"Why that infernal——"
He never finished the sentence. A pistol-shot rang out, and Hotchkiss fell like a log. Edie, fearing a similar fate for herself, ran screaming down the road, and never paused until she had reached the dwelling of Mahlon Butts. She fell in the door when it was opened and lay on the floor, moaning and groaning. When she could be persuaded to talk, her voice could have been heard a mile.
"They've killt him!" she screamed; "they've killt him! an' he was sech a good man! Oh, he was sech a good man!"
The news of the shooting of Hotchkiss spread like wildfire, and startled the community, giving rise to various emotions. It created consternation among the negroes, who ran to and fro, and hither and yonder, like wild creatures. Many of the whites, especially the thoughtless and the irresponsible, contemplated the tragedy with a certain degree of satisfaction, feeling that a very dangerous man had been providentially removed. On the other hand, the older and more conservative citizens deplored it, knowing well that it would involve the whole community in trouble, and give it a conspicuous place in the annals which radical rage was daily preparing, in order still further to inflame the public mind of the North.
Bridalbin promptly disappeared from Shady Dale, but returned in a few days, accompanied by a squad of soldiers. It was the opinion of the community, when these fresh troops made their appearance, that they were to be added to the detachment stationed in the town; but this proved to be a mistake. Two nights after their arrival, when the officer in charge, who was a member of the military commander's staff, had investigated the killing, he gave orders for the arrest of Gabriel Tolliver, Francis Bethune, Paul Tomlin, and Jesse Tidwell. The arrests were made at night, and so quietly that when the town awoke to the facts, and was ready to display its rage at such a high-handed proceeding, the soldiers and their prisoners were well on their way to Malvern.
The people felt that something must be done, but what? One by one the citizens instinctively assembled at the court-house. No call was issued; the meeting was not preconcerted; there was no common understanding; but all felt that there must be a conference, a consultation, and there was no place more convenient than the old court-house, where for long years justice had been simply and honestly administered.
It was, indeed, a trying hour. Meriwether Clopton and his daughter Sarah were the first to make their appearance at the court-house, and it was perhaps owing to their initiative that a large part of the community shortly assembled there. At first, there was some talk of a rescue, and this would have been feasible, no doubt; but while Lawyer Tidwell was violently advocating this course, Mr. Sanders mounted the judge's bench, and rapped loudly for order. When this had been secured, he moved that Meriwether Clopton be called to the chair. The motion had as many seconds as there were men in the room, for the son of the First Settler was as well-beloved and as influential as his father had been.
"My friends," he said, after thanking the meeting for the honour conferred upon him, "I feel as if we were all in the midst of a dream, and therefore I am at a loss what to say to you. As it is all very real, and far removed from the regions of dreams, the best that I can do is to counsel moderation and calmness. The blow that has fallen on a few of us strikes at all, for what has happened to some of our young men may easily happen to the rest, especially if we meet this usurpation of civil justice with measures that are violent and retaliatory. We can only hope that the Hand that has led us into the sea of troubles by which we have been overwhelmed of late will lead us safely out again. For myself, I am fully persuaded that what now seems to be a calamity will, in some shape or other, make us all stronger and better. I am an old man, and this has been my experience. You need have no fears for the welfare of the young men. They may be deprived for a time of the comforts to which they are accustomed, but their safety is assured. They will probably be tried before a military court, but if there is a spark of justice in such a tribunal, our young men will shortly be restored to us. We all know that these lads never dreamed of assassination, and this is what the killing of this unfortunate man amounts to. We have met here to-day, not to discuss measures of vengeance and retaliation, but to consult together as to the best means of securing evidence of the innocence of the young men. Speaking for myself, I think it would be well to place the whole matter in the hands of Mr. Sanders, leaving him to act as he thinks best."
This was agreed to by the meeting, more than one of the audience declaring loudly that Mr. Sanders was the very man for the occasion. By unanimous agreement it was decided that one of the most distinguished lawyers in the State should be retained to defend the young men and that he should be authorised to employ such assistant counsel as he might deem necessary.
It was the personality of Meriwether Clopton, rather than his remarks, that soothed and subdued the crowd which had assembled at the court-house. He was serenity itself; his attitude breathed hope and courage; and in the tones of his voice, in his very gestures, there was a certainty that the young men would not be made the victims of political necessity. In his own mind, however, he was not at all sure that the radical leaders at Washington would not be driven by their outrageous rancour to do the worst that could be done.
As may be supposed, Mr. Sanders did not allow the grass to grow under his feet. He was the first to leave the court-room, but he was followed and overtaken by Silas Tomlin.
"Be jigged, Silas, ef you don't look like you've seed a ghost!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, whose good-humour had been restored by the prospect of prompt action.
"Worse than that, Sanders; Paul has been carried off. If you'll fetch him back, you may show me an army of ghosts. But I wanted to see you, Sanders, about this business. You'll need money, and if you can't get it anywhere else, come to me; I'll take it as a favour."
Mr. Sanders frowned and pursed his lips as if he were about to whistle. "You mean, Silas, that if I need money, and can't beg, nor borry, nor steal it, maybe you'll loan me a handful of shinplasters. Why, man, I wouldn't give you the wroppin's of my little finger for all the money you eber seed or saved. Do you think that I'm tryin' to make money?"
"But there'll be expenses, William, and money's none too plentiful among our people." Silas spoke in a pleading tone, and his lips were trembling from grief or excitement.
Noticing this, Mr. Sanders relented a little in his attitude toward the man. "Well, Silas, when I reely need money, I'll call on you. But don't lose any sleep on account of that promise, for it'll be many a long day before I call on you."
With that, Mr. Sanders mounted his horse—known far and wide as the Racking Roan—and was soon out of sight. His destination was the residence of Mahlon Butts, and in no long time his horse had covered the distance.
