When Nan came in sight of the court-house she saw a crowd of men and boys gazing at some spectacle on the side opposite her. Some were laughing, while others had serious faces. Among them she noticed Francis Bethune, and she also saw Gabriel, who was standing apart from the rest with a very gloomy countenance. Arriving near the crowd, she paused to discover what had excited their curiosity; and there before her eyes, seated on the court-house steps, was Mr. Billy Sanders, relating to an imaginary audience some choice incidents in his family history. His hat was off, and his face was very red.
As Nan listened, he was telling how his "pa" and "ma" had married in South Carolina, and had subsequently moved to Jasper County in Georgia. In coming away (according to Mr. Sanders's version), they had fetched a half dozen hogs too many, and maybe a cow or two that didn't belong to them. By-and-by the owners of the stock appeared in the neighbourhood where Mr. Sanders, Sr., had settled, found the missing property, and carried him away with them. They had, or claimed to have, a warrant, and they hustled the pioneer off to South Carolina, and put him in jail.
"Now, Sally Hart was Nancy's own gal," said Mr. Sanders, pausing to take a nip from a bottle he carried in his pocket. "She was a chip off'n the old block ef they ever was a block that had a chip. So Sally (that was ma) she went polin' off to Sou' Ca'liny. The night she got to whar she was agwine, she tore a hole in the side of the jail that you could 'a' driv a buggy through. Then she took poor pa by one ear, an' fetched him home. An' that ain't all. Arter she got him home, she took a rawhide an' liter'ly wore pa out. She said arterwards that she didn't larrup him for fetchin' the stock off, but for layin' up there in jail an' lettin' his crap spile. Well, that frailin' made a good Christian of pa. He j'ined the church, an' would 'a' been a preacher, but ma wouldn't let him. She allowed they'd be too much gaddin' about, an' maybe a little too much honeyin' up wi' the sisterin'. 'No,' says she, 'ef you want to do good prayin', pray whilst you're ploughin'. I'll look arter the hoein' myself,' says she."
Mr. Sanders was not regarded as a dangerous man in his cups, but on one well-remembered occasion he had fired into a crowd of men who were inclined to be too familiar, and since that day he had been given a wide berth when he took a seat on the court-house steps and began to recite his family history. While Nan stood there, Mr. Sanders drew a pistol from his pocket, and, smiling blandly, began to flourish it around. As he did so, Gabriel Tolliver sprang into the street and ran rapidly toward him. Some one in the crowd uttered a cry of warning. Seized by some blind impulse Nan ran after Gabriel. Francis Bethune caught her arm as she ran by him, but she wrenched herself from his grasp, and ran faster than ever.
"Stand back there!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders in an angry voice, raising his pistol. For one brief moment, the spectators thought that Gabriel was doomed, for he went on without wavering. But he was really in no danger. Mr. Sanders had mistaken him for some of the young men who had been taunting him as they stood at a safe distance. But when he saw who it was, he replaced the pistol in his pocket, remarking, "You ought to hang out your sign, Gabe. Ef I hadn't 'a' had on my furseein' specks, I'm afear'd I'd a plugged you."
At that moment Nan arrived on the scene, her anger at white heat. She caught her breath, and then stood looking at Mr. Sanders, with eyes that fairly blazed with scorn and anger. "Ef looks'd burn, honey, they wouldn't be a cinder left of me," said Mr. Sanders, moving uneasily. "Arter she's through wi' me, Gabriel, plant me in a shady place, an' make old Tar-Baby thar," indicating Tasma Tid, who had followed Nan—"make old Tar-Baby thar set on my grave, an' warm it up once in awhile. I leave you my Sunday shirts wi' the frills on 'em, Gabriel, an' my Sunday boots wi' the red tops; an' have a piece put in the Malvern paper, statin' that I was one of the most populous and public-sperreted citizens of the county. An' tell how I went about killin' jimson weeds an' curkle-burrs for my neighbours by blowin' my breath on 'em."
What Nan had intended to say, she left unsaid. Her feelings reacted while Mr. Sanders was talking, and she turned her back on him and began to cry. Under the circumstances, it was the very thing to do. Mr. Sanders's face fell. "I'll tell you the honest truth, Gabriel—I never know'd that anybody in the roun' world keer'd a continental whether I was drunk or sober, alive or dead; an' I'd lots ruther some un 'd stick a knife through my gizzard than to see that child cryin'."
He rose and went to Nan—he was not too tipsy to walk—and tried to lay his hand on her arm, but she whirled away from him. "Honey," he said, "what must I do? I'll do anything in the world you say."
"Go home and try to be decent," she answered.
"I will, honey, ef you an' Gabriel will go wi' me. I need some un for to keep the boogers off. You git on the lead side, honey, an' Gabriel, you be the off-hoss. Now, hitch on here"—he held out both elbows, so that each could take him by an arm—"an' when you're ready to start, give the word."
Nan dried her eyes as quickly as she could, but before she would consent to go with Mr. Sanders, insisted on searching him. She found a flask of apple-brandy, and hurled it against the side of the court-house.
"Nan," he said ruefully, "that's twice you've broke my heart in a quarter of an hour. Ain't there some way you can break Gabriel's?" He paused and sniffed the fumes of the apple-brandy. "It's a mighty good thing court ain't in session," he remarked, "bekaze the judge an' jury an' all the lawyers would come pourin' out for to smell at that wall there. You say they ain't no way for you to break Gabriel's heart, too?" he asked again, turning to Nan.
"I just know my eyes are a sight," she said in reply. "Are they red and swollen, Gabriel?"
"They are somewhat red, but——"
"But what?" she asked, as Gabriel paused.
"They are just as pretty as ever."
"Mr. Sanders, that is the first compliment he ever paid me in his life."
"You'll remember it longer on that account," said Mr. Sanders. "Gabriel is lazy-minded, but he'll brighten up arter awhile. Speakin' of fust an' last, an' things of that kind," he went on, "I reckon this is the fust time I ever come betwixt you children. I hope no harm's done."
"Well, sir," said Nan, addressing Gabriel with a pretty formality, "since you are kind enough to pay me a compliment, I'll be bold enough to ask you to take tea with me this evening; and I'll have no refusal."
Gabriel found himself in an awkward predicament. He felt bound to discover what part the Union League was playing. He had read of its sinister influence in other parts of the South, and he judged that the hour of its organisation at Shady Dale was the aptest time for such a discovery. He couldn't tell Nan what his plans were—he had no idea that she had already guessed them—and he hardly knew what to say. He was thoroughly uncomfortable. He was silent so long that Mr. Sanders had an opportunity to ask Nan if she hadn't made a remark to Gabriel.
"Yes; I asked him to tea," she replied in a low voice; "he has forgotten it by this time." But Nan well knew why Gabriel was silent; she was neither vexed nor surprised at his hesitation. Nevertheless, she must play her part.
"Give him time, Nan; give him time," said Mr. Sanders, consolingly. "Gabriel comes of a stuttering family. They say it took his grandma e'en about seven year to tell Dick Lumsden she'd have him. I lay Gabriel is composin' in his mind a flowery piece sorter like, 'Here's my heart, an' here's my hand; ef you ax me to tea, I'm your'n to command.'"
"I'm sorry I can't come, Nan, but I can't; and it's just my luck that you should invite me to-day," said Gabriel, finally.
"You have another engagement?" asked Nan.
"No, not an engagement," he replied.
"Well, you are going to do something very unnecessary and improper," said Nan, with the air and tone of a mature woman. "You are sure to get into trouble. Why don't you ask your Mr. Bethune to take your place, or at least go with you?"
"Why, you talk as if you knew what I am going to do," remarked Gabriel; "but you couldn't guess in a week."
