The Jucklins: A Novel

by Opie Percival Read

I had taken up the bag to throw it across the mare, but I dropped it upon the log step.

"You'll burst it if you don't mind, Mr. Hawes."

"But I handle it more tenderly than you do my heart!" I cried. "You have thrown my heart down in the dust and are trying to burst it."

Her hands flew to her ears. "Oh, I knew you were going to say something mean. But I can't hear you now. Isn't it an advantage to say what you please and not hear a word? You can do this way if you want to. No, I won't go—really, I can't. I mustn't leave mother."

She ran away toward the house, and I stood watching her until she was hidden behind the old man's "stockade." Torturer she was, sometimes with her dignity, but worse with her whimsical, childish ways, when she seemed to dance on the outer edge of my life, daring me to catch her in my arms. But was it not my size that made her feel like a child? It must have been, for whenever she spoke of Chyd she was deeply serious. I was resentful as I led the old mare toward the mill. Oh, I understood it all. She had seen that I sought to punish her, had read me as we sat together at the table, and now she was torturing me. Well, I would give her no further opportunity; I would let her lead young Lundsford into her mind and out again, just as it suited her fancy.

The coves and nooks and quiet pools that lay along the stream were dreamful; there was not a mighty rock nor bold surprising bluff to startle one with its grandeur, but at the end of every view was the promise of a resting place and never was the fancy led to disappointment. Now gurgle and drip, now perfect calm, the elm leaf motionless, the bird dreaming. And had history marched down that quiet vale a thousand years ago and tinged the water with the blood of man, how sweetly verse would sing its beauty, from what distances would come the poet and the artist, the rich man seeking rest—all would flock to marvel and to praise. Ah, we care but little for what nature has done, until man has placed his stamp upon it.

I loitered and mused upon going to the mill and upon returning home. And when I came within sight of the house I halted suddenly, wondering whether I had forgotten something. Yes, I had. I had forgotten my resolve to be cool and dignified under the reading eyes of that girl. I led the mare to the rear end of the passage and had taken off the bag of meal when Guinea came out.

"Mr. Hawes," she said, "I wish you would forgive me for the way I acted last night and this morning. Now let us be good friends, friends in trouble, and let us hereafter talk with sense and without restraint. I am going to be frank with you, for I don't see why I should be cramped. I am not going to pretend not to know—know something, and you must wait; we must all wait for—for anything that is to come. I hardly know what I am saying, but you understand me."

She held out her hand, and I took it, tremulously at first, but I held it with a firm and manly honesty as I looked into her eyes. "Yes, I understand you, and it shall be as you say. I have been strong with every one but you, and I am going to show you that I can be your friend. Wait a moment. You know what I think, but I will not hint at it again. It was mean of me—yes, I must say it—it was mean of me to jibe you. But I'll not do it again. If you only knew what my early life was. I was the victim of size, an awkward boy, the jest of a neighborhood; and while I might have outlived some of my awkwardness, I am still sensitive, for I carry scars."

"Awkward," she laughed. "Why, I don't see how you could have been called awkward. Everybody at the General's spoke of how graceful you were, and really it would make you vain if I were to tell you all that was said."