She turned away, in response to a call from Eugenia Claiborne, but she kept her eyes on Cephas for some time. Evidently she wished to send a message, but was afraid to. "Don't be angry with me, Cephas," she said, before the youngster got out of hearing. Cephas made no reply, but trudged on stolidly. He was at the age when a boy is easily disgusted with girls and young women. You may call them sweet creatures if you want to, but a twelve-year-old boy is not to be deceived by fine words. The sweet creatures are under no restraints when dealing with small boys, and the small boys are well acquainted with all their worst traits. What is most strange is that this intimate knowledge is of no service to them when they grow a little older. They forget all about it and fall into the first trap that love sets for them.
Cephas was angry without knowing why. He felt that both Gabriel and himself had been insulted, though he couldn't have explained the nature of the insult; and he was all the angrier because he was fond of Nan. She had been very kind to the little boy—kinder, perhaps, than he deserved, for he had made the impulsive young lady the victim of many a practical joke.
As Cephas went along, it suddenly occurred to him that he had done wrong to say anything about his proposed journey, and the thought took away all his resentment. He whirled in his tracks, and ran back to where he had left the girls. He saw Eugenia Claiborne sauntering along the street, but Nan was nowhere in sight. He had no trouble in pledging Miss Claiborne to secrecy, for she was very fond of all sorts of secrets, and could keep them as well as another girl.
Nan, she informed Cephas, had expressed a determination to visit him at his own home, and, in fact, Cephas found her there. She was as sweet as sugar, and was not at all the same Nan who had drawn herself up proudly and as good as told Cephas that it was nothing to her that he was going to see Gabriel. No; this was another Nan, and she had a troubled look in her eyes that Cephas had never seen there before.
"I came to see if you were still angry, Cephas," she said by way of explanation. "I wasn't very nice to you, was I?"
"Well, I hope you don't mind Cephas," said the lad's mother. "If you do, he'll keep you guessing. Has he been rude to you, Nan?"
And it was then that Cephas heard praise poured on his name in a steady stream. Cephas rude! Cephas saucy! A thousand times no! Why, he was the best, the kindest, and the brightest child in the town. Nan was so much in earnest that Cephas had to blush.
"I didn't know," said his mother. "He has been going with those large boys so much that I was afraid he was getting too big for his breeches." She loved her son, but she had no illusions about the nature of boys; she knew them well.
"Are you still angry, Cephas?" Nan asked. She appeared very anxious to be sure on that score.
"N-o-o," replied Cephas, somewhat doubtfully; he hesitated to surrender the advantage that he saw he had.
"Yes, you are," said Nan, "and I think it is very unkind of you. I am sorry you misunderstood me; if you only knew how I really feel, and how much trouble I have, you would be sorry instead of angry."
"I'm the one to blame," said Cephas penitently. "Gabriel says you dislike him, and I thought he was only guessing. But he knew better than I did. I had no business to bother you."
Nan caught her breath. "Did Gabriel say I disliked him?"
"He didn't say that word," replied Cephas. "I think he said you detested him, and I told him he didn't know what he was talking about. But he did; he knew a great deal better than I did, because I didn't really know until just now."
"But, Cephas!" cried Nan; "what could have put such an idea in his head?" Cephas's mother was now busy about the house.
"I didn't know then, but I know now," remarked the boy stolidly.
"Don't be unkind, Cephas. If you knew me better, you'd be sorry for me. You and Gabriel are terribly mistaken. I'm very fond of both of you."
"Oh,Idon't count in this game," Cephas declared.
"Oh, yes, you do," said Nan. "You are one of my dearest friends, and so is Gabriel."
"All right," said Cephas. "If you treat all your dearest friends as you do Gabriel, I'm very sorry for them."
"Cephas, if you tell Gabriel what I said while Eugenia Claiborne was standing there, all ears, I'll never forgive you." Nan was at her wit's end.
"Tell him that!" cried Cephas; "why, I wouldn't tell him that, not for all the world. I'll tell him nothing."
"Please, Cephas," said Nan. "Tell him"—she paused, and threw her hair away from her pale face—"tell him that if he doesn't come home soon, I shall die!" Then her face turned from pale to red, and she laughed loudly.
"Well, I certainly sha'n't tell him that," said Cephas.
"I didn't think you would," said Nan. "You are a nice little boy, and I am going to kiss you good-bye. If you don't have something sweet to tell me when you come back, I'll think you detest me—wasn't that Gabriel's word? Poor Gabriel! he's in prison, and here we are joking about him."
"I'm not joking about him!" exclaimed Cephas.
"Just as much as I am," said Nan; and then she leaned over and kissed Cephas's freckled face, leaving it very red after the operation.
It will be observed by those who are accustomed to make note of trifles, that the chronicler, after packing Cephas off in a barouche with the handsome Captain Falconer, still manages to retain him in Shady Dale. For the sake of those who may be puzzled over the matter, let us say that it is a mistake of the reporter. That is the way our public men dispose of their unimportant inconsistencies—and the reporter, for his part, can say that the trouble is due to a typographical error. The truth is, however, that when a cornfield chronicler finds himself entangled in a rush of events, even if they are minor ones, he feels compelled to resort to that pattern of the "P. S." which is so comforting to the lady writers, and so captivating to their readers.
Mr. Sanders is supposed to be on his way to Savannah on the same train with Cephas and Captain Falconer, supposing the train to be on time. Nevertheless, it is necessary to give a further account of his movements before he started on the journey that was to prove to be such an important event in Gabriel's career.
On the third morning after the arrest of the young men, Mrs. Lumsden expressed a desire to see Mr. Sanders, but he was nowhere to be found. Many sympathetic persons, including Nan Dorrington, joined in the search, but it proved to be a fruitless one. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sanders had gone to bed early the night before, but a little after midnight he awoke with a start. This was such an unusual experience that he permitted it to worry him. He had had no dream, he had heard no noise; yet he had suddenly come out of a sound and refreshing sleep with every faculty alert. He struck a match, and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to one.
"I wish, plague take 'em!" he said with a snort, "that somebody would whirl in an' make a match that wouldn't smifflicate the whole house an' lot."
He lit the candle, and then proceeded to draw on his clothes. In the course of this proceeding, he lay back on the bed with his hands under his head. He lay thus for some minutes, and then suddenly jumped to his feet with an exclamation. He put on his clothes in a hurry, and went out to the stables, where he gave his horse a good feed—seventeen ears of corn and two bundles of fodder.