At this point Mr. Sanders tried to stop in order to deliver an address. "I bet you—I bet you a seven-pence ag'in a speckled hen that Nan knows precisely what you're up to."
But Nan and Gabriel pulled him along in spite of his frequently expressed desire to "lay down in the road an' take a nap." "It's a shame," he said, "for a great big gal an' a great big boy to be harryin' a man as old as me. Why don't you ketch hands an' run to play? No, nothin' will do, but you must worry William H. Sanders, late of said county." He received no reply to this, and continued: "I'm glad I took too much, Gabriel, ef only for one thing. You know what I told you about Nan's temper—well, you've seed it for yourself. She's frailed Frank, she'd 'a' frailed me jest now ef you hadn't 'a' been on hand, an' she'll frail you out before long. She's jest turrible."
Mr. Sanders kept up his good-humour all the way home, and when he had been placed in charge of Uncle Plato, who knew how to deal with him, he said: "Now, fellers, I had a mighty good reason for restin' my mind. You cried bekase old Billy Sanders was drunk, didn't you, Nan? Well, I'm mighty glad you did. I never know'd before that a sob or two would make a Son of Temperance of a man; but that's what they'll do for me. Nobody in this world will ever see me drunk ag'in. So long!"
It may be said here that Mr. Sanders kept his promise. The events which followed required clear heads and steady hands for their shaping, but each crisis, as it arose, found Mr. Sanders, and a few others who acted with him, fully prepared to meet it, though there were times and occasions when he, as well as the rest, was overtaken by a profound sense of his helplessness. Some fell into melancholy, and some were overtaken by dejection, but Mr. Sanders never for a moment forgot to be cheerful.
"I don't suppose there is another girl in the country who would make such a spectacle of herself as I made to-day," said Nan, as she and Gabriel walked slowly in the direction of town.
"What do you mean?" inquired Gabriel.
"You know well enough," replied Nan. "Why, think of a young woman rushing across the public square in the face of a crowd, and doing as I did! I'll be the talk of the town. What is your opinion?"
"Well, considering who the man was, and everything, I think it was very becoming in you," replied Gabriel.
"Oh, thank you!" said Nan. "Under the circumstances, you could say no less. You have changed greatly, Gabriel, since Eugenia Claiborne began to make eyes at you. You seem to think it is a mark of politeness to pay compliments right and left, and to agree with everybody. No doubt, if an invitation to tea had come from further up the street, you would have found some excuse for accepting."
Nan's logic was quite feminine, but Gabriel took no advantage of that fact. "I'm sorry I can't come, Nan, and I hope you'll not be angry."
"Angry! why should I be angry?" Nan exclaimed. "An invitation to tea is not so important."
"But this one is important to me," said Gabriel. "It is the first time you have asked me, and I hope it won't be the last."
Nan said nothing more until she bade Gabriel good-bye at her father's gate. He thought she was angry, while she was wondering if he considered her bold.
It was no difficult matter for Nan Dorrington to infer what course of action Gabriel intended to pursue. The Union Leagues established in the South under the auspices of the political department of the Freedman's Bureau had already excited the suspicion of the whites. The reputation they instantly achieved was extremely sinister, and they had become the source of much uneasiness. There was an air of mystery about them which, however pleasing it might be to the negroes, was not at all relished by those who had been made the victims of radical legislation. There were wild rumours to the effect that the object of these leagues was to organise the negroes and prepare them for an armed attack on the whites.
These rumours were to be seen spread out in the newspapers, and were to be heard wherever people gathered together. Nan was familiar with them, and, while both she and Gabriel were possibly too young to harbour all the anxieties entertained by their elders, they nevertheless took a very keen interest in the situation; and it was not less keen because it had curiosity for its basis.
Gabriel had no sooner digested the purport of the conversation to which he had listened than he made up his mind to unravel, if he could, the mystery of the Union League, and to discover what part the new-comer, the companion of the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin, proposed to play. It was characteristic of the lad that he should act promptly. When he left Nan so unceremoniously, he ran to the Clopton Place to report what he had heard to Mr. Sanders, but he found that worthy citizen in no condition to give him aid, or even advice. Meriwether Clopton chanced to be in consultation with some gentleman from Atlanta, and could not be seen, while Francis Bethune was said to be in town somewhere.
It was then that Gabriel made up his mind that he would act alone. He knew the old school-house in which the league was to be organised, as well as he knew his own home. It had formerly been called the Shady Dale Male Academy, and its reputation, before the war, had gone far and wide. Gabriel had spent many a happy hour there, and some that were memorably unpleasant, especially during the term that a school-master by the name of McManus wielded the rod. Among the things that Gabriel remembered was the fact that the space under the stairway—the building had two stories—was boarded up so as to form a large closet, where the pupils deposited their extra coats and wraps, as well as their lunches. The closet had also been used as a reformatory for refractory pupils, and this was one reason why Gabriel remembered it so well; he had spent numerous uncomfortable hours there at a time when darkness and isolation had real terrors for him.
The building had been abandoned by the whites during the war, and was for a time used as a hospital. At the close of the war it was turned over to the negroes, who established there a flourishing school, which was presided over by a native Southerner, an old gentleman whom the war had stripped of this world's goods.
Gabriel thought it best to begin operations before the sun went down. He made a detour wide enough to place the school-house between him and Shady Dale, so that if by any chance his movements should attract attention he would have the appearance of approaching the building quite by accident. Under the circumstances, it was perhaps fortunate that he took this precaution, for when he drew near the school-house, the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin was standing in the back door flourishing a broom.
"Hello, Jeremiah!" said Gabriel by way of salutation. "What's up now?"
"Good-evenin', Mister Gabe," responded the Rev. Jeremiah. "Dey been havin' some plasterin' done in my chu'ch, suh, an' we 'lowd we'd hol' pra'r-meetin' here ter-night. An' I'll tell you why, suh: You know mighty well how we coloured folks does—we ain't got nothin' fer ter hide, an' we couldn't hide it ef we did had sump'n. Well, suh, dem mongst us what got any erligion is bleeze ter show it; when de sperret move um, dey bleeze ter let one an'er know it; an' in dat way, suh, dey do a heap er movin' 'bout. Dey rastles wid Satan, ez you may say, when dey gits in a weavin' way; an' I wuz fear'd, suh, dat dey mought shake de damp plasterin' down."
"But you have no pulpit here," suggested Gabriel, who associated a pulpit with all religious gatherings.
"So much de better, suh," replied the Rev. Jeremiah. "Ef you wuz ter come ter my chu'ch, you'd allers see me come down when I gits warmed up. Dey ain't no pulpit big nuff for me long about dat time. No, suh; I'm bleeze ter have elbow-room, an' I'm mighty glad dey ain't no pulpit in here. But whar you been, Mr. Gabe?" inquired the Rev. Jeremiah, craftily changing the subject.
"Just walking about in the woods and fields," answered Gabriel.
"'Twant no use fer ter ax you, suh; you been doin' dat sence you wuz big nuff ter clime a fence. Ef you wan't wid Miss Nan, you wuz by yo'se'f. I uv seed you many a day, suh, when you didn't see me. You wuz wid Miss Nan dis ve'y day." The Rev. Jeremiah dropped his head to one side, and smiled a knowing smile. "Oh, you needn't be shame un it, suh," the negro went on as the colour slowly mounted to Gabriel's face. "I uv said it befo' an' I'll say it ag'in, an' I don't keer who hears me—Miss Nan is boun' ter make de finest 'oman in de lan'. An' dat ain't all, suh: when I hear folks hintin' dat she's gwine ter make a match wid Mr. Frank Bethune, sez I, 'Des keep yo' eye on Mr. Gabe'; dat zackly what I sez."
"Oh, the dickens and Tom Walker!" exclaimed Gabriel impatiently; "who's been talking of the affairs of Miss Dorrington in that way?"
