The news which Miss Polly had laid as a social offering at Mrs. Lucy Lumsden's feet, and which she boasted was very astonishing, had the appearance of absurdity on the face of it. Miss Polly, with her work-bag and her turkey-tail fan, had paid a very early visit to the Lumsden Place. She went in very quietly, greeted her old friend in a subdued manner, and then sat staring at her with an expression that Mrs. Lumsden failed to understand. It might have been the result of special and unmitigated woe, or of physical pain, or of severe fatigue. Whatever the cause, it was unnatural, and so Gabriel's grandmother made haste to inquire about it.
"Why, what in the world is the matter, Polly? Are you ill?"
At this Miss Polly acted as if she had been aroused from a dream or a revery. Her work-bag slid from her lap, and her turkey-tail fan would have fallen had it not been attached to her wrist by a piece of faded ribbon. "I declare, Lucy, I don't know that I ought to tell you; and I wouldn't if I thought you would repeat it to a living soul. It is more than marvellous; it is, indeed, Lucy"—leaning a little nearer, and lowering her voice, which was never very loud—"I honestly believe that Ritta Claiborne is in love with old Silas Tomlin! I certainly do."
"You must have some reason for believing that," said Mrs. Lumsden, with a benevolent smile, the cause of which the ear-trumpet could not interpret.
"Reasons! I have any number, Lucy. I'm certain you won't believe me, but it has come to that pass that old Silas calls on her every night, and they sit in the parlour there and talk by the hour, sometimes with Eugenia, and sometimes without her. It would be no exaggeration at all if I were to tell you that they are talking together in that parlour five nights out of the seven. Now, what do they mean by that?"
"Why, there's nothing in that, Polly. I have heard that they are old acquaintances. Surely old acquaintances can talk together, and be interested in one another, without being in love. Why, very frequently of late Meriwether Clopton comes here. I hope you don't think I'm in love with him."
"Certainly not, Lucy, most certainly not. But do you have Meriwether's portrait hanging in your parlour? And do you go and sit before it, and study it, and sometimes shake your finger at it playfully? I tell you, Lucy, there are some queer people in this world, and Ritta Claiborne is one of them."
"She is excellent company," said Mrs. Lumsden.
"She is, she is," Miss Polly assented. "She is full of life and fun; she sees the ridiculous side of everything; and that is why I can't understand her fondness for old Silas. It is away beyond me. Why, Lucy, she treats that portrait as if it were alive. What she says to it, I can't tell you, for my hearing is not as good now as it was before my ears were affected. But she says something, for I can see her lips move, and I can see her smile. My eyesight is as good now as ever it was. I'm telling you what I saw, not what I heard. The way she went on over that portrait was what first attracted my attention; but for that I would never have had a suspicion. Now, what do you think of it, Lucy?"
"Nothing in particular. If it is true, it would be a good thing for Silas. He is not as mean as a great many people think he is."
"He may not be, Lucy," responded Miss Polly, "but he brings a bad taste in my mouth every time I see him."
"Well, directly after Sherman passed through," said Mrs. Lumsden, "and when few of us had anything left, Silas came to me, and asked if I needed anything, and he was ready to supply me with sufficient funds for my needs."
"Well, he didn't come to me," Miss Polly declared with emphasis, "and if anybody in this world had needs, I did. You remember Robert Gaither? Well, Silas loaned him some money during the war, and although Robert was in a bad way, old Silas collected every cent down to the very last, and Robert had to go to Texas. Oh, I could tell you of numberless instances where he took advantage of those who had borrowed from him."
"I suppose that Mr. Lumsden had been kind to Silas when he was sowing his wild oats; indeed, I think my husband advanced him money when he had exhausted the supply allowed him by the executors of the Tomlin estate."
"And just think of it, Lucy—Ritta Claiborne sits there and plays the piano for old Silas, and sometimes Eugenia goes in and sings, and she has a beautiful voice; I'm not too deaf to know that."
It was then that Mrs. Lumsden leaned over and gave the ear-trumpet some very good advice. "If I were in your place, Polly, I wouldn't tell this to any one else. Mrs. Claiborne is an excellent woman; she comes of a good family, and she is cultured and refined. No doubt she is sensitive, and if she heard that you were spreading your suspicions abroad, she would hardly feel like staying in a house where——" Mrs. Lumsden paused. She had it on her tongue's-end to say, "in a house where she is spied upon," but she had no desire in the world to offend that simple-minded old soul, who, behind all her peculiarities and afflictions, had a very tender heart.
"I know what you mean, Lucy," said Miss Polly, "and your advice is good; but I can't help seeing what goes on under my eyes, and I thought there could be no harm in telling you about it. I am very fond of Ritta Claiborne, and as for Eugenia, why she is simply angelic. I love that child as well as if she were my own. If there's a flaw in her character, I have never found it. I'll say that much."
The explanation of Miss Polly's suspicions is not as simple as her recital of them. No one can account for some of the impulses of the human heart, or the vagaries of the human mind. It is easy to say that after Silas Tomlin had his last interview with Mrs. Claiborne, he permitted his mind to dwell on her personality and surroundings, and so fell gradually under a spell. Such an explanation is not only easy to imagine, but it is plausible; nevertheless, it would not be true. There is a sort of tradition among the brethren who deal with character in fiction that it must be consistent with itself. This may be necessary in books, for it sweeps away at one stroke ten thousand mysteries and problems that play around the actions of every individual, no matter how high, no matter how humble. How often do we hear it remarked in real life that the actions of such and such an individual are a source of surprise and regret to his friends; and how often in our own experience have we been shocked by the unexpected as it crops out in the actions of our friends and acquaintances!
For this and other reasons this chronicler does not propose to explain Silas's motives and movements and try to show that they are all consistent with his character, and that, therefore, they were all to be predicated from the beginning. What is certainly true is that Silas was one day stopped in the street by Eugenia, who inquired about Paul. He looked at the girl very gloomily at first, but when he began to talk about the troubles of his son, he thawed out considerably. In this case Eugenia's sympathies abounded, in fact were unlimited, and she listened with dewy eyes to everything Silas would tell her about Paul.
"You mustn't think too much about Paul," remarked Silas grimly, as they were about to part.
"Thank you, sir," replied Eugenia, with a smile, "I'll think just enough and no more. But it was my mother that told me to ask about him if I saw you. She is very fond of him. You never come to see us now," the sly creature suggested.
Silas stared at her before replying, and tried to find the gleam of mockery in her eyes, or in her smile. He failed, and his glances became shifty again. "Why, I reckon she'd kick me down the steps if I called without having some business with her. If you were to ask her who her worst enemy is, she'd tell you that I am the man."
"Well, sir," replied Eugenia archly, "I have been knowing mother a good many years, but I've never seen her put any one out of the house yet. We were talking about you to-day, and she said you must be very lonely, now that Paul is away, and I know she sympathises with those who are lonely; I've heard her say so many a time."
"Yes; that may be true," remarked Silas, "but she has special reasons for not sympathising with me. She knows me a great deal better than you do."
"I'm afraid you misjudge us both," said Eugenia demurely. "If you knew us better, you'd like us better. I'm sure of that."
"Humph!" grunted Silas. Then looking hard at the girl, he bluntly asked, "Is there anything between you and Paul?"
"A good many miles, sir, just now," she answered, making one of those retorts that Paul thought so fine.
"H-m-m; yes, you are right, a good many miles. Well, there can't be too many."
