"No, no, no!" exclaimed Silas Tomlin, with a terrible frown; "you don't know a thing about it, not a thing in the world. He got back right after dinner."
"Well, ef he did," said Mrs. Absalom, coming forward, "he didn't come here. He ain't cast a shadow in this house sence day before yistiddy, when he went to Malvern."
"How are you, Mrs. Absalom?—how are you?" said Silas, with a tremendous effort at politeness. "I hope you are well; you are certainly looking well. You say your husband is not in? Well, I'm sorry; I wanted to see him on business; I wanted to get some information."
"Ab don't owe you anything, I hope," remarked Mrs. Absalom, ignoring the salutation.
"Not a thing—not a thing in the world. But why do you ask? Many people have the idea that I'm rolling in money—that's what I hear—and they think that I go about loaning it to Tom, Dick and Harry. But it is not so—it is not so; I have no money."
Mrs. Absalom laughed ironically, saying, "I reckon if your son Paul was to scratch about under the house, he'd find small change about in places."
Silas Tomlin looked hard at Mrs. Absalom, his little black eyes glistening under his coarse, heavy eyebrows like those of some wild animal. He was not a prepossessing man. He was so bald that he was compelled to wear a skull-cap, and the edge of this showed beneath the brim of his chimney-pot hat. His face needed a razor; and the grey beard coming through the cuticle, gave a ghastly, bluish tint to the pallor of his countenance. His broadcloth coat—Mrs. Absalom called it a "shadbelly"—was greasy at the collar, and worn at the seams, and his waistcoat was stained with ambeer. His trousers, which were much too large for him, bagged at the knees, and his boots were run down at the heels. Though he was temperate to the last degree, he had the appearance of a man who is the victim of some artificial stimulant.
"What put that idea in your head, Mrs. Goodlett?" he asked, after looking long and searchingly at Mrs. Absalom.
"Well, I allowed that when you was countin' out your cash, a thrip or two mought have slipped through the cracks in the floor," she replied; "sech things have happened before now."
He wiped his thin lips with his lean forefinger, and stood hesitating, whereupon Mrs. Absalom remarked: "It sha'n't cost you a cent ef you'll come in. Ab'll be here purty soon ef somebody ain't been fool enough to give him his dinner. His health'll fail him long before his appetite does. Show Mr. Tomlin in the parlour, Gabriel, an' I'll see about Ab's dinner; I don't want it to burn to a cracklin' before he gits it."
Silas Tomlin went into the parlour and sat down, while Gabriel stood hesitating, not knowing what to do or say. He was embarrassed, and Silas Tomlin saw it. "Oh, take a seat," he said, with a show of impatience. "What are you doing for yourself, Tolliver? You're a big boy now, and you ought to be making good money. We'll all have to work now: we'll have to buckle right down to it. The way I look at it, the man who is doing nothing is throwing money away; yes, sir, throwing it away. What does Adam Smith say? Why, he says——"
Gabriel never found out what particular statement of Adam Smith was to be thrown at his head, for at that moment, Mr. Goodlett called out from the dining-room: "Si Tomlin in there, Gabriel? Well, fetch him out here whar I live at. I ain't got no parlours for company." By the time that Gabriel had led Mr. Silas Tomlin into the dining-room, Mr. Goodlett had a plate of victuals carrying it to the kitchen; and he remarked as he went along, "I got nuther parlours nor dinin'-rooms: fetch him out here to the kitchen whar we both b'long at."
If Silas Tomlin objected to this arrangement, he gave no sign; he followed without a word, Mr. Goodlett placed his plate on the table where the dishes were washed, and dropped his hat on the floor beside him, and began to attack his dinner most vigorously. Believing, evidently, that ordinary politeness would be wasted here, Silas entered at once on the business that had brought him to Dorringtons'.
"Sorry to trouble you, Goodlett," he said by way of making a beginning.
"I notice you ain't cryin' none to hurt," remarked Mr. Goodlett placidly. "An' ef you was, you'd be cryin' for nothin'. You ain't troublin' me a mite. Forty an' four like you can't trouble me."
"You'll have to excuse Ab," said Mrs. Goodlett, who had preceded Gabriel and Silas to the kitchen. "He's lost his cud, an' he won't be right well till he finds it ag'in." She placed her hand over her mouth to hide her smiles.
Silas Tomlin paid no attention to this by-play. He stood like a man who is waiting an opportunity to get in a word.
"Goodlett, who were the ladies you brought from Malvern to-day?" His face was very serious.
"You know 'em lots better'n I do. The oldest seed you out in the field, an' she axed me who you mought be. I told her, bekaze I ain't got no secrets from my passengers, specially when they're good-lookin' an' plank down the'r money before they start. Arter I told 'em who you was, the oldest made you a mighty purty bow, but you wer'n't polite enough for to take off your hat. I dunno as I blame you much, all things considered. Then the youngest, she's the daughter, she says, says she, 'Is that reely him, ma?' an' t'other one, says she, 'Ef it's him, honey, he's swunk turrible.' She said them very words."
"I wonder who in the world they can be?" said Silas Tomlin, as if talking to himself.
"You'll think of the'r names arter awhile," Mr. Goodlett remarked by way of consolation, but his tone was so suspicious that Silas turned on his heel—he had started out—and asked Mr. Goodlett what he meant.
"Adzackly what I said, nuther more nor less."
Mrs. Absalom was so curious to find out something more that Silas was hardly out of the house before she began to ply her husband with questions. But they were all futile. Mr. Goodlett knew no more than that he had brought the women from Malvern; that they had chanced to spy old Silas Tomlin in a field by the side of the road, and that when the elder of the two women found out what his name was, she made him a bow, which Silas wasn't polite enough to return.
"That's all I know," remarked Mr. Goodlett. "Dog take the wimmen anyhow!" he exclaimed indignantly; "ef they'd stay at home they'd be all right; but here they go, a-trapesin' an' a-trollopin' all over creation, an' a-givin' trouble wherever they go. They git me so muddled an' befuddled wi' ther whickerin' an' snickerin' that I dunner which een' I'm a-stannin' on half the time. Nex' time they want to ride wi' me, I'll say, 'Walk!' By jacks! I won't haul 'em."
This episode, if it may be called such, made small impression on Gabriel's mind, but it tickled Mrs. Goodlett's mind into activity, and the lad heard more of Silas Tomlin during the next hour than he had ever known before. In a manner, Silas was a very important factor in the community, as money-lenders always are, but according to Gabriel's idea, he was always one of the poorest creatures in the world.
When he was a young man, Silas joined the tide of emigration that was flowing westward. He went to Mississippi, where he married his first wife. In a year's time, he returned to his old home. When asked about his wife—for he returned alone—he curtly answered that she was well enough off. Mrs. Absalom was among those who made the inquiry, and her prompt comment was, "She's well off ef she's dead; I'll say that much."
But there was a persistent rumour, coming from no one knew where, that when a child was born to Silas, the wife was seized with such a horror of the father that the bare sight of him would cause her to scream, and she constantly implored her people to send him away. It is curious how rumours will travel far and wide, from State to State, creeping through swamps, flying over deserts and waste places, and coming home at last as the carrier-pigeon does, especially if there happens to be a grain of truth in them.
