So Gabriel confined his communications for the most part to his old and ever-faithful friends, the woods and the velvety Bermuda fields. He walked about among these old friends with a lively sense of their vitality and their fruitfulness. He was certain that the fields knew him as well as he knew them—and as for the trees, he had a feeling that they knew his name as well as he knew theirs. He was so familiar with some of them, and they with him, that the katydids in the branches continued their cries even while he was leaning against the trunks of the friends of his childhood: whereas, if a stranger or an alien to the woods had so much as laid the tip of his little finger on the rugged bark of one of them, a shuddering signal would have been sent aloft, and the cries would have ceased instantly.
Gabriel's grandmother went to bed early and rose early—a habit that belongs to old age. But it was only after the darkness and silence of night had descended upon the world that all of Gabriel's faculties were alert. It was his favourite time for studying and reading, and for walking about in the woods and fields, especially when the weather was too warm for study. Every Sunday night found him in the Bermuda fields, long since deserted by Nan and Tasma Tid. To think of the old days sometimes brought a lump in his throat; but the skies, and the constellations (in their season) remained, and were as fresh and as beautiful as when they looked down in pity on the sufferings of Job.
Gabriel's favourite Bermuda field was crowned by a hill, which, gradually sloping upward, commanded a fine view of the surrounding country; and though it was close to Shady Dale, it was a lonely place. Here the killdees ran, and bobbed their heads, and uttered their plaintive cries unmolested; here the partridge could raise her brood in peace; and here the whippoorwill was free to play upon his flute.
Many and many a time, while sitting on this hill, Gabriel had watched the village-lights go out one by one till all was dark; and the silence seemed to float heaven-ward, and fall again, and shift and move in vast undulations, keeping time to a grand melody which the soul could feel and respond to, but which the ear could not hear. And at such time, Gabriel believed that in the slow-moving constellations, with their glittering trains, could be read the great secrets that philosophers and scientists are searching for.
Beyond the valley, still farther away from the town, was the negro church, of which the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin was the admired pastor. Ordinarily, there were services in this church three times a week, unless one of the constantly recurring revivals was in progress, and then there were services every night in the week, and sometimes all night long. The Rev. Jeremiah was a preacher who had lung-power to spare, and his voice was well calculated to shatter our old friend the welkin, so dear to poets and romancers. But if there was no revival in progress, the nights devoted to prayer-meetings were mainly musical, and the songs, subdued by the distance, floated across the valley to Gabriel with entrancing sweetness.
One Wednesday night, when the political conditions were at their worst, Gabriel observed that while the lights were lit in the church, there was less singing than usual. This attracted his attention and then excited his curiosity. Listening more intently, he failed to hear the sound of a single voice lifted in prayer, in song or in preaching. The time was after nine o'clock, and this silence was so unusual that Gabriel concluded to investigate.
He made his way across the valley, and was soon within ear-shot of the church. The pulpit was unoccupied, but Gabriel could see that a white man was standing in front of it. The inference to be drawn from his movements and gestures was that he was delivering an address to the negroes. Hotchkiss was standing near the speaker, leaning in a familiar way on one of the side projections of the pulpit. Gabriel knew Hotchkiss, but the man who was speaking was a stranger. He was flushed as with wine, and appeared to have no control of his hands, for he flung them about wildly.
Gabriel crept closer, and climbed a small tree, in the hope that he might hear what the stranger was saying, but listen as he might, no sound of the stranger's voice came to Gabriel. The church was full of negroes, and a strange silence had fallen on them. He marvelled somewhat at this, for the night was pleasant, and every window was open. The impression made upon the young fellow was very peculiar. Here was a man flinging his arms about in the heat and ardour of argument or exhortation, and yet not a sound came through the windows.
Suddenly, while Gabriel was leaning forward trying in vain to hear the words of the speaker, a tall, white figure, mounted on a tall white horse, emerged from the copse at the rear of the church. At the first glance, Gabriel found it difficult to discover what the figures were, but as horse and rider swerved in the direction of the church, he saw that both were clad in white and flowing raiment. While he was gazing with all his eyes, another figure emerged from the copse, then another, and another, until thirteen white riders, including the leader, had come into view. Following one another at intervals, they marched around the church, observing the most profound silence. The hoofs of their horses made no sound. Three times this ghostly procession marched around the church. Finally they paused, each horseman at a window, save the leader, who, being taller than the rest, had stationed himself at the door.
He was the first to break the silence. "Brothers, is all well with you?" his voice was strong and sonorous.
"All is not well," replied twelve voices in chorus.
"What do you see?" the impressive voice of the leader asked.
"Trouble, misery, blood!" came the answering chorus.
"Blood?" cried the leader.
"Yes, blood!" was the reply.
"Then all is well!"
"So mote it be! All is well!" answered twelve voices in chorus.
Once more the ghostly procession rode round and round the church, and then suddenly disappeared in the darkness. Gabriel rubbed his eyes. For an instant he believed that he had been dreaming. If ever there were goblins, these were they. The figures on horseback were so closely draped in white that they had no shape but height, and their heads and hands were not in view.
It may well be believed that the sudden appearance and disappearance of these apparitions produced consternation in the Rev. Jeremiah's congregation. The stranger who had been addressing them was left in a state of collapse. The only person in the building who appeared to be cool and sane was the man Hotchkiss. The negroes sat paralysed for an instant after the white riders had disappeared—but only for an instant, for, before you could breathe twice, those in the rear seats made a rush for the door. This movement precipitated a panic, and the entire congregation joined in a mad effort to escape from the building. The Rev. Jeremiah forgot the dignity of his position, and, umbrella in hand, emerged from a window, bringing the upper sash with him. Benches were overturned, and wild shrieks came from the women. The climax came when five pistol-shots rang out on the air.
Gabriel, in his tree, could hear the negroes running, their feet sounding on the hard clay like the furious scamper of a drove of wild horses. Years afterward, he could afford to laugh at the events of that night, but, at the moment, the terror of the negroes was contagious, and he had a mild attack of it.
The pistol-shots occurred as the Rev. Jeremiah emerged from the window, and were evidently in the nature of a signal, for before the echoes of the reports had died away, the white horsemen came into view again, and rode after the fleeing negroes. Gabriel did not witness the effect of this movement, but it came near driving the fleeing negroes into a frenzy. The white riders paid little attention to the mob itself, but selected the Rev. Jeremiah as the object of their solicitude.
He had bethought him of his dignity when he had gone a few hundred steps, and found he was not pursued, and, instead of taking to the woods, as most of his congregation did, he kept to the public road. Before he knew it, or at least before he could leave the road, he found himself escorted by the entire band. Six rode on each side, and the leader rode behind him. Once he started to run, but the white riders easily kept pace with him, their horses going in a comfortable canter. When he found that escape was impossible, he ceased to run. He would have stopped, but when he tried to do so he felt the hot breath of the leader's horse on the back of his neck, and the sensation was so unexpected and so peculiar, that the frightened negro actually thought that a chunk of fire, as he described it afterward, had been applied to his head. So vivid was the impression made on his mind that he declared that he had actually seen the flame, as it circled around his head; and he maintained that the back of his head would have been burned off if "de fier had been our kind er fier."
Finding that he could not escape by running, he began to walk, and as he was a man of great fluency of speech, he made an effort to open a conversation with his ghostly escort. He was perspiring at every pore, and this fact called for a frequent use of his red pocket-handkerchief.
"Blood!" cried the leader, and twelve voices repeated the word.