"I think you are cruel, sir. Is Paul not to come home any more? Paul is a very good friend of mine, and I could wish him well wherever he might be; but how would you feel, sir, if he were never to return?"
"Well, I must go," said Silas somewhat bluntly. When Beauty has a glib tongue, abler men than Silas find themselves without weapons to cope with it.
"Shall I tell mother that you have given your promise to call soon?" Eugenia asked.
"Now, I hope you are not making fun of me," cried Silas with some irritation.
"How could that be, sir? Don't you think it would be extremely pert in a young girl to make fun of a gentleman old enough to be her father?"
Silas winced at the comparison. "Well, I have seen some very pert ones," he insisted, and with that he bade her good-day with a very ill grace, and went on about his business, of which he had a good deal of one kind and another.
"Mother," said Eugenia, after she had given an account of her encounter with Silas, "I believe the man has a good heart and is ashamed of it."
"Why, I think the same may be said of most of the grand rascals that we read about in history; and the pity of it is that they would have all been good men if they had had the right kind of women to deal with them and direct their careers."
"Do you really think so, mother?" the daughter inquired.
"I'm sure of it," said the lady.
Then after all there might be some hope for old Silas Tomlin. And his instinct may have given him an inkling of the remedy for his particular form of the whimsies, for it was not many days before he came knocking at the lady's door, where he was very graciously received, and most delightfully entertained. Both mother and daughter did their utmost to make the hours pass pleasantly, and they succeeded to some extent. For awhile Silas was suspicious, then he would resign himself to the temptations of good music and bright conversation. Presently he would remember his suspicions, and straighten himself up in his chair, and assume an attitude of defiance; and so the first evening passed. When Silas found himself in the street on his way home, he stopped still and reflected.
"Now, what in the ding-nation is that woman up to? What is she trying to do, I wonder? Why, she's as different from what she was when I first knew her as a butterfly is from a caterpillar. Why, there ain't a pearter woman on the continent. No wonder Paul lost his head in that house! She's up to something, and I'll find out what it is."
Silas was always suspicious, but on this occasion he bethought himself of the fact that he had not been dragged into the house; he had been under no compulsion to knock at the door; indeed, he had taken advantage of the slightest hint on the part of the daughter—a hint that may have been a mere form of politeness. He remembered, too, that he had frequently gone by the house at night, and had heard the piano going, accompanied by the singing of one or the other of the ladies. His reflections would have made him ashamed of himself, but he had never cultivated such feelings. He left that sort of thing to the women and children.
In no long time he repeated his visit, and met with the same pleasurable experience. On this occasion, Eugenia remained in the parlour only a short time. For a diversion, the mother played a few of the old-time tunes on the piano, and sang some of the songs that Silas had loved in his youth. This done, she wheeled around on the stool, and began to talk about Paul.
"If I had a son like that," she said, "I should be immensely proud of him."
"You have a fine daughter," Silas suggested, by way of consolation.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Yes, but you know we always want that which we have not. Yet they say that envy is among the mortal sins."
"Well, a sin's a sin, I reckon," remarked Silas.
"Oh, no! there are degrees in sin. I used to know a preacher who could run the scale of evil-doing and thinking, just as I can trip along the notes on the piano."
"They once tried to make a preacher out of me," remarked Silas, "but when I slipped in the church one day and went up into the pulpit, I found it was a great deal too big for me."
"They make them larger now," said the lady, "so that they will hold the exhorter and the horrible example at the same time."
"Did Paul ever see my picture there?" asked Silas, changing the conversation into a more congenial channel.
"Why, I think so," replied the lady placidly. "I think he asked about it, and I told him that we had known each other long ago, which was not at all the truth."
"What did Paul say to that?" asked Silas eagerly.
"He said that while some people might think you were queer, you had been a good dad to him. I think he said dad, but I'll not be sure."
"Yes, yes, he said it," cried Silas, all in a glow. "That's Paul all over; but what will the poor boy think when he finds out what you know?"
"Why, he'll enjoy the situation," said the lady, laughing. "As you Georgians say, he'll be tickled to death."
Silas regarded her with astonishment, his hands clenched and his thin lips pressed together. "Do you think, Madam, that it is a matter for a joke? You women——"
"Can't I have my own views? You have yours, and I make no objection."
"But think of what a serious matter it is to me. Do you realise that there is nothing but a whim betwixt me and disgrace—betwixt Paul and disgrace?"
"A whim? Why, you are another Daniel O'Connell! Call me a hyperbole, a rectangled triangle, a parenthesis, or a hyphen." She was laughing, and yet it was plain to be seen that she had no relish for the term which Silas had unintentionally applied to her.
"I meant to say that if the notion seized you, you would fetch us down as a hunter bags a brace of doves."
"Doves!" exclaimed Mrs. Claiborne, with a comical lift of the eyebrows.
"Buzzards, then!" said Silas with some heat.
"Oh, you overdo everything," laughed the lady.
"Well, there's nobody hurt but me," was Silas's gruff reply.
"And Paul," suggested the lady, with a peculiar smile.
"Well, when I say Paul, I mean myself. I've been called worse names than buzzard by people who were trying to walk off with my money. Oh, they didn't call me that to my face," said Silas, noticing a queer expression in the lady's eyes. "And people who should have known better have hated me because I didn't fling my money away after I had saved it."
"Well, you needn't worry about that," Mrs. Claiborne remarked. "You will have plenty of company in the money-grabbing business before long. I can see signs of it now, and every time I think of it I feel sorry for our young men, yes, and our young women, and the long generations that are to come after them. In the course of a very few years you will find your business to be more respectable than any of the professions. You remember how, before the war, we used to sneer at the Yankees for their money-making proclivities? Well, it won't be very long before we'll beat them at their own game; and then our politicians will thrive, for each and all of them will have their principles dictated by Shylock and his partners."
"Why, you talk as if you were a politician yourself. But why are you sorry for our young women?"
"That was a hasty remark. I am sorry for those who will grow weary and fall by the wayside. The majority of them, and the best of them, will make themselves useful in thousands of ways, and new industries will spring up for their benefit. They will become workers, and, being workers, they will be independent of the men, and finally begin to look down on them as they should."
"Well!" exclaimed Silas, and then he sat and gazed at the lady for the first time with admiration. "Where'd you learn all that?" he asked after awhile.
"Oh, I read the newspapers, and such books as I can lay my hands on, and I remember what I read. Didn't you notice that I recited my piece much as a school-boy would?"
"No, I didn't," replied Silas. "I do a good deal of reading myself, but all those ideas are new to me."
"Well, they'll be familiar to you just as soon as our people can look around and get their bearings. As for me, I propose to become an advanced woman, and go on the stage; there's nothing like being the first in the field. I always told my husband that if he died and left me without money, I proposed to earn my own living."
"You told your husband that? When did you tell him?" inquired Silas with some eagerness.
"Oh, long before he died," replied the lady.
Silas sat like one stunned. "Do you mean to tell me that your husband is dead?"
"Why, certainly," replied Mrs. Claiborne. "What possible reason could I have for denying or concealing the fact?"
Silas straightened himself in his chair, and frowned. "Then why did you come here and pretend—pretend—ain't you Ritta Rozelle, that used to be?"