It turned out that the lady, in regard to whom Silas Tomlin expressed such curiosity, was a Mrs. Claiborne, of Kentucky, who, with her daughter, had refugeed from point to point in advance of the Federal army. Finally, when peace came, the lady concluded to make her home in Georgia, where she had relatives, and she selected Shady Dale as her place of abode on account of its beauty. These facts became known later.
Evidently the new-comers had resources, for they arranged to occupy the Gaither house, taking it as it stood, with Miss Polly Gaither, furniture and all. This arrangement must have been satisfactory to Miss Polly in the first place, or it would never have been made; and it certainly relieved her of the necessity of living on the charity of her neighbours, under pretence of borrowing from them. But so strange a bundle of contradictions is human nature, that no sooner had Miss Polly begun to enjoy the abundance that was now showered upon her in the shape of victuals and drink than she took her ear-trumpet in one hand and her work-bag in the other, and went abroad, gossiping about her tenants, telling what she thought they said, and commenting on their actions—not maliciously, but simply with a desire to feed the curiosity of the neighbours.
In order to do this more effectually, Miss Polly returned visits that had been made to her before the war. There was nothing in her talk to discredit the Claibornes or to injure their characters. They were strangers to the community, and there was a natural and perfectly legitimate curiosity on the part of the town to learn something of their history. Miss Polly could not satisfy this curiosity, but she could whet it by leaving at each one's door choice selections from her catalogue of the sayings and doings of the new-comers—wearing all the time a dress that Miss Eugenia, the daughter, had made over for her. Miss Polly was a dumpy little woman, and, with her wen, her ear-trumpet, and her work-bag, she cut a queer figure as she waddled along.
There was one piece of information she gave out that puzzled the community no little. According to Miss Polly, the Claibornes had hardly settled themselves in their new home before Silas Tomlin called on them. "I can't hear as well as I used to," said Miss Polly—she was deaf as a door-post—"but I can see as well as anybody; yes indeed, as well as anybody in the world. And I tell you, Lucy Lumsden"—she was talking to Gabriel's grandmother—"as soon as old Silas darkened the door, I knew he was worried. I never saw a grown person so fidgety and nervous, unless it was Micajah Clemmons, and he's got the rickets, poor man. So I says to myself, 'I'll watch you,' and watch I did. Well, when Mrs. Claiborne came into the parlour, she bowed very politely to old Silas, but I could see that she could hardly keep from laughing in his face; and I don't blame her, for the way old Silas went on was perfectly ridiculous. He spit and he spluttered, and sawed the air with his arms, and buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, and jerked at the bottom of his wescut till I really thought he'd pull the front out. I wish you could have seen him, Lucy Lumsden, I do indeed. And when the door was shut on him, Mrs. Claiborne flung herself down on a sofa, and laughed until she frightened her daughter. I don't complain about my afflictions as a general thing, Lucy, but I would have given anything that day if my hearing had been as good as it used to be."
And though Gabriel's grandmother was a woman of the highest principles, holding eavesdropping in the greatest contempt, it is possible that she would have owned to a mild regret that Miss Polly Gaither was too deaf to hear what Silas Tomlin's troubles were. This was natural, too, for, on account of the persistent rumours that had followed Silas home from Mississippi, there was always something of a mystery in regard to his first matrimonial venture. There was none about his second. A year or two after he returned home he married Susan Pritchard, whose father was a prosperous farmer, living several miles from town. Susan bore Silas a son and died. She was a pious woman, and with her last breath named the child Paul, on account of the conjunction of the names of Paul and Silas in the New Testament. Paul grew up to be one of the most popular young men in the community.
All that has been set down thus far, you will say, is trifling, unimportant and wearisome. Your decision is not to be disputed; but if, by an effort of the mind, you could throw yourself back to those dread days, you would understand what a diversion these trifling events and episodes created for the heart-stricken and soul-weary people of that region. The death of Margaret Bridalbin moved them to pity, and awoke in their minds pleasing memories of happier days, when peace and prosperity held undisputed sway in all directions. The arrival of the Claibornes had much the same effect. It gave the community something to talk about, and, in a small measure, took them out of themselves. Moreover, the Claibornes, mother and daughter, proved to be very attractive additions to the town's society. They were both bright and good-humoured, and the daughter was very beautiful.
To a people overwhelmed with despair, the most trifling episode becomes curiously magnified. The case of Mr. Goodlett is very much to the point. He was merely an individual, it is true, but in some respects an individual represents the mass. When Sherman's men hanged him to a limb, under the mistaken notion that he was the custodian of the Clopton plate, the last thing he remembered as he lost consciousness, was the ticking of his watch. It sounded in his ears, he said, as loud as the blows of a sledge-hammer falling on an anvil. From that day until he died, he never could bear to hear the ticking of a watch. He gave his time-piece to his wife, who put it away with her other relics and treasures.
How it was with other communities it is not for this chronicler to say, but the collapse of the Confederacy, coming when it did, was an event that Shady Dale least expected. The last trump will cause no greater surprise and consternation the world over, than the news of Lee's surrender caused in that region. The public mind had not been prepared for such an event, especially in those districts remote from the centres of information. Almost every piece of news printed in the journals of the day was coloured with the prospect of ultimate victory: and when the curtain suddenly came down and the lights went out, no language can describe the grief, the despair, and the feeling of abject humiliation that fell upon the white population in the small towns and village communities. How it was in the cities has not been recorded, but it is to be presumed that then, as now, the demands and necessities of trade and business were powerful enough to overcome and destroy the worst effects of a calamity that attacked the sentiments and emotions.
It has been demonstrated recently on some very wide fields of action that the atmosphere of commercialism is unfavourable to the growth of sentiments of an ideal character. That is why wise men who believe in the finer issues of life are inclined to be suspicious of what is loosely called civilisation and progress, and doubtful of the theories of those who clothe themselves in the mantle of science.
Whatever the feeling in the cities may have been when news of the surrender came, it caused the most poignant grief and despair in the country places: and there, as elsewhere in this world, whenever suffering is to be borne, the most of the burden falls on the shoulders of the women. It is at once the strength and weakness of the sex that woman suffers more than man and is more capable of enduring the pangs of suffering.
As for the men they soon recovered from the shock. They were startled and stunned, but when they opened their eyes to the situation they found themselves confronted by conditions that had no precedent or parallel in the history of the world. It is small fault if their minds failed at first to grasp the significance and the import of these conditions, so new were they and so amazing.
A few years later, Gabriel Tolliver, who, when the surrender came, was a lad just beyond seventeen, took himself severely to task before a public assemblage for his blindness in 1865, and the years immediately following; and his criticisms must have gone home to others, for the older men who sat in the audience rose to their feet and shook the house with their applause. They, too, had been as blind as the boy.
It was perhaps well for Shady Dale that Mr. Sanders came home when he did. He had been in the field, if not on the forum. He had mingled with public men, and, as he himself contended, had been "closeted" with one of the greatest men the country ever produced—the reference being to Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Sanders had to tell over and over again the story of how he and Frank Bethune didn't kidnap the President; and he brought home hundreds of rich and racy anecdotes that he had picked up in the camp. In those awful days when there was little ready money to be had, and business was at a standstill, and the courts demoralised, and the whole social fabric threatening to fall to pieces, it was Mr. Billy Sanders who went around scattering cheerfulness and good-humour as carelessly as the children scatter the flowers they have gathered in the fields.