"Why, purty nigh eve'ybody, suh," remarked the Rev. Jeremiah, smacking his lips. "What white folks say in de parlour, you kin allers hear in de kitchen."
After firing this homely truth at Gabriel, the Rev. Jeremiah went to work with his broom and made a great pretence of sweeping and moving the benches about. The lad followed him in, and looked about him with interest. It was the first time he had revisited the old school-house since he was a boy of ten, and he was pleased to find that there had been few changes. The desk at which he had sat was intact. His initials, rudely carved, stared him in the face, and there, too, was the hole he had cut in the seat. He remembered that this was a dungeon in which he had imprisoned many a fly. These mute evidences of his idleness seemed to be as solid as the hills. Between those times and the present, the wild and furious perspective of war lay spread out, and Gabriel could imagine that the idler who had hacked the desk belonged to another generation altogether.
He went to the blackboard, found a piece of chalk, and wrote in a large, bold hand: "Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin will lecture here to-night, beginning at early candle-light."
The Rev. Jeremiah, witnessing the performance, had his curiosity aroused: "What is de word you uv writ, suh?" he inquired, and when Gabriel had read it off, the negro exclaimed, "Well, suh! You put all dat down, an' it didn't take you no time; no, suh, not no time. But I might uv speckted it, bekase I hear lots er talk about how smart you is on all sides—dey all sesso."
"Does Tasma Tid belong to your church?" Gabriel inquired with a most innocent air.
"Do which, suh?" exclaimed Rev. Jeremiah, pausing with his broom suspended in the air. When Gabriel repeated his inquiry, the Rev. Jeremiah drew a deep breath, his nostrils dilated, and he seemed to grow several inches taller. "No, suh, she do not; no, suh, she do not belong ter my chu'ch. You kin look at her, suh, an' see de mark er de Ol' Boy on her. She got de hoodoo eye, suh; an' de blue gums dat go long wid it, an' ef she wuz ter jine my chu'ch, she'd be de only member."
It was very clear to Gabriel that nothing was to be gained by remaining, so he bade the Rev. Jeremiah good-bye, and went toward Shady Dale. When he was well out of sight, the negro approached the blackboard, and, with the most patient curiosity, examined the inscription or announcement that Gabriel had written. With his forefinger, he traced over the lines, as if in that way he might absorb the knowledge that was behind the writing. Then, stepping back a few paces, he viewed the writing critically. Finally he shook his head doubtfully, exclaiming aloud: "Dat's whar dey'll git us—yes, suh, dat's whar dey sho' will git us."
After which, he carefully closed the doors of the school-house and followed the path leading to Shady Dale—the path that Gabriel had taken. The Rev. Jeremiah mumbled as he walked along, giving oral utterance to his thoughts, but in a tone too low to reveal their import. He had taken a step which it was now too late to retrace. He was not a vicious negro. In common with the great majority of his race—in common, perhaps with the men of all races—he was eaten up by a desire to become prominent, to make himself conspicuous. Generations of civilisation (as it is called) have gone far to tone down this desire in the whites, and they manage to control it to some extent, though now and then we see it crop out in individuals. But there had been no toning down of the Rev. Jeremiah's egotism; on the contrary, it had been fed by the flattery of his congregation until it was gross and rank.
It was natural, therefore, under all the circumstances, that the Rev. Jeremiah should become the willing tool of the politicians and adventurers who had accepted the implied invitation of the radical leaders of the Republican Party to assist in the spoliation of the South. The Rev. Jeremiah, once he had been patted on the back, and addressed as Mr. Tomlin by a white man, and that man a representative of the Government, was quite ready to believe anything he was told by his new friends, and quite as ready to aid them in carrying out any scheme that their hatred of the South and their natural rapacity could suggest or invent.
Therefore, let it not be supposed that the Rev. Jeremiah, as he went along the path, mumbling out his thoughts, was expressing any doubt of the wisdom or expediency of the part he was expected to play in arraying the negroes against the whites. No; he was simply putting together as many sonorous phrases as he could remember, and storing them away in view of the contingency that he would be called on to address those of his race who might be present at the organisation of the Union League. He had been very busy since his conference with the agent of the Freedman's Bureau, and, in one way and another, had managed to convey information of the proposed meeting to quite a number of the negroes; and in performing this service he was careful that a majority of those notified should be members of his church—negroes with whom his influence was all-powerful. But he had also invited Uncle Plato, Clopton's carriage-driver, Wiley Millirons, and Walthall's Jake, three of the worthiest and most sensible negroes to be found anywhere.
While the Rev. Jeremiah, full of his own importance, and swelling with childish vanity, was making his way toward Neighbour Tomlin's, on whose lot he had a house, rent free, there were other plotters at work. In addition to Gabriel Tolliver, Nan Dorrington was a plotter to be reckoned with, especially when she had as her copartner Tasma Tid, who was as cunning as some wild thing.
When the day was far spent, or, as Mrs. Absalom would say, "along to'rds the shank of the evenin'," Nan and Tasma Tid went wandering out of town in the direction of the school-house. The excuse Nan had given at home was that she wanted to see Tasma Tid's hiding-place. As they passed Tomlin's, they saw the Rev. Jeremiah splitting wood for his wife, who was the cook. At sight of Jeremiah, Tasma Tid began to laugh, and she laughed so long and so loud that the parson paused in his labours and looked at her. He took off his hat and bowed to Nan, whereupon Tasma Tid raised her hand above her head, and indulged in a series of wild gesticulations, which, to the Rev. Jeremiah, were very mysterious and puzzling. He shook his head dubiously, and mopped his face with a large red handkerchief.
"What are you trying to do to Jeremiah?" inquired Nan, as they went along.
"Him fool nigger. We make him dream bad dream," responded Tasma Tid curtly.
The two were in no hurry. They sauntered along leisurely, and, although the sun had not set, by the time they had entered the woods in which the school-house stood, the deep shadows of the trees gave the effect of twilight to the scene. Tasma Tid led Nan to the old building, and told her to wait a moment. The African crawled under the house, and then suddenly reappeared at the back door, near which Nan stood waiting. Tasma Tid had crawled under the house, and lifted a loose plank in the floor of the closet, making her entrance in that way. The front door was locked and the key was safe in the pocket of the Rev. Jeremiah, but the back door was fastened on the inside, and Tasma Tid had no trouble in getting it open.
It is fair to say that Nan hesitated before entering. Some instinct or presentiment held her a moment. She was not afraid; her sense of fear had never developed itself; it was one of the attributes of human nature that was foreign to her experience; and this was why some of her actions, when she was younger, and likewise when she was older, were inexplicable to the rest of her sex, and made her the object of criticism which seemed to have good ground to go upon. Nan hesitated with her foot on the step, but it was not her way to draw back, and she went in. Tasma Tid refastened the door very carefully, and then turned and led the way toward the closet. The room was not wholly dark; one or two of the shutters had fallen off, and in this way a little light filtered in. Nan followed Tasma Tid to the closet, the door of which was open.
"Dis-a we house," said Tasma Tid; "dis-a de place wey we live at."
"Why did you come here?" Nan asked.
"We had no nurrer place; all-a we frien' gone; da's why."
What further comment Nan may have made cannot even be guessed, for at that moment there was a noise at one of the windows; some one was trying to raise the sash. Nan and Tasma Tid held their breath while they listened, and then, when they were sure that some one was preparing to enter the building, the African closed the closet door noiselessly, and pulled Nan after her to the narrowest and most uncomfortable part of the musty and dusty place—the space next the stairway, where it was so low that they were compelled to sit flat on the floor.