"There were two of them," the lady replied. "They were twins. One was named Clarita, and the other Floretta, but both were called Ritta by those who could not distinguish them apart. I had reason to believe that you hadn't treated my sister as you should have done, and I came here to see if you would take the bait. You snapped it up before the line touched the water. It was not even necessary for me to try to deceive you. You simply shut your eyes and declared that I was your wife and that I had come."
"You are the sister who was going to school in—wasn't it Boston?"
"Yes; that is why I am broad-minded and free from guile," remarked the lady with a laugh so merry that it irritated Silas.
"Then you have never been married to me," Silas suggested, still frowning.
"I thank you kindly, sir, I never have been."
"Well, you never denied it," he said.
"You never gave me an opportunity," she retorted.
"You simply sat back, and watched me make a fool of myself."
"You express it very well."
Silas squirmed on his chair. "Why, you knew me the minute you saw me!" he cried.
"Therefore you are still sure I am the woman you married in Louisiana. Well, the man who was driving the hack the day of my arrival, saw you in the fields, and he made a remark I have never forgotten. He said—she mimicked Mr. Goodlett as well as she could—'Well, dang my hide! ef thar ain't old Silas Tomlin out huntin'! Ef he shoots an' misses he'll pull all his ha'r out.' 'Why?' I asked. 'Bekaze he can't afford to waste a load of powder an' shot.'"
Silas tried to smile. He knew that the point of Mr. Goodlett's joke was lost on the lady.
Silas tried to smile, but the effort was too much for him, and he frowned instead. "You did all you could to humour my mistake," he declared.
"I certainly did," said Mrs. Claiborne, very seriously. "I had good reason to believe that your treatment of my sister was not what it should have been."
"Good Lord! she wouldn't let me treat her well. Why, we hadn't been married three months before she took a dislike to me, and she never got over it. The truth is, she couldn't bear the sight of me. I did what any other young man would have done. I packed up my things and came back home. I told Dorrington about it when I came back, and he said the trouble was a form of hysterics that finally develops into insanity."
"Yes, that was what happened to my poor sister," said Mrs. Claiborne, "and I never knew the facts until a few months ago. Our aunt, you know, always contended that you were the cause of it all. But Judge Vardeman, quite by accident, met the physician who had charge of the case, and I have a letter from him which clearly explains the whole matter."
Silas Tomlin sat silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Well, well! here I have been going on for years under the impression that I was partly responsible for that poor girl's troubles; and it has been a nightmare riding me every minute that I had time to think." He stood up, stretched his arms above his head, and drew a long breath. "I thank you for laying my ghost, and I'll bid you good-night."
The demeanour of Mr. Sanders about this time was a seven days' wonder in Shady Dale. As Mrs. Absalom declared, he had tucked his good-humour under the bed, and was now going about in a state of gloom. This at least was the general impression; but Mr. Sanders was not gloomy. He was filled to the brim with impatience, and was to be seen constantly walking the streets, or occupying his favourite seat on the court-house steps, the seat that had always attracted him when he was communing with John Barleycorn. But he and John Barleycorn were strangers now; they were not on speaking terms. He avoided the companionship of those who were in the habit of seeking him out to enjoy his drolleries; and various rumours flew about as to the cause of his apparent troubles. He was on the point of joining the church, having had enough of the world's sinfulness; he had lost the money he made by selling cotton directly after the war; he had been jilted by some buxom country girl. In short, when a man is as prominent in a community as Mr. Sanders was in Shady Dale, he must pay such penalty as gossip levies when his conduct becomes puzzling or problematical.
The tittle-tattle of the town ran in a different direction when some one discovered that the Racking Roan was tied every day to the rack behind the court-house. Then the gossips were certain that the Yankees were after Mr. Sanders, and his horse was placed close at hand in order to give him an opportunity to escape. Mr. Sanders apparently confirmed this rumour when he told Cephas to take the horse to Clopton's, should he find the animal standing at the rack after sundown.
As Mr. Sanders walked about, or sat on the court-house steps, he wondered if he had made all the arrangements necessary to the scheme he had in view. Hundreds and hundreds of times he went over the ground in his mind, and reviewed every step he had taken, trying to discover if anything had been omitted, or if there were any flaw in the plan he proposed to follow. He had made all his arrangements beforehand. He had made a visit to Malvern, and remained there several days. He had met the Mayor of the city, the Chief of Police, and the latter had casually introduced him to the Chief of the Fire Department.
Mr. Sanders accounted himself very fortunate in making the acquaintance of the Fire Chief, who was what might be termed one of the unreconstructed. He was something more than that, he was an irreconcilable, who would have been glad of an opportunity to take up arms again. This official took an eager interest in the scheme which Mr. Sanders had in view; in fact, as he said himself, it was a personal interest. He invited Mr. Sanders to the head-quarters of the Fire Department.
"I'll tell you why I want you to come," he said. "There's a man in my office, or he will be there when we arrive, who is likely to take as much interest in this thing as I do—he couldn't take more—and I want him to hear your plan. Have you ever heard of Captain Buck Sanford?"
Mr. Sanders paused in the street, and stared at the Fire Chief. "Heard of him? Well, I should say! He's the feller that fights a duel before breakfast to git up an appetite. Well, well! How many men has Buck Sanford winged?"
"Oh, quite a number, but not as many as he gets credit for. He comes in my private office every morning, and he's a great help to me. He was rather down at the heels right after the war, and then I happened to find out that he had a great talent in getting the truth out of criminals. We sometimes arrest a man against whom there is no direct evidence of guilt, and if we didn't have some one skilful enough to make him own up, we could do nothing. Buck always knows whether a fellow is guilty or not, and we turn over the suspects to him, and whatever he says goes. He sits in my office like a piece of furniture, and you'd think he was a wooden man. Now you go down with me, and go over your scheme so that Buck can hear you, and whatever he says do, will be the thing to do."
When Mr. Sanders and the Chief arrived at the head-quarters of the department, and entered the private office, they found a pale and somewhat emaciated young man sitting in a chair, which was leaned against the wall at a somewhat dangerous angle. He was apparently asleep; his eyes were closed, and he held between his teeth a short but handsome pipe. He made no movement whatever when the two entered the room. His hat was on the floor at the side of his chair, and had evidently fallen from his head. If Mr. Sanders had been called on to describe the young man, he would have said that he was a weasly looking creature, half gristle and half ghost. His hands were small and thin, and the skin of his face had the appearance of parchment.
At the request of the Chief, Mr. Sanders went over the details of his plan from beginning to end, and at the close the young man, who had apparently been asleep, remarked in a thin, smooth voice, "Won't it be a fine day for a parade!"
His eyes remained closed; he had not even taken the pipe out of his mouth. There was a silence of many long seconds. But the weasly looking man made no movement, nor did he add anything to his remark. Evidently, he had no more to say.
"Buck is right," said the Chief.
"What does he mean?" Mr. Sanders inquired.
"Why, he means that it will be a fine day for a general turn-out of the department," replied the Chief.
Mr. Sanders reflected a moment, and then made one of his characteristic comments. "Be jigged ef he ain't saved my life!"
"Captain Sanford, this is Mr. Sanders, of Shady Dale," said the Chief, by way of introducing the two men. Both rose, and Mr. Sanders found himself looking into the eyes of one of the most interesting characters that Georgia ever produced. Captain Buck Sanford was one of the last of the knights-errant, the self-constituted champion of all women, old or young, good or bad. He said of himself, with some drollery, that he was one of the scavengers of society, and he declared that the job was important enough to command a good salary.