Mr. Sanders and Francis Bethune had formed a part of the escort that went with Mr. Davis as far as Washington in Wilkes County. On this account, Mr. Sanders boasted that at the last meeting of the Confederate Cabinet held in that town, he had elected himself a member, and was duly installed. "It was the same," he used to say, "as j'inin' the Free-masons. The doorkeeper gi' me the grip an' the password, the head man of the war department knocked me on the forrerd, an' the thing was done. When Mr. Davis was ready to go, he took me by the hand, an' says, 'William,' says he, 'keep house for the boys till I git back, an' be shore that you cheer 'em up.'"
This sort of nonsense served its purpose, as Mr. Sanders intended that it should. Wherever he appeared on the streets a crowd gathered around him—as large a crowd as the town could furnish. To a spectator standing a little distance away and out of hearing, the attitude and movements of these groups presented a singular appearance. The individuals would move about and swap places, trying to get closer to Mr. Sanders. There would be a period of silence, and then, suddenly, loud shouts of laughter would rend the air. Such a spectator, if a stranger, might easily have imagined that these men and boys, standing close together, and shouting with laughter at intervals, were engaged in practising a part to be presented in a rural comedy—or that they were a parcel of simpletons.
One peculiarity of Mr. Sanders's humour was that it could not be imitated with any degree of success. His raciest anecdote lost a large part of its flavour when repeated by some one else. It was the way he told it, a cut of the eye, a lift of the eyebrow, a movement of the hand, a sudden air of solemnity—these were the accessories that gave point and charm to the humour.
Mr. Sanders had cut out a very large piece of work for himself. He kept it up for some time, but he gradually allowed himself longer and longer intervals of seriousness. The multitude of problems growing out of the new and strange conditions were of a thought-compelling nature; and they grew larger and more ominous as the days went by. Gabriel Tolliver might take to the woods, as the saying is, and so escape from the prevailing depression. But Mr. Sanders and the rest of the men had no such resource; responsibility sat on their shoulders, and they were compelled to face the conditions and study them. Gabriel could sit on the fence by the roadside, and see neither portent nor peril in the groups and gangs of negroes passing and repassing, and moving restlessly to and fro, some with bundles and some with none. He watched them, as he afterward complained, with a curiosity as idle as that which moves a little child to watch a swarm of ants. He noticed, however, that the negroes were no longer cheerful. Their child-like gaiety had vanished. In place of their loud laughter, their boisterous play, and their songs welling forth and filling the twilight places with sweet melodies, there was silence. Gabriel had no reason to regard this silence as ominous, but it was so regarded by his elders.
He thought that the restless and uneasy movements of the negroes were perfectly natural. They had suddenly come to the knowledge that they were free, and they were testing the nature and limits of their freedom. They desired to find out its length and its breadth. So much was clear to Gabriel, but it was not clear to his elders. And what a pity that it was not! How many mistakes would have been avoided! What a dreadful tangle and turmoil would have been prevented if these grown children could have been judged from Gabriel's point of view! For the boy's interpretation of the restlessness and uneasiness of the blacks was the correct one. Your historians will tell you that the situation was extraordinary and full of peril. Well, extraordinary, if you will, but not perilous. Gabriel could never be brought to believe that there was anything to be dreaded in the attitude of the blacks. What he scored himself for in the days to come was that his interest in the matter never rose above the idle curiosity of a boy.
And yet there were some developments calculated to pique curiosity. A few years before the war, one of Madame Awtry's nephews from Massachusetts came in to the neighbourhood preaching freedom to the negroes. As a result, a large body of the Clopton negroes gathered around the house one morning with many breathings and mutterings. Uncle Plato, the carriage-driver, went to his master with a very grave face, and announced that the hands, instead of going to work, had come in a body to the house.
"Well, go and see what they want, Plato," said the master of the Clopton Place.
"I done ax um dat, suh," replied Uncle Plato, "an' dey say p'intedly dat dey want ter see you."
"Very well; where is Mr. Sanders?"
"He out dar, suh, makin' fun un um."
When Meriwether Clopton went out, he was told by old man Isaiah, the foreman of the field-hands, that the boys didn't want to be "Bledserd." It was some time before the master could understand what the old man meant, but Mr. Sanders finally made it clear, and Meriwether Clopton sent the negroes about their business with a promise that none of them should ever be "Bledserd" by his consent.
A year or two before this "rising" occurred, General Jesse Bledsoe had died leaving a will, by the terms of which all his negroes were given their freedom, and provision was made for their transportation to a free State. But the General had relatives, who put in their claims, and succeeded in breaking the will, with the result that many of the negroes were carried to the West and Southwest, bringing about a wholesale separation of families, the first that had ever occurred in that section. The impression it made on both whites and negroes was a lasting one. In the minds of the blacks, freedom was only another name for "Bledserin'."
Nevertheless, when, after the collapse of the Confederacy and the advent of Sherman's army, the Clopton negroes were told that they were free, a large number of them joined the restless, migratory throng that passed to and fro along the public highway, some coming, some going, but all moved by the same irresistible impulse to test their freedom—to see if they really could come hither and go yonder without let or hinderance. Uncle Plato and his family, with a dozen others who were sagacious enough to follow the old man's example, remained in their places and fared better than the rest.
For a time Shady Dale rested peacefully in its seclusion, watching the course of events with apparent tranquillity. But behind this appearance of repose there was a good deal of restlessness and uneasiness. Sometimes its bosom (so to speak) was inflamed with anger, and sometimes it would be sunk in despair. One of the events that brought Shady Dale closer to the troubles that the newspapers were full of, was a circular letter issued by Major Tomlin Perdue, of Halcyondale. Major Perdue had returned home thoroughly reconstructed. He was full of admiration for General Grant's attitude toward General Lee, and he endorsed with all his heart the tone and spirit of Lee's address to his old soldiers; but when he saw the unexpected turn that the politicians had been able to give to events, he found it hard to hold his peace. Finally, when he could restrain himself no longer, he incited his friends to hold a meeting and propose his name as a candidate for Congress. This was done, and the Major seized the opportunity to issue a circular letter declining the nomination, and giving his reasons therefor. This letter remains to this day the most scathing arraignment of carpet-baggery, bayonet rule, and the Republican Party generally that has ever been put in print. It contained some decidedly picturesque references to the personality of the commander of the Georgia district, who happened to be General Pope, the famous soldier who had his head-quarters in the saddle at a very interesting period of the Civil War.
Major Perdue did not intend it so, but his letter was a piece of pure recklessness. The effect of this scorching document was to bring a company of Federal troops to Halcyondale, and in the course of a few weeks a detachment was stationed at Shady Dale. In each case they brought their tents with them, and went into camp. This was taken as a signal by the carpet-baggers that the region round-about was to be cultivated for political purposes, and forthwith they began operations, receiving occasional accessions in the person of a number of scalawags, the most respectable and conscientious of these being Mr. Mahlon Butts, who had been a vigorous and consistent Union man all through the war. He could be neither convinced nor intimidated, and his consistency won for him the respect of his neighbours. But when the carpet-baggers made their appearance, and Mahlon Butts began to fraternise with them, he was ostracised along with the rest.