The intruder, whoever he might be, crawled cautiously through the window—they could hear the buttons of his coat strike against the sill—and leaped lightly to the floor. He lowered the window again, and then, after tiptoeing about among the benches, came straight to the closet. As Tasma Tid had not taken time to fasten it on the inside, the door was easily opened. Dark as it was, Nan and the African could see that the intruder was a man, but, beyond this, they could distinguish nothing. Nan and her companion would have breathed freer if recognition had been possible, for the new-comer was Gabriel, who had determined to take this method of discovering the aim and object of the Union League.
Once in the closet, Gabriel took pains to make the inside fastenings secure. It was one of the whims of Mr. McManus, the school-master, who had so often caused Gabriel's head and the blackboard to meet, that the fastenings of this closet should be upon the inside. It tickled his humour to feel that a refractory boy should be his own jailer, able, and yet not daring, to release himself until the master should rap sharply on the door.
Gabriel was less familiar with these fastenings than he had formerly been, and he fumbled about in the dark for some moments before he could adjust them to his satisfaction. He made no effort to explore the closet, taking for granted that it could have no other occupant. This was fortunate for Nan, for if he had moved about to any extent, he would inevitably have stumbled over the African and her young mistress, who were crouched and huddled as far under the stairway as they could get.
Gabriel stood still a moment, as if listening, and then he sat flat on the floor, and stretched out his legs with a sigh of relief. After that there was a long period of silence, during which Nan had a fine opportunity to be very sorry that she had ever ventured out on such a fool's errand. "If I get out of this scrape," she thought over and over again, "I'll never be a tomboy; I'll never be a harum-scarum girl any more." She had no physical fear, but she realised that she was placed in a very awkward position.
She was devoured with curiosity to know whether the intruder really was Gabriel. She hoped it was, and the hope caused her to blush in the dark. She knew she was blushing; she felt her ears burn—for what would Gabriel think if he knew that she was crouching on the floor, not more than an arm's length from him? Why, naturally, he would have no respect for her. How could he? she asked herself.
As for Gabriel, he was sublimely unconscious of the fact that he was not alone. Once or twice he fancied he heard some one breathing, but he was a lad who was very close to nature, and he knew how many strange and varied sounds rise mysteriously out of the most profound silence; and so, instead of becoming suspicious, he became drowsy. He made himself as comfortable as he could, and leaned against the wall, pitting his patience against the loneliness of the place and the slow passage of time.
Being a healthy lad, Gabriel would have gone to sleep then and there, but for a mysterious splutter and explosion, so to speak, which went off right at his elbow, as he supposed. He was in that neutral territory between sleeping and waking and he was unable to recognise the sound that had startled him; and it would have remained a mystery but for the fact that a sneeze is usually accompanied by its twin. Nan had for some time felt an inclination to sneeze, and the more she tried to resist it the greater the inclination grew, until finally, it culminated in the spluttering explosion that had aroused Gabriel. This was followed by a sneeze which he had no difficulty in recognising.
The fact that some unknown person was a joint occupant of the closet upset him so little that he was surprised at himself. He remained perfectly quiet for awhile, endeavouring to map out a course of action, little knowing that Nan Dorrington was chewing her nails with anger a few feet from where he sat.
"Who are you?" he asked finally. He spoke in a firm low tone.
In another moment Nan's impulsiveness would have betrayed her, but Tasma Tid came to her rescue.
"Huccum you in we house? Whaffer you come dey? How you call you' name?"
"Oh, shucks! Is that you, Tiddy Me Tas?"—this was the way Gabriel sometimes twisted her name. "I thought you were the booger-man. You'd better run along home to your Miss Nan. She says she wants to see you. What are you hiding out here for anyway?"
"We no hide, Misser Gable. 'Tis-a we house, dis. Honey Nan no want we; she no want nobody. She talkin' by dat Misser Frank what live-a down dey at Clopton. Dee got cake, dee got wine, dee got all de bittle dee want."
Tasma Tid told this whopper in spite of the fact that Nan was giving her warning nudges and pinches.
"Yes, I reckon they are having a good time," said Gabriel gloomily. "Miss Nan gave me an invitation, but I couldn't go." It was something new in Nan's experience to hear Gabriel call her Miss Nan, and she rather relished the sensation it gave her. She was now ready to believe that she was really and truly a young lady.
"Whaffer you ain't gone down dey?" inquired Tasma Tid. "Ef you kin come dis-a way, you kin go down dey."
"I was obliged to come here," responded Gabriel.
"Shoo! dem fib roll out lak dey been had grease on top um," exclaimed Tasma Tid derisively. "Who been ax you fer come by dis way? 'Tis-a we house, dis. You better go, Misser Gable; go by dat place wey Honey Nan live, an' look in de blin' wey you see dat Misser Frank, and dat Misser Paul Tomlin, an' watch um how dee kin make love. Maybe you kin fin' out how fer make love you'se'f."
Gabriel laughed uneasily. "No, Tiddy Me Tas—no love-making for me. I'm either too old or too young, I forget which."
They ceased talking, for they heard footsteps outside, and the sound of voices. Presently some one opened the door, and it seemed from the noise that was made, the shuffling of feet, and the repressed tones of conversation, that a considerable number of negroes had responded to the Rev. Jeremiah's invitation.
The first-comers evidently lit a candle, for a phantom-like shadow of light trickled through a small crack in the closet door, and a faint, but unmistakable, odour of a sulphur match readied Gabriel's nostrils. There were whispered consultations, and a good deal of muffled and subdued conversation, but every word that was distinctly enunciated was clearly heard in the sound-box of a closet. But suddenly all conversation ceased, and complete silence took possession of those present.
The silence was presently broken by a very clear and distinct voice, which both Nan and Gabriel recognised as that of the stranger whom they had overheard talking to the Rev. Jeremiah.
"Before we proceed to the business that has called us together," said the voice, "it is best that we should come to some clear understanding. I am not here in my own behalf. I have nothing to lose except my life, and nothing to gain but the betterment of those who have been released from the horrors of slavery. Very few of you know even my name, but the very fact that I am here with you to-night should go far to reassure you. It is sufficient to say that I represent the great party that has given you your freedom. That fact constitutes my credentials."
"Bless God!" exclaimed the Rev. Jeremiah, piously. He rolled the word "credentials" under his tongue, and resolved to remember it and bring it out in one of his sermons. The stranger had a very smooth and pleasing delivery. There was a sort of Sunday-school cadence to his voice well calculated to impress his audience. The language he employed was far above the heads of those to whom he spoke, but his persuasive tone, and his engaging manner carried conviction. The great majority of the negroes present were ready to believe what he said whether they understood it or not.
"My name," he went on, "is Gilbert Hotchkiss, and I belong to a family that has been striving for more than a generation to bring about the emancipation of the negroes. My father worked until the day of his death for the abolition of slavery; and now that slavery has been abolished, I, with thousands of devoted women and men whom you have never seen and doubtless never will see, have begun the work of uplifting the coloured people in order that they may be placed in a position to appreciate the benefits that have been conferred on them, and enable them to enjoy the fruits of freedom. It is a great work, a grand work, and all we ask is the active co-operation and assistance of the coloured people themselves."
These were the words of Mr. Hotchkiss, the philanthropist; but now Mr. Hotchkiss, the politician, took his place, and there was an indefinable change in the tone of his voice.
"There is no need to ask," he said, "why we do not, in this great work of uplifting the coloured race, ask the assistance of those who were lately in rebellion against the best and the greatest Government on which the sun ever shone. It would be foolish and unreasonable to expect their assistance. They fought to destroy the Union, and they were defeated; they fought to perpetuate slavery, and they failed. More than that, there is every reason to believe that they will refuse to abide by the results of the war. They are very quiet now, but they are merely waiting their opportunity. With our troops withdrawn, and with the Republican Party weakened by opposition, what is to prevent your late masters from placing you back in slavery? Could we expect anything less from those who have been brought up to believe that slavery is a divine institution?"
