The Jucklins: A Novel

by Opie Percival Read

I thanked him, telling him that I much preferred to walk. "All right, sir, and I will get down and walk with you until duty, sir," he said sonorously, with a bow; "until duty, sir, shall call us apart."

I urged him not to get down, telling him that I could easily keep pace with his horse, but he dismounted even before crossing the stream, preferring, he said, with another bow, to take his chances with me. And thus we walked onward, the horse following close, now and then "nosing" his master's shoulder to show his preference and his loyalty. The season was mellowing and the old gentleman was airily dressed in white, low shoes neatly polished and a Panama hat. He was delighted, he said, to hear that I was getting along so well with the school, and he knew that I would be of vast good to the community. "I have heard of the Aimes conspiracy," said he, "and I am glad that I met you, for I wanted to talk to you about it. The truth of it all is, not that you once larruped that fellow Bentley, but that old Aimes wishes to put a sly indignity upon me by misusing one who has been entertained at my house. That's the point, sir. He heard that I had given you countenance at my board, and what his sister afterward told him was an excuse for the exercise, sir, of his distemper. But, by—I came within one of swearing, sir. I used to curse like an overseer, but I joined the church not long ago, and I've been walking a tight rope ever since. But as I was about to say, you are not going to let those people humiliate you."

"I am going to do my duty," I answered, "and my duty does not tell me to be humiliated."

"Good, sir; first-rate. As a general thing, we do not look for the highest spirit in a school-teacher—pardon my frankness, for, as you know, one who is dependent upon a whole community, one who seeks to please many and varied persons, is not as likely to exhibit that independence and vigor of action which is characteristic of the man who stands solely upon honor, with nothing to appease save his own idea of right. But I forgot. The grandson of Captain Hawes needs no such homily. The Aimes family is a hard lot, sir, but a gentleman can at all times stand in smiling conquest above a tough. Scott Aimes, a burly scoundrel, and, therefore, the pet of his father, at one time threatened to chastize my son Chydister, who is now off at college. And I said not a word in reply, when my son told me of the threat. I merely pointed to a shot-gun above the library door and went on with my reading of the death notices in the newspaper. That gun is there now, sir, and whenever you want it, speak the word and it shall be yours."

I laughed to myself and thought that I must be getting on well with the old General—first the offer of his library and now of his gun—and I thanked him for the interest which he had shown in me, a mere stranger. "A well-bred Southerner is never a stranger in the South," said he. "We are held together by an affection stronger than any tie that runs from heart to heart in any other branch of the human family. But," he added, sadly shaking his head, "I fear that this affection is weakening. Our young men are becoming steeped in the strong commercial spirit of the North. I should like to continue this pleasant and elevating conversation, but here's where I am compelled to leave you."

"Can I assist you to mount?" I asked, hardly knowing what else to say. He shoved his hat back and looked at me in astonishment. "You are kind, sir, but I am not yet on the lift." But he instantly recognized that this was harsh, and with a broad smile he added: "Pardon me for my shortness of speech, but the truth is that a man who has spent much of his life in the saddle contemplates with horror the time when he must be helped to his seat."

"General, I am the one to ask pardon," I replied, bowing in my turn.

"Oh, no, I assure you!" he exclaimed, mounting his horse with more ease than I had expected to see. "It was your kindness of heart, sir; a courtesy, and though a courtesy may be a mistake, it is still a virtue. Look at that old field out there," he broke off. "Do you call that an advancement of civilization. By—the tight rope, again—it is desolation."

It seemed that while walking he had regarded me as his guest, but that now, astride his horse and I on foot, he looked upon me as a man whom he had simply met in the road.

"A return of prosperity," he said, gathering up his bridle rein, "a fine return, indeed. About another such a return and this infernal world won't be fit to live in. I wish you good morning, sir."