It soon became necessary for the whites to take counsel together, and Shady Dale became, as it had been before the war, the Mecca of the various leaders. Before the war, the politicians of both parties were in the habit of meeting at Shady Dale, enjoying the barbecues for which the town was famous, and taking advantage of the occasion to lay out the programme of the campaign. And now, when it was necessary to organise a white man's party, the leaders turned their eyes and their steps to Shady Dale.
Then it was that Gabriel had an opportunity to see Toombs, and Stephens, and Hill, and Herschel V. Johnson—he who was on the national ticket with Douglas in 1860—and other men who were to become prominent later. There were some differences of opinion to be settled. A few of the leaders had advised the white voters to take no part in the political farce which Congress had arranged, but to leave it all to the negroes and the aliens, especially as so many of the white voters had been disfranchised, or were labouring under political disabilities. Others, on the contrary, advised the white voters to qualify as rapidly as possible. It was this difference of opinion that remained to be settled, so far as Georgia was concerned.
It was Gabriel's acquaintance with Mr. Stephens that first fired his ambition. Here was a frail, weak man, hardly able to stand alone, who had been an invalid all his life, and yet had won renown, and by his wisdom and conservatism had gained the confidence and esteem of men of all parties and of all shades of opinion. His willpower and his energy lifted him above his bodily weakness and ills, and carried him through some of the most arduous campaigns that ever occurred in Georgia, where heated canvasses were the rule and not the exception. Watching him closely, and noting his wonderful vivacity and cheerfulness, Gabriel Tolliver came to the conclusion that if an invalid could win fame a strong healthy lad should be able to make his mark.
It fell out that Gabriel attracted the attention of Mr. Stephens, who was always partial to young men. He made the lad sit near him, drew him out, and gave him some sound advice in regard to his studies. At the suggestion of Mr. Stephens, the lad was permitted to attend the conferences, which were all informal, and the kindly statesman took pains to introduce the awkward, blushing youngster to all the prominent men who came.
It was curious, Gabriel thought, how easily and naturally the invalid led the conversation into the channel he desired. He was smoking a clay pipe, which his faithful body-servant replenished from time to time. "Mr. Sanders," he began, "I have heard a good deal about your attempt to kidnap Lincoln. What did you think of Lincoln anyhow?"
"Well, sir, I thought, an' still think that he was the best all-'round man I ever laid eyes on."
"He certainly was a very great man," remarked Mr. Stephens. "I knew him well before the war. We were in Congress together. It is odd that he showed no remarkable traits at that time."
"Well," replied Mr. Sanders, "arter the Dimmycrats elected him President, he found hisself in a corner, an' he jest had to be a big man."
"You mean after the Republicans elected him," some one suggested.
"Not a bit of it,—not a bit of it!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Why the Republicans didn't have enough votes to elect three governors, much less a President. But the Dimmycrats, bein' perlite by natur' an' not troubled wi' any surplus common sense, divided up the'r votes, an' the Republicans walked in an' took the cake. If you ever hear of me votin' the Dimmycrat ticket—an' I reckon I'll have to do it—you may jest put it down that it ain't bekase I want to, but bekase I'm ableege to. The party ain't hardly got life left in it, an' yit here you big men are wranglin' an' jowerin' as to whether you'll set down an' let a drove of mules run over you, or whether you'll stan' up to the rack, fodder or no fodder."
"This brings us to the very point we are to discuss," said Mr. Stephens, laughing. "I may say in the beginning that I am much of Mr. Sanders's opinion. Some very able men insist that if we take no part in this reconstruction business, we'll not be responsible for it. That is true, but we will have to endure the consequences just the same. Radicalism has majorities at present, but these will disappear after a time."
"I reckon some of us can be trusted to wear away a few majorities," said Mr. Sanders, dryly, and it was his last contribution to the discussion. As might be supposed, no definite policy was hit upon. The conditions were so new to those who had to deal with them, that, after an interchange of views, the company separated, feeling that the policy proper to be pursued would arise naturally out of the immediate necessities of the occasion, or the special character of the situation. This was the view of Mr. Stephens, who, as he was still suffering from his confinement in prison, accepted the invitation of Meriwether Clopton to remain at Shady Dale for a week or more.
During that week, there was hardly a day that Gabriel did not go to the Clopton Place. He went because he could see that his presence was agreeable to Mr. Stephens, as well as to Meriwether Clopton. He was led along to join in the conversation which the older men were carrying on, and in that way he gained more substantial information about political principles and policies than he could have found in the books and the newspapers.
Moreover, Gabriel came in closer contact with Francis Bethune. That young gentleman seized the opportunity to invite Gabriel to his room, where they had several familiar and pleasant talks. Bethune told Gabriel much that was interesting about the war, and about the men he had met in Richmond and Washington. He also related many interesting incidents and stories of adventure, in which he had taken part. But he never once put himself forward as the hero of an exploit. On the contrary, he was always in the background; invariably, it was some one else to whom he gave the credit of success, taking upon himself the responsibility of the failures.
Gabriel had never suspected this proud-looking young man of modesty, and he at once began to admire and like Bethune, who was not only genial, but congenial. He seemed to take a real interest in Gabriel, and gave him a good deal of sober advice which he should have taken himself.
"I'll never be anything but plain Bethune," he said to Gabriel. "I'd like to do something or be something for the sake of those who have had the care of me; but it isn't in me. I don't know why, but the other fellow gets there first when there's something to be won. And when I am first it leads to trouble. Take my college scrape; you've heard about it, no doubt. Well, the boys there have been playing poker ever since there was a college, and they'll play it as long as the college remains; but the first game I was inveigled into, the Chancellor walked in upon us while I was shuffling the cards, and stood at my back and heard me cursing the others because they had suddenly turned to their books. 'That will do, Mr. Bethune,' said the Chancellor; 'we have had enough profanity for to-night.' Well, that has been the way all through. I wanted to win rank in the army—and I did; I ranked everybody as the king-bee of insubordination. That isn't all. Take my gait—the way I walk; everybody thinks I hold my head up and swagger because I am vain. But look at the matter with clear eyes, Tolliver; I walk that way because it is natural to me. As for vanity, what on earth have I to be vain of?"
"Well, you are young, you know," said Gabriel—"almost as young as I am; and though you have been unlucky, that is no sign that it will always be so."
"No, Tolliver, I am several years older than you. All your opportunities are still to come; and if I can do nothing myself, I should like to see you succeed. I have heard my grandfather say some fine things about you."
Now, such talk as that, when it carries the evidence of sincerity along with it, is bound to win a young fellow over; youth cannot resist it. Bethune won Gabriel, and won him completely. It was so pleasing to Gabriel to be able to have a cordial liking for Bethune that he had the feelings of those who gain a moral victory over themselves in the matter of some evil habit or passion. His grandmother smiled fondly on his enthusiasm, remarking:
"Yes, Gabriel; he is certainly a fine young gentleman, and I am glad of it for Nan's sake. He will be sure to make her happy, and she deserves happiness as much as any human being I ever knew."