"Bosses—Marsters! What is I ever done to you?" To this there was no reply. "I ain't never hurted none er you-all; I ain't never had de idee er harmin' you. All I been doin' for dis long time, is ter try ter fetch sinners ter de mercy-seat. Dat's all I been doin', an' dat's all I wanter do—I tell you dat right now." Still there was no response, and the Rev. Jeremiah made bold to take a closer look at the riders who were within range of his vision. He nearly sunk in his tracks when he saw that each one appeared to be carrying his head under his arm. "Name er de Lord!" he cried; "who is you-all anyhow? an' what you gwineter do wid me?"
Silence was the only answer he received, and the silence of the riders was more terrifying than their talk would have been. "Ef you wanter know who been tryin' fer ter 'casion trouble, I kin tell you, an' dat mighty quick." But apparently the white riders were not seeking for information. They asked no questions, and the perspiration flowed more freely than ever from the Rev. Jeremiah's pores. Again his red handkerchief came out of his pocket, and again the rider behind him cried out "Blood!" and the others repeated the word.
The Rev. Jeremiah, in despair, caught at what he thought was the last straw. "Ef you-all think dey's blood on dat hankcher, you mighty much mistooken. 'Twuz red in de sto', long 'fo' I bought it, an' ef dey's any blood on it, I ain't put it dar—I'll tell you dat right now."
But there was no answer to his protest, and the ghostly cortège continued to escort him along the road. The white riders went with him through town and to the Tomlin Place. Once there, each one filed between him and the gate he was about to enter, and the last word of each was "Beware!"
Gabriel was struck by the fact that Hotchkiss seemed to be undisturbed by the events that had startled and stampeded the negroes and the white stranger. He remained in the church for some time after the others were gone, and he showed no uneasiness whatever. He had seated himself on one of the deacons' chairs near the pulpit, and, with his head leaning on his hand, appeared to be lost in thought. After awhile—it seemed to be a very long time to Gabriel—he rose, put on his hat, blew out one by one the lamps that rested in sconces along the wall, and went out into the darkness.
Gabriel had remained in the tree, and with good reason. He knew that whoever fired the pistol, the reports of which added so largely to the panic among the negroes, was very close to the tree where he had hid himself, and so he waited, not patiently, perhaps, but with a very good grace. When Hotchkiss was out of sight, and presumably out of hearing, Gabriel heard some one calling his name. He made no answer at first, but the call was repeated in a tone sufficiently loud to leave no room for mistake.
"Tolliver, where are you? If you're asleep, wake up and show me a near-cut to town."
"Who are you?" Gabriel asked.
"One," replied the other.
"I don't know your voice," said Gabriel; "how did you know me?"
"That is a secret that belongs to the Knights of the White Camellia," answered the unknown. "If you don't come down, I'm afraid I'll have to shake you out of that tree. Can't you slide down without hurting your feelings?"
Gabriel slid down the trunk of the small tree as quickly as he could, and found that the owner of the voice was no other than Major Tomlin Perdue, of Halcyondale.
"You didn't expect to find me roosting around out here, did you?" the irrepressible Major asked, as he shook Gabriel warmly by the hand. "Well, I fully expected to find you. Your grandmother told me an hour ago that I'd find you mooning about on the hills back there. I didn't find you because I didn't care to go about bawling your name; so I came around by the road. I was loafing around here when you came up, and I knew it was you, as soon as I heard you slipping up that tree. But that hill business, and the mooning—how about them? You're in love, I reckon. Well, I don't blame you. She's a fine gal, ain't she?"
"Who?" inquired Gabriel.
"Who!" cried Major Perdue, mockingly. "Why, there's but one gal in the Dale. You know that as well as I do. She never has had her match, and she'll never have one. And it's funny, too; no matter which way you spell her first name, backwards or forwards, it spells the same. Did you ever think of that, Tolliver? But for Vallic—you know my daughter, don't you?—I never would have found it out in the world."
Gabriel laughed somewhat sheepishly, wondering all the time how Major Perdue could think and talk of such trivial matters, in the face of the spectacle they had just witnessed.
"Well, you deserve good luck, my boy," the Major went on. "Everybody that knows you is singing your praises—some for your book-learning, some for your modesty, and some for the way you ferreted out the designs of that fellow who was last to leave the church."
"I'm sure I don't deserve any praise," protested Gabriel.
"Continue to feel that way, and you'll get all the more," observed the Major, sententiously. "But for you these dirty thieves might have got the best of us. Why, we didn't know, even at Halcyondale, what was up till we got word of your discovery. Well, sir, as soon as we found out what was going on, we got together, and wiped 'em up. Why, you've got the pokiest crowd over here I ever heard of. They just sit and sun themselves, and let these white devils do as they please. When they do wake up, the white rascals will be gone, and then they'll take their spite out of the niggers—and the niggers ain't no more to blame for all this trouble than a parcel of two-year-old children. You mark my words: the niggers will suffer, and these white rascals will go scot-free. Why don't the folks here wake up? They can't be afraid of the Yankee soldiers, can they? Why the Captain here is a rank Democrat in politics, and a right down clever fellow."
"He is a clever gentleman," Gabriel assented. "I have met him walking about in the woods, and I like him very much. He is a Kentuckian, and he's not fond of these carpet-baggers and scalawags at all. But I never told anybody before that he is a good friend of mine. You know how they are, especially the women—they hate everything that's clothed in blue."
"Well, by George! you are the only person in the place that keeps his eyes open, and finds out things. You saw that rascal talking to the niggers awhile ago, didn't you? Well, he's the worst of the lot. He has been preaching his social equality doctrine over in our town, but I happened to run across him t'other day, and I laid the law down to him. I told him I'd give him twenty-four hours to get out of town. He stayed the limit; but when he saw me walk downtown with my shot-gun, he took a notion that I really meant business, and he lit out. Minervy Ann found out where he was headed for, and I've followed him over here. He's the worst of the lot, and they're all rank poison."
Major Perdue paused a moment in his talk, as if reflecting. "Can you keep a secret, Tolliver?" he asked after awhile.
"Well, I haven't had much practice, Major, but if it is important, I'll do my best to keep it."
"Oh, it is not so important. That fellow you saw talking to the negroes awhile ago is named Bridalbin."
"Bridalbin!" exclaimed Gabriel.
"Yes; he goes by some other name, I've forgotten what. He used to hang around Malvern some years before the war, and a friend of mine who lived there knew him the minute he saw him. He's the fellow that married Margaret Gaither; you remember her; she came home to die not so very long ago. Pulaski Tomlin adopted her daughter, or became the girl's guardian. Now, Tolliver, whatever you do, don't breathe a word about this Bridalbin—don't mention his name to a soul, not even to your grandmother. There's no need of worrying that poor girl; she has already had trouble enough in this world. I'm telling you about him because I want you to keep your eye on him. He's up to some kind of devilment besides exciting the niggers."
Gabriel promptly gave his word that he would never mention anything about Bridalbin's name, and then he said—"But this parade—what does it mean?"
The Major laughed. "Oh, that was just some of the boys from our settlement. They are simply out for practice. They want to get their hands in, as the saying is. They heard I was coming over, and so they followed along. They don't belong to the Kuklux that you've read so much about. A chap from North Carolina came along t'other day, and told about the Knights of the White Camellia, and the boys thought it would be a good idea to have a bouquet of their own. They have no signs or passwords, but simply a general agreement. You'll have to organise something of that kind here, Tolliver. Oh, you-all are so infernally slow out here in the country! Why, even in Atlanta, they have a Young Men's Democratic Club. You've got to get a move on you. There's no way out of it. The only way to fight the devil is to use his own weapons. The trouble is that some of the hot-headed youngsters want to hold the poor niggers responsible, as I said just now, and the niggers are no more to blame than the chicken in a new-laid egg. Don't forget that, Tolliver. I wouldn't give my old Minervy Ann for a hundred and seventy-five thousand of these white thieves and rascals; and Jerry Tomlin, fool as he is, is more of a gentleman than any of the men who have misled him."