"You hear dat, people?" cried the Rev. Jeremiah.
"You cannot help believing," continued Mr. Hotchkiss, "that your former masters would force the chains of slavery on you if they could; all they lack is the opportunity; and if you are not careful, they will find an opportunity, or make one. Slavery was profitable to them once, and it would be profitable again. There is one fact you should never forget," said the speaker, warming up a little. "It is a most stupendous fact, namely: that every dollar's worth of property in all this Southern land has been earned by the labour of your hands and by the sweat of your brows. It has been earned by you, not once, but many times over. You have earned every dollar that has ever circulated here. The lands, the houses, the stock, and all the farm improvements are a part of the fruits of negro labour; and when right and justice prevail, this property, or a very large part of it, will be yours."
This statement was received with demonstrations of approval, one of the audience exclaiming: "You sho' is talkin' now, boss!"
"But how are right and justice to prevail? Only by the constant and continued success of the party of which the martyred Lincoln was the leader. The mission of that party has not yet been fulfilled. First, it made you freemen. Then it went a step further, and made you citizens and voters. Should you sustain it by your votes, it will take still another step, and give you an opportunity to reap some of the fruits of your toil, as well as the toil of the unfortunates who pined away and died or who were starved under the infamous system of slavery."
"Ain't it de trufe!" exclaimed the Rev. Jeremiah fervently.
"We have met here to-night to organise a Union League," continued Mr. Hotchkiss. "The object of this league is to bring about a unity of purpose and action among its members, to give them opportunities to confer together, and to secure a clear understanding. No one knows what will happen. Your former masters are jealous of your rights; they will try by every means in their power to take these rights away from you. They will employ both force and fraud, and the only way for you to meet and overcome this danger is to organise. Ten men who understand one another and act together are more powerful than a hundred who act as individuals. You must be as wise as serpents, but not as harmless as doves. Your rights have been bought for you by the blood of thousands of martyrs, and you must defend them. If necessary arm yourselves. Yea! if necessary apply the torch."
There was a certain air of plausibility about this harangue, a degree of earnestness, that impressed Gabriel, and he does not know to this day whether this ill-informed emissary of race hatred and sectional prejudice really believed all that he said. Who shall judge? Certainly not those who remember the temper of those times, the revengeful attitude of the radical leaders at the North, and the distorted fears of those who suddenly found themselves surrounded by a horde of ignorant voters, pliant tools in the hands of unscrupulous carpet-baggers.
Hotchkiss brought his remarks to a close, and then proceeded to read the constitution and by-laws of the proposed Union League, under which, he explained, hundreds of leagues had been organised. Each one who desired to become a member was to make oath separately and individually that he would not betray the secrets of the league, nor disclose the signs and passwords, nor tolerate any opposition to the Republican Party, nor have any unnecessary dealings with rebels and former slave-holders. He was to keep eyes and ears open, and report all important developments to the league.
"We are now ready, I presume, for the ceremonies to begin," remarked Mr. Hotchkiss. "First we will elect officers of the league, and I suggest that the Honourable Jeremiah Tomlin be made President."
"Dat's right!" "He sho is de man!" "No needs fer ter put dat ter de question!" were some of the indorsements that came from various parts of the room.
The Rev. Jeremiah was immensely tickled by the title of Honourable that had been so unexpectedly bestowed on him. He hung his head with as much modesty as he could summon, and, bearing in mind his calling, one might have been pardoned for suspecting that he was offering up a brief prayer of thanksgiving. He rose in his place, however, passed the back of his hand across his mouth, paused a moment, and then began:
"Mr. Cheer, I thank you an' deze friends might'ly fer de renomination er my name, an' de gener'l endossments er de balance er deze gentermen. So fur, so good. But, Mr. Cheer, 'fo' we gits right spang down ter business, I moves dat some er de br'ers be ax'd fer ter give der idee er dis plan which have been laid befo' us by our hon'bul frien'. I moves dot we hear fum Br'er Plato Clopton, ef so be de sperret is on him fer ter gi' us his sesso."
Uncle Plato, taken somewhat by surprise, was slow in responding, but when he rose, he presented a striking figure. He was taller than the average negro, and there was a simple dignity—an air of gentility and serene affability—in his attitude and bearing that attracted the attention of Mr. Hotchkiss. The Rev. Jeremiah was still standing, and Uncle Plato, after bowing gracefully to Mr. Hotchkiss, turned with a smile to the negro who had called on him.
"You know mighty well, Br'er Jerry, dat I ain't sech a talker ez ter git up an' say my say des dry so, an' let it go at dat. Howsomever, I laid off ter say sump'n, an' I ain't sorry you called my name. In what's been said dey's a heap dat I 'gree wid. I b'lieve dat de cullud folks oughter work tergedder, an' stan tergedder fer ter he'p an' be holped. But when you call on me fer ter turn my back on my marster, an' go to hatin' 'im, you'll hatter skuzen me. You sho will."
"He ain't yo' marster now, Br'er Plato, an' you know it," said the Rev. Jeremiah.
"I know dat mighty well," replied Uncle Plato, "but ef it don't hurt my feelin's fer ter call him dat it oughtn't ter pester yuther people. How it may be wid you all, I dunno; but me an' my marster wus boys tergedder. We useter play wid one an'er, an' fall out an' fight, an' I've whipped him des ez many times ez he ever whipped me—an' he'll tell you de same."
"But all this," suggested Mr. Hotchkiss coldly, "has nothing to do with the matter in hand. The coloured race is facing conditions that amount to a crisis—a crisis that has no parallel in the world's history."
"Dat is suttinly so!" the Rev. Jeremiah ejaculated, though he had but a dim notion of what Hotchkiss was talking about.
"They have been made citizens," pursued the organiser, "and it is their duty to demand all their rights and to be satisfied with nothing less. The best men of our party believe that the rebels are still rebellious, and that they will seize the first opportunity to re-enslave the coloured people."
"Ah-yi!" exclaimed the Rev. Jeremiah triumphantly.
"Does you reely b'lieve, Br'er Jerry, dat Pulaski Tomlin will ever try ter put you back in slav'ry?" asked Uncle Plato.
The inquiry was a poser, and the Rev. Jeremiah was unable to make any satisfactory reply. Perceiving this, Mr. Hotchkiss came to the rescue. "You must bear in mind," he blandly remarked, "that this is not a question of one person here and another person there. It concerns a whole race. Should all the former slave-owners of the South succeed in reclaiming their slaves, Mr. Tomlin and Mr. Clopton would be compelled by public sentiment to reclaim theirs. If they refused to do so, their former slaves would fall into the hands of new masters. It is not a question of individuals at all."
"Well, suh, we'll fin' out atter awhile dat we'll hatter do like de white folks. Eve'y tub'll hatter stan' on its own bottom. I'm des ez free now ez I wuz twenty year ago——"
"I can well believe that, after what you have said," Mr. Hotchkiss interrupted.
The tone of his voice was as smooth as velvet, but his words carried the sting of an imputation, and Uncle Plato felt it and resented it. "Yes, suh,—an' I wuz des ez free twenty year ago ez you all will ever be. My marster has been good ter me fum de work go. I ain't stayin' wid 'im bekaze he got money. Ef him an' Miss Sa'ah di'n'a have a dollar in de worl', an no way ter git it, I'd work my arms off fer 'm. An' ef I 'fused ter do it, my wife'd quit me, an' my chillun wouldn't look at me. But I'll tell you what I'll do: when my marster tu'ns his back on me I'll tu'n my back on him."
"I'm really sorry that you persist in making this question a personal one when it affects all the negroes now living and millions yet to be born," said Mr. Hotchkiss.