Although the murder of Hotchkiss was more than a week old, a considerable number of negroes were lounging about the premises of Judge Butts—he had once been a Justice of the Peace—and in the road near by, drawn to the spot by that curious fascination which murder or death exerts on the ignorant. They moved about with something like awe, talking in low tones or in whispers. Mr. Sanders tied his horse to a swinging limb and went in. He was met at the door by Mahlon himself.
"Why, come in, William; come in an' make yourself welcome. You uv heard of the trouble, I make no doubt, or you wouldn't be here. It's turrible, William, turrible, for a man to be overcome in this off-hand way, wi' no time for to say his pra's or even so much as to be sorry for his misdeeds."
Judge Butts's dignity was of the heavy and oppressive kind. His enunciation was slow and deliberate, and he had a way of looking over his spectacles, and nodding his head to give emphasis to his words. This dignity, which was fortified in ignorance, had received a considerable reinforcement from the fact that he was a candidate for a county office on the Republican ticket.
Before Mr. Sanders could make any reply to Mahlon's opening remark, Mrs. Becky Butts came into the room. She was not in a very good humour, and, at first, she failed to see Mr. Sanders.
"Mahlon, if you don't go and run that gang of niggers off, I'll take the shot-gun to 'em. They've been hanging around—why, howdye, Mr. Sanders? I certainly am glad to see you. I hope you'll stay to dinner; it looks like old times to see you in the house."
There was something about Mrs. Becky Butts that was eminently satisfying to the eye. She was younger than her husband, who, at fifty, appeared to be an old man. Her sympathies were so keen and persistent that they played boldly in her face, running about over her features as the sunshine ripples on a pond of clear water.
"Set down, Becky," said Mr. Sanders, after he had responded to her salutation. "I've come to find out about the killing of that feller Hotchkiss."
"You may well call it killin', William, bekaze Friend Hotchkiss was stone dead a few hours arter the fatal shot was fired," declared Judge Butts.
"Where was the killin' done?" inquired Mr. Sanders. He addressed himself to Mrs. Butts, but Mahlon made reply.
"We found him, William, right spang in front of Ike Varner's cabin—right thar, an' nowhar else. He war doin' his level best for to git on his feet, an' he tried to talk, but not more than two or three words did he say."
"Well, what did he say?" inquired Mr. Sanders.
"It was the same thing ever' time—'Why, Tolliver, Tolliver'—them was his very words."
"Are you right certain about that, Mahlon?" asked Mr. Sanders.
"As certain an' shore, William, as I am that I'm settin' here. Ef he said it once, he said it a dozen times."
"I reckon maybe he had been talking with young Tolliver before he came from town," remarked Mrs. Butts, noting Mr. Sanders's serious countenance.
"Whar was he wounded, Becky?" asked Mr. Sanders.
"Between the left ear and the temple."
"Becky's right, William," was the solemn comment of Mahlon. "Yes, sir, he was hit betwixt the year an' the temple."
"Did you have a doctor?"
"We sent for one, but if he come, we never saw him," Mrs. Butts replied.
"Would you uv believed it, William? An' yit it's the plain truth," said Mahlon.
"What time was Hotchkiss killed?"
"'Bout half-past ten; maybe a little sooner."
This was all the information Mr. Sanders could get, and it was a great deal more than he wanted in one particular. He knew that Gabriel Tolliver was innocent of the killing; but the fact that his name was called by the dying man was almost as damaging as an ante-mortem accusation would have been.
Mr. Sanders rode to Ike Varner's cabin, a few hundred yards away. Tying his horse to the fence on the opposite side of the road, he entered the house without ceremony.
"Who is that? La! Mr. Sanders, you sho did skeer me," exclaimed Edie. "Why, when did you come? I would as soon have spected to see a ghost!"
"You'll see 'em here before you're much older," replied Mr. Sanders, grimly. "They ain't fur off. Wher's Ike?"
"La! ef you know anything about Ike you know more than I does. I ain't laid eyes on that nigger man, not sence——" She paused, and looked at Mr. Sanders with a smile.
"Not sence the night Hotchkiss was killed," said Mr. Sanders, completing her sentence for her.
"La, Mr. Sanders! how'd you know that? But it's the truth: I ain't never seen Ike sence that night."
"I know a heap more'n you think I do," Mr. Sanders remarked. "Hotchkiss was talkin' to you at the gate thar when he was shot. What was he sayin'?"
The woman was a bright mulatto, and, remembering her own designs and desires so far as Hotchkiss was concerned, her face flushed and she turned her eyes away. "Why, he wan't sayin' a word, hardly; I was doin' all the talkin'. I was settin' on the step there, an' I seen him passin', an' hollad at him. I ast him if he wouldn't have a drink of cold water, an' he said he would, an' I took it out to the gate, an' while I was talkin', they shot him. They certainly did."
"Did you ask Ike about it?" Mr. Sanders inquired.
"La! I ain't seen Ike sence that night," exclaimed Edie, flirting her apron with a coquettish air that was by no means unbecoming.
"Now, Edie," said Mr. Sanders, with a frown to match the severity of his voice, "you know as well as I do, that when you heard the pistol go off, and saw what had happened, you run in the house an' flung your apern over your head." It was a wild guess, but it was close to the truth.
"La, Mr. Sanders! you talk like you was watchin' me. 'Twa'n't my apern, 'twas my han's. I didn't have on no apern that night; I had on my Sunday frock."
"An' you know jest as well as I do that Ike come in here an' stood over you, an' said somethin' to you."
"No, sir; he didn't stand over me; I was here"—she illustrated his position by her movements—"an' when Ike come in, he stood over there."
"What did he say?"
"He said," replied Edie, smiling to show her pretty teeth, "'If you want him, go out there an' git him.' Yes, sir, he said that. La! I never heard of a nigger killin' a white man onthataccount; did you, Mr. Sanders?"
"I don't know as I ever did," replied Mr. Sanders, regarding her with an expression akin to pity. "But times has changed."