No man in his hearing ever used the name of a woman too freely without answering for it; and it made no difference whether the woman was rich or poor, good or bad. Otherwise he was the friendliest and simplest of men, as modest as a woman, and entirely unobtrusive. His duel with Colonel Conrad Asbury, one of the most sensational events in the annals of duelling, owing to the fact that the weapons were shot-guns at ten paces, was the result of a remark the Colonel had made about a lady whom Sanford had never seen. But so far as the general public knew, it grew out of the fact that the Colonel had spilled some water on Sanford's pantaloons.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Sanders, "I've heard tell of you many a time, an' I'm right down glad to see you."
"You haven't heard much good of me, I reckon," Captain Sanford remarked.
"Yes; not so very long ago I heard a fine old lady say that if they was more Buck Sanfords, the wimmen would be better off."
A faint colour came into the face of the duellist. "Is that so?" he asked with some eagerness.
"It's jest like I tell you, an' the lady was Lucy Lumsden, the grandmother of this chap that we're tryin' to git out'n trouble."
"I wonder if Tomlin Perdue wouldn't let me into the row?" inquired Captain Sanford. "You see, it's this way: If the boy can't break away, it would be well for a serious accident to happen, and in that case, you'll need a man that's perfectly willing to bear the brunt of such an accident."
"We'll see about that," said Mr. Sanders.
"Suppose it's a rainy day, Buck; what then?" asked the Chief.
"And you a grown man!" exclaimed Mr. Sanford, sarcastically. "Did you ever hear of a false alarm? Or were you at a Sunday-school picnic when it was rung in? Oh, I'm going to get a blacksmith and have your head worked on," and with that, Captain Buck Sanford turned on his heel and went out.
"I know Buck was pleased with your plan," the Chief declared. "He nodded at me a time or two when you wasn't looking. If you can work him into the row, it will tickle him mightily. He ain't flighty; he never gets mad; and he always knows just what to do, and when to shoot."
Thus, long before he became impatient enough to walk the streets, or seek consolation on the court-house steps, which he called his liquor-post, Mr. Sanders had made all the arrangements necessary to the success of his scheme. He had sent a suit of clothes to a friend in Malvern, he had shipped three bales of cotton to the firm of Vardeman & Stark, who had been informed of the use to which Mr. Sanders desired to put it; he had hired an ox-cart, and made a covered waggon of it; and the yoke of oxen he proposed to use had been driven through the country and were now at Malvern.
In short, no matter how deeply Mr. Sanders might ponder over the matter, there was nothing he could think of to add to the details of the arrangement that he had already made.
One morning, while Nan, who was on her way to borrow a book from Eugenia Claiborne, was leaning on the court-house fence talking to Mr. Sanders, Tasma Tid cried out, "Yonner dee come! yonner dee come!" The African, who had heard the rumour that the Yankees were after Mr. Sanders, concluded that this was the advance guard, and she therefore sounded the alarm. But only a solitary rider was in sight, and he was coming as fast as a tired horse could fetch him. By the time this rider had reached the public square, Mr. Sanders had mounted the Racking Roan, and was awaiting him. The rider was no other than Colonel Blasengame, who had insisted on bringing the message himself.
He was the bearer of a telegram addressed to Major Perdue. "Consignment will be shipped to-morrow night. Reach Malvern next morning. Invoice by mail." This was signed by the firm of factors with whom Meriwether Clopton had had dealings for many years. It was the form of announcement that had been agreed on, and to Mr. Sanders the message read, "The prisoners will go to Atlanta to-morrow night, and they will reach Malvern the next morning. This information can be relied on."
"It's a joy to see you, Colonel," cried Mr. Sanders. "One more day of waitin' would 'a' pulled the rivets out. You know Miss Nan Dorrington, don't you, Colonel Blasengame? I lay you used to dandle her on your knee when she was a baby."
The Colonel bowed lower to Nan than if she had been a queen. "You are not to go to the tavern," remarked Mr. Sanders. "Meriwether Clopton wants the messenger to go straight to his house, an' he'll be all the gladder bekaze it's you. Gus Tidwell will drive you home in his buggy in the cool of the evenin', an' you can leave your hoss at Clopton's for a day or two. Ef you see Tidwell, Nan, please tell him that the Colonel is at Clopton's. I reckon you'll be willin' to buss me, honey, the next time you see me."
"If you have earned it, Mr. Sanders," said Nan, trying to smile.
Thereupon, Mr. Sanders waved his hand miscellaneously, as he would have described it, and moved away at a clipping gait, stirring up quite a cloud of dust as he went. He reached Halcyondale, and at once sought out Major Tomlin Perdue, and found that a telegram had already been sent to Captain Buck Sanford, whose prompt reply over the wire had been. "All skue vee," which was as satisfactory as any other form of reply would have been—more so, perhaps, for it showed that the Captain was in high good-humour.
Mr. Tidwell and Colonel Blasengame arrived in time to eat a late supper, and the next morning found them all ready to take the train for Malvern. Major Perdue and Mr. Sanders were in high feather. Somehow their spirits always rose when a doubtful issue was to be faced. On the other hand, Colonel Blasengame and Mr. Tidwell were somewhat thoughtful—the Colonel because he had an idea that they were trying to "crowd him into a back seat," as he expressed it, and Mr. Tidwell because it had occurred to him that his presence might tend to jeopardise the case of his son. They were not gloomy; on the contrary they were cheerful; but their spirits failed to run as high as those of Mr. Sanders and Major Perdue, who were engaged all the way to Malvern in relating anecdotes and narrating humourous stories. It seemed that everything either one of them said reminded the other of a story or a humourous incident, and they kept the car in a roar until Malvern was reached.
Mr. Sanders did not go at once to the hotel, but turned his attention to the various details which he had arranged for. Mr. Tidwell went to the hotel opposite the railway station, while Major Perdue and Colonel Blasengame, for obvious reasons, went to the rival hotel. There they found Captain Buck Sanford lounging about with a Winchester rifle slung across his shoulder. A great many people were interested when this pale and weary-looking little man appeared in public with a gun in his hands, and he was compelled to answer many questions in regard to the event. To all he made the same reply, namely, that he had been out practising at a target.
"I'm getting so I can't miss," he said to Major Perdue. "I wasted twenty-four cartridges trying to miss the bull's eye, but I couldn't do it. I don't know what to make of it," he complained. "There must be something wrong with me. That kind of shooting don't look reasonable. I'm afraid something is going to happen to me. It may be a sign that I'm going to fall over a cellar-door and break my neck, or tumble downstairs and injure my spine."
Then he left his gun with a clerk in the hotel, and, taking Major Perdue by the arm, went into a corner and discussed the scheme which Mr. Sanders had mapped out. They were joined presently by Colonel Blasengame; and as they sat there, whispering together, and making many emphatic gestures, they were the centre of observation, and word went around that some personal difficulty, in which these noted men were to act together, was imminent.
Very early the next morning Malvern aroused itself to the fact that the firemen and the police, and a very large crowd of the rag, tag and bobtail that hangs on the edge of all holiday occasions, were out for a frolic. A band was playing, and the old-fashioned apparatus with which fire departments were provided in that day and time, was showing the amazed and amused crowd how to put out an imaginary conflagration. And it succeeded, too. Worked as it was by hand-power, it sent a famously strong stream into the very midst of the imaginary conflagration; and when the fire raged no longer, the gallant firemen turned the stream on the rag, tag and bobtail, and such screams and such a scattering as ensued has no parallel in the history of Malvern, which is a long and varied one.