Gabriel also thought that Nan deserved to be very happy, but he could imagine several forms of happiness that did not include marriage with Bethune, however much he might admire his friend. And his enthusiastic praises of Bethune ceased so suddenly that his grandmother looked at him curiously. The truth is, her remarks about Nan and Bethune always gave Gabriel a cold chill. His grandmother was to him the fountain-head of wisdom, the embodiment of experience. When he was a bit of a lad, she used to untie all the hard knots, and untangle all the tangles that persisted in invading his large collection of string, cords and twines, and the ease with which she did this—for the knots seemed to come untied of their own accord, and the tangles to vanish as soon as her fingers touched them—gave Gabriel an impression of her ability that he never lost. Her word was law with him, though he had frequently broken the law, and her judgment was infallible.
Gabriel renewed his enthusiasm for Bethune as soon as he had an opportunity to see Nan. These opportunities became rarer and rarer as the days went by. Sometimes she was friendly and familiar, as on the day when she went home with him to hear the story of poor Margaret Gaither; but oftener she was cool and dignified, and appeared to be inclined to patronise her old friend and comrade. This was certainly her attitude when Gabriel began to sing the praises of Francis Bethune when, on one occasion, he met her on the street.
"I'm sure it is very good of you, Gabriel, to speak so kindly of Mr. Bethune," she said. "No doubt he deserves it all. He also says some very nice things about you, so I've heard. Nonny says there's some sort of an agreement between you—'you tickle me and I'll tickle you.' Oh, there's nothing for you to blush about, Gabriel," she went on very seriously. "Nonny may laugh at it, but I think it speaks well for both you and Mr. Bethune."
Gabriel made no reply, and as he stood there looking at Nan, and realising for the first time what he had only dimly suspected before, that they could no longer be comrades and chums, he presented a very uncomfortable spectacle. He was the picture of awkwardness. His hands and his feet were all in his way, and for the first time in his life he felt cheap. Nan had suddenly loomed up as a woman grown. It is true that she resolutely refused to follow the prevailing fashion and wear hoop-skirts, but this fact and her long dress simply gave emphasis to the fact that she was grown.
"Well, Nan, I'm very sorry," said Gabriel, by way of saying something. He spoke the truth without knowing why.
"Sorry! Why should you be sorry?" cried Nan. "I think you have everything to make you glad. You have your Mr. Bethune, and no longer than yesterday I heard Eugenia Claiborne say that you are the handsomest man she ever saw—yes, she called you a man. She declared that she never knew before that curly hair could be so becoming to a man. And Margaret says that you and Eugenia would just suit each other, she a blonde and you a brunette."
Gabriel blushed again in spite of himself, and laughed, too—laughed at the incongruity of the situation. This Nan, with her long gingham frock, and her serious ways, was no more like the Nan he had known than if she had come from another world. It was laughable, of course, and pathetic, too, for Gabriel could laugh and feel sorry at the same moment.
"You haven't told me why you are sorry," said Nan, when the lad's silence had become embarrassing to her.
"Well, I am just sorry," Gabriel replied.
"You are angry," she declared.
"No," he insisted, "I am just sorry. I don't know why, unless it's because you are not the same. You have been changing all the time, I reckon, but I never noticed it so much until to-day." His tone was one of complaint.
As Nan stood there regarding Gabriel with an expression of perplexity in her countenance, and tapping the ground impatiently with one foot, the two young people got their first whiff of the troubles that had been slowly gathering over that region. Around the corner near which they stood, two men had paused to finish an earnest conversation. Evidently they had been walking along, but their talk had become so interesting, apparently, that they paused involuntarily. They were hid from Nan and Gabriel by the high brick wall that enclosed Madame Awtry's back yard.
"As president of this league," said a voice which neither Nan nor Gabriel could recognise, "you will have great responsibility. I hope you realise it."
"I'm in hopes I does, suh," replied the other, whose voice there was no difficulty in recognising as that of the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin.
"As you so aptly put it last night at your church, the bottom rail is now on top, and it will stay there if the coloured people know their own interests. Every dollar that has been made in the South during the parst two hundred years was made by the niggeroes and belongs to them."
"Dat is so, suh; dat is de Lord's trufe. I realise dat, suh; an' I'll try fer ter make my people reelize it," responded the Rev. Jeremiah.
"What you lack in experience," continued the first speaker, "you make up in numbers. It is important to remember that. Organise your race, get them together, impress upon them the necessity of acting as one man. Once organised, you will find leaders. All the arrangements have been made for that."
"I hears you, suh; an' b'lieves you," replied the Rev. Jeremiah with great ceremony.
"You have seen white men from a distance coming and going. Where did they go?"
"Dey went ter Clopton's, suh; right dar an' nowhars else. I seed um, suh, wid my own eyes."
"You don't know what they came for. Well, I will tell you: they came here to devise some plan by which they can deprive the niggeroes of the right to vote. Now, what do you suppose would be the simplest way to do this?" The Rev. Jeremiah made no reply. He was evidently waiting in awe to hear what the plan was. "You don't know," the first speaker went on to say; "well, I will tell you. They propose to re-enslave the coloured people. They propose to take the ballots out of their hands and put in their place, the hoe and the plough-handles. They propose to deprive you of the freedom bestowed upon you by the martyr President."
"You don't tell me, suh! Well, well!"
"Yes, that is their object, and they will undoubtedly succeed if your people do not organise, and stand together, and give their support to the Republican Party."
"I has b'longed ter de Erpublican Party, suh, sense fust I heard de name."
"We meet to-night in the school-house. Bring only a few—men whom you can trust, and the older they are the better."
"I ain't so right down suttin and sho' 'bout dat, suh. Some er de ol' ones is mighty sot in der ways; dey ain't got de l'arnin', suh, an' dey dunner what's good fer 'm. But I'll pick out some, suh; I'll try fer ter fetch de ones what'll do us de mos' good."
"Very well, Mr. Tommerlin; the old school-house is the place, and there'll be no lights that can be seen from the outside. Rap three times slowly, and twice quickly—so. The password is——"
He must have whispered it, for no sound came to the ears of Nan and Gabriel. The latter motioned his head to Nan, and the two walked around the corner. As they turned Nan was saying, "You must go with me some day, and call on Eugenia Claiborne; she'll be delighted to see you—and she's just lovely."
What answer Gabriel made he never knew, so intently was he engaged in trying to digest what he had heard. The Rev. Jeremiah took off his hat and smiled broadly, as he gave Nan and Gabriel a ceremonious bow. They responded to his salute and passed on. The white man who had been talking to the negro was a stranger to both of them, though both came to know him very well—too well, in fact—a few months later. He had about him the air of a preacher, his coat being of the cut and colour of the garments worn by clergymen. His countenance was pale, but all his features, except his eyes, stood for energy and determination. The eyes were restless and shifty, giving him an appearance of uneasiness.
"What does he mean?" inquired Nan, when they were out of hearing.
"He means a good deal," replied Gabriel, who as an interested listener at the conferences of the white leaders, had heard several prominent men express fears that just such statements would be made to the negroes by the carpet-bag element; and now here was a man pouring the most alarming and exciting tidings into the ears of a negro on the public streets. True, he had no idea that any one but the Rev. Jeremiah was in hearing, but the tone of his voice was not moderated. What he said, he said right out.