"They certainly has," said Edie. "I tell you what, Mr. Sanders, I don't b'live Mr. Hotchkiss was a man." She looked up at Mr. Sanders, as she made the remark. Catching his eye, she exclaimed—"I don't; I declare I don't! I never will believe it." She gave a chirruping laugh, as she made the remark.
It is to be doubted if, in the history of the world, a man ever had a higher compliment paid to his devotion and his singleness of purpose.
As Mr. Sanders mounted his horse, Edie watched him, and, as she stood with her arms extended, each hand grasping a side of the doorway, smiling and showing her white teeth, she presented a picture of wild and irresponsible beauty that an artist would have admired. Finally, she turned away with a laugh, saying, "I declare that Mr. Sanders is a sight!"
In due time the Racking Roan carried Mr. Sanders across Murder Creek to the plantation of Felix Samples, where the news of the arrest of the young men occasioned both grief and indignation. They had arrived at the dance about nine o'clock, and had started home between eleven and twelve. Gabriel, Mr. Samples said, was not one of the party. Indeed, he remembered very well that when some of the young people asked for Gabriel, Francis Bethune had said that the town had been searched for Gabriel, and he was not to be found.
Evidently, there was no case against the three young men who had gone to the dance. They could prove an alibi by fifty persons. "Be jigged ef I don't b'lieve Gabriel is in for it," said Mr. Sanders to himself as he was going back to Shady Dale. "An' that's what comes of moonin' aroun' an' loafin' about in the woods wi' the wild creeturs."
Mr. Sanders went straight to the Lumsden Place to consult with Gabriel's grandmother. Meriwether Clopton and Miss Fanny Tomlin were already there, each having called for the purpose of offering her such comfort and consolation as they could. This fine old gentlewoman had had the care of Gabriel almost from the time he was born, for his birth left his mother an invalid, the victim of one of those mysterious complaints that sometimes seize on motherhood. It was well known in that community, whose members knew whatever was to be known about one another, that Lucy Lumsden's mind and heart were wholly centred on Gabriel and his affairs. She was a frail, delicate woman, gentle in all her ways, and ever ready to efface herself, as it were, and give precedence to others. Her manners were so fine that they seemed to cling to her as the perfume clings to the rose.
So these old friends—Meriwether Clopton, and Miss Fanny Tomlin—considered it to be their duty, as it was their pleasure, to call on Lucy Lumsden in her trouble. They expected to find her in a state of collapse, but they found her walking about the house, apparently as calm as a June morning.
"Good-morning, Meriwether," she said pleasantly; "it is a treat indeed, and a rare one, to see you in this house. And here is Fanny! I am glad to see you, my dear. It is very good of you to come to an old woman who is in trouble. I think we are all in trouble together. No, don't sit here, my dear; the library is cooler, and you must be warm. Come into the library, Meriwether."
"Upon my word, you look twenty years younger," said Miss Fanny Tomlin.
"Do I, indeed? Then trouble must be good for me. Still, I don't appreciate it. I am an old woman, my dear, and all the years of my life I have had a contempt for those who fly into a rage, or lose their tempers. And now, look at me! Never in all your days have you seen a woman in such a rage as I have felt all day and still feel!"
"The idea!" exclaimed Miss Fanny. "Why, you look as cool as a cucumber."
"Yes, the idea!" echoed Mrs. Lumsden. "If I had those miserable creatures in my power, do you know what I would do? Do you know, Meriwether?"
"I can't imagine, Lucy," he replied gently. He saw that the apparent calmness of Gabriel's grandmother was simply the result of suppressed excitement.
"Well, I'll not tell you if you don't know." She seated herself, but rose immediately, and went to the window, where she stood looking out, and tapping gently on the pane with her fingers. She stood there only a short time. "You may imagine that I am nervous," she said, turning away from the window, "but I am not." She held out her hand to illustrate. It was frail, but firm. "No," she went on, "I am not nervous; I am simply furious. I know what you came for, my friends, and it is very kind of you; but it is useless. I love you both well, and I know what you would say. I have said such things to my friends, and thought I was performing a duty."
"Well, you know the old saying, Lucy," said Meriwether Clopton. "Misery loves company. We are all in the same boat, and it seems to be a leaky one. I have heard it said that a woman's wit is sometimes better than a man's wisdom, and, for my part, I have not come to see if you needed to be consoled, but to find out your views."
"I have none," she said somewhat curtly. "Show me a piece of blue cloth, and I'll tear it to pieces. That is the only thought or idea I have."
"Well, that doesn't help us much," Meriwether Clopton remarked.
At that moment, Mr. Sanders was announced, and word was sent to him to come right in. "Howdy, everybody," he said in his informal way, as he entered the room. He was warm, and instead of leaving his hat on the hall-rack, he had kept it in his hand, and was using it as a fan. "Miss Lucy," he said, "I won't take up two minutes of your time——"
"Mr. Sanders, you may take up two hours of my time. Time!" Mrs. Lumsden exclaimed bitterly—"why, time is about all I have left."
"Oh, it ain't nigh as bad as you think," remarked Mr. Sanders, as cheerfully as he could. "But I want to settle a p'int or two. Do you remember what time it was when Gabriel come home the night Hotchkiss was killed?"
Mrs. Lumsden reflected a moment. "Why, he went out directly after supper, and came in—well, I don't remember when he came in. I must have been asleep."
"Um-m," grunted Mr. Sanders.
"Is it important?" Mrs. Lumsden asked.
"It may turn out to be right down important," replied Mr. Sanders, and then he said no more, but sat looking at the floor, and wondering how Gabriel could be released from the tangled web that the spider, Circumstance, had woven about him.
As Mr. Sanders went out, he met Nan at the door, and he was amazed at the change that had come over her. Perplexity and trouble looked forth from her eyes, and there was that in her face that Mr. Sanders had never seen there before. "Why, honey!" he exclaimed, "you look like you've lost your best friend."