Then he returned to the house, and rummaged around until he found a pitcher of buttermilk and a pone of corn-bread, which he disposed of deliberately, and with great relish. This done, he changed his clothes, substituting for those he wore every day the suit he wore on Sundays and holidays. When all these preparations were complete, the hands of his watch stood at quarter past three. He had delayed and dillydallied in order to give his horse time to eat. The animal had taken advantage of the opportunity, for when Mr. Sanders went to the stables, the Racking Roan was playfully tossing the bare cobs about in the trough with his flexible upper lip.
"Be jigged ef your appetite ain't mighty nigh as good as mine," he remarked, whereupon the roan playfully bit at him. "Don't do that, my son," protested Mr. Sanders. "Can't you see I've got on my Sunday duds?"
To bridle and saddle the horse was a matter of a few moments only, and when Mr. Sanders mounted, the spirited horse was so evidently in for a frolic that he was going at a three-minute gait by the time the rider had thrown a leg over the saddle.
A horseback ride, when the weather is fine and the sun is shining, is a very pleasing experience, but it is not to be compared to a ride in the dark, provided you are on good terms with your horse, and are familiar with the country. You surrender yourself entirely to the creature's movements, and if he is a horse equipped with courage, common-sense and energy, you are lifted entirely out of your everyday life into the regions of romance and derring-do—whatever that may be. There is no other feeling like it, no other pleasure to be compared to it; all the rest smell of the earth.
"I'm sorter glad I lit that match," Mr. Sanders remarked to the horse. "It's like gittin' a whiff of the Bad Place, an' then breathin' the fresh air of heav'n." The reply of the roan was a sharp affirmative snort.
The sun was just rising when Mr. Sanders rode into Halcyondale. Coincident with his arrival, the train from Atlanta came in with a tremendous clatter. There was much creaking and clanking as it slowed up at the modest station. It paused just long enough for the mail-bag and a trunk to be thrown off with a bang, and then it went puffing away. Short as the pause had been, one of the passengers, in the person of Colonel Bolivar Blasengame, had managed to escape from it. The Colonel, with his valise in his hand, paused to watch the train out of sight, and then leisurely made his way toward his home. To reach that point, he was compelled to cross the public square, and as he emerged from the side street leading to the station, he met Mr. Sanders, who had also been watching the train.
"Hello, Colonel, how are you? We belong apparently to the early bird society."
"Good-morning, Mr. Sanders," replied the Colonel, with a smile of friendly welcome. "What wind has blown you over here?"
"Why, I want to see Major Perdue. You know we have had trouble in our settlement."
"And you want to see Tomlin because you have had trouble; but why is it, Mr. Sanders, that your people never think of me when you have trouble? Am I losing caste in your community?"
"Well, you know, Colonel, you haven't been over sence the year one; an' then the Major is kinder kin to one of the chaps that's been took off."
"Exactly; but did it ever occur to you that whoever is kin to Tomlin is a little kin to me," remarked the Colonel. "Tomlin is my brother-in-law—But where are you going now?"
"Well, I thought I would go to the tavern, have my hoss put up an' fed, git a snack of somethin' to eat, an' then call on the Major."
"You hadn't heard, I reckon, that the tavern is closed, and the livery-stable broke up," said the Colonel, by way of giving the visitor some useful information.
At that moment a negro came out on the veranda of the hotel—only the older people called it a tavern—and rang the bell that meant breakfast in half an hour.
"What's that?" inquired Mr. Sanders, though he knew well enough.
"It's pure habit," replied the Colonel. "That nigger has been ringing the bell so long that he can't quit it. Anyhow, you can't go to the tavern, and you can't go to Tomlin's. He's got a mighty big family to support, Tomlin has. He's fixin' up to have a son-in-law, and he's already got a daughter, and old Minervy Ann, who brags that she can eat as much as she can cook. No, you can't impose on Tomlin."
"Then, what in the world will I do?" Mr. Sanders asked with a laugh. He was perfectly familiar with the tactics of the Colonel.
"Well, there wasn't any small-pox or measles at my house when I left day before yesterday. Suppose we go there, and see if there's anything the matter. If the stable hasn't blown away or burned down, maybe you'll find a place for your horse, and then we can scuffle around maybe, and find something to eat. That's a fine animal you're on. He's the one, I reckon, that walked the stringer, after the bridge had been washed away. I never could swallow that tale, Mr. Sanders."
"Nor me nuther," replied Mr. Sanders. "All I know is that he took me across the river one dark night after a fresh, an' some folks on t'other side wouldn't believe I had come across. They got to the place whar the bridge ought to 'a' been long before dark, and they found it all gone except one stringer. I seed the stringer arterwards, but I never could make up my mind that my hoss walked it wi' me a-straddle of his back."
"Still, if he was my horse," Colonel Blasengame remarked, "I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for him, and I reckon you've heard it rumoured around that I haven't got any more money than two good steers could pull."
Mr. Sanders turned his horse's head in the direction that Colonel Blasengame was going, and when they arrived at his home, he stopped at the gate. "Mr. Sanders," he said, taking out his watch, "I'll bet you two dollars and a half to a horn button that breakfast will be ready in ten minutes, and that everything will be fixed as if company was expected."
And it was true. By the time the horse had been put in the stable and fed, breakfast was ready, and when Mr. Sanders was ushered into the room, Mrs. Blasengame was sitting in her place at the table pouring out coffee. She was a frail little woman, but her eyes were bright with energy, and she greeted the unexpected guest as cordially as if he had come on her express invitation. She had little to say at any time, but when she spoke her words were always to the purpose.
"What did you accomplish?" she asked her husband, after Mr. Sanders, as in duty bound, had praised the coffee and the biscuit, and the meal was well under way.
"Nothing, honey; not a thing in the world. I thought the boys had been carried to Atlanta, but they are at Fort Pulaski."
Mrs. Blasengame said nothing more, and the Colonel was for talking about something else, but the curiosity of Mr. Sanders was aroused.
"What boys was you referrin' to, Colonel?" he asked.
"I don't like to tell you, Mr. Sanders," replied Colonel Blasengame, "but if you'll take no offence, I'll say that the boys are from a little one-horse country settlement called Shady Dale, a place where the people are asleep day and night. A parcel of Yankees went over there the other night, snatched four boys out of their beds, and walked off with them."
"That's so," Mr. Sanders assented.