"Well, suh, le's look at it dat away," Uncle Plato insisted. "Spoz'n you ban' tergedder like dis, an' try ter tu'n de white folks ag'in you, an' dey see what you up ter, an' tu'n der backs, den what you gwine ter do? You got ter live here an' you got ter make yo' livin' here. Is you gwine ter cripple de cow dat gives de cream?"
Uncle Plato paused and looked around. He saw at once that he was in a hopeless minority, and so he reached for his hat. "I'm mighty glad ter know you, suh," he said to Mr. Hotchkiss, with a bow that Chesterfield might have envied, "but I'll hatter bid you good-night." With that, he went out, followed by Wiley Millirons and Walthall's Jake, much to the relief of the Rev. Jeremiah, who proceeded to denounce "white folks' niggers," and to utter some very violent threats.
Then, in no long time, the Union League was organised. Those in the closet failed to hear the words that constituted the ceremony of initiation. Only low mutterings came to their ears. But the ceremony consisted of a lot of mummery well calculated to impress the simple-minded negroes. After a time the meeting adjourned, the solitary candle was blown out, and the last negro departed.
Gabriel waited until all sounds had died away, and then, with a brief good-night to Tasma Tid, he opened the closet door, slipped out, and was soon on his way home. But before he was out of the dark grove, some one went flitting by him—in fact, he thought he saw two figures dimly outlined in the darkness; yet he was not sure—and presently he thought he heard a mocking laugh, which sounded very much as if it had issued from the lips of Nan Dorrington. But he was not sure that he heard the laugh, and how, he asked himself, could he imagine that it was Nan Dorrington's even if he had heard it? He told himself confidentially, the news to go no further, that he was a drivelling idiot.
As Gabriel went along he soon forgot his momentary impressions as to the two figures in the dark and the laugh that had seemed to come floating back to him. The suave and well-modulated voice of Mr. Hotchkiss rang in his ears. He had but one fault to find with the delivery: Mr. Hotchkiss dwelt on his r's until they were as long as a fishing-pole, and as sharp as a shoemaker's awl. Though these magnified r's made Gabriel's flesh crawl, he had been very much impressed by the address, only part of which has been reported here. Boylike, he never paused to consider the motives or the ulterior purpose of the speaker. Gabriel knew of course that there was no intention on the part of the whites to re-enslave the negroes; he knew that there was not even a desire to do so. He knew, too, that there were many incendiary hints in the address—hints that were illuminated and emphasised more by the inflections of the speaker's voice than by the words in which they were conveyed. In spite of the fact that he resented these hints as keenly as possible, he could see the plausibility of the speaker's argument in so far as it appealed to the childish fears and doubts and uneasiness of the negroes. If anything could be depended on, he thought, to promote a spirit of incendiarism among the negroes such an address would be that thing.
If Gabriel had attended some of the later meetings of the league, he would have discovered that the address he had heard was a milk-and-water affair, compared with some of the harangues that were made to the negroes in the old school-house.
All that Gabriel had heard was duly reported to Meriwether Clopton, and to Mr. Sanders, and in a very short time all the whites in the community became aware of the fact that the negroes were taking lessons in race-hatred and incendiarism, and as a natural result, Hotchkiss became a marked man. His comings and goings were all noted, so much so that he soon found it convenient as well as comfortable to make his head-quarters in the country, at the home of Judge Mahlon Butts, whose Union principles had carried him into the Republican Party. The Judge lived a mile and a half from the corporation line, and Mr. Hotchkiss's explanation for moving there was that the exercise to be found in walking back and forth was necessary to his health.
Uncle Plato was very much surprised the next day to be called into the house where Mr. Sanders was sitting with Meriwether Clopton and Miss Sarah in order that they might shake hands with him.
"I want to shake your hand, Plato," said his old master. "I've always thought a great deal of you, but I think more of you to-day than ever before."
"And you must shake hands with me, Plato," remarked Sarah Clopton.
"Well, sence shakin' han's is comin' more into fashion these days, I reckon you'll have to shake wi' me," declared Mr. Sanders.
"I declar' ter gracious I dunner whedder you all is makin' fun er me or not!" exclaimed Uncle Plato. "But sump'n sholy must 'a' happened, kaze des now when I wuz downtown Mr. Alford call me in his sto' an' 'low, 'Plato, when you wanter buy anything, des come right in, money er no money, kaze yo' credit des ez good in here ez de best man in town.' I dunner what done come over eve'ybody." He went away laughing.
Nevertheless, Uncle Plato was more seriously affected by the schemes of Mr. Hotchkiss than any other inhabitant of Shady Dale. He had been a leader in the Rev. Jeremiah's church, and up to the day of the organisation of the Union League, had wielded an influence among the negroes second only to that of the Rev. Jeremiah himself. But now all was changed. He soon found that he would have to resign his deaconship, for those whom he had regarded as his spiritual brethren were now his enemies—at any rate they were no longer his friends.
But Uncle Plato had one consolation in his troubles, and that was the strong indorsement and support of Aunt Charity, his wife, who was the cook at Clopton's, famous from one end of the State to the other for her biscuits and waffles. Uncle Plato had been somewhat dubious about her attitude, for the negro women had developed the most intense partisanship, and some of them were loud in their threats, going much further than the men. No doubt Aunt Charity would have taken a different course had she been in her husband's place, if only for the sake of her colour, as she called her race. She was very fond of her own white folks, but she had her prejudices against the rest.
When Uncle Plato reached home and told his wife what he had said and done, she drew a long breath and looked at him hard for some time. Then she took up her pipe from the chimney-corner, remarking, "Well, what you done, you done; dar's yo' supper."
Uncle Plato had a remarkably good appetite, and while he ate, Aunt Charity sat near a window and looked out at the stars. She was getting together in her mind a supply of personal reminiscences, of which she had a goodly store. Presently, she began to shake with laughter, which she tried to suppress. Uncle Plato mistook the sound he heard for an evidence of grief, and he spoke up promptly:
"I declar' ef I'd 'a' know'd I wuz gwine ter hurt yo' feelings, I'd 'a' j'ined in wid um den an' dar. An' 'taint too late yit. I kin go ter Br'er Jerry an' tell him whilst I ain't change my own min' I'll j'ine in wid um druther dan be offish an' mule-headed."
"No you won't! no you won't! no you won't!" exclaimed Aunt Charity. "I mought 'a' done diffunt, an' I mought 'a' done wrong. We'll hatter git out'n de church, ef you kin call it a church, but dat ain't so mighty hard ter do. Yit, 'fo' we does git out I'm gwine ter preach ol' Jerry's funer'l one time—des one time. Dat what make me laugh des now; I was runnin' over in my min' how I kin raise his hide. Some folks got de idee dat kaze I'm fat I'm bleeze ter be long-sufferin'; but you know better'n dat, don't you?"
"Well, I know dis," said Uncle Plato, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "when you git yo' dander up you kin talk loud an' long."
"Miss Sa'ah done tol' me dat when I git mad, I kin keep up a conversation ez long ez de nex' one," remarked Aunt Charity, with real pride. "An' den dar's dat hat Miss Sa'ah gi' me; I laid off ter w'ar it ter church nex' Sunday, but now—well, I speck I better des w'ar my head-hankcher, kaze dey's sho gwine ter be trouble ef any un um look at me cross-eyed."
"You gwine, is you?" Uncle Plato asked.
"Ef I live," replied Aunt Charity, "I'm des ez good ez dar right now. An' mo' dan dat, you'll go too. 'Tain't gwineter be said dat de Clopton niggers hung der heads bekaze dey stood by der own white folks. Ef it's said, it'll hatter be said 'bout some er de yuthers."
"I'll go," said Uncle Plato, "but I hope I won't hatter frail Br'er Jerry out."
"Now, dat's right whar we gits crossways," Aunt Charity declared. "I hope you'll hatter frail 'im out."
