A neighboring planter, having just returned from New Orleans, told the
Major that in the French market he had met Gid, who had informed him
that for his cotton he had received a premium above the highest price,
in recognition of its length of fibre and the care with which it had
been handled. The part of the statement that bore upon the length of
fibre was accepted by the Major, but he laughed at the idea that Gid's
care should call for reward. But so good a report was pleasing to him
and he told his wife that her denunciation of the old fellow must soon
be turned into praise. And with cool thoughtfulness she thus replied:
"John, is it possible that at this late day you are still permitting
that man to fill your eyes with dust? Has he again wheedled you into the
belief that he is going to pay you? It does seem to me that your good
sense ought to show you that man as he really is."
They were at the dinner table. The Major shoved back his chair and
looked at his wife long and steadily. "Margaret," said he, "there is
such a thing as persecution, and you are threatened with a practice of
it. But do I believe he is going to pay me? I do. And naturally you want
to know my reason for thinking so."
"Yes, I should like to know. I suppose your kindness rather than your
judgment has found a reason. It always does."
"Good; and the reason which a kindness discovers, though the search for
it may be a mistake, is better than the spirit that inspires a
persecution. However, we won't indulge in any fine-drawn argument; we
will----"
"Search for another reason when one is exploded," she suggested,
victoriously smiling upon him.
"Oh, you mean that I really haven't found one. To tell you the truth I
haven't a very strong one. But in some way he has convinced me of his
sincerity. I have forced upon him the understanding that at least a good
part of the money must be paid, and the fact that he took me seriously,
forms, perhaps, the basis of my belief in his desire to face his
obligations. We shall see."
Several days passed, but they saw nothing of Gid. It was known that he
was at home, for Jim Taylor had told the news of his return. At this
neglect the Major was fretted, and one morning he sent word to Gid that
he must come at once and give an account of himself. It was nearly noon
when the old fellow arrived. Clumsily he dismounted from his horse, and
meekly he made his way into the yard, tottering as he walked. He
appeared to have lost flesh, and his skin was yellow with worry and with
want of sleep. The Major came forward and they met and shook hands under
a tree. From an upper window Mrs. Cranceford looked upon them.
"Gid, I didn't know what had become of you. I heard of you after you had
received for your cotton more than the market price, and----"
"It was a fine shipment, John. Have you a rope handy? I want to hang
myself. And why? Because I don't expect anyone to believe my statement;
but John, as sure as I am alive this minute, my pocket was picked in the
French market. Hold on, now. I don't ask you to believe me, for I won't
be unreasonable, but I hope I may drop dead this moment if I wasn't
robbed. And that's the reason I have held back. Get the rope and I'll
hang myself. I don't want to live any longer. I am no account on the
face of the earth. I sang like a cricket when I might have been more in
earnest, and now when my condition is desperate, the fact that I have
been foolish and careless takes all weight from my words. As I came
along my old horse stumbled, and I didn't try to check him--I wanted him
to fall and kill me. Get me the rope."
The Major took off his hat and leaned against the tree. With humility,
with drooping patience, Gid waited for him to speak, and his ear was
strained to catch the familiar word of hope, or mayhap the first bar of
a resounding laugh. The first words escaped him; he heard only their
cold tone without comprehending their meaning:
"I want you to get off that place just as soon as you can; and I want
you to go as you came--with nothing. I have laughed at you while you
were cheating me; I have placed a premium upon your worthlessness and
rascality. There is no good in you. Get off that place just as soon as
you can."
"John----"
"Don't call me John. You are a hypocrite and a deadbeat. Yes, you have
sung like a cricket and I have paid dearly for your music. Don't say a
word to me; don't open your lying mouth, but get out of this yard as
soon as your wretched legs can carry you, and get off that place at
once."
The Major turned his back upon him, and the old fellow tottered to the
gate. With an effort he scrambled upon his horse and was gone. He looked
back as if he expected to see a hand upraised, commanding him to stop;
he listened for a voice inviting him to return; but he saw no hand,
heard no voice, and onward down the road he went. In the highway he met
a man and the man spoke to him, but he replied not, neither did he lift
his heavy eyes, but rode onward, drooping over the horse's neck. He
passed the house of Wash Sanders, and from the porch the invalid hailed
him, but he paid no heed.
Upon reaching home, or the cypress log house which for him had so long
been a free and easy asylum, he feebly called a negro to take his horse.
