"Well, they run away an' got married, an' went to housekeepin' not forty yards from your door—an' you seen 'em ever' day of the world, an' yit you done like you didn't know they was in town. An' wuss 'n that," Mr. Sanders continued, his anger rising as he stirred the embers of recollection—"wuss'n that, you never spoke a word to Cordelia from that day tell the day she died—an' she your own sister! It's a mighty good thing that Lumsden was well off while the war lasted. When it ended, he was as poor as I was. He had land, but who kin eat land? Thar wa'n't but one reely rich man in the community, Jonas, an' that man was you. You had bought up all the gold for a hundred mile aroun', but not so much as a thrip did Cordelia ever git out'n you.
"What I'm a-tellin' you, Jonas, you know as well as I do; but I jest want to let you know that we-all ain't been asleep all this time. Lumsden got a good job in Atlanta, an' took his wife an' baby thar. Him an' his wife was so well suited to one another that when one died, the other thought the best thing she could do was to go an' jine him. Both on 'em know'd mighty well that the Lord would look arter the little gal. Oh, I know what you want to say: you want to tell me that you was afear'd Lumsden would turn out to be no 'count, bekaze he was wild when a boy—an' would have his fling now an' then; but that don't go wi' me, Jonas. You know what he turned out to be; you know what Cordelia had to go through; you know that one kind word from you would 'a' been wuth more to her than all the money you've got in the world; an' yit, your pride, or your venom—you kin name it an' keep it—hender'd you from makin' that poor child as happy as she mought 'a' been. An' I'll tell you, Jonas, jest as shore as the Lord lives an' the sun shines on a troubled world, you'll have to pay for it."
Several times during this remarkable tirade—remarkable because it was delivered with some vehemence, right in old Jonas's teeth—he made an effort to interrupt Mr. Sanders, but the latter had put him down with a gesture that a novel writer would call imperious. Imperious or not, it gave pause to whatever old Jonas had to say in his own behalf; and it must have all been true, too, for the old fellow finally turned away, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and pretended to be looking at something interesting that he saw from the window. Mr. Sanders, when he had concluded, was surprised to find that old Jonas seemed to be more hurt than angry; and he would have gone into the parlour where Adelaide was still playing with Cally-Lou, but old Jonas turned around and faced him.
"You've said a great many things, Sanders, that nobody else would have said, and I gather that you consider me to be a pretty mean fellow; but did it ever occur to you that perhaps I'm not as mean as I seem to be? Did it ever occur to you that a man could be so shy and suspicious that he was compelled to close his mind against what you call love and affection; and, that, with his mind thus closed, he could cease to believe in such things? I don't suppose you follow me; but it's the simple truth. That child in there won't be put to bed at night until she kisses me good-night, and, even then she wont go until I kiss her. Think of that, Sanders! No matter what you and other people may think, the child doesn't believe that I am a mean man."
"I could tell you, Jonas, that Adelaide ain't old enough for to tell a mean man ef she met him in the road. But I'll not do that, bekaze I know mighty well that you ain't as mean as you try to make out. Thar never was a man on this green globe that didn't have a tender spot in his gizzard for them that know'd jest when an' whar to tetch it. Ef I took you at your face value, Jonas, not only would I never put my foot in your house, but I wouldn't speak to you on the street. I tell you that flat an' plain."
The conversation of the two men had been carried on in a tone something louder than was absolutely necessary, especially on the part of Mr. Sanders. Indeed, finical folk would have said that the rosy-faced Georgian was actually rude; but he had found an opportunity to deliver himself of a burden that had long been a weight on his mind, and he did it in no uncertain terms. He fully expected either to find himself in the midst of a row, or to be ordered from old Jonas's house, and he had prepared himself for both emergencies. But instead of offending the lonely old money-lender, he had merely set him to thinking; and his thoughts were not very pleasant ones. He heard every word that Mr. Sanders said, and it was true, but even as he listened, the whole panorama of his past life moved before him, and he could see himself in a narrow perspective, living his cheerless childhood, his almost friendless youth, and his lonely manhood. In those days, long gone, he had had his dreams, even as now Adelaide had hers, but their existence was brief, and their date inconsiderable. He pitied the child, the youth, and the young man, but strange to say, he had no pity for the grown man to whom Mr. Sanders was reading one of his cornfield lectures. He knew that what he was, was the direct outgrowth and development of all that had gone before.
His sister had never understood him, and was afraid of him. He, silent and self-contained, never sought her confidence nor gave her his. A word from her, a word from him, would have made clear everything that was dark, or doubtful, or suspicious in their attitude toward each other. He thought that her silence spelled contempt of a certain kind, and she was sure that she had his hearty dislike. And so it went, as such matters do in this world where no one save a chosen few see more than an inch beyond their noses.
I could fetch Adelaide on the scene just by waving my hand, but there is no need to, for the tone in which Mr. Sanders pitched his lecture was quite sufficient. Her quick, firm steps sounded on the floor with such emphasis, that any one acquainted with the lady would have known that she was indignant. But her careful training told even here, for composure held her irritation in check, and her refinement showed in her attitude and gestures, giving her small person a cuteness and prettiness quite out of the common.
"Why, good gracious me, Bishop! You don't know how many noises you're making. How can Cally-Lou sleep in the house? She sleeps a good deal lately, and I'm afraid she'll be sick, poor little thing, if she wakes up quicker than she ought."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, in a loud and an excited whisper. "Now, don't tell me that Cally-Lou has gone and drapped off to sleep ag'in! Why, at this rate, she'll turn night into day, an' vicy-versy, an' Time, old an' settled as he is, will git turned wrong-sud-out'erds, an' ever'thing'll git so tangled up that you can't tell howdy from good-bye, ner ef the clock's tickin' backerds or forrerds; we'll git so turned around that we can't tell grasshoppers from turkey-buzzards. I'm reely sorry she didn't see you shoot the Boogerman, be jigger'd ef I ain't. The sight of that would 'a' made her open her eyes wider than they've been sence I fust know'd her."