trouble to kill a dozen
ordinary men, but just look at me--getting stronger every day. Throw it
off. What is it, anyway?"
"Louise declares that she is going to marry Pennington!"
"What!" old Gid exclaimed, turning with a bouncing flounce and looking
straight at the Major. "Marry Pennington! Why, she shan't, John. That's
all there is of it. We object and that settles it. Why, what the deuce
can she be thinking about?"
"Thinking about him," the Major answered.
"Yes, but she must quit it. Why, it's outrageous for as sensible a girl
as she is to think of marrying that fellow. You leave it to me; hear
what I said? Leave it to me."
This suggested shift of responsibility did not remove the shadow of
sadness that had fallen across the Major's countenance.
"You leave it to me and I'll give her a talk she'll not forget. I'll
make her understand that she's a queen, and a woman is pretty devilish
skittish about marrying anybody when you convince her that she's a
queen. What does your wife say about it?"
"She hasn't said anything. She's out visiting and I haven't seen her
since Louise told me of her determination to marry him."
"Don't say determination, John. Say foolish notion. But it's all right."
"No, it's not all right."
"What, have you failed to trust me? Is it possible that you have lost
faith in me? Don't do that, John, for if you do it will be a never
failing source of regret. You don't seem to remember what my powers of
persuasion have accomplished in the past. When I was in the legislature,
chairman of the Committee on County and County Lines, what did my
protest do? It kept them from cutting off a ten-foot strip of this
county and adding it to Jefferson. You must remember those things, John,
for in the factors of persuasion lie the shaping of human life. I've
been riding in the hot sun and I think that a mint julep would hit me
now just about where I live. Say, there, Bill, bring us some mint, sugar
and whisky. And cold water, mind you. Oh, everything will come out all
right. By the way, do you remember that Catholic priest that came here
with a letter of introduction to you?"
"Yes, his name is Brennon."
"Yes, that's it. But how did he happen to bring a letter to you?"
"He came from Maryland with a letter given him by a relative of mine."
"Yes, and he has gone to work, I tell you. Do you know what he's doing?
Reaching out quietly and gathering the negroes into his church. And
there are some pretty wise men behind him. They didn't send an Irishman
or a Dutchman or an Italian, but an American from an old family. He's
already got three negroes on my place, and Perdue tells me that he's
nipping one now and then over his way. There's a scheme in it, John."
"There is a scheme in all human affairs, and consequently in all church
movements," the Major replied, and the impulse of a disquisition
straightened him into a posture more dignified, for he was fond of
talking and at times he strove to be logical and impressive; but at this
moment Bill arrived with mint from the spring; and with lighter talk two
juleps were made.
"Ah," said old Gideon, sipping his scented drink, "virtue may become
wearisome, and we may gape during the most fervent prayer, but I gad,
John, there is always the freshness of youth in a mint julep. Pour just
a few more drops of liquor into mine, if you please--want it to rassle
me a trifle, you know. Recollect those come-all ye songs we used to
sing, going down the river? Remember the time I snatched the sword out
of my cane and lunged at a horse trader from Tennessee? Scoundrel
grabbed it and broke it off and it was all I could do to keep him from
establishing a close and intimate relationship with me. Great old days,
John; and I Gad, they'll never come again."
"I remember it all, Gid, and it was along there that you fell in love
with a woman that lived at Mortimer's Bend."
"Easy, now, John. A trifle more liquor, if you please. Thank you. Yes, I
used to call her the wild plum. Sweet thing, and I had no idea that she
was married until her lout of a husband came down to the landing with a
double-barrel gun. Ah, Lord, if she had been single and worth money I
could have made her very happy. Fate hasn't always been my friend,
John."
"Possibly not, Gid, but you know that fate to be just should divide her
favors, and this time she leaned toward the woman."
"Slow, John. I Gad, there's your wife."
A carriage drew up at the yard gate and a woman stepped out. She did not
go into the house, but seeing the Major, came toward him. She was tall,
with large black eyes and very gray hair. In her step was suggested the
pride of an old Kentucky family, belles, judges and generals. She smiled
at the Major and bowed stiffly at old Gid. The two men arose.
"Thank you, I don't care to sit down," she said. "Where is Louise?"
"I saw her down by the river just now," the Major answered.
"I wish to see her at once," said his wife.
"Shall I go and call her, madam?" Gid asked.
She gave him a look of surprise and answered: "No, I thank you."
"No trouble, I assure you," Gid persisted. "I am pleased to say that age
has not affected my voice, except to mellow it with more of reverence
when I address the wife of a noble man and the mother of a charming
girl."
She had dignity, but humor was never lost upon her, and she smiled. This
was encouraging and old Gid proceeded: "I was just telling the Major of
my splendid prospects for a bountiful crop this year, and I feel that
with this blessing of Providence I shall soon be able to meet all my
obligations. I saw our rector, Mr. Mills, this morning, and he spoke of
how thankful I ought to be--he had just passed my bayou field--and I
told him that I would not only assert my gratitude but would prove it
with a substantial donation to the church at the end of the season."
In the glance which she gave him there was refined and gentle contempt;
and then she looked down upon the decanter of whisky. Old Gideon drew
down the corners of his mouth, as was his wont when he strove to excite
compassion.
"Yes," he said with a note of pity forced upon his voice, "I am
exceedingly thankful for all the blessings that have come to me, but I
haven't been very well of late, rather feeble to-day, and the kind
Major, noticing it, insisted upon my taking a little liquor, the
medicine of our sturdy and gallant fathers, madam."
The Major sprawled himself back with a roaring laugh, and hereupon Gid
added: "It takes the Major a long time to get over a joke. Told him one
just now and it tickled him mighty nigh to death. Well, I must be going
now, and, madam, if I should chance to see anything of your charming
daughter, I will tell her that you desire a conference with her.
William," he called, "my horse, if you please."