"Well, perhaps I have. Who is in there?" And when Mr. Sanders told her, she cried out, "Oh, why don't they leave her alone?"
"Well, they ain't pesterin' her much, honey. Go right in. Lucy Lumsden has got as much grit as a major gener'l, an' she'll be glad to see you."
But Nan stood staring at Mr. Sanders, as if she wanted to ask him a question, and couldn't find words for it. Her face was pale, and she had the appearance of one who is utterly forspent.
"Why, honey, what ails you? I never seed you lookin' like this before."
"You've never seen me ill before," answered Nan. "I thought the walk would do me good, but the sun—oh, Mr. Sanders! please don't ask me anything else."
With that, she ran up the steps very rapidly for an ill person, and stood a moment in the hallway.
"Be jigged ef she ain't wuss hit than any on us!" declared Mr. Sanders, to himself, as he turned away. "What a pity that she had to go an' git grown!"
Following the sound of voices, Nan went into the library. Mrs. Lumsden, who was still walking about restlessly, paused and tried to smile when she saw Nan; but it was only a make-believe smile. Nan went directly to her, and stood looking in the old gentlewoman's eyes. Then she kissed her quite suddenly and impulsively.
"Nan, you must be ill," Miss Fanny Tomlin declared.
"I am, Aunt Fanny; I am not feeling well at all."
"Lie there on the sofa, child," Mrs. Lumsden insisted. Taking Nan by the arm, she almost forced her to lie down.
"If you-all are talking secrets, I'll go away," said Nan.
"No, child," remarked Mrs. Lumsden; "we are talking about trouble, and trouble is too common to be much of a secret in this world." She seated herself on the edge of the sofa, and held Nan's hand, caressing it softly.
"This is the way I used to cure Gabriel, when he was ill or weary," she said in a tone too low for the others to hear.
"Did you?" whispered Nan, closing her eyes with a sigh of satisfaction.
"This is the second time I have been able to sit down since breakfast," remarked Mrs. Lumsden.
"I have walked miles and miles," replied Nan, wearily.
There was a noise in the hall, and presently Tasma Tid peeped cautiously into the room. "Wey you done wit Honey Nan?" she asked. "She in dis house; you ain' kin fool we."
"Come in, and behave yourself if you know how," said Mrs. Lumsden. "Come in, Tid."
"How come we name Tid? How come we ain't name Tasma Tid?"
No one thought it worth while to make any reply to this, and the African came into the room, acting as if she were afraid some one would jump at her. "Sit in the corner there at the foot of the sofa," said Mrs. Lumsden. Tasma Tid complied very readily with this command, since it enabled her to be near Nan. The African squatted on the floor, and sat there motionless.
Meriwether Clopton and Miss Fanny went away after awhile, but Mrs. Lumsden continued to sit by Nan, caressing her hand. Not a word was said for a long time, but the silence was finally broken by Nan, who spoke to the African.
"Tasma Tid, I want you to go home and tell Miss Johnny that I will spend the rest of the day and the night with Grandmother Lumsden."
"Don't keer; we comin' back," said Tasma Tid.
"Yes, come back," said Mrs. Lumsden; whereupon, the African whisked out of the room as quick as a flash.
After Tasma Tid had gone, a silence fell on the house—a silence so profound that Nan could hear the great clock ticking in the front hall, and the bookshelves cracked just as they do in the middle of the night.
"If I had known what was going to happen when Gabriel came and kissed me good-bye," said Mrs. Lumsden, after awhile, "I would have gone out there where those men were, and—well, I don't know what I wouldn't have done!"
"Didn't Gabriel tell you? Why——" Nan paused.
"Not he! Not Gabriel!" cried Mrs. Lumsden in a voice full of pride. "He wanted to spare his grandmother one night's worry, and he did."
"Didn't you know when he kissed you good-night that something was wrong?" Nan inquired.
"How should I? Why, he sometimes comes and kisses me in the middle of the night, even after he has gone to bed. He says he sleeps better afterwards."
What was there in this simple statement to cause Nan to catch her breath, and seize the hand that was caressing her. For one thing, it presented the tender side of Gabriel's nature in a new light; and for the rest—well, who shall pretend to fathom a young woman's heart?
"Yes, he was always doing something of that kind," remarked the grandmother proudly; "and I have often thought that he should have been a girl."
"A girl!" cried Nan.
"Yes; he will marry some woman who doesn't appreciate his finer qualities—the tenderness and affection that he tries to hide from everybody but his grandmother; and he will go about with a hungry heart, and his wife will never suspect it. I am afraid I dislike her already."
"Oh, don't say that!" Nan implored.
"But if he was a girl," the grandmother went on, "he would be better prepared to endure coldness and neglect. This is partly what we were born for, my dear, as you will find out one day for yourself."
It was not often that Mr. Sanders had a surprise, but he found one awaiting him when he left the Lumsden Place, and started in the direction of home. He had not taken twenty steps before he met the young Captain who had charge of the detachment of Federal troops stationed at Shady Dale.
"This is Mr. Sanders, I believe," he said without ceremony. "My name is Falconer. I have just been to call on Mr. Clopton, but they tell me there that he is at Mrs. Lumsden's."
"Well, I wouldn't advise you to go there," said Mr. Sanders, bluntly. "The lady is in a considerbul state of mind about her gran'son."
"It is a miserable piece of business all the way through," remarked Captain Falconer. There was a note of sympathy in his voice, which Mr. Sanders could not fail to catch, and it interested him.
"I called upon my cousin, Mrs. Claiborne, for the first time to-day," the Captain went on. "She has invited me to tea often, but I have refused the invitation on account of the state of feeling here. I know how high it is. It is natural, of course, but it is not justifiable. Take my case, for instance: I am a Democrat, and I come from a family of Democrats, who have never voted anything else but the Democratic ticket, except when Henry Clay was a candidate, and when Lincoln was running for a second term."
