The Jucklins Part 23

"What, with him? Don't you do it. Why, there ain't a harder hearted man on the face of the earth than he is. Smart as a whip, but he don't go to church once in five years. Oh, you needn't smile, for it's a fact. Not once in five years, and what can you expect from a man like that? Oh, he'll grind you into the very ground. Ain't got a particle of feelin'."

"I expect him to teach me the law and I can get along with my present stock of religion. But even if he were to offer me his religion, I would accept it. I know him better than you can ever know him. But we have no cause to discuss him. No, I can't take your money."

"But you have earned some of it. Twenty-five dollars, at least."

"Well, I will take that much."

"Take it all," said Parker.

"No, twenty-five," I replied.

"You are your own boss," Perdue observed; "you know best. Here's your twenty-five, and I'll make it fifty if you'll send out word that the new man, whoever he may be, mustn't go into the creek. You are the sort of a reformer that this community has needed. Well, gentlemen, I've got to get home. Issue your proclamation, sir, and send for the other twenty-five."

Parker said that it was time for him to go, and, adding that he would meet Jucklin in town, left us at the door.

Mrs. Jucklin was brighter than I had expected to find her, and when I told her what Conkwright had said, that Alf would surely be acquitted, the light of a new hope leaped into her eyes.

"I told Limuel that G.o.d would not permit such a wrong," she said.

"Didn't I, Limuel?"

"You said something about it, Susan; I have forgot exactly what it was.

It's all right if the judge says he knows it. Yes, sir, it's all right.

But we'll leave here all the same. Don't reckon we'll ever come back; can't stand to be p'inted at. Fight a man in a minit if he p'ints at me."

"Oh, Limuel, don't talk about fighting when we are in so much trouble."

"Fight a man in a minit if he p'ints at me. Knock down a sign-post if it p'ints at me. Well, we want a little bite to eat. Been about six weeks since I eat anything, it seems like."

All this time I was wondering where Guinea could be, and was startled by every sound. The mother asked me how Alf looked and how he had acted when I had pictured Millie's leaving home; and I told her mechanically, wondering, listening; and I broke off suddenly, for I thought there was a footstep at the door. No, it was a chicken in the pa.s.sage. They asked me many questions and I answered without hearing my own words. Mrs.

Jucklin went out to the dining-room and the old man began to talk about his chickens. He had found them b.l.o.o.d.y and stiff, and had buried them in a box lined with an old window curtain. And now there was a step at the door. I looked up and Guinea stood there, looking back, listening to her mother. And thus she stood a long time, I thought, and yet she must have known that I was in the room. Mr. Jucklin spoke to her and she came in, walking very slowly. Her face was pale, with a sadness that smote my heart. She sat down and looked out of the window. Mrs. Jucklin called the old man, and when he was gone I told Guinea that I had left Alf in a convulsive joy; and, still looking out of the window, she said: "You are the n.o.blest man I ever met."

I sprang to my feet, but quickly she lifted her hand and motioned me back, though she still looked away. "Sit down, please. Don't you remember our agreement to be frank with each other?"

"Yes, I remember it, but frankness means the opposite of restraint."

"Yes, but frankness should always have judgment behind it."

"Guinea!" She looked at me. "Guinea, you say that after a while he will kneel at your feet."

"Yes, after a while, Mr. Hawes."

"But let me--let me kneel at your feet now!"

Slowly she shook her head. "No, Mr. Hawes, you must never do that.

Sometime we may kneel together, but you must never kneel to me. Now we are frank, aren't we? We may go to church together and hear some one pray a beautiful prayer, a prayer that may seem the echo of our own heart-throbs. Sweet is confidence, and I ask you to have confidence in me. Let me have my way, and when the time is ripe, I will come to you with my hands held out. Yes, when the time is ripe. And then there will be no reproaches and nothing to forgive, but everything to wors.h.i.+p and to bless. Oh, I am a great talker when once I am started, Mr. Hawes, and I think all the time. I thought this morning as I stood at the gate, just as you left me standing; I heard you galloping down the road. And do you know what I thought of? It was almost profane, but I thought of the baptizing at the river of Jordan, when the spirit came down like a dove; and I knew what must have been the thrilling touch of that spirit, for the holiness of love had touched my hair. No, Mr. Hawes, not now.

There, sit down again and let me talk, for I am started now. Oh, and you thought that I was dumb and feelingless? You mustn't weep; but as for me, why, I am a woman and tears are a woman's inheritance. There, I have said enough, and after this we must speak to each other as friends--until the time when I shall come to you with my hands held out; and then I am going to tell you of a woman who loved a man, not with a halting, half-hearted love, but with a love as broad as G.o.d's smile when the earth is in bloom. You didn't know that I was so persistent, did you? Isn't it time for a woman to be persistent? No woman has ever kept silence, they tell us, but women have been constrained to talk around the subject, festooning it with their insinuating fancies. But women are more outspoken now and are permitted to be truer to themselves. Yes, you must have confidence in me; let me indulge my dream a while longer, and then I will come to you, but until then let us be friends."

"But won't you let me tell you something now? Won't you let me tell you that in the moonlight I bowed until my head touched the dust, wors.h.i.+ping you as you stood----"

"No, not now; not until I come. And won't you respect my wishes, even if they are foolish?"

"Now and forever, angel, your word shall be a divine law unto me."

"They are calling us," she said. "Come on."

CHAPTER XVII.

In the afternoon I went to town with the old man, to attend upon the transfer of the property, and I slept in the wagon, conscious of Guinea when the road was rough, and sweetly dreaming of her when there was no jolt to disturb my slumber. It was long after midnight when we returned.

I was resolved to go early to bed, for Guinea and her mother were sadly engaged packing a box with the bric-a-brac upon which time and a.s.sociation had placed the seal of endearment.

"Now, I wonder what has become of that old lace curtain," said Mrs.

Jucklin. "I have looked everywhere and can't find it, and I know it was in the chest up stairs."

The old man began to scratch his head.

"I don't know who could have taken it," Mrs. Jucklin went on. "It couldn't have walked off, I'm sure. Limuel?"

"Yes, ma'm."

"Do you know what has become of that old curtain?"

"What, that ragged old thing that wan't worth nothin'?"

"Worth nothin'! Why, it belonged to my grandmother."

"I never heard of that before."

"Oh, yes, you have, and what's the use of talkin' that way? You've known it all the time."

"News to me," said the old man.

"It's not news to you, anything of the sort; but the question is, do you know what has become of it?"

"Susan, in this here life many things happen, things that we wish hadn't happened. I am not sorry that they fit to a finish, for that had to be; but I am sorry that I wrapped 'em in that curtain when I buried 'em."

"Gracious alive, what has possessed the man! Oh, you do distress me so.

How could you do such a thing, Limuel? I do believe you have gone daft.

But you go right out there now and dig up them good-for-nothin' chickens and bring me that curtain. Go right on this minit."

"What, Susan, and rob the dead and the brave? You wouldn't have me do that."

"Go on, I tell you, or I'll go myself, and throw the fetchtaked things over to the hogs. The idee of wrappin' up them cruel, good-for-nothin'

things in a curtain like that. Oh, I never was so provoked in my life."

The old man got up and stretched himself. "Bill," said he, "I am sometimes forced to believe that the women folks are lackin' in human sympathy. Ma'm, I'll fetch your curtain, but I've got to have somethin'