"Yes, it's so," cried the Colonel hotly. "And it's a——" He caught the eye of his wife and subsided. "Excuse me, honey; I'm rather wrought up over this thing. What worries me," he went on, "is that the boys were yerked out of bed, and carried off, and then their own families went to sleep again. But suppose they didn't turn over and go back to sleep: doesn't that make matters worse? I can't understand it to save my life. Why, if it had happened here, the whole town would have been wide awake in ten minutes, and the boys would never have been carried across the corporation line. Tomlin is mighty near wild about it. If I hadn't gone to Atlanta, he would have gone; and you know how he is, honey. Somebody would have got hurt."
Yet, strange to say, Major Tomlin Perdue was far cooler and more deliberate than his brother-in-law, Colonel Blasengame. It was the peculiarity of each that he was anxious to assume all the dangerous responsibilities with which the other might be confronted; and the only serious dispute between the two men was in the shape of a hot controversy as to which should call to account the writer of a card in which Major Perdue was criticised somewhat more freely than politeness warranted.
"You are correct in your statement about the four boys bein' took away," said Mr. Sanders, "but you'll have to remember that the woods ain't so full of Blasengames an' Perdues as they used to be; an' you ain't got in this town a big, heavy balance-wheel the size an' shape of Meriwether Clopton."
"Yes, dear, you were about to be too hasty in your remarks," suggested Mrs. Blasengame. Her soft voice had a strangely soothing effect on her husband. "If some of our young men had been seized, all of us, including you, my dear, would have been in a state of paralysis, just as our friends in Shady Dale were."
"The only man in town that know'd it," Mr. Sanders explained, "was Silas Tomlin. He was sleepin' in the same room wi' Paul, an' they rousted him out, an' took him along. They carried him four or five mile. He had to walk back, an' by the time he got home, the sun was up."
"That puts a new light on it," said the Colonel, "and Tomlin will be as glad to hear it as I am. But I wonder what the rest of the State will think of us."
"My dear, didn't these young men, and the Yankees who arrested them, take the train here?" inquired Mrs. Blasengame. She nodded to Mr. Sanders, and a peculiar smile began to play over that worthy's features.
"By George! I believe they did, honey!" exclaimed the Colonel.
"And in broad daylight?" persisted the lady.
To this the Colonel made no reply, and Mr. Sanders became the complainant. "I dunner what we're comin' to," he declared, "when a passel of Yankees can yerk four of our best young men on a train in this town in broad daylight, an' all the folks a-stanin' aroun' gapin' at 'em, an' wonderin' what they're gwine to do next."
"Say no more, Mr. Sanders; say no more—the mule is yours." This in the slang of the day meant that the point at issue had been surrendered.
"I suppose Lucy Lumsden is utterly crushed on Gabriel's account," remarked Mrs. Blasengame.
"Crushed!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders; "no, ma'am! not much, if any. She's fightin' mad."
"I know well how she feels," said the pale, bright-eyed little woman. "It is a pity the men can't have the same feeling."
"Why, honey, what good would it do?" the Colonel asked, somewhat querulously.
"It would do no good; it would do harm—to some people."
"And yet," said the Colonel, turning to Mr. Sanders with a protesting frown on his face, "when I want to show some fellow that I'm still on top of the ground, or when Tomlin takes down his gun and goes after some rascal, she makes such a racket that you'd think the world was coming to an end."
"A racket! I make a racket? Why, Mr. Blasengame, I'm ashamed of you! the idea!"
"Well, racket ain't the word, I reckon; but you look so sorry, honey, that to me it's the same as making a racket. It takes all the grit out of me when I know that you are sitting here, wondering what minute I'll be brought home cut into jiblets, or shot full of holes."
Mrs. Blasengame laughed, as she rose from the table. She stood tiptoe to pin a flower in her husband's button-hole.
"You've missed a good deal, Mr. Sanders," said the Colonel, stooping to kiss his wife. "You don't know what a comfort it is to have a little bit of a woman to boss you, and cuss you out with her eyes when you git on the wrong track."
"Yes," said Mr. Sanders, "I allers feel like a widower when I see a man reely in love wi' his wife. It's a sight that ain't as common as it used to be. We'll go now, if you're ready, an' see the Major. I ain't got much time to tarry."
"Oh, you want me to go too?" said the Colonel eagerly. "Well, I'm your man; you can just count on me, no matter what scheme you've got on hand."
They went to Major Perdue's, and were ushered in by Minervy Ann. "I'm mighty glad you come," said she; "kaze 'taint been ten minnits sence Marse Tomlin wuz talkin' 'bout gwine over dar whar you live at; an' he ain't got no mo' business in de hot sun dan a rabbit is got in a blazin' brushpile. Miss Vallie done tole 'im so, an' I done tole 'im so. He went ter bed wid de headache, an' he got up wid it; an' what you call dat, ef 'taint bein' sick? But, sick er well, he'll be mighty glad ter see you."
Aunt Minervy Ann made haste to inform the Major that he had visitors. "I tuck 'em in de settin'-room," she said, "kaze dat parlour look ez cold ez a funer'l. It give me de shivers eve'y time I go in dar. De cheers set dar like dey waitin' fer ter make somebody feel like dey ain't welcome, an' dat ar sofy look like a coolin'-board."
Mr. Sanders was very much at home in the Major's house; he had dandled Vallie on his knee when she was a baby; and he had made the Major's troubles his own as far as he could. Consequently the greeting he received was as cordial as he could have desired. "Major," he said, when he found opportunity to state the nature of his business, "do you know young Gabe Tolliver?"
"Mighty well—mighty well," responded Major Perdue, "and a fine boy he is. He'll make his mark some day."
"Not onless we do somethin' to help him out. They ain't no way in the world he can prove that he didn't kill that feller Hotchkiss. Ike Varner done the killin', but he's gone, an' I think his wife is fixin' to go to Atlanta. They've got the dead wood on Gabriel. They ain't no case at all ag'in the rest; but you know how Gabriel is—he goes moonin' about in the fields both day an' night, an' it's mighty hard for to put your finger on him when you want him. An' to make it wuss, Hotchkiss called his name more'n once before he died. It looks black for Gabriel, an' we must do somethin' for him."
Major Perdue leaned forward a little, a frown on his face, and stretched forth his left hand, in the palm of which he placed the forefinger of his right. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Sanders, I'm just as much obliged to you for coming to me as if you had saved me from drowning. I have come to the point where I can't hold in much longer, and maybe you'll keep me from making a fool of myself. I'll say beforehand, I don't care what your plan is; I don't care to know it—just count on me."
"And where do I come in?" Colonel Blasengame inquired.
"Right by my side," responded Major Perdue.
Without further preliminaries, Mr. Sanders set forth the details of the programme that had arranged itself in his mind, and when he was through, Major Perdue leaned back in his chair, and gazed with admiration at the bland and child-like countenance of this Georgia cracker. The innocence of childhood shone in Mr. Sanders's blue eyes.