"You don't tell me!" cried Mr. Sanders, with genuine astonishment.
"It is a fact," said Captain Falconer, with emphasis. "If you think that I, or any of the men under me, or any of the men who fought at all, intended to bring about such a condition as now exists in this part of the country, you are doing us a great wrong. Don't mistake me! I am not apologising for the part I took. I would do it all over again a hundred times if necessary. Yet I do not believe in negro suffrage, and I abhor and detest every exaction that the politicians in Washington have placed upon the people of the South."
Mr. Sanders was too much astonished to make appropriate comment. He could only stare at the young man. And Captain Falconer was very good to look upon. He was of the Kentucky type, tall, broad-shouldered and handsome. His undress uniform became him well, and he had the distinctive and pleasing marks that West Point leaves on all young men who graduate at the academy there.
"Well, as I told you, I called on my cousin to-day for the first time, and after we had talked of various matters, especially the unfortunate events that have recently occurred, she insisted that I make it my business to see you or Mr. Clopton. She told me," the Captain said, with a pleasant smile, "that you are the man that kidnapped Mr. Lincoln."
"She's wrong about that," replied Mr. Sanders; "I'm the man that didn't kidnap him. But I want to ask you: ain't you some kin to John Barbour Falconer?"
"He was my father," the Captain replied.
"Well, I've heard Meriwether Clopton talk about him hundreds of times. They ripped around in Congress together before the war."
"Now, that is very interesting to me," said the Captain, his face brightening.
He was silent for some time, as they walked slowly along, and during this period of silence, Meriwether Clopton came up behind them. He would have passed on, with a polite inclination of his head, but Mr. Sanders drew his attention.
"Mr. Clopton," he said, "here's a gentleman I reckon you'd like to know—Captain Falconer. He's a son of John Barbour Falconer."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Meriwether Clopton, a wonderful change passing over his face. "Well, I am glad to see a son of my dear old friend, anywhere and at any time." He shook hands very cordially with the Captain. "Let me see—let me see: if I am not mistaken, your first name is Garnett; you were named after your maternal grandfather."
"That is true, sir," replied the Captain, with a boyish laugh that was pleasing to the ear—he was not more than thirty. "But I am surprised that you should remember these things so well."
"Why, my dear sir, it is not surprising at all. I have dandled you on my knee many and many a time; I know the very house, yes, the very room, in which you were born. Some of the happiest hours of my manhood were spent with your father and mother in Washington. Your father is dead, I believe. Well, he was a good man; among the best I ever knew. What of your mother?"
"She has broken greatly," responded the Captain. "The war was a great burden to her. She was a Virginian, you know."
"Yes—yes!" said Meriwether Clopton. "The war has been a dreadful nightmare to the people on both sides; and it seems to be still going on disguised as politics. Only last night, as you perhaps know, a posse of soldiers arrested and carried off four of our worthiest young men."
"Yes, sir, I know of it and regret it," responded Captain Falconer. "And I have no doubt that a majority of the people here are incensed at the soldiers, forgetting that they are the mere instruments of their superiors, and that their superiors themselves take their orders from other superiors who are engaged in the game of politics. It is the duty of a soldier to blindly obey orders. To pause to ask a question would be charged to a spirit of insubordination. The army is at the beck and call of what is called the Government, and to-day the Government happens to be the radical contingent of the Republican Party. A soldier may detest the service he is called on to perform, but he is bound to obey orders. I can answer for the officer who was sent to arrest these young men. He was boiling over with rage because he had been sent here on such an errand."
"I am glad to hear that," declared Meriwether Clopton, with great heartiness.
"His feelings were perfectly natural, sir," said Captain Falconer. "Take the army as it stands to-day, and it would be hard, if not impossible, to find a man in it who does not shrink from doing the dirty work of the politicians. Can you imagine that my mission here is pleasant to me? I can assure you, sir, it is the most disagreeable duty that ever fell to my lot. I am glad you spoke of these arrests. At your convenience, I should like to have a little conversation with you and Mr. Sanders on this subject."
"There is no time like the present," replied Meriwether Clopton. "Will you come with me to my house?"
"Certainly, sir; and with the more pleasure because I called on my cousin Mrs. Claiborne to-day. I have forborne to call on her heretofore on account of the prejudice against us. But these arrests made it necessary for me to communicate with some of the influential friends of the young men. I was afraid my visit to-day would prove to be embarrassing to her. If I visit you at your invitation, the probability is she will have no social penalty to pay. I know what the feeling is."
Indeed, he knew too well. He had passed along the streets apparently perfectly oblivious to the attitude and movements of those whom he chanced to meet, but all his faculties had been awake, for he was a man of the keenest sensibilities. He had seen women and young girls curl their lips in a sneer, and toss their heads in scorn, as he passed them by; and some of them pulled their skirts aside, lest his touch should pollute them. He had observed all this, and he was wounded by it; and yet he had no resentment. Being a Southerner himself, he knew that the feelings which prompted such actions were perfectly natural, the fitting accompaniment of the humiliation which the radical element compelled the whites to endure.
In the course of his long and frequent walks in the countryside, Captain Falconer had made the acquaintance of Gabriel Tolliver, in whose nature the spirit of a gypsy vagrant seemed to have full sway; and Gabriel was the only person native to Shady Dale, except the ancient postmaster, with whom the young officer had held communication. He seemed to be cut off not only from all social intercourse, but even from acquaintanceship.
"You may rest assured," declared Meriwether Clopton, "that if I had known you were the son of my old friend, I would have sought you out, much as I detest the motives and purposes of those who have inaugurated this era of bayonet rule. And you may be sure, too, that in my house you will be a welcome guest."
"I appreciate your kindness, sir, and I shall remember it," said Captain Falconer.