"But what do you mean by a good deal?" Nan asked.
"You heard what he said," Gabriel answered, "and you must see what he is trying to do. Suppose he should convince the negroes that the whites are trying to put them back in slavery, and they should rise and kill the whites and burn all the houses?"
"Now, Gabriel, you know that is all nonsense," replied Nan, trying to laugh. In spite of her effort to smile at Gabriel's explanation, her face was very serious indeed.
"Yonder comes Miss Claiborne," said Gabriel. "Good-bye, Nan; I'm still sorry you are not as you used to be. I must go and see Mr. Sanders." With that, he turned out of the main street, and went running across the square.
"That child worries me," said Nan, uttering her thought aloud, and unconsciously using an expression she had often heard on Mrs. Absalom's tongue. "Did you see that great gawk of a boy?" she went on, as Eugenia Claiborne came up. "He hasn't the least dignity."
"Well, you should be glad of that, Nan," Eugenia suggested.
"I? Well, please excuse me. If there is anything I admire in other people, it is dignity." She straightened herself up and assumed such a serious attitude that Eugenia became convulsed with laughter.
"What did you do to Gabriel, Nan, that he should be running away from you at such a rate? Or did he run because he saw me coming?" Before Nan could make any reply, Eugenia seized her by both elbows—"And, oh, Nan! you know the Yankee captain who is in command of the Yankee soldiers here? Well, his name is Falconer, and mother says he is our cousin. And would you believe it, she wanted to ask him to tea. I cried when she told me; I never was so angry in my life. Why, I wouldn't stay in the same house nor eat at the same table with one who is an enemy of my country."
"Nor I either," said Nan with emphasis. "But he's very handsome."
"I don't care if he is," cried the other impulsively. "He has been killing our gallant young men, and depriving us of our liberties, and he's here now to help the negroes lord it over us."
"Oh, now I know what Gabriel intends to do!" exclaimed Nan, but she refused to satisfy Eugenia's curiosity, much to that young lady's discomfort. "I must go," said Nan, kissing her friend good-bye. Eugenia stood watching her until she was out of sight, and wondered why she was in such a hurry.
Nan had changed greatly in the course of two years, and, in some directions, not for the better, as some of the older ones thought and said. They remembered how charming she was in the days when she threw all conventions to the winds, and was simply a wild, sweet little rascal, engaged in performing the most unheard-of pranks, and cutting up the most impossible capers. Until Margaret Gaither and Eugenia Claiborne came to Shady Dale, Nan had no girl-friends. All the others were either ages too old or ages too young, or disagreeable, and Nan had to find her amusements the best way she could.
Margaret Gaither and Eugenia Claiborne had a very subduing effect upon Nan. They had been brought up with the greatest respect for all the small formalities and conventions, and the attention they paid to these really awed Nan. The young ladies were free and unconventional enough when there was no other eye to mark their movements, but at table, or in company, they held their heads in a certain way, and they had rules by which to seat themselves in a chair, or to rise therefrom; they had been taught how to enter a room, how to bow, and how to walk gracefully, as was supposed, from one side of a room to the other. Nan tried hard to learn a few of these conventions, but she never succeeded; she never could conform to the rules; she always failed to remember them at the proper time; and it was very fortunate that this was so. The native grace with which she moved about could never have been imparted by rule; but there were long moments when her failure to conform weighed upon her mind, and subdued her.
This was a part of the change that Gabriel found in her. She could no longer, in justice to the rules of etiquette, seize Gabriel by the lapels of his coat and give him a good shaking when he happened to displease her, and she could no longer switch him across the face with her braided hair—that wonderful tawny hair, so fine, so abundant, so soft, and so warm-looking. No, indeed! the day for that was over, and very sorry she was for herself and for Gabriel, too.
And while she was going home, following in the footsteps of that young man (for Dorringtons' was on the way to Cloptons'), a thought struck her, and it seemed to be so important that she stopped still and clapped the palms of her hands together with an energy unusual to young ladies. Then she gathered her skirt firmly, drew it up a little, and went running along the road as rapidly as Gabriel had run. Fortunately, a knowledge of the rules of etiquette had not had the effect of paralysing Nan's legs. She ran so fast that she was wellnigh breathless when she reached home. She rushed into the house, and fell in a chair, crying:
"Oh, Nonny!"
"Why, what on earth ails the child?" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom. Nan was leaning back in the chair, her face very red, making an effort to fan herself with one little hand, and panting wildly. "Malindy!" Mrs. Absalom yelled to the cook, "run here an' fetch the camphire as you come! Ain't you comin'? The laws a massy on us! the child'll be cold and stiff before you start! Honey, what on earth ails you? Tell your Nonny. Has anybody pestered you? Ef they have, jest tell me the'r name, an' I'll foller 'em to the jumpin'-off place but what I'll frail 'em out. You Malindy! whyn't you come on? You'll go faster'n that to your own funeral."
But when Malindy came with the camphor, and a dose of salts in a tumbler, Nan waved her away. "I don't want any physic, Nonny," she said, still panting, for her run had been a long one; "I'm just tired from running. And, oh, Nonny! I have something to tell you."
"Well, my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom indignantly, withdrawing her arms from around Nan, and rising to her feet. "A little more, an' you'd 'a' had me ready for my coolin'-board. I ain't had such a turn—not sence the day a nigger boy run in the gate an' tol' me the Yankees was a-hangin' Ab. An' all bekaze you've hatched out some rigamarole that nobody on the green earth would 'a' thought of but you."
She fussed around a little, and was for going about the various unnecessary duties she imposed on herself; but Nan protested. "Please, Nonny, wait until I tell you." Thereupon Nan told as well as she could of the conversation she and Gabriel had overheard in town, and the recital gave Mrs. Absalom a more serious feeling than she had had in many a day. Her muscular arms, bare to the elbow, were folded across her ample bosom, and she seemed to be glaring at Nan with a frown on her face, but she was thinking.
"Well," she said with a sigh, "I knowed there was gwine to be trouble of some kind—old Billy Sanders went by here this mornin' as drunk as a lord."
"Drunk!" cried Nan with blanched face.
"Well, sorter tollerbul how-come-you-so. The last time old Billy was drunk, was when sesaytion was fetched on. Ev'ry time he runs a straw in a jimmy-john, he fishes up trouble. An' my dream's out. I dremp last night that a wooden-leg man come to the door, an' ast me for a pair of shoes. I ast him what on earth he wanted wi' a pair, bein's he had but one foot. He said that the foot he didn't have was constant a-feelin' like it was cold, an' he allowed maybe it'd feel better ef it know'd that he had a shoe ready for it ag'in colder weather."
"Oh, I hate him! I just naturally despise him!" cried Nan. When she was angry her face was pale, and it was very pale now.
"Why do you hate the wooden-leg man, honey? It was all in a dream," said Mrs. Absalom, soothingly.
"Oh, I don't know what you are talking about, Nonny!" exclaimed Nan, ready to cry. "I mean old Billy Sanders. And if I don't give him a piece of my mind when I see him. Now Gabriel will go to that place to-night, and he's nothing but a boy."
"A boy! well, I dunner where you'll find your men ef Gabriel ain't nothin' but a boy. Where's anybody in these diggin's that's any bigger or stouter? I wish you'd show 'em to me," remarked Mrs. Absalom.