"I swear, Mr. Sanders, I'm sorry I didn't have the pleasure of serving with you in Virginia. If there is anything in this world that I like it's a man with a head on him, and that's what you've got. You can count on us if we are alive. I don't know how Bolivar feels about it, but I feel that you have done me a great favour in thinking of me in connection with this business. You couldn't pay either of us a higher compliment."
"Tomlin expresses my views exactly," said Colonel Blasengame; "yet I feel that one of us will be enough. It may be that your scheme will fail, and that those who are engaged in it will have to take the consequence. Now, I'd rather take 'em alone than to have Tumlin mixed up with it."
"Fiddlesticks, Bolivar! you couldn't keep me out of it unless you had a bench-warrant served on me five minutes before the train left, and if you try that, I'll have one served on you. Now, don't forget to tell Tidwell that I'll be glad to renew that dispute. I bear no malice, but when it comes to a row, I don't need malice to keep my mind and my gun in working order. I'm going down to Malvern to-morrow, and before I come away, I'll have everything fixed. There are some details, you know, that never occurred to you: the police, for instance. Well, the chief of police is a very good friend of mine, and the major was Bolivar's adjutant."
"Well, I thank the Lord for all his mercies!" cried Mr. Sanders; and he meant what he said.
It was hinted in some of the early chapters of this chronicle that none of the characters would turn out to be very heroic, but this was a mistake. The chronicler had forgotten a few episodes that grew out of the expedition of Cephas to Fort Pulaski—episodes that should have stood out clear in his memory from the first. Cephas was very meek and humble when he started on his expedition, so much so that there were long moments when he would have given a large fortune, if he had possessed it, to be safe at home with his mother. A hundred times he asked himself why he had been foolish enough to come away from home, and trust himself to the cold mercy of the world; and he promised himself faithfully that if he ever got back home alive, he would never leave there again.
Captain Falconer was very kind and attentive to the lad, but he was also very inquisitive. He asked Cephas a great many artful questions, all leading up to the message he was to deliver to Gabriel; but the instructions he had received from Mr. Sanders made Cephas more than a match for the Captain. When the lad came to the years of maturity, he often wondered how a plain and comparatively ignorant countryman could foresee the questions that were to be asked, and provide simple and satisfactory answers to them; and the matter is still a mystery.
Well, Cephas was not a hero when he started, and if the truth is to be told, he developed none of the symptoms until he had returned home safely, accompanied by Mr. Sanders. Then he became the lion of the village, and was sought after by old and young. All wanted to hear the story of his wonderful adventures. He speedily became a celebrated Cephas, and when he found that he was really regarded as a hero by his schoolmates, and by some of the young women, he was quick to appropriate the character. He became reticent; he went about with a sort of weary and travel-worn look, as if he had seen everything that was worth seeing, and heard everything that was worth hearing.
Now, what Cephas had seen and heard was bad enough. He could hardly be brought to believe that the haggard and wild-eyed young fellow who answered to Gabriel's name at the fort was the Gabriel that he had known, and when he made up his mind that it really was Gabriel, he couldn't hold the tears back. "Brace up, old man," said Gabriel. It was then in a choking voice that Cephas delivered Mr. Sanders's message, using the dog-latin which they both knew so well. And in that tongue Gabriel told Cephas of the tortures to which he and his fellow-prisoners had been subjected, of the horrors of the sweat-boxes, and the terrors of the wrist-rack. So effective was the narrative that Gabriel rattled off in the school tongue, that when he was ordered back to his solitary cell, Cephas turned away weeping. He was no hero then; he was simply a small boy with a tender heart.
There were grave faces at Shady Dale when Cephas told what he had seen and heard. Major Tomlin Perdue, of Halcyondale, became almost savage when he heard of the indignities to which the unfortunate young men had been subjected. He wrote a card and published it in theMalvern Recorder, and the card was so much to the purpose, and created such indignation in the State, that the authorities at Washington took cognisance thereof, and issued orders that there was to be no more torture of the prisoners. This fact, however, was not known until months afterward, and, meanwhile, the newspapers of Georgia were giving a wide publicity to the cruelties which had been practised on the young men, and radicalism became the synonym of everything that was loathsome and detestable. Reprisals were made in all parts of the State, and as was to be expected, the negroes were compelled to bear the brunt of all the excitement and indignation.
The tale that Cephas told to Mr. Sanders was modest when compared to the inventions that occurred to his mind after he found how easy it was to be a hero. Though he pretended to be heartily tired of the whole subject, there was nothing that tickled him more than to be cornered by a crowd of his schoolmates and comrades, all intent on hearing anew the awful recital which Cephas had prepared after his return.
One of the first to seek Cephas out was Nan Dorrington, and this was precisely what the young hero wanted. He was very cold and indifferent when Nan besought him to tell her all about his trip. How did he enjoy himself? and didn't he wish he was back at home many a time? And what did Paul and Jesse have to say? Ah, Cephas had his innings now!
"I didn't see Paul and Jesse," replied Cephas, "and I didn't see Francis Bethune."
"Did they have them hid?" asked Nan.
"I don't know. The one I saw was in a black dungeon. I couldn't hardly see his face, and when I did see it, I was sorry I saw it." Cephas leaned back against the fence with the air of a fellow who has seen too much. Nan was dying to ask a hundred questions about the one Cephas had seen, but she resented his indifferent and placid attitude. All heroes are placid and indifferent when they discuss their deeds, but they wouldn't be if the public in general felt toward them as Nan felt toward Cephas. The only reason she didn't seize the little fellow and give him a good shaking was the fact that she was dying to hear all he had to say about his visit, and all about Gabriel.
Gradually Cephas thawed out. One or the other had to surrender, and the small boy had no such incentive to silence as Nan had. His pride was not involved, whereas Nan would have gone to the rack and suffered herself to be pulled to pieces before she would have asked any direct questions about Gabriel.
"I'm mighty sorry I went," said Cephas finally, and then he stopped short.
"Why?" inquired Nan.
"Oh, well—I don't know exactly. I thought I would find everybody just like they were before they went away, but the one I saw looked like a drove of mules had trompled on him. He didn't have on any coat, and his shirt was torn and dirty, and his face looked like he had been sick a month. His eyes were hollow, and had black circles around them."
"Did he say anything?" asked Nan in a low tone.
"Yes, he said, 'Brace up, old man.'"
"Was that all?"