They walked back to the village the way Gabriel had come. On top of the Bermuda hill, Major Perdue paused and looked toward Shady Dale. Lights were still twinkling in some of the houses, but for the most part the town was in darkness.
The Major waved his hand in that direction, remarking, "That's what makes the situation so dangerous, Tolliver—the women and the children. Here, and in hundreds of communities, and in the country places all about, the women and children are in bed asleep, or they are laughing and talking, with only dim ideas of what is going on. It looks to me, my son, as if we were between the devil and the deep blue sea. I, for one, don't believe that there's any danger of a nigger-rising. But look at the other side. I may be wrong; I may be a crazy old fool too fond of the niggers to believe they're really mean at heart. Suppose that such men as this—ah, now I remember!—this Boring—that is what Bridalbin calls himself now—suppose that such men as he were to succeed in what they are trying to do? I don't believe they will, even if we took no steps to prevent it; but then there's the possibility—and we can't afford to take any chances."
Gabriel agreed with all this very heartily. He was glad to feel that his own views were also those of this keen, practical, hard-headed man of the world.
"But men of my sort will be misjudged, Tolliver," pursued the Major; "violent men will get in the saddle, and outrages will be committed, and injustice will be done. Public opinion to the north of us will say that the old fire-eaters, who won't permit even a respectable white man to insult them with impunity—the old slave-drivers—are trying to destroy the coloured race. But you will live, my son, to see some of these same radicals admit that all the injustice and all the wrong is due to the radical policy."
This prophecy came true. Time has abundantly vindicated the Major and those who acted with him.
"Yes, yes," Major Perdue went on musingly, "injustice will be done. The fact is, it has already begun in some quarters. Be switched if it doesn't look like you can't do right without doing wrong somewhere on the road."
Gabriel turned this paradox over in his mind, as they walked along; but it was not until he was a man grown that it straightened itself out in his mind something after this fashion: When a wrong is done the innocent suffer along with the guilty; and the innocent also suffer in its undoing.
Shady Dale woke up the next morning to find the walls and the fences in all public places plastered with placards, or handbills, printed in red ink. The most prominent feature of the typography, however, was not its colour, but the image of a grinning skull and cross-bones. The handbill was in the nature of a proclamation. It was dated "Den No. Ten, Second Moon. Year 21,000 of the Dynasty." It read as follows:
"To all Lovers of Peace and Good Order—Greeting: Whereas, it has come to the knowledge of the Grand Cyclops that evil-minded white men, and deluded freedmen, are engaged in stirring up strife; and whereas it is known that corruption is conspiring with ignorance—
"Therefore, this is to warn all and singular the persons who have made or are now making incendiary propositions and threats, and all who are banded together in secret political associations to forthwith cease their activity. And let this warning be regarded as an order, the violation of which will be followed by vengeance swift and sure. The White Riders are abroad.
"Thrice endorsed by the Venerable, the Grand Cyclops, in behalf of the all-powerful Klan. (. (. (. K. K. K. .) .) .)"
Now, if this document had been in writing, it might have passed for a joke, but it was printed, and this fact, together with its grave and formal style, gave it the dignity and importance of a genuine proclamation from a real but an unseen and unknown authority. It had the advantage of mystery, and there are few minds on which the mysterious fails to have a real influence. In addition to this, the spectacular performance at the Rev. Jeremiah's church the night before gave substance to the proclamation. That event was well calculated to awe the superstitious and frighten the timid.
The White Riders had disappeared as mysteriously as they came. Only one person was known to have seen them after they had left the church—it was several days before the Rev. Jeremiah could be induced to relate his experience—and that person was Mr. Sanders. What he claimed to have witnessed was even more alarming than the brief episode that occurred at the Rev. Jeremiah's church. Mr. Sanders was called on to repeat the story many times during the next few weeks, but it was observed by a few of the more thoughtful that he described what he had seen with greater freedom and vividness when there was a negro within hearing. His narrative was something like this:
"Gus Tidwell sent arter me to go look at his sick hoss, an' I went an' doctored him the best I know'd how, an' then started home ag'in. I had but one thought on my mind; Gus had offered to pay me for my trouble sech as it was, an' I was tryin' for to figger out in my mind what in the name of goodness had come over Gus. I come mighty nigh whirlin' roun' in my tracks, an' walkin' all the way back jest to see ef he didn't need a little physic. He was cold sober at the time, an' all of a sudden, when he seed that I had fetched his hoss through a mighty bad case of the mollygrubs, he says to me, 'Mr. Sanders,' says he, 'you've saved me a mighty fine hoss, an' I want to pay you for it. You've had mighty hard work; what is it all wuth?' 'Gus,' says I, 'jest gi' me a drink of cold water for to keep me from faintin', an' we'll say no more about it.'
"Well, I didn't turn back, though I was much of a mind to. I mosied along wondering what had come over Gus. I had got as fur on my way home as the big 'simmon tree—you-all know whar that is—when all of a sudden, I felt the wind a-risin'. It puffed in my face, an' felt warm, sorter like when the wind blows down the chimbley in the winter time. Then I heard a purrin' sound, an' I looked up, an' right at me was a gang of white hosses an' riders. They was right on me before I seed 'em, an' I couldn't 'a' got out'n the'r way ef I'd 'a' had the wings of a hummin'-bird. So I jest ketched my breath, an' bowed my head, an' tried to say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.' I couldn't think of the rest, an' it wouldn't 'a' done no good nohow. I cast my eye aroun', findin' that I wasn't trompled, an' the whole caboodle was gone. I didn't feel nothin' but the wind they raised, as they went over me an' up into the elements. Did you ever pass along by a pastur' at night, an' hear a cow fetch a long sigh? Well, that's jest the kind of fuss they made as they passed out'n sight."
This story made a striking climax to the performances that the negroes themselves had witnessed, and for a time they were subdued in their demeanour. They even betrayed a tendency to renew their old familiar relations with the whites. The situation was not without its pathetic side, and if Mr. Sanders professed to find it simply humourous, it was only because of the effort which men make—an effort that is only too successful—to hide the tenderer side of their natures. But the episode of the White Riders soon became a piece of history; the alarm that it had engendered grew cold; and Hotchkiss, aided by Bridalbin, who called himself Boring, soon had the breach between the two races wider than ever.
Late one afternoon, at a date when the tension between the two races was at its worst, Gabriel chanced to be sitting under the great poplar which was for years, and no doubt is yet, one of the natural curiosities of Shady Dale, on account of its size and height. He had been reading, but the light had grown dim as the sun dipped behind the hills, and he now sat with his eyes closed. His seat at the foot of the tree was not far from the public highway, though that fact did not add to its attractions from Gabriel's point of view. He preferred the seat for sentimental reasons. He had played there when a little lad, and likewise Nan had played there; and they had both played there together. The old poplar was hollow, and on one side the bark and a part of the trunk had sloughed away. Here Gabriel and Nan had played housekeeping, many and many a day before the girl had grown tired of her dolls. The hollow formed a comfortable playhouse, and the youngsters, in addition to housekeeping, had enjoyed little make-believe parties and picnics there.
As Gabriel sat leaning against the old poplar, his back to the road and his eyes closed, he heard the sound of men's voices. The conversation was evidently between country folk who had been spending a part of the day in town. Turning his head, Gabriel saw that there were three persons, one riding and two walking. Directly opposite the tree where Gabriel sat, they met an acquaintance who was apparently making a belated visit to town.