That portion of Shady Dale which was moving about the streets with its eyes open was surprised and shocked—nay, wellnigh paralysed—to see the "Yankee Captain" on parade, as it were, with Meriwether Clopton on one side of him, and Mr. Sanders on the other. Yes, and the hand of the son of the First Settler (could their eyes deceive them?) was resting familiarly on the shoulder of the "Yankee!" Surely, here was food for thought. Were Meriwether Clopton and Mr. Sanders about to join the radicals? Well, well, well! At last one of the loungers, a man of middle age, who had seen service, raised his voice and put an end to comment.
"You can bet your sweet life," he declared, "that Billy Sanders knows what he's up to. He may not git the game he's after, but he'll fetch back a handful of feathers or hair. Mr. Clopton I don't know so well, but I was in the war wi' Billy Sanders, and I wish you'd wake me up and let me know when somebody fools him. There ain't a living man on the continent, nor under it neither, that can git on his blind side."
"Now you are whistlin'!" exclaimed one of his companions, and this seemed to settle the matter. If Mr. Sanders didn't know what he was about, why, then, everybody else in that neighbourhood might as well give up, "and let natur' cut her caper."
"I understand now why Mrs. Claiborne referred me to you," said Captain Falconer, when Mr. Sanders had related the nature and extent of the information which he had been able to gather during the morning.
"The lady is kinder partial," remarked Mr. Sanders, "but she's as bright as a new dollar, somethin' I ain't seed sence I cut my wisdom teeth."
"You already know what I intended to tell you," said the Captain. But it turned out, nevertheless, that he was able to give them some very startling information. It was the general understanding in Shady Dale that the prisoners were to be sent to Atlanta; but the military authorities, fearing an attempt at rescue, perhaps, had ordered them to be sent to Fort Pulaski, below Savannah. There were other reasons, the Captain explained, for sending the young men there. They would be isolated from their friends, and, so placed, might be induced to confess; and if the circumstances surrounding them were not sufficient to produce such a result then other measures were to be taken.
Meanwhile, the circumstantial evidence against Gabriel was very strong—stronger even than Mr. Sanders had imagined. Bridalbin, whom Captain Falconer knew as Boring, had informed that officer of his own supposed discoveries with respect to Gabriel's movements; and the evidence he was prepared to give, coupled with the fact that Hotchkiss had pronounced the lad's name with his last breath, made out a case of exceptional strength. Urged on by the vindictiveness of the radical leaders in Congress, it was more than probable that the military court before which the young men were to be tried, would convict any or all of them on much slighter evidence than that which had accumulated against Gabriel. It was all circumstantial evidence of course, but even in the civil courts, and before juries made up of their peers, men accused of crime have frequently been convicted on circumstantial evidence alone—that is to say, on probability.
"Now, this is what I wanted to say," remarked Captain Falconer, as they sat in the library at the Clopton Place, and after he had gone over the evidence, item by item: "I was given to understand by the officer who made the arrests that I would shortly be transferred to Savannah, or, rather, to Fort Pulaski, and placed in charge of the prisoners, the idea being that I, knowing something of the young men, would be able to extract a confession from them by fair means. This failing, there are others who could be depended on to employ foul. The officer, who is a very fine soldier, and thoroughly in love with his profession, dropped a hint that, all other means failing, the young men are to be put through a course of sprouts in order to extort a confession."
Mr. Sanders looked hard at the Captain; he was taking the young man's measure. What he saw or divined must have been satisfactory, for his face, which had been in a somewhat puckered condition, as he himself would have expressed it, suddenly cleared up, and he rose from his chair with a laugh.
"Do you-all know what I've gone an' done?" he asked.
"You do so many clever things, William, that we cannot possibly imagine what the newest is," said Meriwether Clopton.
"Well, sir, this is the cleverest yit. I've come off from Lucy Lumsden's an' clean forgot my hoss. It's a wonder I didn't forgit my head. Now, you might 'a' said, an' said truly, that I'd forgit a man, or a 'oman, but when William H. Sanders, Esquire, walks off in the broad light of day, an' forgits his hoss, an' that hoss the Rackin' Roan, you may know that his thinkin' machine has slipped a cog. Ef you'll excuse me, I'll go right arter that creetur. I'm mighty glad he can't talk—it's about the only thing he can't do—bekaze he'd gi' me a long an' warm piece of his mind."
Captain Falconer rose also, but Meriwether Clopton protested. "I should be glad if you would stay to dinner," he said. "I have several things to show you—some interesting letters from your father, for instance."
"But the ladies?" suggested the Captain, with a comically doubtful lift of the eyebrows. He had no notion of bearding any of the Confederate lionesses in their dens. "You know how they regard us here."
"Only my daughter Sarah is here. She knew your father well, and has a very lively remembrance of him. She was fifteen when you were three, and many a day she was your volunteer nurse."
So it was arranged that the Captain should remain to dinner, and it may be said that he spent a very pleasant time, after his long period of social isolation. "I shall call you Garnett, to begin with," said Sarah Clopton, as she shook his hand, "but you must not expect me to be very cordial to-day. It was only last night, you must remember, that some of the people you associate with arrested and carried off a young man who is very dear to me."
"You may be very sure, Miss Clopton, that the officer who did that piece of work had no relish for it. He simply obeyed orders. He had no discretion in the matter whatever."
"Well, I shall be very glad to think that, Garnett, for your sake. But that fact doesn't restore our young men," she said with a sigh. "Oh, I wonder when we'll all be at peace and happy again?"
"In God's own time, and not before," declared Meriwether Clopton solemnly.
"Well, we'll try an' help that time to come," said Mr. Sanders, entering the room at that moment. He was followed by Cephas, who was one of Gabriel's favourites among the small boys. Cephas was bashful enough, but he always felt at ease at the Clopton Place, where everything moved along the lines of simplicity and perfect openness. The small boy had a sort of chilly feeling when he saw the officer, but he soon got over that.