But what did it all mean? It was some kind of a celebration, of course, but why then did theMalvern Recorder, one of the most enterprising newspapers in the State, as its editors and proprietors were willing to admit, why, then, did theRecorderfail to have an appropriate announcement of an event so interesting and important? Was our public press, the palladium of our liberties, losing its prestige and influence? Certainly it seemed so, when such an affair as this could be devised and carried out without an adequate announcement in the organ of public opinion.
After awhile there was a lull in the display. The Chief, who was stationed near the depot, received authoritative information that the train from Savannah was approaching. He waved his trumpet, and the firemen formed themselves into a procession, and passed twice in review before their Chief, and then halted, with their hose reels, and their hook and ladder waggons almost completely blocking up the entrance to the station. The crowd had followed them, but the police managed to keep the street clear, so that vehicles might effect a passage.
It was well that the officers of the law had been thus thoughtful in the matter, otherwise a countryman who chanced to be coming along just then would have found it difficult to drive his team even half way through the jam. He was a typical Georgia farmer in his appearance. He wore a wide straw hat to preserve his complexion, a homespun shirt and jeans trousers, the latter being held in place by a dirty pair of home-made suspenders. He drove what is called a spike-team, two oxen at the wheels, and a mule in the lead. The day was warm, but he was warmer. The crowd had flurried him, and he was perspiring more profusely than usual. He was also inclined to use heated language, as those nearest him had no difficulty in discovering. In fact, he was willing to make a speech, as the crowd into which he was wedging his team grew denser and denser. It was observed that when the crowd really impeded the movements of his team, he had a way of touching the mule in the flank with the long whip he carried. This was invariably the signal for such gyrations on the part of the mule as were calculated to make the spectators pay due respect to the animal's heels.
"I don't see," said the countryman, "why you fellers don't get out some'rs an' go to work. They's enough men in this crowd to make a crop big enough to feed a whole county, ef they'd git out in the field an' buckle down to it stidder loafin' roun' watchin' 'em spurt water at nothin'. It's a dad-blamed shame that the courts don't take a han' in the matter. Ef you lived in my county, you'd have to work or go to the poor-house. Whoa, Beck! Gee, Buck! Why don't you gee, contrive your hide!"
At a touch from the whip, the rearing, plunging, and kicking of the mule were renewed, and the team managed to fight its way to a point opposite where the chief officials of the Police and Fire Department were standing. The waggon to which the team was attached was a ramshackle affair apparently, but was strong enough, nevertheless, to sustain the weight of three bales of cotton, one of the bales being somewhat larger than the others.
"My friend," said the Chief of Police, elevating his voice so that the countryman could hear him distinctly, "this is not a warehouse. If you want to sell your cotton, carry it around the corner yonder, and there you'll find the warehouse of Vardeman & Stark."
"If I want to sell my cotton? Well, you don't reckon I want to give it away, do you? Way over yander in the fur eend of town, they told me that the cotton warehouse was down here some'rs, an' that it was made of brick. This shebang is down yander, an' it's made of brick. How fur is t'other place?"
"Right around the corner," said one in the crowd.
"Humph—yes; that's the way wi' ever'thing in this blamed town; it's uther down yander, or right around the corner. But ef it was right here, how could I git to it? Deliver me from places whar they celebrate Christmas in the hottest part of June! Ef I ever git out'n the town you'll never ketch me here ag'in—I'll promise you that."
"Oh, Mister, please don't say that!" wailed some humourist in the crowd. "There's hundreds of us that couldn't live without you."
"Oh, is that you?" cried the countryman. "Tell your sister Molly that I'll be down as soon as I sell my cotton." This set the crowd in a roar, for though the humourist had no sister Molly, the retort was accepted as a very neat method of putting an end to impertinence.
Inside the station another scene was in the full swing of action. Certain well-known citizens of Halcyondale had been pacing up and down the planked floor of the station apparently awaiting with some impatience for the moment to come when the train for Atlanta would be ready to leave. But the train itself seemed to be in no particular hurry. The locomotive was not panting and snorting with suppressed energy, as the moguls do in our day, but stood in its place with the blue smoke curling peacefully from its black chimney. Presently an access of energy among the employees of the station gave notice to those who were familiar with their movements that the train from Savannah was crossing the "Y."
Mr. Tidwell, of Shady Dale, who was also among those who were apparently anxious to take the train for Atlanta, ceased his restless walking, and stood leaning against one of the brick pillars supporting the rear end of the structure. Major Tomlin Perdue, on the other hand, leaned confidently on the counter of the little restaurant, where a weary traveller could get a cup of hasty and very nasty coffee for a dime. The Major was acquainted with the vendor of these luxuries, and he informed the man confidentially that he was simply waiting a fair opportunity to put a few lead plugs into the carcass of the person at the far end of the station, who was no other than Mr. Tidwell.
"Is that so?" asked the clerk breathlessly. "Well, I don't mind telling you that he has been having some of the same kind of talk about you, and you'd better keep your eye on him. They say he's 'most as handy with his pistol as Buck Sanford."
Slowly the Savannah train backed in, and slowly and carelessly Major Perdue sauntered along the raised floor. They had decided that the prisoners would most likely be in the second-class coach, and they purposed to make that coach the scene of their sham duel. It was a very delicate matter to decide just when to begin operations. A moment too soon or too late would be decisive. When this point was referred to Mr. Sanders, he settled it at once. "What's your mouth for, Gus? Shoot wi' that tell the time comes to use your gun. And the Major has got about as much mouth as you. Talk over the rough places, an' talk loud. Don't whisper; rip out a few damns an' then cut your caper. This is about the only chance you'll have to cuss the Major out wi'out gittin' hurt. I wisht I was in your shoes; I'd rake him up one side an' down the other. You can stand to be cussed out in a good cause, I reckon, Major."
"Yes—oh, yes! It'll make my flesh crawl, but I'll stand it like a baby."
"Don't narry one on you try to be too polite," said Mr. Sanders, and this was his parting injunction.
The two men were the length of the car apart when the Savannah train came to a standstill. "Perdue! they tell me that you have been hunting for me all over the city," said Mr. Tidwell. He was a trained speaker, and his voice had great carrying power. The firemen of both trains heard it distinctly, caught the note of passion in it and looked curiously out of their cabs.
"Yes, I've been hunting you, and now that I've found you you'll not get away until you apologise to me for the language you have used about me," cried Major Perdue. He was not as loud a talker as Mr. Tidwell, but his voice penetrated to every part of the building.
"What I've said I'll stand to," declared Mr. Tidwell, "and if you think I have been trying to keep out of your way, you will find out differently, you blustering blackguard!" (The Major insisted afterward that Tidwell took advantage of the occasion to give his real views.)
"Are you ready, you cowardly hellian?" cried the Major, apparently in a rage.
"As ready as you will ever be," replied Tidwell hotly. He was the better actor of the two.
And then just as the prisoners were coming out of the coach—as soon as Gabriel, lean and haggard, had reached the floor of the station, Major Perdue whipped out his pistol and a shot rang out, clear and distinct, and it was immediately reproduced from the further end of the car by Mr. Tidwell, and then the shooting became a regular fusillade. There was a wild scattering on the part of the crowd assembled in the station, a scuffling, scurrying panic, and in the midst of it all Gabriel ducked his head, and made a rush with the rest. He had been handcuffed, but his wrist was nearly as large as his hand, and he had found early in his experience with these bracelets that by placing his thumb in the palm of his hand, he would have no difficulty in freeing himself from the irons. This he had accomplished without much trouble, as soon as he started out of the car, and when he ducked his head and ran, he had nothing to impede his movements.