"Hello, boys!" said the belated one by way of salutation. "I 'low'd I'd find you in town, an' have company on my way home."
"What's the matter, Sam?" asked one of the others. "This ain't no time of day to be gwine away from home."
"Well, I'm jest obliged to git some ammunition," replied Sam. "I've been off to mill mighty nigh all day, an' this evenin', about four o'clock, whilst my wife was out in the yard, a big buck nigger stopped at the gate, an' looked at her. She took no notice of him one way or another, an' presently, he ups an' says, 'Hello, Sissy! can't you tell a feller howdy?'"
"He did?" cried the others. Gabriel could hear their gasps of astonishment and indignation from where he sat.
"He said them very words," replied Sam; "'Hello, Sissy! can't you tell a feller howdy?'"
"Did you leave anybody at home?" inquired one of the others.
"You bet your sweet life!" replied Sam in the slang of the day. "Johnny Bivins is there, an' he ain't no slouch, Johnny ain't. I says to Molly, says I, 'Johnny will camp here till I can run to town, an' git me some powder an' buckshot.'"
"We have some," one of the others suggested.
"Better let 'im go on an' git it," said another; "we can't have too much in our neck of the woods when things look like they do now. We'll wait for you, Sam, if you'll hurry up."
"Good as wheat!" responded Sam, who went rapidly toward town.
"I tell you what, boys, we didn't make up our minds about this business a single minute too soon," remarked one of the three who were waiting for the return of their neighbour. "Somethin's got to be done, an' the sooner it's done, the sooner it'll be over with."
"You're talkin' now with both hands and tongue!" declared one of the others, in a tone of admiration.
"You'll see," remarked the one who had proposed to wait, "that Sam is jest as ripe as we are. We know what we know, an' Sam knows what he knows. I don't know as I blame the niggers much. Look at it from their side of the fence. They see these d—d white hellians goin' roun', snortin' an' preachin' ag'in the whites, an' they see us settin' down, hands folded and eyes shet, and they jest natchally think we're whipped and cowed. Can you blame 'em? I hate 'em all right enough, but I don't blame 'em."
Gabriel knew that the man who was speaking was George Rivers, a small farmer living a short distance in the country. His companions were Tom Alford and Britt Hanson, and the man who had gone to town for the ammunition was Sam Hathaway.
"Are you right certain an' shore that this man Hotchkiss is stayin' wi' Mahlon Butts?" George Rivers inquired.
"He lopes out from there every mornin'," replied Tom Alford.
"Mahlon allers was the biggest skunk in the woods," remarked Hanson. "He's runnin' for ordinary. I happened to hear him talkin' to a lot of niggers t'other day, and I went up and cussed him out. I wanted the niggers to see how chicken-hearted he is. Well, sirs, he never turned a feather. I never seed a more lamblike man in my life. I started to spit in his face, and then I happened to think about his wife. Yes, sirs, it seemed to me for about the space of a second or two that I was lookin' right spang in Becky's big eyes, an' I couldn't 'a' said a word or done a thing to save my life. I jest whirled in my tracks and went on about my business. You-all know Becky Butts—well, there's a woman that comes mighty nigh bein' a saint. Why she married sech a rapscallion as Mahlon, I'll never tell you, an' I don't believe she knows herself. But she's all that's saved Mahlon."
"That's the Lord's truth," responded Tom Alford.
"Why, when he first j'ined the stinkin' radicals," continued Britt Hanson, "a passel of the boys, me among 'em, laid off to pay him a party call, an' string him up. Well, the very day we'd fixed on, here comes Becky over to my house; an' she fetched the baby, too. I knowed, time I laid eyes on her, that she had done got wind of what we was up to. Says she to me, 'Britt, I hear it whispered around that you are fixin' up to do me next to the worst harm a man can do to a woman.' 'Why, Becky,' says I, 'I wouldn't harm you for the world, and I wouldn't let anybody else do it.' 'Oh, yes, you would, Britt,' says she. She laughed as she said it, but when I looked in her big eyes, I could see trouble and pain in 'em. I says to her, says I, 'What put that idee in your head, Becky?' And says she, 'No matter how it got there, Britt, so long as it's there. You're fixin' up to hurt me an' my baby.'
"Well, sirs, you can see where she had me. I says, says I, 'Becky, what's to hender you from takin' supper here to-night?' This kinder took her by surprise. She says, 'I'd like it the best in the world, Britt; but don't you think I'd better be at home—to-night?' 'No,' says I, 'a passel of the boys'll be here d'reckly after supper, and I reckon maybe they'd like to see you. You know yourself that they're all mighty fond of you, Becky,' says I. She sorter studied awhile, an' then she says, 'I'll tell you what I'll do, Britt—I'll come over after supper an' set awhile.' 'You ain't afeard to come?' says I. 'No, Britt,' says she; 'I ain't afeard of nothin' in this world except my friends.' She was laughin', but they ain't much diff'ence betwixt that kind of laughin' an' cryin'.
"About that time, mother come in. Says she, 'An' be shore an' fetch the baby, Becky.' The minnit mother said that, I know'd that she was the one that told Becky what we had laid off to do. You-all know what happened after that."
"We do that away," said George Rivers. "When I walked in on you, and seen Becky an' the baby, I know'd purty well that the jig was up, but I thought I'd set it out and see what'd happen."
"I never seen a baby do like that'n done that night," remarked Tom Alford. "It laughed an' it crowed, an' helt out its han's to go to ever' blessed feller in the crowd; an' Becky looked like she was the happiest creetur in the world. I was the fust feller to cave, an' I didn't feel a bit sheepish about it, neither. I rose, I did, an' says, 'Well, boys, it's about my bedtime, an' I reckon I'll toddle along,' an' so I handed the baby to the next feller, an' mosied off home."
"You did," said Britt Hanson, "an' by the time the boys got through passin' the baby to the next feller, there wan't any feller left but me. An' then the funniest thing happened that you ever seed. You know how Becky was gwine on, laughin' an' talkin'. Well, the last man hadn't hardly shet the door behind him, when Becky flopped down and put her head in mother's lap, and cried like a baby. I'm mighty glad I ain't married," Britt Hanson went on. "There ain't a man in the world that knows a woman's mind. Why, Becky was runnin' on and laughin' jest like a gal at picnic up to the minnit the last man slammed the door, and then, down she went and began to boohoo. Now, what do you think of that?"
"I know one thing," remarked George Rivers—"the meaner a man is, the quicker he gits the pick of the flock. The biggest fool in the world allers gits the best or the purtiest gal."
Then there was a pause, as if the men were listening. "Well," said Tom Alford, after awhile, "we ain't after the gals now. That Hotchkiss feller goes out to Mahlon's by fust one road and then the other. You know where Ike Varner lives; well, Ike's wife is a mighty good-lookin' yaller gal, an' when Hotchkiss knows that Ike ain't at home, he goes by that road. I got all that from a nigger that works for me. If Ike ain't at home, he goes in for a drink of water, an' then he tells the yaller gal how to convert Ike into bein' a radical—Ike, you know, don't flock with that crowd. That's what the gal tells my nigger. Well, I put a flea in Ike's ear t'other day, an' night before last, Ike comes to me to borry my pistol. You know that short, single-barrel shebang? Well, I loant it to him on the express understandin' that he wasn't to shoot any spring doves nor wild pea-fowls."
The men laughed, and then sat or stood silent, each occupied with his own reflections, until Sam Hathaway returned. Whereupon, they moved on, one of them singing, in a surprisingly sweet tenor, the ballad of "Nelly Gray."