"I don't care," Nan persisted; "I know just what Gabriel will do. He'll go to that place to-night, and—and—I'd rather go there myself."
"Well, my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom, with lifted eyebrows.
The pallor of Nan's face was gradually replaced by a warmer glow. "Now, Nonny! don't say a word—don't tease—don't tease me about Gabriel. If you do, I'll never tell you anything more for ever and ever."
"All this is bran new to me," Mrs. Absalom declared. "You make me feel, Nan, like I was in some strange place, talkin' wi' some un I never seed before. You ain't no more like yourself—you ain't no more like you used to be—than day is like night, an' I'm jest as sorry as I can be."
"That's what Gabriel says," sighed Nan. "He said he was sorry, and now you say you are sorry. Oh, Nonny, I don't want any one to be sorry for me."
"Well, then, behave yourself, an' be like you use to be, an' stop trollopin' aroun' wi' them highfalutin' gals downtown. They look like they know too much. All they talk about is boys, boys, boys, from mornin' till night; an' I noticed when they was spendin' a part of the'r time here that you was just as bad. It was six of one an' twice three of the rest. Now you know that ain't a sign of good health for gals to be eternally talkin' about boys, 'specially sech ganglin', lop-sided creeturs as we've got aroun' here."
"Where's Johnny?" asked Nan, who evidently had no notion of getting in a controversy with Mrs. Absalom on the subject of boys. "Johnny" was her name for her step-mother, whose surname of Dion had been changed to "Johns" the day after she arrived at Shady Dale. The story of little Miss Johns has been told in another place and all that is necessary to add to the record is the fact that she had managed to endear herself to the critical, officious, and somewhat jealous Mrs. Absalom. Mrs. Dorrington had the tact and the charm of the best of her race. She was Nan's dearest friend and only confidante, and though she was not many years the girl's senior, she had an influence over her that saved Nan from many a bad quarter of an hour.
Mrs. Dorrington was in her own room when Nan found her, sewing and singing softly to herself, the picture of happiness and content. Nan dropped on her knees beside her chair, and threw her arms impulsively around the little woman's neck.
"Tell me ever what it is, Nan, before you smother-cate me," said Mrs. Dorrington, smoothing the girl's hair. The two had a language of their own, which the elder had learned from the younger.
"It is the most miserable misery, Johnny. Do you remember what I told you about those people?"
"How could I forget, Nan?"
"Well, those people are going head foremost into trouble, and whatever happens, I want to be there."
"Oh, is that so? Well, it is too bad," said the little woman sympathetically. "Perhaps if you would say something about it—not too much, but just enough for me to get it through my thick numskull——"
Whereupon Nan told of all the fears by which she was beset, and of all the troubles that racked her mind, and the two had quite a consultation.
"You are not afraid for yourself; why should you be afraid for those people?" inquired Mrs. Dorrington, laying great stress on "those people," the name that Gabriel went by when Nan and Johnny were referring to him.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Nan, helplessly. "It isn't because of what you would guess if you knew no better. I have a very great friendship for those people; but it isn't the other feeling—the kind that you were telling me about. If it is—oh, if it is—I shall never forgive myself."
"In time—yes. It is quite easy to forgive yourself on account of those people. I found it so."
"Oh, don't! You make me feel as if I ought never to speak to myself."
"Then don't," said Mrs. Dorrington, calmly. "You can speak to me instead of to that ignorant girl."
"Oh, you sweetest!" cried Nan, hugging her step-mother; "I am going to have you for my doll."
"Very well, then," said Mrs. Dorrington, shrugging her shoulders; "but you will have some trouble on your hands—yes, more than those people give you."
"Johnny, you are my little mother, and you never gave me any trouble in your life. I am the one that is troublesome; I am troubling you now."
"Silly thing! will you be good?" cried Mrs. Dorrington, tapping Nan lightly on the cheek. "How can you trouble me when I don't know what you mean? You haven't told me."
"I thought you could guess as well as I can," replied Nan.
"About some things—yes; but not about this terrible danger that is to overcome those people."
Whereupon, Nan told Mrs. Dorrington of the conversation she and Gabriel had overheard. To this information she added her suspicions that Gabriel intended to do something desperate; and then she gave a very vivid description of the strange white man, of his pale and eager countenance, his glittering, shifty eyes, and his thin, cruel lips.
Instead of shuddering, as she should have done, Mrs. Dorrington laughed. "But I don't see what the trouble is," she declared. "That boy is ever so large; he can take care of himself. But if you think not, then ask him to tea."
Nan frowned heavily. "But, Johnny, tea is so tame. Think of rescuing a friend from danger by means of a cup of tea! Doesn't it seem ridiculous?"
"Of course it is," responded Mrs. Dorrington. "But it isn't half so ridiculous as your make-believe. Oh, Nan! Nan! when will you come down from your clouds?"
Now, Nan's world of make-believe was as natural to her as the persons and things all about her. No sooner had she guessed that it was Gabriel's intention to find out what the Union League was for, and, in a way, expose himself to some possible danger of discovery, than she carried the whole matter into her land of make-believe as naturally as a mocking-bird carries a flake of thistle-down to its nest. Once there, nothing could be more reasonable or more logical than the terrible danger to which Gabriel would be exposed. While it lasted, Nan's feeling of anxiety and alarm was both real and sincere. Mrs. Absalom could never enter into this world of Nan's; she was too practical and downright. And yet she had a ready sympathy for the girl's troubles and humoured her without stint, though she sometimes declared that Nan was queer and flighty.
Mrs. Dorrington, on the other hand, inheriting the sensitive and artistic temperament of Flavian Dion, her father, was able to enter heartily into the most of Nan's vagaries. Sometimes she humoured them, but more frequently she laughed at them as the girl grew older. Occasionally, in her twilight conversations with her father, whose gentleness and shyness kept him in the background, Mrs. Dorrington would deplore Nan's tendency to exploit her imagination.
"But she was born thus, my dear," Flavian Dion would reply, speaking the picturesque patois of New France. "It will either be her great misery, or her great happiness. How was it with me? Once it was my great misery, but now—you see how it is. Come! we will have some music, if Mademoiselle the Dreamer is willing."
And then they would go into the parlour, where, with Mrs. Dorrington at the piano, Flavian Dion with his violin, and Nan with her voice, which was rich and strong, they would render the beautiful folk-songs of France. Moreover, Flavian Dion had caught many of the plantation melodies, of which Nan knew the words, and when the French songs were exhausted, they would fall back on these. It frequently happened that Mademoiselle the Dreamer would add feet as well as voice to the negro melodies, especially if Tasma Tid were there to incite her, and the way that Nan reproduced steps and poses was both wonderful and inimitable.
The reader who takes the trouble to make inferences as he goes along, will perceive that Nan's solicitude for Gabriel was no compliment to him; it was not flattering to the heroism of a young man who was threatening to grow a moustache, for a young lady to believe, or even pretend to believe, that he needed to be rescued from some imaginary danger. Gabriel was strong enough to take a man's place at a log-rolling, and he would have had small relish for the information if he had been told that Nan Dorrington was planning to rescue him.
