“Well,” said Alan, “you delivered the hams?”
“Yes.” Abner was looking straight ahead of him. “They was fer Colonel Seth Barclay. I driv' up to the side gate, after I'd helloed in front till I was hoarse, an' who do you reckon come trippin' out o' the dinin'-room?
It was her. Ef you hain't never ketched 'er off'n her guard round the house, you've missed a treat. Durned ef I don't like 'er better without a hat on than with all the fluffy flamdoodle that gals put on when they go out. She was as neat as a new pin, an' seemed powerful glad to see me. That made me bless the widder Snowden fer sendin' me thar. She said the cook was off som 'er's, an' that old nigger Ned, the stable-man, was in the garden-patch behind the house, so she was thar by 'erse'f. She actually looked like she wanted to tote in the hams 'erse'f ruther'n bother me; but you bet my old bones hopped off'n this seat quicker'n you could say Jack Robinson with yore mouth open. I was afeerd my team wouldn't stand, fer fellers was a-scootin' by on bicycles; but I tuck the hams to the back porch an' put 'em on a shelf out'n re'ch o' the dogs. Then I went back to my wagon. She follered me to the fence, an' I noticed that some 'n' was wrong with 'er. She looked so funny, an' droopy about the mouth, an' kept a-talkin' like she was afeerd I'd fly off. She axed all about Adele an' how she was a-makin' out down in Atlanta, an' said she'd heerd that Sis was mighty popular with the young men, an' from that she axed about my craps an' the meetin' goin' on at Big Bethel. Finally she got right white about the mouth, an' said, kinder shaky, that she was afeerd you was mad about some 'n' her pa'd said about you, an' I never seed a woman as nigh cryin' as she was without doin' of it.
“I told 'er I was at the fust of it; but I'd noticed how worried you've looked heer of late, an' so I told 'er I'd been afeerd some 'n' had come betwixt you two. Then she put her head down on the top rail o' the fence an' helt it thar fer a good minute. After a while she looked up an' told me all about it an' ended by axin' me ef I thought she was to blame in the matter. I told 'er no; but her old skunk of a daddy had acted sech a fool that I couldn't hold in. I reckon I told 'er jest about what I thought o' him an' the more I raked up agin 'im the better she seemed pleased. I tried to pin' er down to what she'd be willin' to do in a pinch ef her pa continued to hold out agin you, but she was too sharp to commit 'erse'f. It jest looked like she wanted to make up with you an' didn't want no row nuther.”
The horses stopped to drink at a clear stream of water which ran across the road on a bed of brown pebbles. The bridles were too tight to allow them to lower their heads, so Alan went out on the heavy tongue between the pair and unfastened the reins. When he had regained his seat he told the old man in detail all that had happened at the dance at the hotel, ending with the advice he had received from Rayburn Miller.
“I don't know about that,” Abner said. “Maybe Miller could call a halt like that an' go on like nothin' had happened. I don't say he could nur couldn't; but it's fool advice. You mought miss it, an' regret it to yore dyin' day.”
Alan looked at him in some surprise; he had hardly expected just that stand on the part of a confirmed old bachelor like his uncle. The old man's glance swept dreamily over the green fields on either side of the road across which the red rays of the setting sun were streaming. Then he took a deep breath and lowered the reins till they rested on the backs of the horses.
“My boy,” he began, “I'm a good mind to tell you some 'n' that I hain't mentioned fer mighty nigh forty yeer. I don't believe anything but my intrust in that town gal an' you would make me bring it up. Huh! Ray Miller says you kin pass 'er over jest as ef you'd never seed 'er, does he? An' go on an' pick an' choose agin. Huh! I wasn't as old as you are by five yeer when the one I'm talkin' about passed away, jest a week after me 'n' her 'd come to a understandin'. I've seed women, women, women, sence I seed 'er corpse that day amongst all that pile o' wild flowers that old an' young fetched from the woods whar me 'n' 'er used to walk, but ef I live to be as old as that thar hill I 'll never forget my feelin'. I kin see 'er right now as plain as I did then, an' sometimes my heart aches as bad. I reckon you know now why I never got married. Folks has poked a lots o' fun at me, an' I tuck it as it was intended, but a lots o' times what they said made me suffer simply awful. They've picked out this un an' that un, from spring chickins to hags o' all ages, shapes, an' sizes; but the very thought o' givin' anybody her place made me sick. Thar never was but one fer me. I may be a fool, but I believe I was intended fer her. Shucks! Sech skip-abouts as Miller may talk sech bosh as that, but it's because the Lord never give 'em the glory o' the other thing. It larnt me the truth about the after-life; I know thar's a time to come, an' a blessed one, ur the Lord never would 'a' give me that taste of it. She's som 'er's out o' harm's way, an' when me 'n' her meet I 'll not have a wrinkle, an' I 'll be able to walk as spry an' hopeful as I did when she was heer. Thar ort to be punishment reserved fer hard-headed fools that separate lovin' young folks beca'se one ur t'other hain't jest so many dollars tied in a rag. Don't you listen to Miller. I don't say you ort to plunge right in an' make the old man mad; but don't give up. Ef she's what I think she is, an' she sees you ain't a-goin' to run after no fresh face, she 'll stick to you like the bark on a tree. The wait won't hurt nuther one of you, either. My wait ain't a-hurtin' me, an' yore'n won't you. I never seed a young woman I liked better 'n I do the one you selected, an' I've sent up many a petition that you'd both make it all right.”
The old man raised his reins and clucked to his horses.
“Uncle Ab,” said Alan, “you've made a better man of me. I've had a lot of trouble over this, but you make me hope. I've tried to give her up, but I simply cannot do it.”