And Gabriel was always swift of foot, as Cephas will tell you. On the present occasion, he brought all his strength, and energy, and will to bear on his efforts to escape. Running half-bent, he was afraid the crowd which he saw all about him, pushing and shoving, and apparently making frantic efforts to escape, would give him some trouble. But strangely enough, this struggling crowd seemed to help him along. He saw men all around him with uniforms on, and wearing queerly shaped hats. They opened a way before him and closed in behind him. He heard a sharp cry, "Prisoner escaped!" and he heard the energetic commands of the officer in charge, but still the crowd opened a way in front of him, and closed up behind him. This pathway, formed of struggling firemen, led Gabriel away from the main entrance, and conducted him to the side, where there was an opening between the pillars. Not twenty feet away was the countryman with his queer-looking team. He was still complaining of the way he had been taken in by the town fellers who had told him that the station was a cotton warehouse.
Gabriel recognised the voice and ran toward it, jumped into the waggon, and crawled under the cover. "Now here—now here!" cried the countryman, "you kin rob me of my money, an' make a fool out'n me about your cotton warehouses, but be jigged ef I'll let you take my waggin an' team. I dunner what you're up to, but you'll have to git out'n my waggin." With that he stripped the cover from the top, and, lo! there was no one there!
He turned to the astonished crowd with open mouth. "Wher' in the nation did he go?" he cried. There was no answer to this, for the spectators were as much astonished as Mr. Sanders professed to be. The man who had crawled under the waggon-cover had disappeared.
He turned to the astonished crowd with a face on which amazement was depicted, crying out, "Now, you see, gentlemen, what honest men have to endyore when they come to your blame town. Whoever he is, an' wharsoever he may be, that chap ain't up to no good." Then he looked under the waggon and between the bales of cotton, and, finally, took the cover and shook it out, as if it might be possible for one of the "slick city fellers" to hide in any impossible place.
There was a tremendous uproar in the station, caused by the soldiers trying to run over the firemen and the efforts of the firemen to prevent them. In a short time, however, a squad of soldiers had forced themselves through the crowd, and as they made their appearance, Mr. Sanders gave the word to old Beck, saying as he moved off, "Ef you gents will excuse me, I'll mosey along, an' the next time I have a crap of cotton to sell, I'll waggin it to some place or other wher' w'arhouses ain't depots, an' wher' jugglers don't jump on you an' make the'r disappearance in broad daylight. This is my fust trip to this great town, an' it'll be my last ef I know myself, an' I ruther reckon I do."
As he spoke, his team Was moving slowly off, and the soldiers who were in pursuit of Gabriel had no idea that it was worth their while to give the countryman and his superannuated equipment more than a passing glance. It was providential that Captain Falconer, who was to have conveyed the prisoners to Atlanta, should have been confined to his bed with an attack of malarial fever when the order for their removal came. The Captain would surely have recognised the countryman as Mr. Sanders, and the probability is that Gabriel would have been recaptured, though Captain Buck Sanford, who was sitting in an upper window of the hotel, with his Winchester across his lap, says not.
The officer in charge did all that he could have been expected to do under the circumstances. By a stroke of good-luck, as he supposed, he found the Chief of Police near the entrance of the station and interested that official in his effort to recapture the prisoner who had escaped. By order of the military commander in Atlanta, the train was held a couple of hours while the search for Gabriel proceeded. The whole town was searched and researched, but all to no purpose. Gabriel had disappeared, and was not to be found by any person hostile to his interests.
Mr. Sanders drove his team around to the warehouse of Vardeman & Stark, where he was met by Colonel Tom Vardeman, who, besides being a cotton factor, was one of the political leaders of the day, and as popular a man as there was in the State.
"I heard a terrible fusillade in the direction of the depot," he said to Mr. Sanders, as the latter drove up. "I hope nobody's hurt."
"Well, they ain't much damage done, I reckon. Gus Tidwell an' Major Perdue took a notion to play a game of tag wi' pistols. They're doin' it jest for fun, I reckon. They want to show you city fellers that all the public sperrit an' enterprise ain't knocked out'n the country chaps."
"Well, they're almost certain to get in the lock-up," remarked Colonel Tom Vardeman.
"It reely looks that away," said Mr. Sanders, drily; "the Chief of Police was standin' in front of the depot, an' ev'ry time a gun'd go off he'd wink at me."
Colonel Tom laughed, and then turned to Mr. Sanders with a serious air. "What did I tell you about that wild plan of yours to rescue one of the prisoners? You've had all your trouble for nothing, and the probability is that you are out considerable cash first and last. You don't catch grown men asleep any more. Why, if the officer in charge of those poor boys were to permit one of them to escape, he'd be court-martialled, and it would serve him right."
"So it would," replied Mr. Sanders, "an' I'm mighty glad it wa'n't Captain Falconer. This feller that had the boys in tow is a stranger to me, an' I'm glad of it. He'll never know who lost him his job. He's a right nice-lookin' feller, too, but when he run out'n the depot awhile ago, his face kinder spoke up an' said he had had a dram too much some time endyorin' of the night; or his colour mought 'a' been high bekaze he was flurried or skeered. Now, then, Colonel Tom, ef you've done what you laid off to do, an' I don't misdoubt it in the least, you've got a safe place wher' I kin store a bale of long-staple cotton, ag'in a rise in prices. Ef you've got it fixed, I'll drive right in, bekaze the kind of cotton I'm dealin' in will spile ef it lays in the sun too long."
"Do you mean to tell me——"
"I'm mean enough for anything, Colonel Tom; but right now, I want to git wher' I can drench a long-sufferin' friend of mine wi' a big gourdful of cold water."
"But, Mr. Sanders——"
"Ef you'd 'a' stuck in the William H., you'd 'a' purty nigh had my whole name," remarked Mr. Sanders with a solemn air.
"Why, dash it, man! you've taken my breath away. Drive right in there. John! Henry! come here, you lazy rascals, and take this team out! I told you," said Colonel Tom to Mr. Sanders as the negroes came forward, "that you couldn't get any better prices for your cotton than I offered you. We treat everybody right over here, and that's the way we keep our trade."
The two negroes were detailed to convey the mule and the oxen to the stable where Mr. Sanders had arranged for their "keep," as he termed it, and as soon as they were out of sight, Mr. Sanders went to the rear of the waggon, and said playfully, "Peep eye, Gabriel!" Receiving no answer, he was suddenly seized with the idea that the young man had suffocated behind the loose cotton which was intended to conceal him. But no such thing had happened. Gabriel had plenty of breathing-room, and the practical and unromantic rascal was sound asleep. His quarters were warm, but the sweat-boxes at Fort Pulaski were hotter. It was very fortunate for Gabriel that the reaction from the strain under which he had been, took the blessed shape of sleep.
