With a generous and perhaps weak falsehood the Major sought to assure
his wife that Gid had paid a part of his debt, and that a complete
settlement was not far off, but with a cool smile she looked at him and
replied: "John, please don't tax your conscience any further. It's too
great a strain on you. Let the matter drop. I won't even say I told you
so."
"And as much as you might want the subject to be dropped you can't let
it fall without reminding me--but we will let it drop; we'll throw it
down. But you have your rights, Margaret, and they shall be respected. I
will tell him that out of respect to you he must stay away from here."
"That is very thoughtful, dear; but does it occur to you that your
continued intimacy with him, whether he comes here or not, will show a
want of respect for me?"
"You don't give a snap whether he pays his debts or not. You simply
don't want me to associate with him. No, it has not occurred to me that
I am not showing you proper respect and neither is it true. Margaret, do
you know what is the most absurd and insupportable tyranny that woman
can put upon man? It is to choose a companion for her husband."
"With me, dear, it is not tyranny; it is judgment."
"Oh, yes; or rather, it is the wonderful intuition which we are taught
to believe that woman possesses. I admit that she is quick to see evil
in a man, but she shuts her eyes to the good quality that stands
opposite to offset it."
"Oh, I know that I haven't shrewdness enough to discover a good trait; I
can recognize only the bad, for they are always clearly in view. It is a
wonder that you can respect so stupid a creature as I am, and I know
that you have ceased to have a deeper feeling for me."
"Now, Margaret, for gracious sake don't talk that way. Oh, of course
you've got me now, and I have to flop or be a brute. Yes, you've got me.
You know I respect your good sense and love you, so what's the use of
this wrangle. There, now, it's all right. I'll promise not to go near
him if you say so. And I have made up my mind to attend church with more
regularity. I acknowledge that I can go wrong oftener than almost any
man. Respect for you!" he suddenly broke out. "Why, you are the smartest
woman in this state, and everybody knows it. Come on out to the office
and sit with me."
Sometimes the Major, with a pretense of having business to call him away
at night, would go over to old Gid's house, and together they would
chuckle by the fire or nod over roasting potatoes. They talked of their
days on the river, and of their nights at Natchez under the hill. To be
wholly respectable, a man must give up many an enjoyment, but when at
last he has become virtuous, he fondly recounts the escapades of former
years; and thus the memory of hot blood quickens the feeble pulse of
age.
Sometimes old Gid would meet the Major at the gin house and joke with
him amid the dust and lint, but he always came and departed in a
roundabout way, so that Mrs. Cranceford, sitting at the window, might
not be offended by his horse and his figure in the road. A time came
when there was an interval of a week, and the old fellow had not shown
himself at the gin house, and one night the Major went to the cypress
log home to invade his retirement, but the place was dark. He pushed
open the door and lighted the lamp. The fireplace was cheerless with
cold ashes. He went to a cabin and made inquiry of a negro, and was told
that Mr. Batts had been gone more than a week, and that he had left no
word as to when he intended to return. Greatly worried, the Major went
home; wide awake he pondered during long hours in bed, but no light fell
upon the mystery of the old man's absence; nor in the night nor at
breakfast did the Major speak of it to his wife, but silently he took
his worry with him to his office. One morning while the planter was at
his desk, there came a storming at the dogs in the yard.
"Get down, boys. Don't put your muddy paws on me. Hi, there, Bill, you
seven years' itch of a scoundrel, take my horse to the stable."
The Major threw open the door. "Don't come out, John!" Gid shouted,
coming forward among the prancing dogs. "Don't come out, for I want to
see you in there."
He appeared to have gained flesh; his cheeks were ruddy, and his grasp
was strong as he seized the Major's hand. "How are you, John?"
"Why, old man, where on earth have you been?"
"I have been in the swamp for many years, but now I touch the ground
only in high places."
He boldly stepped into the office, and as he sat down the sweep of his
coat-tails brushed chattel mortgages and bills of sale from the desk.
"Only in high places do my feet touch the ground, John. I have just
returned from Kentucky. And I bring the news that my old uncle is no
more to this life, but is more to me than ever."
"And you were summoned to his bedside," said the Major, striving to be
serious, but smiling upon him.
"Not exactly. You might say that I was summoned by a lawyer to his
chest-side. He left me no word of affection, but his money is mine, and
on many a half-dollar of it I warrant you there is the print of his
tooth. Give me your check-book, John."
"Wait a while, Gid. Let us accustom ourselves to the situation."
"No; let us get down to business. I am impatient to pay a mildewed debt.
God's love was slow, John, but it came. How much do I owe?"