"And then he asked if anybody had sent him any word, and I said, 'Nobody but Mr. Sanders'; and then he said, 'I might have known that he wouldn't forget me.'" Cephas could see Nan crushing her handkerchief in her hand, and he enjoyed it immensely.
"Was he angry with any one?" Nan asked.
"Why, when did anybody ever hear of his being angry with any one he thought was a friend?" exclaimed Cephas scornfully. Nan writhed at this, and Cephas went on. "He had been tied up by the wrists, and then he had been put in a sweat-box, and nearly roasted—yes, by grabs! pretty nigh cooked."
"Why, you didn't tell his grandmother that," said Nan.
"Well, I should say not!" exclaimed Cephas. "What do you take me for? Do you reckon I'd tell that to anybody that cared anything for him? Why, I wouldn't tell his grandmother that for anything in the world, and if she was to ask me about it, I'd deny it."
This arrow went home. Cephas had the unmixed pleasure of seeing Nan turn pale. "I think you are simply awful," she gasped. "You are cruel, and you are unkind. You know very well that I care something for Gabriel. Haven't we been friends since we were children together? Do you suppose I have no feelings?"
"I know what you said when I told you I was going to see Gabriel."
"What was that?" inquired Nan.
"Why, you said, 'Well, what is that to me?'" exclaimed Cephas. He twisted his face awry, and mimicked Nan's voice with considerable success, only he made it more spiteful than that charming young woman could have done.
"Yes, I did say that, but didn't I go to your house, and tell you what to say to Gabriel?"
Cephas laughed scornfully. "Did you think I was going to swallow the joke that you and that Claiborne girl hatched up between you? Do you reckon I'm fool enough to tell Gabriel that you'll die if he don't come home soon?"
"You didn't tell him, then?"
"No, I didn't," replied Cephas. "I would cut off one of my fingers before I'd let him know that there were people here at home making fun of him."
Nan gazed at Cephas as if she suspected him of a joke. But she saw that he was very much in earnest. "I'm glad you didn't tell him," she said finally. Then she laughed, saying, "Cephas, I really did think you had a little sense."
"I have sense enough not to hurt the feelings of them that like me," the boy replied. And he went on his way, trying to reconcile the Nan Dorrington who used to be so kind to him with the Nan Dorrington who was flirting and flitting around with long skirts on. He failed, as older and more experienced persons have failed.
But you may be sure that he felt himself no less a hero because Nan Dorrington had hinted that he had no sense. He knew where the lack of sense was. After awhile, when interested persons ceased to run after him to get all the particulars of his visit to Fort Pulaski, he threw himself in their way, and when the details of his journey began to pall on the appetite of his friends, he invented new ones, and in this way managed to keep the centre of the stage for some time. When he could no longer interest the older folk, he had the school-children to fall back upon, and you may believe that he caused the youngsters to sit with open-mouthed wonder at the tales he told. The fact that he stammered a little, and sometimes hesitated for a word, made not the slightest difference with his audience of young people.
There was one fact that bothered Cephas. He had been told that Francis Bethune was in love with Margaret Gaither, and he knew that the young man was a constant caller at Neighbour Tomlin's, where Margaret lived. Indeed, he had carried notes to her from the young man, and had faithfully delivered the replies. He judged, therefore, as well as a small boy can judge, that there was some sort of an understanding between the two, and he itched for the opportunity to pour the tale of his adventures into Margaret's ears. He loitered around the house, and threw himself in Margaret's way when she went out visiting or shopping. She greeted him very kindly on each particular occasion, but not once did she betray any interest in Francis Bethune or his fellow-prisoners.
When Nan met Cephas, on the occasion of the interview which has just been reported, she was on her way to Neighbour Tomlin's to pay a visit to Margaret, and thither she went, after giving Cephas the benefit of her views as to his mental capacity. Margaret happened to be out at the moment, but Miss Fanny insisted that Nan should come in anyhow.
"Margaret will be back directly," Miss Fanny said; "she has only gone to the stores to match a piece of ribbon. Besides, I want to talk to you a little while. But good gracious! what is the matter with you? I expected cheerfulness from you at least, but what do I find? Well, you and Margaret should live in the same house; they say misery loves company. Here I was about to ask you why Margaret is unhappy, and I find you looking out of Margaret's eyes. Are you unhappy, too?"
"No, Aunt Fanny, I'm not unhappy; I'm angry. I don't see why girls should become grown. Why, I was always in a good humour until I put on long skirts, and then my troubles began. I can neither run nor play; I must be on my dignity all the time for fear some one will raise her hands and say, 'Do look at that Nan Dorrington! Isn't she a bold piece?' I never was so tired of anything in my life as I am of being grown. I never will get used to it."
"Oh, you'll get in the habit of it after awhile, child," said Miss Fanny. "But I never would have believed that Nan Dorrington would care very much for what people said."
"Oh, it isn't on my account that I care," remarked Nan, with a toss of her head, "but I don't want my friends to have their feelings hurt by what other people say. If there is anything in this world I detest it is dignity—I don't mean Margaret's kind, because she was born so and can't help it—but the kind that is put on and taken off like a summer bonnet. If I can't be myself, I'll do like Leese Clopton did, I'll go into a convent."
"Well, you certainly would astonish the nuns when you began to cut some of your capers," Miss Fanny declared.
"Am I as bad as all that? Tell me honestly, Aunt Fanny, now while I am in the humour to hear it, what do I do that is so terrible?"
"Honestly, Nan, you do nothing terrible at all. Not even Miss Puella Gillum could criticise you."
"Why, Miss Puella never criticises any one. She's just as sweet as she can be."
"Well, she's an old maid, you know, and old maids are supposed to be critical," said Miss Fanny. "I'll tell you where all the trouble is, Nan: you are sensitive, and you have an idea that you must behave as some of the other girls do—that you must hold your hands and your head just so. If you would be yourself, and forget all about etiquette and manners, you'd satisfy everybody, especially yourself."
"Why, that is what worries me now; I do forget all about those things, and then, all of a sudden, I realise that I am acting like a child, and a very noisy child at that, and then I'm afraid some one will make remarks. It is all very miserable and disagreeable, and I wish there wasn't a long skirt in the world."
"Well, when you get as old as I am," sighed Miss Fanny, "you won't mind little things like that. Margaret is coming now. I'll leave you with her. Try to find out why she is unhappy. Pulaski is nearly worried to death about it, and so am I."
Margaret Gaither came in as sedately as an old woman. She was very fond of Nan, and greeted her accordingly. Whatever her trouble was, it had made no attack on her health. She had a fine color, and her eyes were bright; but there was the little frown between her eyebrows that had attracted the attention of Gabriel, and it gave her a troubled look.