Gabriel's place of concealment was simplicity itself. With his own hands Mr. Sanders had constructed a stout box of oak boards, and around this he had packed cotton until the affair, when complete, had the appearance of an extra large bale of cotton, covered with bagging, and roped as the majority of cotton-bales were in those days. The only way to discover the sham was to pull out the cotton that concealed the opening in the end of the box. In delivering his message to Cephas, Mr. Sanders had called this loose cotton a plug, and the fact that the word was new to the vocabulary of the school-children gave great trouble to Gabriel, causing him to lose considerable sleep in the effort to translate it satisfactorily to himself. The meaning dawned on him one night when he had practically abandoned all hope of discovering it, and then the whole scheme became so clear to him that he could have shouted for joy.
It was thought that a search would be made for Gabriel in the neighbourhood of Shady Dale, and it was decided that it would be best for him to remain in the city until all noise of the pursuit had died away. But no pursuit was ever made, and it soon became apparent to the public at large that radicalism was burning itself out at last, after a weary time. When rage has nothing to feed upon it consumes itself, especially when various chronic maladies common to mankind take a hand in the game.
Not only was no pursuit made of Gabriel, but the detachment of Federal troops which had been stationed at Shady Dale was withdrawn. The young men who had been arrested with Gabriel were placed on trial before a military court, but with the connivance of counsel for the prosecution, the trial dragged along until the military commander issued a proclamation announcing that civil government had been restored in the State, and the prisoners were turned over to the State courts. And as there was not the shadow of a case against them, they were never brought to trial, a fact which caused some one to suggest to Mr. Sanders that all his work in behalf of Gabriel had been useless.
"Well, it didn't do Gabriel no good, maybe," remarked the veteran, "but it holp me up mightily. It gi' me somethin' to think about, an' it holp me acrosst some mighty rough places. You have to pass the time away anyhow, an' what better way is they than workin' for them you like? Why, I knowed a gal, an' a mighty fine one she was, who knit socks for a feller she had took a fancy to. The feller died, but she went right ahead wi' her knittin' just the same. Now, that didn't do the feller a mite of good, but it holp the gal up might'ly."
TheMalvern Recorderwas very kind to Gabriel, and said nothing in regard to his escape. This was due to a timely suggestion on the part of Colonel Tom Vardeman, who rightly guessed that the Government authorities would be more willing to permit the affair to blow over, provided the details were not made notorious in the newspapers. As the result of the Colonel's discretion, there was not a hint in the public press that one of the prisoners had eluded the vigilance of those who had charge of him. There was a paragraph or two in theRecorder, stating that the Shady Dale prisoners—"the victims of Federal tyranny"—had passed through the city on their way to Atlanta, and a long account was given of their sufferings in Fort Pulaski. The facts were supplied by Gabriel, but the printed account went far beyond anything he had said. "They are not the first martyrs that have suffered in the cause of liberty," said the editor of theRecorder, in commenting on the account in the local columns, "and they will not be the last. Let the radicals do their worst; on the old red hills of Georgia, the camp-fires of Democracy have been kindled, and they will continue to burn and blaze long after the tyrants and corruptionists have been driven from power."
Gabriel read this eloquent declaration somewhat uneasily. There was something in it, and something in the exaggeration of the facts that he had given to the representative of the paper that jarred upon him. He had already in his own mind separated the Government and its real interests from the selfish aims and desires of those who were temporarily clothed with authority, and he had begun to suspect that there might also be something selfish behind the utterances of those who made such vigorous protests against tyranny. The matter is hardly worth referring to in these days when shams and humbugs appear before the public in all their nakedness; but it was worth a great deal to Gabriel to be able to suspect that the champions of constitutional liberty, and the defenders of popular rights, in the great majority of instances had their eyes on the flesh-pots. The suspicions he entertained put him on his guard at a time when he was in danger of falling a victim to the rhetoric of orators and editors, and they preserved him from many a mistaken belief.
During the period that intervened between his escape and the announcement of the restoration of civil government in Georgia, Gabriel settled down to a course of reading in the law office of Judge Vardeman, Colonel Tom's brother. He did this on the advice of those who were old enough to know that idleness does not agree with a healthy youngster, especially in a large city. His experience in Judge Vardeman's office decided his career. He was fascinated from the very beginning. He found the dullest law-book interesting; and he became so absorbed in his reading that the genial Judge was obliged to warn him that too much study was sometimes as bad as none.
Yet the lad's appetite grew by what it fed on. A new field had been opened up to him, and he entered it with delight. Here was what he had been longing for, and there were moments when he felt sure that he had heard delivered from the bench, or had dreamed, the grave and sober maxims and precepts that confronted him on the printed page. He pursued his studies in a state of exaltation that caused the days to fly by unnoted. He thought of home, and of his grandmother, and a vision of Nan sometimes disturbed his slumbers; but for the time being there was nothing real but the grim commentators and expounders of the common law.
When Mr. Sanders returned home, bearing the news of Gabriel's escape, Nan Dorrington laid siege to his patience, and insisted that he go over every detail of the event, not once but a dozen times. To her it was a remarkable adventure, which fitted in well with the romances which she had been weaving all her life. How did Gabriel look when he ran from the depot at Malvern? Was he frightened? And how in the world did he manage to get in the waggon, and crawl on the inside of the sham bale of cotton and hide so that nobody could see him? And what did he say and how did he look when Mr. Sanders found him asleep in the cotton-bale box, or the cotton-box bale, whichever you might call it?
"Why, honey, I've told you all I know an' a whole lot more," protested Mr. Sanders. "Ef ever'body was name Nan, I'd be the most populous man in the whole county."
"Well, tell me this," Nan insisted; "what did he talk about when he woke up? Did he ask about any of the home-folks?"
"Lemme see," said Mr. Sanders, pretending to reflect; "he turned over in his box, an' got his ha'r ketched in a rough plank, an' then he bust out cryin' jest like you use to do when you got hurt. I kinder muched him up, an' then he up an' tol' me a whole lot of stuff about a young lady: how he was gwine to win her ef he had to stop chawin' tobacco, an' cussin'. I'll name no names, bekaze I promised him I wouldn't."
"I think that is disgusting," Nan declared. "Do you mean to tell me he never asked about his grandmother?"
"Fiddlesticks, Nan! he looked at me like he was hungry, an' I told him all about his grandmother, an' he kep' on a-lookin' hungry, an' I told him all about her neighbours. What he said I couldn't tell you no more than the man in the moon. He done jest like any other healthy boy would 'a' done, an' that's all I know about it."
"That's what I thought," said Nan wearily; "boys are so tiresome!"
"Well, Gabriel didn't look much like a boy when I seed him last. He hadn't shaved in a month of Sundays, and his beard was purty nigh as long as my little finger. He couldn't go to a barber-shop in Malvern for fear some of the niggers might know him an' report him to the commander of the post there. I begged him not to shave the beard off. He looks mighty well wi' it."
"His beard!" cried Nan. "If he comes home with a beard I'll never speak to him again. Gabriel with a beard! It is too ridiculous!"
"Don't worry," Mr. Sanders remarked soothingly. "Ef I git word of his comin' I'll git me a pa'r of shears, an' meet him outside the corporation line, an' lop his whiskers off for him; but I tell you now, it won't make him look a bit purtier—not a bit."
"You needn't trouble yourself," said Nan, with considerable dignity. "I have no interest in the matter at all."
"Well, I thought maybe you'd be glad to git Gabriel's beard an' make it in a sofy pillow."
"Why, whoever heard of such a thing?" cried Nan. In common with many others, she was not always sure when Mr. Sanders was to be taken seriously.