It was now dark, and ordinarily, Gabriel would have gone to supper. But, instead of doing that, he went on toward town, and met Hotchkiss and Boring on the outskirts. They were engaged in a close discussion when Gabriel met them. It would have been a great deal better for him and his friends if he had passed on without a word; but Gabriel was Gabriel, and he was compelled to act according to Gabriel's nature. So, without hesitation, he walked up to the two men.
"Is this Mr. Hotchkiss?" he inquired.
"That is my name," replied Hotchkiss in his smoothest tone.
"Are you going out to Butts's to-night?"
"Now, that is a queer question," remarked Hotchkiss, after a pause—"a very queer question. What is your name?"
"Tolliver—Gabriel Tolliver."
"Gabriel Tolliver—h'm—yes. Well, Mr. Tolliver, why are you so desirous of knowing whether I go to Butts's to-night?"
"Honestly," replied Gabriel, a little nettled at the man's airs, "I don't want to know at all. I simply wanted to advise you not to go there to-night."
"Oh, you wanted toadviseme not to go. Now, then, let's go a little further into the matter.Whydo you want to advise me?" Hotchkiss was a man who was not only ripe for a discussion at all times, and upon any subject, but made it a point to emphasise all the most trifling details. "Have you any special interest in my welfare?"
"I think not," replied Gabriel, bluntly. "I simply wanted to drop you a hint. You can take it or not, just as you choose." With that, he turned on his heel, and went home to supper, little dreaming that his kindness of heart, and his sincere efforts to do a stranger a favour would involve him in a tangled web of circumstances, from which he would find it almost impossible to escape.
Gabriel heard Hotchkiss laugh, but he did not hear the remark that followed.
"Why, even the children and the young men think I am a coward. They have the idea that courage exists nowhere but among themselves. It is the most peculiar mental delusion I ever heard, and it persists in the face of facts. The probability is that the young man who has just delivered this awful warning has laid a wager with some of his companions that he can fill me full of fright and prevent my going to Butts's."
"Now, I don't think that," replied Boring, or Bridalbin. "I know these people to the core. I had their ideas and thought their thoughts until I found that sentiment doesn't pay. That young man has probably heard some threat made against you, and he thinks he is doing the chivalrous thing to give you a warning. Chivalry! Why, I reckon that word has done more harm to this section, first and last, than the war itself."
"Or, more probable still," suggested Hotchkiss, his voice as smooth and as flexible as a snake, "he was simply trying to find out whether I propose to go to Butts's to-night. If I had some one to keep an eye on him, we might be able to procure some important information, disclosing a conspiracy against the officers of the Government. A few arrests in this neighbourhood might have a wholesome and subduing effect."
"Don't you believe it," said Bridalbin. "I know these people a great deal better than you do."
"I know them a great deal better than I care to," remarked Hotchkiss drily. "I have not a doubt that this young Tolliver was one of that marauding band of conspirators that surrounded the church recently, and endeavoured to intimidate our coloured fellow-citizens. Nor do I doubt that these same conspirators will make an effort to frighten me. I have no doubt that they will make a strong effort to run me away. But they can't do it, my friend. I feel that I have a mission here, and here I propose to stay until there is no work for me to do."
"Well, I can keep an eye on Tolliver if you think it best," Bridalbin suggested somewhat doubtfully. "I know where he lives."
"Do that, Boring," exclaimed Hotchkiss with grateful enthusiasm. "Come to the lodge about nine or half-past, and report." The "lodge" was the new name for the old school-house, and in that direction Hotchkiss turned his steps.
Boring, or Bridalbin—no one ever discovered why he changed his name, for he changed neither his nature nor his associations—followed along after Gabriel, and was in time to see him enter the door and close it behind him. The Lumsden Place was somewhat in the open, but the trees, where Bridalbin took up his position of watcher, made such dense and heavy shadows that it was almost impossible to distinguish objects more than a few feet away. In these heavy shadows Bridalbin stood while Gabriel was supposed to be eating his supper.
A dog trotting along the walk shied and growled when he saw the motionless figure, but after that, there was a long period of silence, which was finally broken by voices on a veranda not far away. The owners of the voices had evidently come out for a breath of fresh air, and were carrying on a conversation which had begun inside. Bridalbin could see neither the house nor the occupants of the veranda, but he could hear every word that was said. One of the voices was soft and clear, while the other was hard, almost harsh, yet it was the voice of a woman. If Bridalbin had been at all familiar with Shady Dale, he would have known that one of the speakers was Madame Awtry and the other Miss Puella Gillum.
"It was only a few weeks ago that they told the poor child about her father," said Miss Puella. "Neighbour Tomlin couldn't muster up the courage to do it, and so it became Fanny's duty. I know it nearly broke her heart."
"Why did they tell her at all? Why did they think it was necessary?" inquired Madame Awtry. Her voice had in it the quality that attracts attention and compels obedience.
"Well, you know Margaret is of age now, and Neighbour Tomlin, who is made up of heart and conscience, felt that it would be wrong to keep her in ignorance, but he couldn't make up his mind to be the bearer of bad news; so it fell to Fanny's lot. But it seems that Margaret already knew, and on that occasion Fanny had to do all the crying that was done. Margaret had known it all along, and had only feigned ignorance in order not to worry her mother. 'I have known it from the first,' she said. 'Please don't tell Nan.' But Nan had known it all along, and Fanny told Margaret so. It is a pity about her father. If he was what he should be, he'd be very proud of Margaret."
"His name was Bridlebin, or something of that kind, was it not?" Madame Awtry asked.
"Something like that," replied Miss Puella. "The world is full of trouble," she said after awhile, and her voice was as gentle as the cooing of a dove—"so very full of trouble. I sometimes think that we should have as much pity for those who are the cause of it as for those who are the victims." Alas! Miss Puella was thinking of Waldron Awtry, whose stormy spirit had passed away.
"That is the Christian spirit, certainly," said Waldron's mother, in her firm, clear tones. "Let those live up to it who can!"
"The girl is in good hands," remarked Miss Puella, after a pause, "and she should be happy. Neighbour Tomlin and Fanny fairly worship her."
"Yes, she's in good hands," responded Madame Awtry, "yet when she comes here, which she is kind enough to do sometimes, it seems to me that I can see trouble in her eyes. It is hard to describe, but it's such an expression as you or I would have if we were dependent, and something was wrong or going wrong with those on whom we depended. But it may be merely my imagination."
"It certainly must be," Miss Puella declared, "for there is nothing wrong or going wrong with Neighbour Tomlin and Fanny."
At this point the conversation ceased, and the two women sat silent, each occupied with her own thoughts. Miss Puella wondered that Madame Awtry could even imagine trouble at the Tomlin Place, while the Madame was smiling grimly to herself, and pitying Miss Puella because she could not perceive what the trouble really was. "What a world it is! what a world!" Madame Awtry said to herself with a sigh.
And Bridalbin stood wondering at the freak of chance or circumstance that had enabled him to hear two persons unknown to him discussing the dependence of his daughter. "Dependent" was the word that grated on his ear. He never thought of Providence—how few of us do!—he never dreamed that his presence at that particular place at that particular moment was to be the means of providing a sure remedy for the most serious trouble, short of bereavement, that his daughter would ever be called on to face.
Bridalbin walked slowly in the direction of the Lumsden Place, which having fewer trees around it could be dimly seen in the starlight. Before he emerged from the denser shadows he heard the door open and close, and then Gabriel came down the steps whistling, and was soon in the thoroughfare. But, instead of going toward town, he turned and went toward the fields. Following the road for a hundred yards or more he soon came to the bars, which formed a sort of gateway to the rich pastures of Bermuda, and, vaulting lightly over these, he was soon lost to view, though the stars were shining as brightly as they could. He was making his way toward his favourite Bermuda hill.