"If you'll tell me something nice and pleasant," she said to Nan, "I'll be under many obligations to you. Tell me something funny, or if you don't know anything funny, tell me something horrible—anything for a change. I saw Cephas downtown; that child has been trying for days to tell me of his adventures, and I have been dying to hear them. But I keep out of his way; I am so perverse that I refuse to give myself that much pleasure. Oh, if you only knew how mean I am, you wouldn't sit there smiling. I hear that the dear boys are having a good deal of trouble. Well, it serves them right; they had no business to be boys. They should have been girls; then they would have been perfectly happy all the time. Don't you think so, sweet child?"
Nan regarded her friend with astonishment. She had never heard her talk in such a strain before. "Why, what is the matter with you, Margaret? You know that girls can be as unhappy as boys; yes, and a thousand times more so."
"Oh, I'll never believe it! never!" cried Margaret. "Why, do you mean to tell me that any girl can be unhappy? You'll have to prove it, Nan; you'll have to give the name, and furnish dates, and then you'll have to give the reason. Do you mean to insinuate that you intend to offer yourself as the horrible example? Fie on you, Nan! You're in love, and you mistake that state for unhappiness. Why, that is the height of bliss. Look at me! I'm in love, and see how happy I am!"
"I know one thing," said Nan, and her voice was low and subdued, "if you go on like that, you'll frighten me away. Do you want to make your best friends miserable?"
"Why, certainly," replied Margaret. "What are friends for? I should dislike very much to have a friend that I couldn't make miserable. But if you think you are going to run away, come up to my room and we'll lock ourselves in, and then I know you can't get away."
"Now, what is the matter?" Nan insisted, when they had gone upstairs, and were safe in Margaret's room. She had seized her friend in her arms, and her tone was imploring.
"I don't think I can tell you, Nan; you would consider me a fool, and I want to keep your good opinion. But I can tell you a part of my troubles. He wants me to marry Francis Bethune! Think of that!" She paused and looked at Nan. "Well, why don't you congratulate me?"
"I'll never believe that," said Nan, decisively. "Did he say that he wanted you to marry Frank Bethune?" The "he" in this case was Pulaski Tomlin.
"Well, he didn't insist on it; he's too kind for that. But Francis has been coming here very often, until our friends in blue gave him a much-needed rest, and I suppose I must have been going around looking somewhat gloomy; you know how I am—I can't be gay; and then he asked me what the trouble was, and finally said that Francis would make me a good husband. Why, I could have killed myself! Think of me, in this house, and occupying the position I do!"
Such heat and fury Nan had never seen her friend display before. "Why, Margaret!" she cried, "you don't know what you are saying. Why, if he or Aunt Fanny could hear you, they would be perfectly miserable. I don't see how you can feel that way."
"No, you don't, and I hope you never will!" exclaimed Margaret. "Nobody knows how I feel. If I could, I would tell you—but I can't, I can't!"
"Margaret," said Nan, in a most serious tone, "has he or Aunt Fanny ever treated you unkindly?" Nan was prepared to hear the worst.
"Unkindly!" cried Margaret, bursting into tears; "oh, I wish they would! I wish they would treat me as I deserve to be treated. Oh, if he would treat me cruelly, or do something to wound my feelings, I would bless him."
Margaret had led Nan into a strange country, so to speak, and she knew not which way to turn or what to say. Something was wrong, but what? Of all Nan's acquaintances, Margaret was the most self-contained, the most evenly balanced. Many and many a time Nan had envied Margaret's serenity, and now here she was in tears, after talking as wildly as some hysterical person.
"Come home with me, Margaret," cried Nan. "Maybe the change would do you good."
"I thank you, Nan. You are as good as you can be; you are almost as good as the people here; but I can't go. I can't leave this house for any length of time until I leave it for good. I'd be wild to get back; my misery fascinates me; I hate it and hug it."
"I am sure that I don't understand you at all," said Nan, in a tone of despair.
"No, and you never will," Margaret affirmed. "To understand you would have to feel as I do, and I hope you may be spared that experience all the days of your life."
After awhile Nan decided that Margaret would be more comfortable if she were alone, and so she bade her friend good-bye, and went downstairs, where she found Miss Fanny awaiting her somewhat impatiently.
"Well, what is the trouble, child?" she asked.
Nan shook her head. "I don't know, Aunt Fanny, and I don't believe she knows herself."
"But didn't she give you some hint—some intimation? I don't want to be inquisitive, child; but if she's in trouble, I want to find some remedy for it. Pulaski is in a terrible state of mind about her, and I am considerably worried myself. We love her just as much as if she were our own, and yet we can't go to her and make a serious effort to discover what is worrying her. She is proud and sensitive, and we have to be very careful. Oh, I hope we have done nothing to wound that child's feelings."
"It isn't that," replied Nan. "I asked her, and she said that you treated her too kindly."
"Well," sighed Miss Fanny, "if she won't confide in us, she'll have to bear her troubles alone. It is a pity, but sometimes it is best."
And then there came a knock on the door, and it was so sudden and unexpected that Nan gave a jump.
"They's a gentleman out there what says he wanter see Miss Bridalbin," said the house-girl who had gone to the door. "I tol' him they wan't no sech lady here, but he say they is. It's that there Mr. Borin'," the girl went on, "an' I didn't know if you'd let him go in the parlour."
"Yes, ask him in the parlour," said Miss Fanny, "and then go upstairs and tell Miss Margaret that some one wants to see her."
"Oh, yessum!" said the house-girl with a laugh; "it's Miss Marg'ret; I clean forgot her yuther name."
"The rascal certainly has impudence," remarked Miss Fanny. "Pulaski should know about this." Whereupon, she promptly called Neighbour Tomlin out of the library, and he came into the room just as Margaret came downstairs.
"Wait one moment, Margaret," he said. "It may be well for me to see what this man wants—unless——" He paused. "Do you know this Boring?"
"No; I have heard of him. I have never even seen him that I know of."
"Then I'll see him first," said Neighbour Tomlin. He went into the parlour, and those who were listening heard a subdued murmur of voices.
"What is your business with Miss Bridalbin?" Neighbour Tomlin asked, ignoring the proffered hand of the visitor.
"I am her father."
Neighbour Tomlin stood staring at the man as if he were dazed. Bridalbin's face bore the unmistakable marks of alcoholism, and he had evidently prepared himself for this interview by touching the bottle, for he held himself with a swagger.
