At the close of a misty day Jim Taylor stood at the parlor door to take
his leave of Mrs. Cranceford. During the slow hours of the afternoon
they had talked about Louise, or sitting in silence had thought of her;
and now at parting there was nothing to be added except the giant's
hopeful remark, "I believe we'll hear from her to-morrow; I am quite
sure of it." Repetition may make a sentiment trite, and into a slangish
phrase may turn a wise truism, but words spoken to encourage an anxious
heart do not lose their freshness. "Yes, I am quite sure of it," he
repeated. And the next day a letter came. It bore no post mark; the
captain of a steamboat had sent it over from a wood-yard. The boat was
an unimportant craft and its name was new even to the negroes at the
landing, which, indeed, must have argued that the vessel was making its
first trip on the Arkansas. The communication was brief, but it was
filled with expressions of love. "I am beginning to make my way," the
writer said, "and when I feel that I have completely succeeded, I will
come home. My ambition now is to surprise you, and to do this I must
keep myself in the dark just a little longer. I have tried to imagine
myself a friendless woman, such as I have often read about, and I
rather enjoy it. Love to Jim."
The Major was in his office when the letter was brought, and thither his
wife hastened to read it to him.
"What is it?" he asked as she entered the room. "A letter from Louise? I
don't want to hear it."
"John."
"I don't want to hear another crazy screed from her. Where is she? Is
she coming home? Read it."
During the reading he listened with one hand cupped behind his
ear--though his hearing was not impaired--and when the last word had
been pronounced, he said: "Likes to be mysterious, doesn't she? Well, I
hope she'll get enough of it. If her life has been so much influenced by
sympathy why has she felt none of that noble quality for us? Where is
she?"
"The letter doesn't say. It is not even dated, and it is not
post-marked."
"Did it come in a gale? Was it blown out of a mysterious cloud?"
"It came from the wood-yard, and the man who brought it said that it had
been left by the captain of the Mill-Boy, a new boat, they say."
"Well, it's devilish----"
"John."
"I say it's very strange. Enjoys being mysterious. I wonder if she
equally enjoys having the neighbors talk about her? Sends love to Jim.
Well, that isn't so bad. You'd better have some one take the letter over
to him."
"I sent him word by the man who brought the letter that we had heard
from her."
No further did the Major question her, but taking up a handful of
accounts, he settled himself into the preoccupation in which she had
found him, but the moment she went out and closed the door, he got out
of his chair and with his hands behind him, walked up and down the room.
At the window he halted, and standing there, looked down the river, in
the direction of the cape of sand whereon Louise had stood, that day
when Pennington coughed in the library door; and in his mind the old man
saw her, with her hands clasped over her brown head. He mused over the
time that had passed since then, the marriage, the death, the dreary
funeral; and though he did not reproach himself, yet he felt that could
he but recall that day he would omit his foolish plea of gallantry.
For the coming of Jim, Mrs. Cranceford had not long to wait. She was in
the parlor when he tapped at the door. After she had called, "Come in,"
he continued to stand there as if he were afraid of meeting a
disappointment. But when he had peeped in and caught sight of her
smiling face, his cold fear was melted.
"Here it is," she said, holding the letter out to him. Almost at one
stride he crossed the room and seized the letter. In the light of the
window he stood to read it, but it fluttered away from him the moment he
saw that there was a greeting in it for himself. He grabbed at it as if,
possessing life, it were trying to escape, and with a tight grip upon it
he said: "I knew she would write and I am sure she would have written
sooner if--if it had been necessary."
Mrs. Cranceford was laughing tearfully. "Oh, you simple-hearted man, so
trustful and so big of soul, what is your love not worth to a woman?"
"Simple-hearted? I am nothing of the sort. I try to be just and that's
all there is to it."
"No, Jim Taylor, there's more to it than that. A man may be just and his
sense of justice may demand a stricter accounting than you ask for."
"I guess you mean that I'm weak."
"Oh, no," she hastened to reply, "I don't mean that. The truth is I mean
that you give something that but few men have ever given--a love blind
enough and great enough to pardon a misdeed committed against yourself.
It is a rare charity."
He did not reply, but in the light of the window he stood, reading the
letter; and Mrs. Cranceford, sitting down, gave him the attention of a
motherly fondness, smiling upon him; and he, looking up from the letter
which a pleasurable excitement caused to shake in his hand, wondered
why any one should ever have charged this kindly matron with a cold lack
of sympathy. So interested in his affairs was she, so responsive to a
sentiment, though it might be clumsily spoken, so patient of his talk
and of his silence, that to him she was the Roman mother whom he had met
in making his way through a short-cut of Latin.
"Jim."
"Yes, ma'm."
"I want to ask you something. Have you talked much with Tom lately?"
"Not a great deal. He was over at my place the other night and we talked
of first one thing and then another, but I don't remember much of what
was said. Why do you want to know?"
"Can't you guess?"
"Don't know that I can. I was always rather slow at guessing. And don't
let me try; tell me what you mean?"
"You are as stupid as you are noble."
"What did you say, ma'm?" Again he had given his attention to the
letter.