"I don't believe I'd pay it all at once, Gid. Leave a part to be met by
the next crop."
"All right; but it's yours at any time. The only way I can use money is
to get rid of it as soon as possible. Make out a check for two-thirds of
the amount and I'll put my strong hand to it. But you haven't
congratulated me."
"No," the Major replied, with a drawl, "for I felt that it would have
too much the appearance of my own greed. I have hounded you--" The old
fellow seized him, and stopped his utterance. "Don't say that, John. You
have kept me out of hell and you ought to complete my heaven with a
congratulation."
They shook hands, looking not into each other's eyes, but downward; the
Major pretended to laugh, and old Gid, dropping his hand, blustered
about the room, whistled and stormed at a dog that poked his head in at
the door. Then he sat down, crossed his legs; but finding this
uncomfortable, sprawled himself into an easier position and began to
moralize upon the life and character of his uncle. "He always called me
a fool with an uproarious fancy, an idiot with wit, and a wise man
lacking in sense. He denied himself everything, and it strikes me that
he must have been the fool. I wish he had gathered spoil enough to make
me rich, but I reckon he did the best he could, and I forgive him. We
must respect the dead, and sometimes the sooner they are dead the sooner
we respect them. Let me sign that thing. Oh, he hasn't left me so much,
but I won't quarrel with him now. What was it the moralist said?" he
asked, pressing a blotting pad upon his name. "Said something about we
must educate or we must perish. That's all right, but I say we must have
money. Without money you may be honest," he went on, handing the check
to the Major, "but your honesty doesn't show to advantage. Money makes a
man appear honorable whether he is or not. It gives him courage, and
nothing is more honorable than courage. The fact that a man pays a debt
doesn't always argue that he's honest--it more often argues that he's
got money. Accident may make a man honest just as it may make him a
thief."
"Your log fire and your old books haven't done you any harm, Gid."
"They have saved my life, John. And let me tell you, that a man who
grows gray without loving some old book is worse than a fool. The
quaint thought of an old thinker is a cordial to aged men who come after
him. I used to regret that I had not been better educated, but now I'm
glad that my learning is not broader--it might give me too many
loves--might make me a book polygamist. I have wondered why any
university man can't sit down and write a thing to startle the world;
but the old world herself is learned, and what she demands is
originality. We may learn how to express thought, John, but after all,
thought itself must be born in us. There, I have discharged an
obligation and delivered a moral lecture, and I want to tell you that
you are the best man I ever saw."
"Now you are talking nonsense, Gid. Why, you have been just as necessary
to me as I have to you. In a manner you have been the completion of
myself."
"Ah," Gid cried, scuffling to his feet and bowing, "I have the pleasure
of saluting Mrs. Cranceford. Some time has passed since I saw you,
ma'am, and I hope you will pardon my absence."
The Major sprawled himself back with a laugh. Mrs. Cranceford, standing
on the door sill, gave Gid a cool stare.
"Won't you please come in?" he asked, courteously waving his hand over
the chair which he had just quitted.
"No, I thank you."
"Ah, I see you are surprised to see me in here. There was a time when it
would have strained my boldness, but now it is a pleasure. I am here on
business. To me business is a sweet morsel, and I delight myself with
rolling it under my tongue. Ma'am, I have just signed a check. My dear
old uncle, one of the most humane and charming of men, has been cruelly
snatched from this life; and as he found it impossible to take his money
with him, he left it to me."
"I hope you will make good use of it," she replied, with never a
softening toward him.
"I am beginning well," he rejoined, surprised that she did not give him
a kindlier look. "I am discharging my obligations, and before night I'll
call on the rector and give him a check."
She smiled, but whether in doubt as to his sincerity or in commendation
of his purpose he could not determine. But he took encouragement. "Yes,
ma'am, and as I have now become a man of some importance, I am going to
act accordingly. I am free to confess that my first endeavor shall be to
gain your good opinion."
"And I'll freely give it, Mr. Batts, when I believe you merit it."
"To desire it, ma'am, is of itself a merit."
She laughed at this, and the Major laughed, too, for he saw that no
longer should he be compelled to defend his fondness for the old
fellow.
"I am more than willing to confess my mountain of faults," Gid went on,
smiling, and his smile was not disagreeable. "I am more than willing to
do this, and when I have--and which I now do--your Christian heart must
forgive me."
She laughed and held out her hand, and with a gallantry that would have
been reminiscent, even in old Virginia, he touched it with his lips.
"Come here, Margaret," said the Major, and when she turned toward him,
smiling, he put his arms about her, pressed her to his breast and fondly
kissed her.