"I went an' got my hoss," said Mr. Sanders, "an' he paid me back for my forgitfulness by purty nigh bitin' a piece out'n my arm; an' whilst I was a-rubbin' the place, up comes Cephas for to find out somethin' about the boys. When I got through makin' a few remarks sech as you don't hear at church, a kinder blind idee popped in my head, an' so I tuck Cephas up behind me, an' fetched him here."
"Sit on the sofa, Cephas. Have a chair, William, and tell us about your blind idea."
"Ef you'll promise not to laugh," Mr. Sanders stipulated. "You know Mrs. Ab's sayin' that ef the old sow knowed she was swallerin' a tree ev'ry time she crunched an acorn, she'd grunt a heap louder'n she does: well, I know what I'm fixin' for to swaller, and you won't hear much loud gruntin' from me."
"Well, we are ready to hear from you," said Meriwether Clopton. Whereupon, Mr. Sanders threw his head back and laughed.
"I tell you how it is," said Mr. Sanders: "The riddle is how to git a message to Gabriel; I could git the Captain thar to take it, but the Captain will have as much as he can attend to, an' for that matter, so have I. Wi' this riddle I'm overcrapped. Sence I left here, I've gone over the whole matter in my mind, ef you can call it a mind. I could go down thar myself, an' I'd be glad to, but could I git to have a private talk wi' Gabriel? I reckon not."
The remark was really interrogative, and was addressed to Captain Falconer, who made a prompt reply—"I hardly think the scheme would work. My impression is that orders have been issued from Atlanta for these young men to be isolated. If that is so they can hold communication with no one but the sentinel on duty, or the officer who has charge of them. They are to be treated as felons, though nothing has been proved against them. I am not sure, but I think that is the programme."
"That is about what I thought," said Mr. Sanders, "an' that's what I told Cephas here. When I was fetchin' my horse, Cephas, he comes up, an' he says, 'Mr. Sanders, have you heard from Gabriel?' an' I says, 'No, Cephas, we ain't had time for to git a word from 'em.' An' then he went on to say, Cephas did, that he'd like mighty well to see Gabriel. I told him that maybe we could fix it up so as he could see Gabriel. You can't imagine how holp up the little chap was. To see him then, an' see him now, you'd think it was another boy."
Captain Falconer looked at Cephas, and could see no guile. On the contrary, he saw a freckled lad who appeared to be about ten years old; he was really nearly fourteen. Cephas was so ugly that he was ugly when he laughed, as he was doing now; but there was something about him that attracted the attention of those who were older. It was a fact much talked about that this freckled little boy never went with children of his own age, but was always to be found with those much older. He was Gabriel's chum when Gabriel wanted a chum; he went hunting with Francis Bethune; and he could often be found at the store in which Paul Tomlin was the chief clerk. He knew all the secrets of these young men, and kept them, and they frequently advised with him about the young ladies.
But he was fonder of Gabriel than of all the rest, and he was also fond of Nan, who had been kind to him in many ways. Cephas was one of those ill-favoured little creatures, who astonish everybody by never forgetting a favour. Gratitude ran riot in his small bosom, and he was ever ready to sacrifice himself for his friends.
Seeing that Captain Falconer continued to look at him, Cephas hung his head. He was only too conscious of his ugliness, and was very sensitive about it. He wanted to be large and strong and handsome like Gabriel, or dark and romantic-looking like Francis Bethune; and sometimes he was very miserable because of the unkindness of fate or Providence in this matter.
"And so you want to see your friends," said the Captain, very kindly. Every feature of his face showed that his sympathies were keen. "They are very far away, or will be when they get to their journey's end—too far, I should think, for a little boy to travel."
"Maybe so," said Cephas, "but Gabriel had to go."
"I see," said the Captain; "wherever Gabriel goes, you are willing to go?"
"Yes, sir," replied Cephas very simply.
"I hope Gabriel appreciates it," remarked Sarah Clopton.
"Oh, he does!" exclaimed Cephas. "Gabriel knows. Why, one day——" Then, remembering the company he was in, he blushed, and refused to go on with what he intended to say.
Seeing his embarrassment, Mr. Sanders came to his rescue. "What I want to know, Captain, is this: if that little chap comes down to Savannah, will you allow him to see Gabriel and talk to him?"
Again the Captain looked at the boy, and Cephas, catching a certain humourous gleam in the gentleman's eye, began to smile. "Now, then," said Captain Falconer, with an answering smile, "how would you like to go with me?"
"I think I would like it," replied Cephas, with a broad grin; "I think that would be fine."
"And what does Mr. Sanders think of it?" the Captain asked.
"Well, I hadn't looked at it from that p'int of view," said Mr. Sanders. "I 'lowed maybe that the best an' cheapest plan would be for me to take the little chap down an' fetch him back."
"My opinion may not be worth much, Mr. Sanders," said Sarah Clopton, "but I think it would be a shame to take that child so far away from home. I don't believe his mother will allow him to go."
"That is a matter that was jest fixin' for to worry me," remarked Mr. Sanders. "I could feel it kinder fermentin' in my mind, like molasses turnin' to vinegar, an' now that you've fetched it to the top, Sarah, we'll settle it before we go any furder. Come, Cephas; we'll go an' see your mammy, an' see ef we can't coax her into lettin' you go. You'll have to do your best, my son; I'll coax, an' you must wheedle."
As they went out, Cephas was laughing at Mr. Sanders's remark about wheedling. The youngster was an expert in that business. He was his mother's only child, and he had learned at a very early age just how to manage her.
"What troubles me, Cephas," said Mr. Sanders, "is how you can git a message to Gabriel wi'out lettin' the cat out'n the bag. He'll be surrounder'd in sech a way that you can't git a word wi' 'im wi'out tellin' the whole caboodle."
At that moment, Mr. Sanders heard a small voice cry out something like this: "Phazasee! Phazasee! arawa ooya ingagog?"
To which jabbering Cephas made prompt reply: "Iya ingagog ota annysavvy ota eesa gibbleable!"