"Oh, nothing."
"But you must have said something," he replied, pressing the letter into
narrow folds, and appearing as if he felt that he had committed a crime
in having failed to catch the meaning of her remark.
"Oh, it amounted to nothing."
He stupidly accepted this decree, and smoothing out the letter and
folding it again, requested that he might be permitted to take it home;
and with this reply she gladdened him: "I intended that you should."
At evening old Gid came, with many a snort and many a noisy stamp at the
dogs prancing upon the porch. Into the library he bustled, puffing and
important, brisk with the air of business. "John," he said, as he sat
down, "the last bale of my cotton has been hauled to the landing. It
will be loaded to-night and to-morrow morning I'm going with it down to
New Orleans; and I gad, I'll demand the last possible cent, for it's the
finest staple I ever saw."
"I thought you were going to bunch in and sell with me," the Major
replied.
"I intended to, John, but you see I'm too far ahead of you to wait. I
don't like to discount my industry by waiting. The truth is, I want the
money as soon as I can get it. I am chafing to discharge my debts. It
may be noble to feel and acknowledge the obligations of friendship, but
the consciousness of being in debt, a monied debt, even to a friend, is
blunting to the higher sensibilities and hampering to the character.
Now, you've never been in debt, and therefore you don't know what
slavery is."
"What! I've owed fifty thousand dollars at a time."
"Yes, but you had a way of getting out from under it, John. We don't
deserve any credit for paying a debt if it comes easy, if it's natural
to us. Why, a man with the faculty of getting out from under a debt is
better off and is more to be envied than the man who has never known
what it is to walk under a weight of obligations, for to throw off the
burden brings him a day of real happiness, while the more prudent and
prosperous person is acquainted merely with contentment. You've had a
good time in your life, John. On many an occasion when other men would
have been at the end of the string you have reached back, grabbed up
your resources and enjoyed them. Yes, sir. And you have more education
than I have, but you can never hope to rival me in wisdom."
The Major was standing on the hearth, and leaning his head back against
the mantel-piece, he laughed; and from Mrs. Cranceford's part of the
house came the impatient slam of a door.
"It's a fact, John. And within me there is just enough of rascality to
sweeten my wisdom."
"There is no doubt as to the rascality, Gid. The only question is with
regard to the wisdom."
"Easy, John. The wisdom is sometimes hidden; modesty covers it up, and
if the rascality is always apparent it is my frankness that holds it up
to view. Yes, sir. But my wisdom lacks something, is in want of
something to direct it. Pure wisdom can't direct itself, John; it is
like gold--it must have an alloy. You've got that alloy, and it makes
you more successful as a man, but sometimes less charming as a
companion. The part of a man that means business is disagreeable to a
gentle, humor-loving nature like mine. I perceive that I've got my
speculative gear on, and I'm bold; yes, for I am soon to discharge a
sacred obligation and then to walk out under the trees a free man. But
I'm naturally bold. Did you ever notice that a sort of self-education
makes a man adventurous in his talk when a more systematic training
might hold him down with the clamps of too much care?"
"Yes, might inflict him with the dullness of precision," the Major
suggested, smiling upon his guest.
"That's it, and for this reason half-educated men are often the
brightest. I read a book--and I reckon I'm as fond of a good book as any
man--without bringing to bear any criticisms that scholars have passed
upon it. But with you it is different."
"Gid, you ascribe scholarship to me when in fact you are far more
bookish than I am. You sit in your den all alone and read while I'm shut
up in my office going over my accounts. From care you have a freedom
that I can never hope to find."
"John, in comparison with me you don't know what care is."
The Major leaned against the mantel-piece and laughed.
"It's a fact, John. Why, I have care enough to kill a statesman or
strain a philosopher. Look at me; I'm old and don't amount to anything,
and that is one of the heaviest cares that can settle down upon man.
Wise? Oh, yes, we'll grant that, but as I before remarked, my wisdom
lacks proper direction. It is like ill-directed energy, and that, you
know, counts for nothing. I once knew a fellow that expended enough
energy in epileptic fits to have made him a fortune. He'd fall down and
kick and paw the air--a regular engine of industry, but it was all
wasted. But he had a brother, a lazy fellow, and he conceived the idea
of a sort of gear for him, so that his jerkings and kicks operated a
patent churn. So, if I only had some ingenious fool to harness me I
might do something."
"Why," said the Major, "I wouldn't have you otherwise than what you are.
Suppose you were to become what might be termed a useful citizen,
truthful and frugal----"
"Hold on, John," Gid broke in, holding up his hands. "You distress me
with your picture. When I hear of a frugal man I always imagine he's
hungry. Yes, sir. But let me tell you, I'll be a man of affairs when I
come back from New Orleans. You may be assured of that. I'm going to
scatter money about this neighborhood. Why, every lout within ten miles
square, if he's got fifteen dollars, holds his opinion above mine. Ah,
by a lucky chance I see that your demijohn is in here. And now just fill
up this bottle," he added, producing a flask as if by a sleight-of-hand
trick, "and I will bid you good-night."