Fortunately, Uncle Plato had no excuse for using his walking-cane on the Rev. Jeremiah, when Sunday came. None of the church-members made any active show of animosity. They simply held themselves aloof. Aunt Charity had her innings, however. When services were over, and the congregation was slowly filing out of the building, followed by the Rev. Jeremiah, she remarked loud enough for all to hear her:
"Br'er Jerry, de nex' time you want me ter cook pullets fer dat ar Lizzie Gaither, des fetch um 'long. I'll be glad ter 'blige you."
As the Rev. Jeremiah's wife was close at hand, the closing scenes can be better imagined than described. In this chronicle the veil of silence must be thrown over them.
It may be said, nevertheless, that Uncle Plato and his wife felt very keenly the awkward position in which they were placed by the increasing prejudice of the rest of the negroes. They were both sociable in their natures, but now they were practically cut off from all association with those who had been their very good friends. It was a real sacrifice they had to make. On the other hand, who shall say that their firmness in this matter was not the means of preventing, at least in Shady Dale, many of the misfortunes that fell to the lot of the negroes elsewhere? There can hardly be a doubt that their attitude, firm and yet modest, had a restraining influence on some of the more reckless negroes, who, under the earnest but dangerous teachings of Hotchkiss and his fellow-workers, would otherwise have been led into excesses which would have called for bloody reprisals.
Nan Dorrington found a pretty howdy-do at her house when she reached home the night the Union League was organised. The members of the household were all panic-stricken when the hours passed and Nan failed to return. Ordinarily, there would have been no alarm whatever, but a little after dark, Eugenia Claiborne, accompanied by a little negro girl, came to Dorrington's to find out why Nan had failed to keep her engagement. She had promised to take supper with Eugenia, and to spend the night.
It will be remembered that Nan was on her way to present her excuses to Eugenia when the spectacle of Mr. Sanders, tipsy and talkative, had attracted her attention. She thought no more of her engagement, and for the time being Eugenia was to Nan as if she had never existed. Meanwhile, the members of the Dorrington household, if they thought of Nan at all, concluded that she had gone to the Gaither Place, where Eugenia lived. But when Miss Claiborne came seeking her, why that put another face on affairs. Eugenia decided to wait for her; but when the long minutes, and the half hours and the hours passed, and Nan failed to make her appearance, Mrs. Absalom began to grow nervous, and Mrs. Dorrington went from room to room with a very long face. She could have made a very shrewd guess as to Nan's whereabouts, but she didn't dare to admit, even to herself, that the girl had been so indiscreet as to go in person to the rescue of Gabriel.
They waited and waited, until at last Mrs. Dorrington suggested that something should be done. "I don't know what," she said, "but something; that would be better than sitting here waiting."
Mrs. Absalom insisted on keeping up an air of bravado. "The child's safe wherever she is. She's been a rippittin' 'round all day tryin' to git old Billy Sanders sober, an' more'n likely she's sot down some'rs an' fell asleep. Ef folks could sleep off the'r sins, Nan'd be a saint."
"But wherever she is, she isn't here," remarked Mrs. Dorrington, tearfully; "and here is where she should be. I wonder what her father will say when he comes?" Dr. Dorrington had gone to visit a patient in the country.
"Perhaps she went with him," Eugenia suggested.
"No fear of that," said Mrs. Absalom. "Ridin' in a gig is too much like work for Nan to be fond of it. No; she's some'rs she's got no business, an' ef I could lay my hand on her, I'd jerk her home so quick, her head would swim worse than old Billy Sanders's does when he's full up to the chin."
After awhile, Eugenia said she had waited long enough, but Mrs. Dorrington looked at her with such imploring eyes that she hesitated. "If you go," said the lady, "I will feel that Nan is not coming, but as long as you stay, I have hope that she will run in any moment. She is with that Tasma Tid, and I think it is terrible that we can't get rid of that negro. I have never been able to like negroes."
"Well, you needn't be too hard on the niggers," declared Mrs. Absalom. "Everything they know, everything they do, everything they say—everything—they have larnt from the white folks. Study a nigger right close, an' you'll ketch a glimpse of how white folks would look an' do wi'out the'r trimmin's."
"Oh, perhaps so," assented Mrs. Dorrington, with a little shrug of the shoulders which said a good deal plainer than words, "You couldn't make me believe that."
Just as Dr. Dorrington drove up, and just as Mrs. Absalom was about to get her bonnet, for the purpose, as she said, of "scouring the town," Nan came running in out of breath. "Oh, such a time as I've had!" she exclaimed. "You'll not be angry with me, Eugenia, when you hear all! Talk of adventures! Well, I have had one at last, after waiting all these years! Don't scold me, Nonny, until you know where I've been and what I've done. And poor Johnny has been crying, and having all sorts of wild thoughts about poor me. Don't go, Eugenia; I am going with you in a moment—just as soon as I can gather my wits about me. I am perfectly wild."
"Tell us something new," said Mrs. Absalom drily. "Here we've been on pins and needles, thinkin' maybe some of your John A. Murrells had rushed into town an' kidnapped you, an' all the time you an' that slink of a nigger have been gallivantin' over the face of the yeth. I declare ef Randolph don't do somethin' wi' you they ain't no tellin' what'll become of you."
But Dr. Dorrington was not in the humour for scolding; he rarely ever was; but on that particular night less so than ever. For one brief moment, Nan thought he was too angry to scold, and this she dreaded worse than any outbreak; for when he was silent over some of her capers she took it for granted that his feelings were hurt, and this thought was sufficient to give her more misery than anything else. But she soon discovered that his gravity, which was unusual, had its origin elsewhere. She saw him take a tiny tin waggon, all painted red, from his pocket and place it on the mantel-piece, and both she and Mrs. Dorrington went to him.
"Oh, popsy! I'm so sorry about everything! He didn't need it, did he?"
"No, the little fellow has no more use for toys. He sent you his love, Nan. He was talking about you with his last breath; he remembered everything you said and did when you went with me to see him. He said you must be good."
Now, if Nan was a heroine, or anything like one, it would never do to say that she hid her face in her hands and wept a little when she heard of the death of the little boy who had been her father's patient for many months. In the present state of literary criticism, one must be very careful not to permit women and children to display their sensitive and tender natures. Only the other day, a very good book was damned because one of the female characters had wept 393 times during the course of the story. Out upon tears and human nature! Let us go out and reform some one, and leave tears to the kindergarten, where steps are taking even now to dry up the fountains of youth.
Nevertheless, Nan cried a little, and so did Eugenia Claiborne, when she heard the story of the little boy who had suffered so long and so patiently. The news of his death tended to quiet Nan's excitement, but she told her story, and, though the child's death took the edge off Nan's excitement, the story of her adventure attracted as much attention as she thought it would. She said nothing about Gabriel, and it was supposed that only she and Tasma Tid were in the closet; but the next morning, when Dr. Dorrington drove over to Clopton's to carry the information, he was met by the statement that Gabriel had told of it the night before. A little inquiry developed the fact that Gabriel had concealed himself in the closet in order to discover the mysteries of the Union League.
Dorrington decided that the matter was either very serious or very amusing, and he took occasion to question Nan about it. "You didn't tell us that Gabriel was in the closet with you," he said to Nan.
"Well, popsy, so far as I was concerned he was not there. He certainly has no idea that I was there, and if he ever finds it out, I'll never speak to him again. He never will find it out unless he is told by some one who dislikes me. Outside of this family," Nan went on with dignity, "not a soul knows that I was there except Eugenia Claiborne, and I'm perfectly certain she'll never tell any one."
Dorrington thought his daughter should have a little lecture, and he gave her one, but not of the conventional kind. He simply drew her to him and kissed her, saying, "My precious child, you must never forget the message the little boy sent you. About the last thing he said was, 'Tell my Miss Nan to be dood.' And you know, my dear, that it is neither proper nor good for my little girl to be wandering about at night. She is now a young lady, and she must begin to act like one—not too much, you know, but just enough to be good."
