An Arkansas Planter. Opie Percival Read

they slowly walked along. With tenderness in his eyes he looked down upon her, and when he spoke, which he did from time to time, his voice was deep and heavy but with a mellowness in it. She addressed him as Mr. Taylor and asked him if he had been away. And he said that he had, but that was not a sufficient reason for the formality of Mister—his name was Jim. She looked up at him—and her eyes were so blue that they looked black—and admitted that his name had been Jim but that now it must be Mr. Taylor. She laughed at this but his face was serious.

      "Why, I haven't called you Jim since——"

      "Since I asked you to marry me."

      "No, not since then. And now you know it wouldn't be right to call you Jim."

      In his slowness of speech he floundered about, treading down the briars that grew along the edge of the road, walking with heavy tread but tenderly looking down upon her. "That ought not to make any difference," he said. "I knew you before you—before you knew anything, and now it doesn't sound right to hear you call me anything but Jim. It is true that the last time I saw you—seems a long time, but it wasn't more than a week ago—you said that you wouldn't marry me, and really the time seems so long that I didn't know but you might have changed your mind."

      "No, not yet," she replied.

      "But you might."

      "No, I couldn't."

      "Is it as bad as that?"

      "It's worse; it would be impossible for me to change."

      "I don't suppose you know why?"

      "Yes, I do. I am going to be married."

      "What!" He stopped, expecting her to obey his own prompting and halt also, but she walked on. With long strides he overtook her, passed her, stood in front of her. She stepped aside and passed on. But again he overtook her, but this time he did not seek to detain her.

      "I can't believe it," he said, stripping the leaves from the thorn bushes and briars that came within touch of his swinging hand. "I don't believe that you would marry a man unless you loved him and who—who——"

      "Somebody," she said.

      "Please don't tantalize me in this way. Tell me all about it."

      "You know Mr. Pennington——"

      "Who, that poor fellow!" he cried. "You surely don't think of marrying him. Louise, don't joke with me. Why, he can't live more than three months."

      Now she halted and there was anger in her eyes as she looked at him, and resentful rebuke was in her voice when she spoke. "And you, too, fix the length of time he is to live. Why do you all agree to give him three months? Is that all the time you are willing to allow him?"

      He stepped back from her and stood fumbling with his great hands. "I didn't know that any one else had given him three months," he replied. "I based my estimate merely on my recollection of how he looked the last time I saw him. I am willing to allow him all the time he wants and far more than Nature seems willing to grant."

      "No, you are not. You all want him to die."

      "Don't say that, Louise. You know that I ain't that mean. But I acknowledge that I don't want you to marry him."

      "What need you care? If I refuse to marry you what difference does it make to you whom I marry?"

      "It makes this difference—that I would rather see you the wife of a man that can take care of you. Louise, they say that I'm slow about everything, and I reckon I am, but when a slow man loves he loves for all time."

      "I don't believe it; don't believe that any man loves for all time."

      "Louise, to hear you talk one might think that you have been grossly deceived, but I know you haven't, and that is what forces me to say that I don't understand you."

      "You don't have to understand me. Nobody has asked you to."

      She walked on and he strode beside her, stripping the leaves off the shrubs, looking down at her, worshipping her; and she, frail and whimsical, received with unconcern the giant's adoration.

      "I told the Major that I loved you—"

      "Told him before you did me, didn't you?" she broke in, glancing up at him.

      "No, but on the same day. I knew he was my friend, and I didn't know but—"

      "That he would order me to marry you?"

      "No, not that, but I thought he might reason with you."

      "That's just like a stupid man. He thinks that he can win a woman with reason."

      He pondered a long time, seeming to feel that this bit of observation merited well-considered reply, and at last he said: "No, I didn't think that a woman could be won by something she didn't understand."

      "Oh, you didn't. That was brilliant of you. But let us not spat with each other, Jim."

      "I couldn't spat with you, Louise; I think too much of you for that, and I want to say right now that no matter if you do marry I'm going to keep on loving you just the same. I have loved you so long now that I don't know how to quit. People say that I am industrious, and they compliment me for keeping up my place so well, and for not going to town and loafing about of a Sunday and at night, but the truth is there ain't a dog in this county that's lazier than I am. During all these years my mind has been on you so strong that I have been driven to work."

      She had thrown down her iron weed blossoms and had put her hands to her ears to shut out his words as if they were a reproach to her, but she heard him and thus replied: "It appears that I have been of some service at any rate."

      "Yes, but now you are going to undo it all."

      "I thought you said you were going to keep on loving me just the same."

      "What! Do you want me to?" There was eagerness in his voice, and with hope tingling in his blood he remembered that a few moments before she had called him Jim. "Do you want me to?"

      "I want you always to be my friend."

      Under these words he drooped and there was no eagerness in his voice when he replied: "Friendship between a great big man and a little bit of a woman is nonsense. They must love or be nothing to each other."

      They had now reached the road that led past the Major's house. She turned toward home. "Wait a moment," he said, halting. She stopped and looked back at him. "Did you hear what I said?"

      "What about?"

      "Hear what I said about a big man and a little woman?"

      "No, what did you say?"

      He fumbled with his hands and replied: "No matter what I said then. What I say now is good-bye."

      "Good-bye."

      She tripped along as if she were glad to be rid of him, but after a time she walked slower as if she were deeply musing. She heard the brisk trotting of a horse, and, looking up, recognized Gideon Batts, jogging toward her. He saw her, and, halting in the shade, he waited for her to come up, and as she drew near he cried out, "Helloa, young rabbit."

      She wrinkled her Greek nose at him, but she liked his banter, and with assumed offense she replied: "Frog."

      "None of that, my lady."

      "Well, then, what made you call me a young rabbit?"

      "Because your ears stick out."

      "I don't care if they do."

      "Neither does a young rabbit."

      "I call you a frog because your eyes stick out and because you are so puffy."

      "Slow, now, my lady, queen of the sunk lands. Oh, but they are laying for you at home and you are going to catch it. I'd hate to be in your fix."

      "And I wouldn't be in yours."

      "Easy,