Let the simple truth be told. Gabriel was no hero in Nan's eyes. He was merely a friend and former comrade, who now was in sad need of some one to take care of him. That was her belief, and she would have shrunk from the idea that Gabriel would one day be her lover. She had quite other views. Yes, indeed! Her lover must be a man who had passed through some desperate experiences. He must be a hero with sword and plume, a cutter and slasher, a man who had a relish for bloodshed, such as she had read about in the romances she had appropriated from her father's library.
Nan had brought over from her childhood many queer dreams and fancies. Once upon a time, she had heard her elders talking of John A. Murrell, the notorious land-pirate and highwayman. The man was one of the coarsest and cruellest of modern ruffians, but about his name the common people had placed a halo of romance. It was said of him that he rescued beautiful maidens from their abductors, and restored them to their friends, and that he robbed the rich only to give to the poor. Sad to say, this ruffian was Nan's ideal hero.
And now, when she was racking her brains to invent some bold and simple plan for the rescue of Gabriel, her mind reverted to this ideal hero of her childhood.
"If you insist, Johnny, I'll ask Gabriel to tea," Nan remarked for the second time; "but, as you say, it is perfectly ridiculous. Whoever heard of rescuing persons by inviting them to supper?" She paused a moment, and then went on with a sigh that would have sounded very real in Mrs. Absalom's ears, but which simply brought a smile to Mrs. Dorrington's face—"Heigh-ho! What a pity John A. Murrell isn't alive to-day!"
"And who is this Mr. Murrell?" Mrs. Dorrington asked.
"He was a fierce robber-chief," replied Nan, placidly. "He wore a big black beard, and a hat with a red feather in it. Over his left shoulder was a red sash, and he rode a big white horse. He carried two big pistols and a bowie-knife—Nonny can tell you all about him."
Whereupon, Mrs. Dorrington jumped from her chair, and made an effort to catch the young romancer; and in a moment, the laughter of the pursuer, and the shrieks of the pursued, when she thought she was in danger of being caught, roused the echoes in the old house. Mrs. Absalom, who was in the kitchen, laughed and shook her head. "I believe them two scamps will be children when they are sixty year old!"
But after awhile, when their romp was over, Nan suddenly discovered that she had been in very high spirits, and this, according to the constitution and by-laws of the land of make-believe, was an unpardonable offence, especially when, as now, a very dear friend was in danger. So she went out upon the veranda, and half-way down the steps, where she seated herself in an attitude of extreme dejection.
While sitting there, Nan suddenly remembered that she did have a grievance and a very real one. Tasma Tid was in a state of insurrection. She had not been permitted to accompany her young mistress when the latter visited her girl-friends, and for a long time she had been sulking and pouting. An effort had been made to induce Tasma Tid to make herself useful, but even the strong will of Mrs. Absalom collapsed when it found itself in conflict with the bright-eyed African.
Tasma Tid had been wounded in her tenderest part—her affections. Her sentiments and emotions, being primitive, were genuine. Her grief, when separated from Nan, was very keen. She refused to eat, and for the most part kept herself in seclusion, and no one was able to find her hiding-place. Now, when Nan threw herself upon the steps in an attitude of dejection, with her head on her arm, it happened that Tasma Tid was prowling about with the hope of catching a glimpse of her. The African, slipping around the house, suddenly came plump upon the object of her search. She stood still, and drew a long breath. Here was Honey Nan apparently in deep trouble. Tasma Tid crept up the steps as silently as a ghost, and sat beside the prostrate form. If Nan knew, she made no sign; nor did she move when the African laid a caressing hand on her hair. It was only when Tasma Tid leaned over and kissed Nan on the hand that she stirred. She raised her head, saying,
"You shouldn't do that, Tasma Tid; I'm too mean."
"How come you dis away, Honey Nan?" inquired the African in a low tone. "Who been-a hu't you?"
"No one," replied Nan; "I am just mean."
"'Tis ain't so, nohow. Somebody been-a hu't you. You show dem ter Tasma Tid—dee ain't hu't you no mo'."
"Where have you been? Why did you go away and leave me?"
"Nobody want we fer stay. You go off, an' den we go off. We go off an' walk, walk, walk in de graveyard—walk, walk, walk in de graveyard; an' den we go home way off yander in de woods."
"Home! why this is your home; it shall always be your home," cried Nan, touched by the forlorn look in Tasma Tid's eyes, and the despairing expression in her voice.
"No, no, Honey Nan; 'tis-a no home fer we when you drive we 'way fum foller you, when you shak-a yo' haid ef we come trot, trot 'hind you. We no want home lak dat. No, no, Honey Nan. We make home in de woods."
"Where is your home?" Nan inquired, full of curiosity.
"We take-a you dey when dem sun go 'way."
"Well, you must stay here," said Nan, emphatically. "You shall follow me wherever I go."
"You talk-a so dis time, Honey Nan; nex' time—" Tasma Tid ran down the steps, and went along the walk mimicking Nan's movements, shaking her frock first on one side and then on the other. Then she looked over her shoulder, turned around with a frown, stamped her foot and made menacing gestures with her hands. "Dat how 'twill be nex' time, Honey Nan."
Hearing Mrs. Absalom laughing, Nan conjectured that she had witnessed Tasma Tid's performance. "Nonny," she cried, "do I really walk that way, and finger my skirt so?"
"To a t," said Mrs. Absalom, laughing louder. "Ef she was a foot an' a half higher, I'd 'a' made shore it was you practisin' ag'in the time when you'll mince by the store where old Silas Tomlin's yearlin' is clerkin', or by the tavern peazzer, where Frank Bethune an' the rest of the loafers set at. It's among the merikels that Gabe Tolliver don't mix wi' that crowd. I reckon maybe it's bekaze he jest natchally too wuthless."
"Now, Nonny! I don't think you ought to make fun of me," protested Nan. "I am perfectly certain that I don't mince when I walk, and you are always complaining that I don't care how my clothes look."
"Go roun' to the kitchen, you black slink," exclaimed Mrs. Absalom, addressing Tasma Tid, "an' git your dinner! You've traipsed and trolloped until I bet you can gulp down all the vittles on the place."
"And when you have finished your dinner, come to my room," said Nan.
It was not often that Nan was to be found in her own room during the day, but now she remembered that she had promised to spend the night with Eugenia Claiborne; and how was she to invite Gabriel to tea, as Mrs. Dorrington had suggested? There was but one thing to do, and that was to break her engagement with Eugenia. She was of half a dozen minds what to say to her friend. She wrote note after note, only to destroy each one. She pulled her nose, stuck out her tongue, looked at the ceiling, and bit her thumb, but all to no purpose.
Tasma Tid, who had finished her dinner, sat on the floor eying Nan as an intelligent dog eyes its master, ready to respond to look, word or gesture. Finally, the African, seeing Nan's perplexity, made a suggestion.
"Make dem cuss-words come," she said. Tasma Tid had heard men use profane language when fretted or irritated, and she supposed that it was a remedy for troubles both small and large.
"Be jigged if I haven't a mind to," cried Nan, laughing at the African's earnestness.
But at last she flung her pen down, seized her hat, and, with an unspoken invitation to Tasma Tid, went out into the street, determined to go to the Gaither Place, where Eugenia lived, and present her excuses in person.