An Arkansas Planter | Page 6

of sister of charity. I confess that I have never
been able wholly to understand her. At times she has even puzzled her
mother, and a daughter is odd, indeed, when a mother cannot
comprehend her. I am striving to be gentle with you, but I must tell you
that you cannot marry her. I don't want to tell you to go, and yet it is
better that this interview should come to a close."
He bowed to Pennington and turned toward the veranda that
overlooked the river, but a supplicating voice called him back. "I wish
to say," said the consumptive, "that from your point of view you are
right. But that does not alter my position. You speak of the misery that
arises from a marriage with disease. That was very well put, but let me
say, sir, that I believe that I am growing stronger. Sometimes I have
thought that I had consumption, but in my saner moments I know that I
have not. I can see an improvement from day to day. Several days ago I
couldn't help coughing, but now at times I can suppress it. I am
growing stronger."
"Sir," exclaimed the Major, "if you were as strong as a lion you should
not marry her. Good day."
CHAPTER III.
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