Neighbour Tomlin said not a word in reply to the man's declaration. He stared at him, and turned and went back into the sitting-room where he had left the others.
"Why, Pulaski, what on earth is the matter?" cried Miss Fanny, as he entered the room. "You look as if you had seen a ghost." And indeed his face was white, and there was an expression in his eyes that Nan thought was most piteous.
"Go in, my dear," he said to Margaret. "The man has business with you." And then, when Margaret had gone out, he turned to Miss Fanny. "It is her father," he said.
"Well, I wonder what's he up to?" remarked Miss Fanny. There was a touch of anger in her voice. "She shan't go a step away from here with such a creature as that."
"She is her own mistress, sister. She is twenty years old," replied Neighbour Tomlin.
"Well, she'll be very ungrateful if she leaves us," said Miss Fanny, with some emphasis.
"Don't, sister; never use that word again; to me it has an ugly sound. We have had no thought of gratitude in the matter. If there is any debt in the matter, we are the debtors. We have not been at all happy in the way we have managed things. I have seen for some time that Margaret is unhappy; and we have no business to permit unhappiness to creep into this house." So said Neighbour Tomlin, and the tones of his voice seemed to issue from the fountains of grief.
"Well, I am sure I have done all I could to make the poor child happy," Miss Fanny declared.
"I am sure of that," said Neighbour Tomlin. "If any mistake has been made it is mine. And yet I have never had any other thought than to make Margaret happy."
"I know that well enough, Pulaski," Miss Fanny assented, "and I have sometimes had an idea that you thought too much about her for your own good."
"That is true," he replied. He was a merciless critic of himself in matters both great and small, and he had no concealments to make. He was open as the day, except where openness might render others unhappy or uncomfortable. "Yes, you are right," he insisted; "I have thought too much about her happiness for my own good, and now I see myself on the verge of great trouble."
"If Margaret understood the situation," said Miss Fanny, "I think she would feel differently."
"On the contrary, I think she understands the situation perfectly well; that is the only explanation of her troubles which she has not sought to conceal."
At that moment Margaret came to the door. Her face was very pale, almost ghastly, indeed, but whatever trouble may have looked from her eyes before, they were clear now. She came into the room with a little smile hovering around her mouth. She had no eyes for any one but Pulaski Tomlin, and to him she spoke.
"My father has come," she said. "He is not such a father as I would have selected; still, he is my father. I knew him the moment I opened the door. He wants me to go with him; he says he is able to provide for me. He has claims on me."
"Have we none?" Miss Fanny asked.
"More than anybody in the world," replied Margaret, turning to her; "more than all the rest of the world put together. But I have always said to myself," she addressed Neighbour Tomlin again, "that if it should ever happen that I found myself unable to carry out your wishes, sir, it would be best for me to leave your roof, where all my happiness has come to me." She was very humble, both in speech and demeanour.
Neighbour Tomlin looked at her with a puzzled and a grieved expression. "Why, I don't understand you, Margaret," said Neighbour Tomlin. "What wish of mine have you found yourself unable to carry out?"
"Only one, sir; but that was a very important one; you desired me to marry Mr. Bethune."
"I? Why, you were never more mistaken in your life," replied Neighbour Tomlin, with what Miss Fanny thought was unnecessary energy. "I may have suggested it; I saw you gloomy and unhappy, and I had observed the devotion of the young man. What more natural than for me to suggest that—Margaret! you are giving me a terrible wound!" He turned and went into the library, and Margaret ran after him.
It is probable that Nan knows better than any outsider what occurred then. It seems that Margaret, in her excitement, forgot to close the door after her, and Nan was sitting where she could see pretty much everything that happened; and she had a delicious little tale to tell her dear Johnny when she went home, a tale so impossible and romantic that she forgot her own troubles, and fairly glowed with happiness. But it is best not to depend too much on what Nan saw, though her sight was fairly good where her interests were enlisted.
Margaret ran after Neighbour Tomlin and seized him by the arm. "Oh, I never meant to wound you," she cried—"you who have been so kind, and so good! Oh, if you could only read my heart, you would forgive me, instantly and forever."
"I can read my own heart," said Neighbour Tomlin, "and it has but one feeling for you."
"Then kiss me good-bye," she said. "I am going with my father."
"If I kiss you," he replied, "you'll not go."
She looked at him, and he at her, and she found herself in the focus of a light that enabled her to see everything more clearly. She caught his secret and he hers, and there was no longer any room for misunderstanding. Her father, weak as he was, had been strong enough to provide his daughter with a remedy for the only serious trouble, short of bereavement, that his daughter was ever to know. She refused to return to the parlour, where he awaited her.
"Shall I go?" said Neighbour Tomlin.
"If you please, sir," said Margaret, with a faint smile. She could hardly realise the change that had so suddenly taken place in her hopes and her plans, so swift and unexpected had it been.
Neighbour Tomlin went into the parlour, and made Bridalbin acquainted with the facts.
"Margaret has changed her mind," said Neighbour Tomlin. "She thinks it is best to remain under the care and protection of those whom she knows better than she knows her father."
"Why, she seemed eager to go a moment ago," said Bridalbin; "and you must remember that she is my daughter."
"Her friends couldn't forget that under all the circumstances," Neighbour Tomlin remarked drily.
"I believe her mind has been poisoned against me," Bridalbin declared.
"That is quite possible," replied Neighbour Tomlin; "and I think you could easily guess the name of the poisoner."
"May I see my daughter?"
"That rests entirely with her," said Neighbor Tomlin.
But Margaret refused to see him again. Since her own troubles had been so completely swept away, her memory reverted to all the troubles her mother had to endure, as the result of Bridalbin's lack of fixed principles, and she sent him word that she would prefer not to see him then or ever afterward; and so the man went away, more bent on doing mischief than ever, though he was compelled to change his field of operations.
And then, after he was gone, a silence fell on the company. Nan appeared to be in a dazed condition, while Miss Fanny sat looking out of the window. Margaret, very much subdued, was clinging to Nan, and Neighbour Tomlin was pacing up and down in the library in a glow of happiness. All his early dreams had come back to him, and they were true. The romance of his youth had been changed into a reality.
Margaret was the first to break the silence. She left Nan, and went slowly to Miss Fanny, and stood by her chair. "What do you think of me?" she said, in a low voice.
For answer, Miss Fanny rose and placed her arms around the girl, and held her tightly for a moment, and then kissed her.
"But I do think, my dear," she said with an effort to laugh, "that the matter might have been arranged without frightening us to death."