Now, Bridalbin knew enough about the topography of Shady Dale to know that the path or roadway, leading from the bars across the Bermuda fields, was a short cut to one of the highways that led from town past the door of Mahlon Butts. He paused a moment, and then, more sedate than Gabriel, climbed the bars and followed the path across the field. He walked rapidly, for he was anxious to discover what course Gabriel had taken. He crossed the fields and saw no one; he reached the highway, and followed it for a quarter of a mile or more, but he could see no sign of Gabriel.
And for a very good reason. That young man had followed the field-path only a short distance. He had turned sharply, to the right, making for the Bermuda hill, where, with no fear of the dewy dampness to disturb him, he flung himself at full length on the velvety grass, and gulped down great draughts of the cool, sweet air. He heard the sound of Bridalbin's footsteps, as that worthy went rapidly along the path, and he had a boy's mischievous impulse to hail the passer-by. But he was so fond of the hill, and so jealous of his possession of the silence, the night, and the remote stars, that he suppressed the impulse, and Bridalbin went on his way, firm in the belief that Gabriel had crossed the field to the public highway, and was now going in the direction of Mahlon Butts's home. He believed it, and continued to believe it to his dying day, though the only evidence he had was the hint conveyed in the surmises of Hotchkiss.
Bridalbin finally abandoned his wild-goose chase, and returned to the neighbourhood of Gabriel's home, where he waited and watched until his engagement with Hotchkiss compelled him to abandon his post. The business of the Union League was not very pressing that night, or it had been dispatched with unusual celerity, for when Bridalbin reached the old school-house, the Rev. Jeremiah, who had taken upon himself the duties of janitor, was in the act of closing the doors.
"I been waitin' fer you, Mr. Borin'," said the Rev. Jeremiah, after he had responded to Bridalbin's salutation. "De Honerbul Mr. Hotchkiss tol' me ter tell you, in case I seed you, dat he gwine on home; an' he say p'intedly dat dey's no need fer ter worry 'bout him, kaze eve'ything's all right. Ez he gun it ter me, so I gin it ter you. You oughter been here ter-night. Me an' Mr. Hotchkiss took an' put all de business thoo 'fo' you kin bat yo' eye; yes, suh, we did fer a fack."
"I'm very sorry he didn't wait for me," said Bridalbin.
As for Gabriel, he lay out on the Bermuda hill, contemplating himself and the rest of the world. The stars rode overhead, all moving together like some vast fleet of far-off ships. In the northwest, while Gabriel was watching, a huge star seemed to break away from its companions and rush hurtling toward the west, leaving a trail of white vapour behind it. The illumination was but momentary. The Night was quick to snuff out all lights but its own. Whatever might be taking place on the other side of the world, Night had possession here, and proposed to maintain it as long as possible. A bird might scream when Brother Fox seized it; a mouse might squeak when Cousin Screech-Owl swooped down on noiseless wing and seized it; Uncle Wind might rustle the green grass in search of Brother Dust: nevertheless, the order of the hour was silence, and Night was prompt to enforce it.
It is a fine night, Gabriel thought—and the Silence might have answered, "Yes, a fine night and a fateful." It was a night that was to leave its mark on many lives.
At supper, Gabriel's grandmother had informed him that three of his friends had come by to invite him to accompany them to a country dance on the further side of Murder Creek—a dance following a neighbouring barbecue. These friends, his grandmother said, were Francis Bethune, Paul Tomlin, and Jesse Tidwell. They had searched the town over for Gabriel, and were disappointed at not finding him at home.
"Where do you hide yourself, Gabriel?" his grandmother had asked him. "And why do you hide? This is not the first time by a dozen that your friends have been unable to find you."
Gabriel shook his curly head and laughed. "Let me see, grandmother: directly after dinner, I said my Latin and Greek lessons to Mr. Clopton. Bethune was upstairs in his own room, for I heard him singing. After that, I went into the library, and read for an hour or more. Then I selected a book and went over the hill to the big poplar—you know where it is—and there I stayed until dark."
"It is all very well to read and study, Gabriel, and I am sure I am glad to know that you are doing both," said his grandmother, with a smile, "but you must remember that there are social obligations which cannot be ignored. You will have to go out into the world after awhile, and you should begin to get in the habit of it now. You should not avoid your friends. I don't mean, of course, that you should run after them, or fling yourself at their heads; I wouldn't have you do that for the world; but you shouldn't make a hermit of yourself. To be popular, you should mix and mingle freely with your equals. I know how it was in my day. I was not fond of society myself, but my mother always insisted that I should sacrifice my own inclinations for the pleasure of others, and in this way earn the only kind of popularity that is really gratifying. And I really believe I was the most popular of all the girls." The dear old lady tossed her head triumphantly.
"That's what Mr. Clopton says," remarked Gabriel; "but you know, grandmother, your time was different from our time"—oh, these youngsters who persist in reminding us of our fogyism—"and you were a girl in those days, while I am a boy in these. I am lazy, I know; I can loaf with a book all day long; but for the life of me, I can't do as Bethune does. He doesn't read, and he doesn't study; he just dawdles around, and calls on the girls, and talks with them by the hour. He used to be in love with Nan (so Mr. Sanders says) and now he's in love with Margaret Bridalbin; he's just crazy about her. Now, I'm not in love with anybody"—"oh, Gabriel!" protested a still, small voice in his bosom—"and if I were, I wouldn't dawdle around, and whittle on dry-goods boxes, and go and sit for hours at a time with Sally, and Susy, and Bessy, and Molly." Decidedly, Gabriel was coming out; here he was with strong views of his own.
His grandmother laughed aloud at this, saying, "You are very much like your grandfather, Gabriel. He was a very serious and masterful man. He detested small-talk and tittle-tattle, and I was the only girl he ever went with. But Francis Bethune is very foolish not to stick to Nan; she is such a delightful girl. It would be very unfortunate indeed if those two were not to marry."
If the dear old lady had not been so loyal to her sex, she would have told Gabriel that Nan had visited her that very day, and had asked a thousand and one questions about her old-time comrade. Indeed, Nan, with that delightful spirit of unconventionality that became her so well, had made bold to rummage through Gabriel's books and papers. She found one sheet on which he had evidently begun a letter. It started out well, and then stopped suddenly: "Dear Nan: I hardly know——" Then the attempt was abandoned in despair, and on the lower part of the sheet was scrawled: "Dearest Nan: I hardly know, in fact I don't know, and you'll never know till Gabriel blows his horn." This sheet the fair forager promptly appropriated, saying to herself "Boys are such funny creatures."
The conversation between Gabriel and his grandmother, as has been said, took place while they were eating their supper. The youngster was not sorry that he was absent when his friends called for him. It was a long ride to the Samples plantation, where the dance was to be, and a long, long ride back home, when the fiddles were in their bags, the dancers fagged out, and the fun and excitement all over and done with. The Bermuda hill was good enough for Gabriel, unless he could arrange his own dances, and have one partner—just one—from early candle-light till the grey dawn of morning.
It was late when Gabriel returned from the Bermuda hill, later than he thought, for he had completely lost himself in the solemn imaginings that overtake and overwhelm a young man who is just waking up to the serious side of existence, and on whose mind are beginning to dawn the possibilities and responsibilities of manhood. Ah, these young men! How lovable they are when they are true to themselves—when they try boldly to live up to their own ideals!
