At the Major's house the argument was still warm and vigorous. But the
evening was come, and the bell-cow, home from her browsing, was ringing
for admittance at the barn-yard gate. The priest arose to go. At that
moment there was a heavy step at the end of the porch, the slow and
ponderous tread of Jim Taylor. He strode in the shadow and in the
gathering dusk recognition of him would not have been easy, but by his
bulk and height they knew him. But he appeared to have lost a part of
his great strength, and he drooped as he walked.
"Where is the Major?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse.
"Here, my boy. Why, what's the trouble?"
"Let me see you a moment," he said, halting.
The Major arose, and the giant, with one stride forward, caught him by
the arm and led him away amid the black shadows under the trees. Mrs.
Cranceford came out upon the porch and stood looking with cool
disapproval upon the priest. At a window she had sat and heard him
enunciate his views. Out in the yard Jim Taylor said something in a
broken voice, and the Major, madly bellowing, came bounding toward the
house.
"Margaret," he cried, "Louise is married!"
The woman started, uttered not a sound, but hastening to meet him, took
him by the hand. Jim Taylor came ponderously walking from amid the black
shadows. The Englishman and old Gid stole away. The priest stood calmly
looking upon the old man and his wife.
"John, come and sit down," she said. "Raving won't do any good. We must
be seemly, whatever we are." She felt the eye of the priest. "Who told
you, Mr. Taylor?"
"The justice of the peace. They were married about an hour ago, less
than half a mile from here."
She led the Major to a chair, and he sat down heavily. "She shall never
darken my door again," he declared, striving to stiffen his shoulders,
but they drooped under his effort.
"Don't say that, dear; don't say that. It is so cold and cruel."
"But I do say it--ungrateful little wretch. It rises up within me and I
can't keep from saying it."
The priest stepped forward and raised his hand. "May the blessings of
our Heavenly Father rest upon this household," he said. The woman looked
a defiance at him. He bowed and was gone. Jim Taylor stood with his
head hung low. Slowly he began to speak. "Major, you and your wife are
humiliated, but I am heart-broken. You are afflicted with a sorrow, but
I am struck down with grief. But I beg of you not to say that she shan't
come home again. Her marriage doesn't alter the fact that she is your
daughter. Her relationship toward you may not be so much changed, but to
me she is lost. I beg you not to say she shan't come home again."
Mrs. Cranceford tenderly placed her hand on the giant's arm. He shook
under her touch.
"I will say it and I mean it. She has put her feet on our love and has
thrown herself away, and I don't want to see her again. I do think she
is the completest fool I ever saw in my life. Yes, and we loved her so.
And Tom--it will break his heart."
In the dusk the wife's white hand was gleaming--putting back the gray
hair from her husband's eyes. "And we still love her so, dear," she
said.
"What!" he cried, and now his shoulders stiffened. "What! do you uphold
her?"
"Oh, no, but I am sorry for her, and I am not going to turn against her
simply because she has made a mistake. She has acted unwisely, but she
has not disgraced herself."
"Yes, she has disgraced herself and the rest of us along with her. She
has married the dying son of a convict. I didn't want to tell you
this--I told her----"
This was like a slap in the face, and for a moment she was bereft of the
cool dignity that had been so pronounced a characteristic of her quiet
life.
"If you didn't tell me before why do you tell me now?" was her reply.
She stood back from him, regathering her scattered reserve, striving to
be calm. "But it can't be helped now, John." Her gentle dignity
reasserted itself. "Let time and the something that brightens hopes and
softens fears gradually soothe our affliction."
She had taken up the Major's manner of speech. "Mr. Taylor, I have never
intimated such a thing to you before," she added, "but it was my hope
that she might become your wife. There, my dear man, don't let it tear
you so."
The giant was shaken, appearing to be gnarled and twisted by her words,
like a tree in a fierce wind. "I talked to her about you," she
continued, "and it was my hope--but now let us be kind to her memory, if
indeed we are to regard her simply as a memory."
"Margaret," said the Major, getting up and throwing back his leonine
head, "you are enough to inspire me with strength--you always have. But
while you may teach me to bear a trouble, you can't influence me to
turn counter to the demands of a just resentment. She shan't put her
foot in this house again. Jim, you can find a more suitable woman, sir.
Did you hear what became of them after that scoundrel married them? Who
performed the ceremony? Morris? He must never put his foot in my yard
again. I'll set the dogs on him. What became of them, Jim?"
"I didn't hear, but I think that they must have driven to town in a
buggy."
"Well, it really makes no difference what became of them. Are you going,
Jim?"
"Yes, sir."
"Won't you stay with us to-night?"
"No, I thank you. It's better for me to be alone." He hesitated. "If you
want me to I'll find out to-night where they've gone."
"Oh, no, do nothing of the sort, for I assure you that it makes no
difference. Let them go to the devil."
"John, don't say that, please," his wife pleaded.
"But I have said it. Well, if you are determined to go, good-night."
"Good-night." Jim strode off into the darkness, but halted and turned
about. "Major, if I can forgive her you ought to," he said. "You've got
common sense to help you, but common sense was never known to help a man
that's in my fix."
They heard the gate open, heard the latch click behind him as he passed
out into the road. Toward his lonely home he trod his heavy way, in the
sand, in the rank weeds, picking not his course, stumbling, falling once
to his knees. The air was full of the pungent scent of the walnut,
turning yellow, and in it was a memory of Louise. Often had he seen her
with her apron full of nuts that had fallen from the trees under which
he now was passing. He halted and looked about him. The moon was rising
and he saw some one sitting on a fence close by the road side. "Is that
you, Jim?" a voice called.