"I had no thought of frightening you. Oh, I am afraid I had no thought for anything but my own troubles. Did you know? Did you guess?"
"I knew about Pulaski, but I had to go away from home to learn the news about you. Madame Awtry called my attention to it, and then with my eyes upon, I could see a great many things that were not visible before."
"Why, how could she know?" cried Margaret. "I have talked with her not more than a half dozen times."
"She is a very wise woman," Miss Fanny remarked, by way of explanation.
"Well, when I get in love, I'll not visit Madame Awtry," said Nan.
"My dear, you have been there once too often," Miss Fanny declared.
"Why, what has she been telling you?" inquired Nan, blushing very red.
"I'll not disclose your secrets, Nan," answered Miss Fanny.
"I would thank you kindly, if I had any," said Nan.
And then, suddenly, while Margaret was standing with her arms around Miss Fanny, she began to blush and show signs of embarrassment.
"Nan," she said, "will you take a boarder for—for—for I don't know how long?"
"Not for long, Nan. Say a couple of weeks." It was Neighbour Tomlin who spoke, as he came out of the library.
"Oh, for longer than that," protested Margaret.
"You must remember that I am getting old, child," he said very solemnly.
"So am I, sir," she said archly. "I am quite as old as you are, I think."
"This is the first quarrel," Nan declared, "and who knows how it will all end? You are to come and stay as long as you please, and then after that, you are to stay as long as I please."
"I declare, Nan, you talk like an old woman!" exclaimed Miss Fanny; whereupon Nan laughed and said she had to be serious sometimes.
And so it was arranged that Margaret was to stay with Nan for an indefinite period. "I hope you will come to see me occasionally, Mr. Tomlin, and you too, Aunt Fanny," she said with mock formality. "We shall have days for receiving company, just as the fine ladies do in the cities; and you'll have to send in your cards."
The two young women refused to go in the carriage.
"It is so small and stuffy," said Margaret to Neighbour Tomlin, "and to-day I want to be in the fresh air. If you please, sir, don't look at me like that, or I can never go." She went close to him. "Oh, is it all true? Is it really and truly true, or is it a dream?"
"It is true," he said, kissing her. "It is a dream, but it is my dream come true."
"I didn't think," she said, as she went along with Nan, "that the world was as beautiful as it seems to be to-day."
"Mr. Sanders says," replied Nan, "that it is the most comfortable world he has ever found; but somehow—well, you know we can't all be happy the same way at the same time."
"Your day is still to come," said Margaret, "and when it does, I want to be there."
"You say that," remarked Nan, "but you know you would have felt better if you hadn't had so much company. For a wonder Tasma Tid wouldn't go in the house with me. She said something was happening in there. Now, how did she know?" Tasma Tid had joined them as they came through the gate, and now Nan turned to her with the question.
"Huh! we know dem trouble w'en we see um. Dee ain't no trouble now. She done gone—dem trouble. But yan' come mo'." She pointed to Miss Polly Gaither, who came toddling along with her work-bag and her turkey-tail fan.
"Howdy, girls? I'm truly glad to see you. You are looking well both of you, and health is a great blessing. I have just been to Lucy Lumsden's, Nan, and she thinks a great deal of you. I could tell you things that would turn your head. But I'm really sorry for Lucy; she's almost as lonely as I am. They say Gabriel is sure to be dealt with; I'm told there is no other way out of it. Have you two heard anything?" Margaret and Nan shook their heads, but gestures of that kind were not at all satisfactory to Miss Polly. "They say that little Cephas was sent down to prepare Gabriel for the worst. But I didn't say a word about that to Lucy, and if you two girls go there, you must be very careful not to drop a word about it. Lucy is getting old, and she can't bear up under trouble as she used to could. She has aged wonderfully in the past few weeks. Don't you think so, Nan?"
She held up her ear-trumpet as she spoke, and Nan made a great pretence of yelling into it, though not a sound issued from her lips. Miss Polly frowned. "Don't talk so loud, my dear; you will make people think I'm a great deal deafer than I am. But you always would yell at me, though I have asked you a dozen times to speak only in ordinary tones. Well, I don't agree with you about Lucy. She has broken terribly since Gabriel was carried off; she is not the same woman, she takes no interest in affairs at all. I told her a piece of astonishing news, and she paid no more attention to it than if she hadn't heard it; and she didn't use to be that way. Well, we all have our troubles, and you two will have yours when you grow a little older. That is one thing of which there is always enough left to go around. The supply is never exhausted."
After delivering this truism, Miss Polly waved her turkey-tail fan as majestically as she knew how, and went toddling along home. Miss Polly was a kind-hearted woman, but she couldn't resist the inclination to gossip and tattle. Her tattle did no harm, for her weakness was well advertised in that community; but, unfortunately, her deafness had made her both suspicious and irritable. When in company, for instance, she insisted on feeling that people were talking about her when the conversation was not carried on loud enough for her to hear the sound of the voices, if not the substance of what was said, and she had a way of turning to the one closest at hand, with the remark, "They should have better manners than to talk of the afflictions of an old woman, for it is not at all certain that they will escape." Naturally this would call out a protest on the part of all present, whereupon Miss Polly would shake her head, and remark that she was not as deaf as many people supposed; that, in fact, there were days when she could hear almost as well as she heard before the affliction overtook her.
"I wonder," said Nan, whose curiosity was always ready to be aroused, "what piece of astonishing news Miss Polly has been telling Grandmother Lumsden. Perhaps she has told her of the events of the morning at Mr. Tomlin's."
"That is absurd, Nan," Margaret declared. "Still, it would make no difference to me. He was the only person that I ever wanted to hide my feelings from. I never so much as dreamed that he could care for me—and, oh, Nan! suppose that he should be pretending simply to please me!"
"You goose!" cried Nan. "Whoever heard of that man pretending, or trying to deceive any one? If he was a young man, now, it would be different."
"Not with all young men," Margaret asserted. "There is Gabriel Tolliver—I don't believe he would deceive any one."
"Oh, Gabriel—but why do you mention Gabriel?"
"Because his eyes are so beautiful and honest," answered Margaret.
But Nan tossed her head; she would never believe anything good about Gabriel unless she said it herself—or thought it, for she could think hundreds, yes, thousands, of things about Gabriel that she wouldn't dare to breathe aloud, even though there was no living soul within a hundred miles. And that fact needn't make Gabriel feel so awfully proud, for there were other persons and things she could think about.
Ah, well! love is such a restless, suspicious thing, such an irritating, foolish, freakish, solemn affair, that it is not surprising the two young women were somewhat afraid of it when they found themselves in its clutches.