"I knowed a man once," replied Mr. Sanders, by way of making a practical application of his suggestion, "that vowed he'd never shave his beard off till Henry Clay was elected President. Well, it growed an' growed, an' bimeby it got so long that he had to wrop it around his body a time or two for to keep it from draggin' the ground. It went on that away for a considerbul spell, till one day, whilst he was takin' a nap, his wife took her scissors an' whacked it off. The reason she give was that she wanted to make four or five sofy pillows; but I heard afterwards that she changed her mind, an' made a good big mattress."
Nan looked hard at the solemn countenance of Mr. Sanders, trying to discover whether he was in earnest, but older and wiser eyes than hers had often failed to penetrate behind the veil of child-like serenity that sometimes clothed his features.
One day while Gabriel was deep in a law-book, Colonel Tom Vardeman came in smiling. He had a telegram in his hand, which he tossed to Gabriel. It was from Major Tomlin Perdue, and contained an urgent request for Gabriel to take the next train for Halcyondale, where he would meet the prisoners who had been released pending their trial by the State courts, an event that never came off. Gabriel had seen in the morning paper that the prisoners were to be released in a day or two; but undoubtedly Major Perdue had the latest information, for he was in communication with Meriwether Clopton and other friends of the prisoners who were in Atlanta watching the progress of the case.
Gabriel lost no time in making his arrangements to leave, and he was in Halcyondale some hours before the Atlanta train was due. When all had arrived, they were for going home at once; but the citizens of Halcyondale, led by Major Perdue and Colonel Blasengame, would not hear of such a thing.
"No, sirs!" exclaimed Major Perdue. "You young ones have been away from home long enough to be weaned, and a day or two won't make any difference to anybody's feelings. We have long been wanting a red-letter day in this section, and now that we've got the excuse for making one, we're not going to let it go by. Everything is fixed, or will be by day after to-morrow. We're going to have a barbecue half-way between this town and Shady Dale. The time was ripe for it anyhow, and you fellows make it more binding. The people of the two counties haven't had a jollification since the war, and they couldn't have one while it was going on. They haven't had an excuse for it; and now that we have the excuse we're not going to turn it loose until the jollification is over."
And so it was arranged. Notice was given to the people in the old-fashioned way, and nearly everybody in the two counties not only contributed something to the barbecue, but came to enjoy it, and when they were assembled they made up the largest crowd that had been seen together in that section since the day when Alexander Stephens and Judge Cone had their famous debate—a debate which finally ended in a personal encounter between the two.
The details of the barbecue were in the hands of Mr. Sanders, who was famous in those days for his skill in such matters. The fires had been lighted the night before, and when the sun rose, long lines of carcasses were slowly roasting over the red coals, contributing to the breezes an aroma so persistent and penetrating that it could be recognised miles away, and so delicious that, as Mr. Sanders remarked, "it would make a sick man's mouth water."
A speaker's stand had been erected, and everything was arranged just as it would have been for a political meeting. There was a good deal of formality too. Major Perdue prided himself on doing such things in style. He was a great hand to preside at political meetings, in which there is considerable formality. As the Major managed the affair, the friends of the young men caught their first glimpse of them as they went upon the stand. By some accident, or it may have been arranged by Major Perdue, Gabriel was the first to make his appearance, but he was closely followed by the rest. A tremendous shout went up from the immense audience, which was assembled in front of the stand, and this was what the Major had arranged for. The shouts and cheers of a great assemblage were as music in his ears. He comported himself with as much pride as if all the applause were a tribute to him. He advanced to the front, and stood drinking it in greedily, not because he was a vain man, but because he was fond of the excitement with which the presence of a crowd inspired him. It made his blood tingle; it warmed him as a glass of spiced wine warms a sick person.
When the applause had subsided, the Major made quite a little speech, in which he referred to the spirit of martyrdom betrayed by the young patriots, who had been seized and carried into captivity by the strong hand of a tyrannical Government, and he managed to stir the crowd to a great pitch of excitement. He brought his remarks to a close by introducing his young friend, Gabriel Tolliver.
There was tremendous cheering at this, and all of a sudden Gabriel woke up to the fact that his name had been called, and he looked around with a dazed expression on his face. He had been trying to see if he could find the face of Nan Dorrington in the crowd, but so far he had failed, and he woke out of a dream to hear a multitude of voices shouting his name. "Why, what do they mean?" he asked.
"Get up there and face 'em," said Major Perdue.
Now, Nan was not so very far from the stand, so close, indeed, that she had not been in Gabriel's field of vision while he was sitting down; but when he rose to his feet she was the first person he saw, and he observed that she was very pale. In fact, Nan had shrunk back when the Major announced that Gabriel would speak for his fellow-martyrs, and for a moment or two she fairly hated the man. She might not be very fond of Gabriel, but she didn't want to see him made a fool of before so many people.
Somehow or other, the young fellow divined her thought, and he smiled in spite of himself. He had no notion what to say, but he had the gift of saying something, very strongly developed in him; and he knew the moment he saw Nan's scared face that he must acquit himself with credit. So he looked at her and smiled, and she tried to smile in return, but it was a very pitiful little smile. Gabriel walked to the small table and leaned one hand on it, and his composure was so reassuring to everybody but Nan, that the cheering was renewed and kept up while the youngster was trying to put his poor thoughts together.
He began by thanking Major Perdue for his sympathetic remarks, and then proceeded to take sharp issue with the whole spirit of the Major's speech, using as the basis of his address an idea that had been put into his head by Judge Vardeman. The day before he left Malvern, the Judge had asked him this question: "Why should a parcel of politicians turn us against a Government under which we are compelled to live?"
This was the basis of Gabriel's remarks. He elaborated it, and was perhaps the first person in the country to ask if there was any Confederate soldier who had feelings of hatred against the soldiers of the Union. He had not gone far before he had the audience completely under his control. Almost every statement he made was received with shouts of approval, and in some instances the applause was such that he had time to stand and gaze at Nan, whose colour had returned, and who occasionally waved the little patch of lace-bordered muslin that she called a handkerchief.
She was almost frightened at Gabriel's composure. The last time she had seen him, he was an awkward young man, whose hands and feet were always in his way. She felt that she was his superior then; but how would she feel in the presence of this grave young man, who was as composed while addressing an immense crowd as if he had been talking to Cephas, and who was dealing out advice to his seniors right and left? Nan was very sure in her own mind that she would never understand Gabriel again, and the thought robbed the occasion of a part of its enjoyment. She allowed her thoughts to wander to such an extent that she forgot the speech, and had her mind recalled to it only when the frantic screams of the audience split her ears, and she saw Gabriel, flushed and triumphant, returning to his seat. Then the real nature of his triumph dawned on her, as she saw Meriwether Clopton and all the others on the stand crowding around Gabriel and shaking his hand. She sat very quiet and subdued until she felt some one touch her shoulder. It was Cephas, and he wanted to know what she thought of it all. Wasn't it splendiferous?
Nan made no reply, but gave the little lad a message for Gabriel, which he delivered with promptness. He edged his way through the crowd, crawled upon the stand, and pulled at Gabriel's coat-tails. The great orator—that's what Cephas thought he was—seized the little fellow and hugged him before all the crowd; and though many years have passed, Cephas has never had a triumph of any kind that was quite equal to the pride he felt while Gabriel held him in his arms. The little fellow took this occasion to deliver his message, which was to the effect that Gabriel was to ride home in the Dorrington carriage with Nan.