Once in his room, Gabriel looked about for the book he had been reading during the afternoon. It was his habit to read a quarter of an hour at least—sometimes longer—before going to bed. But the book was not to be found. This was surprising until he remembered that he had not entered his bed-room since the dinner-hour; and then it suddenly dawned on his mind that he had left the book at the foot of the big poplar.
Well! that was a pretty come-off for a young man who was inclined to be proud of his careful and systematic methods. And the book was a borrowed one, and very valuable—one of the early editions of Franklin's autobiography, bound in leather. What would Meriwether Clopton think, if, through Gabriel's carelessness, the dampness and the dew had injured the volume, which, after Horace and Virgil, was one of Mr. Clopton's favourites?
There was but one thing to be done, and that Gabriel was prompt to do. He went softly downstairs, so as not to disturb his grandmother, and made his way to the big poplar, where he was fortunate enough to find the book. Thanks to the sheltering arms of the tree, and the leaf-covered ground, the volume had sustained no damage.
As Gabriel recovered the book, and while he was examining it, he heard a chorus of whistlers coming along the road. Mingled with the whistling chorus were the various sounds made by a waggon drawn by horses. Gabriel judged that the waggon contained the young men who had been to the dance at the Samples plantation, and in this his judgment turned out to be correct. The young men were in a double-seated spring waggon, drawn by two horses. They drew up in response to Gabriel's holla, and he climbed into the waggon.
"Well, what in the name of the seven stars are you doing out here in the woods at this time of night?" cried Jesse Tidwell, and he laughed with humourous scorn when Gabriel told him.
"But the book belongs to Bethune's grandfather," explained Gabriel. "It might have been ruined by rain, or by the damp night-air, if left out until morning. If it had been my own book, perhaps I'd have trusted to luck."
"You missed it to-night, Tolliver," said Francis Bethune. "Feel Samples"—his name was Felix—"was considerably put out because you didn't come. And the girls—Tolliver, when did you get acquainted with them? They all know you. Nelly Kendrick tossed her head and turned up her nose, and said that a dance wasn't a dance unless Mr. Tolliver was present. Tidwell, who was the red-headed girl that raved so about Tolliver's curls?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Jesse Tidwell, "that was Amy Rowland. If she wasn't the belle of the ball, I'll never want any more money in this world. It's no use for Gabriel to blow his horn, when he has all the girls in that part of the country to blow it for him. My son, when and where did you come to know all these young ladies?"
"Why, I used to go out there to church with Mr. Sanders, and sometimes with Mrs. Absalom. There are some fine people in that settlement."
"Fine!" exclaimed Jesse Tidwell, with real enthusiasm; "why, split silk is as coarse as gunny-bagging by the side of those girls. I told 'em I was coming back. 'You must!' they declared, 'and be sure and bring Mr. Tolliver!'" Young Tidwell mimicked a girl's voice with such ridiculous completeness that his companions shouted with laughter. "There's another thing you missed, Tolliver," he went on. "Feel Samples has a cow that gives apple-brandy, and old Burrel Bohannon, the one-legged fiddler, must have milked her dry, for along about half-past ten he kind of rolled his eyes, and fetched a gasp, and wobbled out of his chair, and lay on the floor just as if he was stone dead."
In a short time the young men had reached the tavern, where the team and vehicle belonged. As they drew up in front of the door, Jesse Tidwell, continuing and completing his description of the condition of Burrel Bohannon, exclaimed: "Yes, sir, he fell and lay there. He may have kicked a time or two, and I think he mumbled something, but he was as good as dead."
Bridalbin, restless and uneasy, had been wandering about the town, and he came up just in time to hear this last remark. At that moment, a negro issued from the tavern with a lantern, and Bridalbin was not at all surprised to see Gabriel Tolliver with the rest; and he wondered what mischief the young men had been engaged in. Some one had been badly hurt or killed. That much he could gather from Tidwell's declaration; but who?
He went to his lodging and to bed in a very uncomfortable frame of mind.
Mr. Hotchkiss, after leaving the Union League, had decided not to wait for his co-worker, whom he knew as Boring. So far as he was concerned, he had no fears. He knew, of course, that he was playing with fire, but what of that? He had the Government behind him, and he had two companies of troops within call. What more could any man ask? More than that, he was doing what he conceived to be his duty. He belonged to that large and pestiferous tribe of reformers, who go through the world without fixed principles. He had been an abolitionist, but he was not of the Garrison type. On the contrary, he thought that Garrison was a time-server and a laggard who needed to be spurred and driven. He was one of the men who urged John Brown to stir up an insurrection in which innocent women and children would have been the chief sufferers; and he would have rejoiced sincerely if John Brown had been successful. He mistook his opinions for first principles, and went on the theory that what he thought right could not by any possibility be wrong. He belonged to the Peace Society, and yet nothing would have pleased him better than an uprising of the blacks, followed by the shedding of innocent blood.
In short, there were never two sides to any question that interested Hotchkiss. He held the Southern people responsible for American slavery, and would have refused to listen to any statement of facts calculated to upset his belief. He was narrow-minded, bigoted, and intensely in earnest. Some writer, Newman, perhaps, has said that a man will not become a martyr for the sake of an opinion; but Newman probably never came in contact with the whipper-snappers of Exeter Hall, or their prototypes in this country—the men who believe that philanthropy, and reform, and progress generally are worthless unless it be accompanied by strife, and hate, and, if possible, by bloodshed. You find the type everywhere; it clings like a leech to the skirts of every great movement. The Hotchkisses swarm wherever there is an opening for them, and they always present the same general aspect. They are as productive of isms as a fly is of maggots, and they live and die in the belief that they are promoting the progress of the world; but if their success is to be measured by their operations in the South during the reconstruction period, the world would be much better off without them. They succeeded in dedicating millions of human beings to misery and injustice, and warped the minds of the whites to such an extent that they thought it necessary to bring about peace and good order by means of various acute forms of injustice and lawlessness.
Mr. Hotchkiss was absolutely sincere in believing that the generation of Southern whites who were his contemporaries were personally responsible for slavery in this country, and for all the wrongs that he supposed had been the result of that institution. He felt it in every fibre of his cultivated but narrow mind, and he went about elated at the idea that he was able to contribute his mite of information to the negroes, and breed in their minds hatred of the people among whom they were compelled to live. If there had been a Booker Washington in that day, he would have been denounced by the Hotchkisses as a traitor to his race, and an enemy of the Government, just as they denounced and despised such negroes as Uncle Plato.
Hotchkiss went along the road in high spirits. He had delivered a blistering address to the negroes at the meeting of the league, and he was feeling happy. His work, he thought, was succeeding. Before he delivered his address, he had initiated Ike Varner, who was by all odds the most notorious negro in all that region. Ike was a poet in his way; if he had lived a few centuries earlier, he would have been called a minstrel. He could stand up before a crowd of white men, and spin out rhymes by the yard, embodying in this form of biography the weak points of every citizen. Some of his rhymes were very apt, and there are men living to-day who can repeat some of the extemporaneous satires composed by this negro. He had the reputation among the blacks of being an uncompromising friend of the whites. In the town, he was a privileged character; he could do and say what he pleased. He was a fine cook, and provided possum suppers for those who sat up late at night, and ice-cream for those who went to bed early. He tidied up the rooms of the young bachelors, he sold chicken-pies and ginger-cakes on public days, and Cephas, whose name was mentioned at the beginning of this chronicle, is willing to pay five dollars to the man or woman who can bake a ginger-cake that will taste as well as those that Ike Varner made. He was a happy-go-lucky negro, and spent his money as fast as he made it, not on himself, but on Edie, his wife, who was young, and bright, and handsome. She was almost white, and her face reminded you somehow of the old paintings of the Magdalene, with her large eyes and the melancholy droop of her mouth. Edie was the one creature in the world that Ike really cared for, and he had sense enough to know that she cared for him only when he could supply her with money. Yet he watched her like a hawk, madly jealous of every glance she gave another man; and she gave many, in all directions. Ike's jealousy was the talk of the town among the male population, and was the subject for many a jest at his expense. His nature was such that he could jest about it too, but far below the jests, as any one could see, there was desperation.