Into the house he went, into the only habitable room. It was at best a
desolate abode; the walls were bare, the floor was rotting, but about
him he cast a look of helpless affection, at the bed, at a shelf whereon
a few books were piled. He opened a closet and took therefrom a faded
carpet-bag and into it he put Rousseau's Confessions, then an old book
on logic, and then he hesitated and looked up at the shelf. All were
dear to him, these thumbed and dingy books; many a time at midnight had
they supped with him beside the fire of muttering white-oak coals, and
out into the wild bluster of a storm had they driven care and
loneliness. But he could not take them all. Painfully he made his
selections, nearly filled his bag, leaving barely room for an old satin
waistcoat and two shirts; and these he stuffed in hastily. He put the
bag upon the bed, when with fumbling he had fastened it, and stood
looking about the room. Yes, that was all, all except a hickory walking
cane standing in a corner.
Onward again he went with his cane on his shoulder and his bag on his
back. At the bars down the lane a dog ran up to him. "Go to the house,
Jack," he said, and the dog understood him and trotted away, but in the
old man's voice he heard a suspicious note and he turned before reaching
the house and followed slowly and cautiously, stopping whenever the old
fellow turned to look back. At the corner of a field Gid halted and put
down his bag, and the dog turned about, pretending to be on his way
home. In the field was a pecan tree, tall and graceful. Year after year
had the old man tended it, and to him it was more than a tree, it was a
friend. Upon the fence he climbed, sitting for a moment on the top rail
to look about him; to the tree he went, and putting his arms about it,
pressed his wrinkled cheek against its bark. He turned away, climbed the
fence, took up his bag and resumed his journey toward the steamboat
landing. Far behind, on a rise in the road, the dog sat, watching him.
The old man turned a bend in the road, and the dog, running until his
master was again in sight, sat down to gaze after him. Far ahead was the
charred skeleton of a gin house, burned by marauders many years ago, and
here he was to turn into the road that led to the landing. He looked up
as he drew near and saw a horse standing beside the road; and then from
behind the black ruin stepped a man--the Major.
"Gid," he said, coming forward, "I believe we're going to have more
rain."
The old man dropped his bag, and the dog far down the road turned back.
"Wind's from the northwest, Gid." He put his hand on the old fellow's
shoulder.
"Don't touch me, John; let me go."
"Why, I can't let you go. Look here, old man, you have stood by me more
than once--you stood when other men ran away--and you are more to me
than money is."
"Let me go, John. I am an old liar and an old hypercrite. My pocket was
not picked--I lost the money gambling. Let me go; I am a scoundrel."
He stooped to take up his bag, but the Major seized it. "I'll carry it
for you," he said. "Too heavy for as old a man as you are. Come on back
and raise another crop."
"I haven't a thing to go on, John. Can't even get feed for the mules.
Give me the satchel."
"You shall have all the feed you want."
"But your wife----"
"I will tell her that the debt is paid."
"John, your gospel would take the taint out of a thief on a cross. And I
was never so much of a man as you now make me, and, I gad, I'm going to
be worthy of your friendship. Let me remind you of something: That old
uncle of mine in Kentucky will leave me his money. It's cold-blooded to
say it, but I understand that he can't live but a short time. I am his
only relative, and have a hold on him that he can't very well shake off.
He'll beat me out of my own as long as he can, but old Miz Nature's got
her eye on him. Yes, I'll try it again and next year I'll let you sell
the crop. But say, John, at one time I had them fellows on the hip, and
if I had cashed in at the right time I would have hit 'em big. Get your
horse and we'll hook the satchel over the horn of the saddle."
Along the road they walked toward home, the Major leading the horse. For
a time they were silent, and then the Major said: "As I came along I was
thinking of that bully from Natchez. He would have killed me with his
Derringer if you hadn't broken his arm with your cane."
"Oh, yes; that red-headed fellow. It has been a long time since I
thought of him. How the pleasant acquaintances of our younger days do
slip away from us."
"Yes," the Major laughed, "and our friends fall back as we grow old.
Friendship is more a matter of temperament than----"
"Of the honesty of the other party," Gid suggested.
"Yes, you are right. Honesty doesn't always inspire friendship, for we
must be interested in a man before we can become his friend; and mere
honesty is often a bore."
When they reached the gate that opened into Gid's yard, the Major shook
hands with the old fellow and told him to resume his authority as if
nothing had happened to interrupt it.
"I will, John; but something has happened to interrupt it, and that
interruption has been my second birth, so to speak. I passed away at
twelve o'clock and was born again just now. I won't try to express my
feelings, I am still so young; for any profession of gratitude would be
idle in comparison with what I am going to do. I've got your friendship
and I'm going to have your respect. Come in and sit awhile, won't you?"
"Not now, but I'll come over to-night."
"Good. And remember this, John; I'm going to have your respect."