"Yes. Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Batts?"
"Yep, just about. Hopped up here to smell the walnuts. Takes me away
back. They took it pretty hard, didn't they?"
"Yes, particularly the Major. His wife has more control over herself."
"Or may be less affection," Gid replied. "They say she's strong, but I
call her cold. Hold on and I'll walk with you." He got down off the
fence and walked beside the giant. "She's a mighty strange woman to me,"
the old man said when they had walked for a time in silence. "But
there's no question of the fact that she's strong, that is, as some
people understand strength. To me, I gad, there is more force in
affection than in restraint. She loves her children--no doubt about
that--and of course she thinks the world of the Major, but somehow she
misjudges people. She doesn't understand me at all. But I reckon the
majority of men are too deep for a woman. I didn't want to see them in
the throes of their trouble, and I says to the Englishman, 'it's time to
git,' and we got. He wanted me to go over to his house and get some
Scotch whisky. I told him that the last rain must have left some water
in a hollow stump near my house, and that I preferred it to his
out-landish drink. And hanged if he didn't think I was in earnest. Yes,
sir, I knew that girl would marry him; and let me tell you, if I was a
youngster I would rather have her love than the love of any woman I ever
saw. There's something about her I never saw in any other woman--I gad,
she's got character; understand me? She ain't beautiful, hardly
handsome, but there's something about her, hanged if I know what it is.
But it's something; and I've always found that the strongest charm about
a woman is a something that you can't exactly catch--something that is
constantly on the dodge. And you bet I've had lots of experience. The
Major could tell you many a story on me. Yes, sir. Say, Jim, I know how
you feel over this affair, and I want you to understand that I'm your
friend, first, last and all the time. I've been trying to talk up to the
right place, but now I don't exactly know what to say."
"Don't say anything, Uncle Gideon."
"I reckon that would be about the wisest plan. Just wanted to let you
know where to find me. Strange things happen even in this quiet
community, don't they? But I'm woefully sorry that this special thing
has happened. I gad, the Major snorted so loud that my horse broke loose
from the post, and that's the reason I'm stepping around here like a
blind dog in a meat house. Begin pickin' to-morrow, I reckon?"
"I don't know. I had made all my arrangements, but now after what's
happened I don't care whether there's a boll picked or not. I'm let
down."
"Don't feel that way, old fellow. You'll be all right in a day or two."
"Mr. Batts, if I didn't know that you were trying to soothe me I would
take that remark as an insult. If I thought I wasn't any more steadfast
than to be all right in a day or two--if I really believed my character
that light, I swear I'd go this minute and drown myself."
"Why, my dear boy, you know I didn't mean to infer that your heart had
no more memory than that. What I meant was that your sense of
resignation would demand a hearing, so to speak. Let me tell you
something. I understand that girl better than her father or mother
does--I have made her a special study, and I want to tell you that when
I take the trouble to throw my mind on a woman a mystery has to be
cleared right then and there. And this is what I want to say: She has
married that fellow out of pity. I don't believe she loves him. Always
was ruled by pity. Recollect hearing the Major tell of a sudden streak
of misfortune that overtook his family when he was a child. His father
had to sell several of his slaves, and his old black mammy stood on the
block with him in her arms while they were auctioning her off. Well,
sir, Louise cried about that fit to kill herself. We told her how long
ago it had happened, and impressed on her the fact that the old woman
was soon bought back, but she kept on crying over the cruelty of the
thing. Yes, sir. Well, I turn off here. Good night."
In the dark the Major walked about the yard mournfully calling Tom. A
negro woman said that she had seen him going down the road, and the old
gentleman returned to the porch and sat down. In the sitting room a lamp
was burning, and a patch of light fell about his chair. He wanted to
tell the young man of the trouble that had fallen upon the household,
and yet he dreaded to hear his footstep. Tom was so proud of his sister,
had always looked up to her, had regarded her whims as an intellectual
diversion; and now what a disappointment. How sadly would his heart be
wrung. From a distant room came the pling-plang of a banjo.
"There's Tom, Margaret. Will you please tell him to come here? I don't
want to see him in the light."
Mrs. Cranceford hastened to obey, and the Major sat listening. He pushed
his chair back out of the patch of light. The banjo hushed its twanging,
and then he heard Tom coming. The young man stepped out upon the porch.
His mother halted in the doorway.
"Tom," said the Major, "I have a desperate piece of news, and I wish I
could break it to you gently, but there is no way to lead up to it. Your
sister has married Carl Pennington."
"Yes, so Jim Taylor told me. Met him in the road a while ago. I didn't
know that there was anything of the sort on hand. Must have kept it
mighty quiet. I suppose----"
"What, you suppose! What the deuce can you suppose! Stand there
supposing when I tell you that she has married a dying man." The old
gentleman flounced in his chair. "She has thrown herself away and I tell
you of it and you want to suppose. What's the matter with you? Have you
lost all your pride and your sense? She has married a dying man, I tell
you."
The young fellow began awkwardly to twist himself about. He looked at
his mother, standing in the door with the light pouring about her, but
her eyes were turned from him, gazing far away into the deepening
night. "I know they might think he's dying," he said, "but they might be
mistaken. Sometimes they believe a man's dying and he keeps on living.
Wash Sanders----"
"Go back to your banjo, you idiot!" the Major shouted. "I'll swear this
beats any family on the face of the earth." He got up, knocking over his
chair. "Go on. Don't stand there trying to splutter an explanation of
your lack of sense! No wonder you have always failed to pass an
examination. Not a word, Margaret. I know what you are going to say:
Beats any family on the face of the earth."