In spite of all this, Ike was the most popular negro in the town. His wit and his good-humour commended him to the whole community. He had moved his wife and his belongings into the country, two or three miles from town, on the ground that the country is more conducive to health. Ike's white friends laughed at him, but the negro couldn't see the joke. Why should a negro be laughed at for taking precautions of this sort, when there is a whole nation of whites that keeps its women hid, or compels them to cover their faces when they go out for a breath of fresh air? The fact is that Ike didn't know what else to do, and so he sent his handsome wife into exile, and went along to keep her company. Nevertheless, all his interests were within the corporate limits of Shady Dale, and he was compelled by circumstances to leave Edie to pine alone, sometimes till late at night. Whether Edie pined or not, or whether she was lonely, is a question that this chronicler is not called on to discuss.
Now, the fact of Ike's popularity with the whites had struck Mr. Hotchkiss as a very unfavourable sign, and he set himself to work to bring about a change. He sent some of the negro leaders to talk with Ike, who sent them about their business in short order. Then Mr. Hotchkiss took the case in hand, and called on Ike at his house. The two had an argument over the matter, Ike interspersing his remarks with random rhymes which Hotchkiss thought very coarse and crude. At the conclusion of the argument, Hotchkiss saw that the negro had been laughing at him all the way through, and he resented this attitude more than another would. He went away in a huff, resolved to leave the negro with his idols.
This would have been very well, if the matter had stopped there, but Edie put her finger in the pie. One day when Ike was away, she called to Hotchkiss as he was passing on his way to town, and invited him into the house. There was something about the man that had attracted the wild and untamed passions of the woman. He was not a very handsome man, but his refinement of manner and speech stood for something, and Edie had resolved to cultivate his acquaintance. He went in, in response to her invitation, and found that she desired to ask his advice as to the best and easiest method of converting Ike into a Union Leaguer. Hotchkiss gave her such advice as he could in the most matter-of-fact way, and went on about his business. Otherwise he paid no more attention to her than if she had been a sign in front of a cigar-store. Edie was not accustomed to this sort of thing, and it puzzled her. She went to her looking-glass and studied her features, thinking that perhaps something was wrong. But her beauty had not even begun to fade. A melancholy tenderness shone in her lustrous eyes, her rosy lips curved archly, and the glow of the peach-bloom was in her cheeks.
"I didn't know the man was a preacher," she said, laughing at herself in the glass.
Time and again she called Mr. Hotchkiss in as he went by, and on some occasions they held long consultations at the little gate in front of her door. Ike was not at all blind to these things; if he had been, there was more than one friendly white man to call his attention to them. The negro was compelled to measure Hotchkiss by the standard of the most of the white men he knew. He was well aware of Edie's purposes, and he judged that Hotchkiss would presently find them agreeable.
Ike listened to Edie's arguments in behalf of the Union League with a great deal of patience. Prompted by Hotchkiss, she urged that membership in that body would give him an opportunity to serve his race politically; he might be able to go to the legislature, and, in that event, Edie could go to Atlanta with him, where (she said to herself) she would be able to cut a considerable shine. Moreover, membership in the league, with his aptitude for making a speech, would give him standing among the negro leaders all over the State.
Ike argued a little, but not much, considering his feelings. He pointed out that all his customers, the people who ate his cakes and his cream, and so forth and so on, were white, and felt strongly about the situation. Should they cease their patronage, what would he and Edie do for victuals to eat and clothes to wear?
"Oh, we'll git along somehow; don't you fret about that," said Edie with a toss of her head.
"Maybe you will, but not me," replied Ike.
At last, however, he had consented to join the league, and appeared to be very enthusiastic over the matter. As Mr. Hotchkiss went along home that night—the night on which the young men had gone to the country dance—he was feeling quite exultant over Ike's conversion, and the enthusiasm he had displayed over the proceedings. After he had decided to go home rather than wait for Bridalbin, he hunted about in the crowd for Ike, but the negro was not to be found. As their roads lay in the same direction Hotchkiss would have been glad of the negro's company along the way, and he was somewhat disappointed when he was told that Ike had started for home as soon as the meeting adjourned. Mr. Hotchkiss thereupon took the road and went on his way, walking a little more rapidly than usual, in the hope of overtaking Ike. At last, however, he came to the conclusion that the negro had remained in town. He was sorry, for there was nothing he liked better than to drop gall and venom into the mind of a fairly intelligent negro.
As for Ike, he had his own plans. He had told Edie that in all probability he wouldn't come home that night, and advised her to get a nearby negro woman to stay all night with her. This Edie promised to do. When the league adjourned, Ike lost no time in taking to the road, and for fear some one might overtake him he went in a dog-trot for the first mile, and walked rapidly the rest of the way. Before he came to the house, he stopped and pulled off his shoes, hiding them in a fence-corner. He then left the road, and slipped through the woods until he was close to the rear of the house. Here his wariness was redoubled. He wormed himself along like a snake, and crept and crawled, until he was close enough to see Edie sitting on the front step—there was but one—of their little cabin. He was close enough to see that she had on her Sunday clothes, and he thought he could smell the faint odour of cologne; he had brought her a bottle home the night before.
He lay concealed for some time, but finally he heard footsteps on the road, and he rose warily to a standing position. Edie heard the footsteps too, for she rose and shook out her pink frock, and went to the gate. The lonely pedestrian came leisurely along the road, having no need for haste. When he found that it was impossible to overtake Ike, Mr. Hotchkiss ceased to walk rapidly, and regulated his pace by the serenity of the hour and the deliberate movements of nature. The hour was rapidly approaching when solitude would be at its meridian on this side of the world, and a mocking-bird not far away was singing it in.
Mr. Hotchkiss would have passed Ike's gate without turning his head, but he heard a voice softly call his name. He paused, and looked around, and at the gate he saw the figure of Edie. "Is that you, Mr. Hotchkiss? What you do with Ike?"
"Isn't he at home? He started before I did."
"He ain't comin' home to-night, an' I was so lonesome that I had to set on the step here to keep myse'f company," said Edie. "Won't you come in an' rest? I know you must be tired; I got some cold water in here, fresh from the well."
"No, I'll not stop," replied Mr. Hotchkiss. "It is late, and I must be up early in the morning."
"Well, tell me 'bout Ike," said Edie. "You got 'im in the league all right, I hope?" She came out of the gate, as she said this, and moved nearer to Hotchkiss. In her hand she held a flower of some kind, and with this she toyed in a shamefaced sort of way.
"Mr. Varner is now a member in good standing," replied Hotchkiss, "and I think he will do good work for his race and for the party."
Edie moved a step or two nearer to him, toying with her flower. Now, Mr. Hotchkiss was a genuine reformer of the most approved type, and, as such, he was entitled to as many personal and private fads as he chose to have. He was a vegetarian, holding to the theory that meat is a poison, though he was not averse to pie for breakfast. His pet aversion, leaving alcohol out of the question, was all forms of commercial perfumes. As Edie came close to him, he caught a whiff of her cologne-scented clothes, and his anger rose.
"Why will you ladies," he said, "persist in putting that sort of stuff on you?"
"I dunner what you mean," replied Edie, edging still closer to Hotchkiss.