Now, you may depend upon it, this kind of talk, accompanied by a smile of affection, went a good deal farther with Nan than the most tremendous scolding would have gone. It touched her where she was weakest—or, if you please, strongest—in her affections, and she vowed to herself that she would put off her hoyden ways, and become a demure young lady, or at least play the part to the best of her ability.
Eugenia Claiborne declared that Nan had acted more demurely in the closet than she could have done, if, instead of Gabriel, Paul Tomlin had come spying on the radicals where she was. "I don't see how you could help saying something. If I had been in your place, and Paul had come in there, I should certainly have said something to him, if only to let him know that I was as patriotic as he was." Miss Eugenia had grand ideas about patriotism.
"Oh, if it had been Paul instead of Gabriel I would have made myself known," said Nan; "but Gabriel——"
"I don't see what the difference is when it comes to making yourself known to any one in the dark, especially to a friend," remarked Eugenia. "For my part, horses couldn't have dragged me in that awful place. I'm sure you must be very brave, to make up your mind to go there. Weren't you frightened to death?"
"Why there was nothing to frighten any one," said Nan; "not even rats."
"Ooh!" cried Eugenia with a shiver. "Why of course there were rats in that dark, still place. I wouldn't go in there in broad daylight."
This conversation occurred while Nan was visiting Eugenia, and in the course thereof, Nan was given to understand that her friend thought a good deal of Paul Tomlin. As soon as Nan grasped the idea that Eugenia was trying to convey—there never was a girl more obtuse in love-matters—she became profuse in her praises of Paul, who was really a very clever young man. As Mrs. Absalom had said, it was not likely that he would ever be brilliant enough to set the creek on fire, but he was a very agreeable lad, entirely unlike Silas Tomlin, his father.
If Eugenia thought that Nan would exchange confidences with her, she was sadly mistaken. Nan had a horror of falling in love, and when the name of Gabriel was mentioned by her friend, she made many scornful allusions to that youngster.
"But you know, Nan, that you think more of Gabriel than you do of any other young man," said Eugenia. "You may deceive yourself and him, but you can't deceive me. I knew the moment I saw you together the first time that you were fond of him; and when I was told by some one that you were to marry Mr. Bethune, I laughed at them."
"I'm glad you did," replied Nan. "I care no more for Frank Bethune than for Gabriel. I'll tell you the truth, if I thought I was in love with a man, I'd hate him; I wouldn't submit to it."
"Well, you have been acting as if you hate Gabriel," suggested Eugenia.
"Oh, I don't like him half as well as I did when we were playfellows. I think he's changed a great deal. His grandmother says he's timid, but to me it looks more like conceit. No, child," Nan went on with an affectation of great gravity; "the man that I marry must be somebody. He must be able to attract the attention of everybody."
"Then I'm afraid you'll have to move away from this town, or remain an old maid," said the other. "Or it may be that Gabriel will make a great man. He and Paul belong to a debating society here in town, and Paul says that Gabriel can make as good a speech as any one he ever heard. They invited some of the older men not long ago, and mother heard Mr. Tomlin say that Gabriel would make a great orator some day. Paul thinks there is nobody in the world like Gabriel. So you see he is already getting to be famous."
"But will he ever wear a red feather in his hat and a red sash over his shoulder?" inquired Nan gravely. She was reverting now to the ideal hero of her girlish dreams.
"Why, I should hope not," replied Eugenia. "You don't want him to be the laughing-stock of the people, do you?"
"Oh, I'm not anxious for him to be anything," said Nan, "but you know I've always said that I never would marry a man unless he wore a red feather in his hat, and a red sash over his shoulder."
"When I was a child," remarked Eugenia, "I always said I would like to marry a pirate—a man with a long black beard, a handkerchief tied around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes, and a shining sword in one hand and a pistol in the other."
"Oh, did you?" cried Nan, snuggling closer to her friend. "Let's talk about it. I am beginning to be very old, and I want to talk about things that make me feel young again."
But they were not to talk about their childish ideals that day, for a knock came on the door, and Margaret Gaither was announced—Margaret, who seemed to have no ideals, and who had confessed that she never had had any childhood. She came in dignified and sad. Her face was pale, and there was a weary look in her eyes, a wistful expression, as if she desired very much to be able to be happy along with the rest of the people around her.
The two girls greeted her very cordially. Both were fond of her, and though they could not understand her troubles, she had traits that appealed to both. She could be lively enough on occasion, and there was a certain refinement of manner about her that they both tried to emulate—whenever they could remember to do so.
"I heard Nan was here," she said, with a beautiful smile, "and I thought I would run over and see you both together."
"That is a fine compliment for me," Eugenia declared.
"Miss Jealousy!" retorted Margaret, "you know I am over here two or three times a week—every time I can catch you at home. But I wish you were jealous," she added with a sigh. "I think I should be perfectly happy if some one loved me well enough to be jealous."
"You ought to be very happy without all that," said Nan.
"Yes, I know I should be; but suppose you were in my shoes, would you be happy?" She turned to the girls with the gravity of fate itself. As neither one made any reply, she went on: "See what I am—absolutely dependent on those who, not so very long ago, were entire strangers. I have no claims on them whatever. Oh, don't think I am ungrateful," she cried in answer to a gesture of protest from Nan. "I would make any sacrifice for them—I would do anything—but you see how it is. I can do nothing; I am perfectly helpless. I—but really, I ought not to talk so before you two children."
"Children! well, I thank you!" exclaimed Eugenia, rising and making a mock curtsey. "Nan is nearly as old as you are, and I am two days older."
"No matter; I have no business to be bringing my troubles into this giddy company; but as I was coming across the street, I happened to think of the difference in our positions. Talk about jealousy! I am jealous and envious. Yes, and mean; I have terrible thoughts sometimes. I wouldn't dare to tell you what they are."
"I know better," said Nan; "you never had a mean thought in your life. Aunt Fanny says you are the sweetest creature in the world."
"Don't! don't tell me such things as that, Nan. You will run me wild. There never was another woman like Aunt Fanny. And, oh, I love her! But if I could get away and become independent, and in some way pay them back for all they have done for me, and for all they hope to do, I'd be the happiest girl in the world."
"I think I know how you feel," said Nan, with a quick apprehension of the situation; "but if I were in your place, and couldn't help myself, I wouldn't let it trouble me much."
"Very well said," Mrs. Claiborne remarked, as she entered the room. "Nan, you are becoming quite a philosopher. And how is Margaret?" she inquired, kissing that blushing maiden on the check.
"I am quite well, I thank you, but I'd be a great deal better if I thought you hadn't heard my foolish talk."
"I heard a part of it, and it wasn't foolish at all. The feeling does you credit, provided you don't carry it too far. You are alone too much; you take your feelings too seriously. You must remember that you are nothing but a child; you are just beginning life. You should cultivate bright thoughts. My dear, let me tell you one thing—if Pulaski Tomlin had any idea that you had such feelings as you have expressed here, he would be miserable; he would be miserable, and you would never know it. You said something about gratitude; well if you want to show any gratitude and make those two people happy, be happy yourself—and if you can't really be happy, pretend that you are happy. And the first thing you know, it will be a reality. Now, I have had worse troubles than ever fell to your portion and if I had brooded over them, I should have been miserable. Your lot is a very fortunate one, as you will discover when you are older."
This advice was very good, though it may have a familiar sound to the reader, and Margaret tried hard for the time being to follow it. She succeeded so well that her laughter became as loud and as joyous as that of her companions, and when she returned home, her countenance was so free from care and worry that both Neighbour Tomlin and his sister remarked it, and they were the happier for it.