"Ooya ibfa! Ooya ibfa!" jeered the small voice.
Mr. Sanders looked at Cephas in astonishment. "What kinder lingo is that?" he asked.
"It's the way we school-children talk when we don't want anybody to know what we are saying. Johnny asked me where I was going, and I told him I was going to Savannah to see Gabriel."
"Did he know what you said?"
"Why, he couldn't help but know, but he didn't believe it; he said it was a fib."
"Well, I'll be jigged!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Call that boy over here."
Cephas turned around—they had passed the house where the little boy lived—and called out: "Onnaja! Onnaja! Stermera Andersa antwasa ota eesa ooya."
The small boy came running, though there was a doubtful look on his face. He had frequently been the victim of Cephas's practical jokes.
Mr. Sanders questioned him closely, and he confirmed the interpretation of the lingo which Cephas had given to Mr. Sanders.
"Do you mean to tell me," said Mr. Sanders to Cephas when they had dismissed the small boy, "that this kinder thing has been goin' on right under my nose, an' I not knowin' a word about it? How'd you pick up the lingo?"
"Gabriel teached it to me," replied Cephas. "He talks it better than any of the boys, and I come next." This last remark Cephas made with a blush.
"Do I look pale, my son?" inquired Mr. Sanders, mopping his red face with his handkerchief. Cephas gave a negative reply by shaking his head. "Well, I may not look pale, but I shorely feel pale. You'll have to loan me your arm, Cephas; I feel like Christopher Columbus did when he discovered Atlanta, Ga."
"Why, he didn't discover Atlanta, Mr. Sanders," protested Cephas.
"He didn't!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Well, it was his own fault ef he didn't. All he had to do was to read the country newspapers. But that's neither here nor thar. Here I've been buttin' my head ag'in trees, an' walkin' in my sleep tryin' for to study up some plan to git word to Gabriel, an' here you walk along the street an' make me a present of the very thing I want, an' I ain't even thanked you for it."
Cephas couldn't guess what Mr. Sanders was driving at, and he asked no questions. His mind was too full of his proposed trip. When the proposition was first broached to Cephas's mother, she scouted the idea of allowing her boy to make the journey. He was all she had, and should anything happen to him—well, the world wouldn't be the same world to her. And it was so far away; why, she had heard some one say that Savannah was right on the brink of the ocean—that great monster that swallowed ships and men by the thousand, and was just as hungry afterward as before. But Cephas began to cry, saying that he wanted to see Gabriel; and Mr. Sanders told Gabriel's side of the story. Between the two, the poor woman had no option but to say that she'd consider the matter, and when a woman begins to consider—well, according to the ancient philosophers, it's the same as saying yes.
The truth is, a great deal of pressure was brought to bear on Cephas's mother, in one way and another. Meriwether Clopton called on her, bringing Captain Falconer. She was not at all pleased to see the Captain, and she made no effort to conceal her prejudice. "I never did think that I'd speak to a man in that uniform," she said with a very red face. But she was better satisfied when Meriwether Clopton told her that the Captain was the son of his dearest friend, and that he was utterly opposed to the radical policy.
The upshot of the matter was that, with many a sigh and some tears, she gave her consent for her onliest, her dearest, and her bestest, to go on the long journey. And then, after consenting, she was angry with herself because she had consented. In short, she was as miserable and as anxious as mother-love can make a woman, and poor Cephas never could understand until he became a grown man, and had children of his own, how his mother could make such a to-do over the opportunity that Providence had thrown in his way. To tell the truth, he was almost irritated at the obstacles and objections that the vivid imagination of his mother kept conjuring up. She said he must be sure not to fall in the ocean, and he must keep out of the way of the railroad trains. She cried silently all the time she was packing his modest supply of clothes in a valise, and put some tea-cakes in one corner, and a little Testament in the other.
It is no wonder that children who do not understand such feelings should be impatient of them, and Cephas is to be excused if he watched the whole proceeding with something like contempt for woman's weakness. But he has bitterly regretted, oh, tens of thousands of times, that, instead of standing aloof from his mother's feelings, he did not throw his arms around her, and tell how much he appreciated her love, and how every tear she shed for him was worth to him a hundred times more than a diamond. But Cephas was a boy, and, being a boy, he could not rise superior to his boy's nature.
It was arranged that Cephas was to go to Savannah with Captain Falconer, and return with Mr. Sanders, who would take advantage of the occasion to settle up some old business with the firm that had acted as factor for Meriwether Clopton before the war. The arrangement took place when Mr. Sanders returned home after his visit to Cephas's mother, and was of course conditional on her consent, which was not obtained at once.
Mr. Sanders was shrewd enough not to dwell too much on the plight of the young men on his return. By some method of his own, he seemed to sweep the whole matter from his mind, and both he and Meriwether Clopton addressed themselves to such topics as they imagined the Federal Captain would find interesting; and in this they were seconded by Sarah Clopton, whom Robert Toombs declared to be one of the finest conversationalists of her time when she chose to exert her powers. But for the softness and fine harmony of her features, her face would have been called masculine. Her countenance was entirely responsive to her emotions, and it was delightful to watch the eloquent play of her features. Captain Falconer fell quickly under the spell of her conversation, for one of its chiefest charms was the ease with which she brought out the best thoughts of his mind—thoughts and views that were a part of his inner self.
It was the same at dinner, where, without monopolising the talk, she led it this way and that, but always in channels that were congenial and pleasing to the Captain, and that enabled him to appear at his best. In honour of his guest, Meriwether Clopton brought out some fine old claret that had lain for many years undisturbed in the cellar.
"Thank you, Sarah," said Mr. Sanders, when the hostess pressed him to have a glass, "I'll not trouble you for any to-day. I've made the acquaintance of that claret. It ain't sour enough for vinegar, nor strong enough for liquor; it's a kind of a cross betwixt a second drawin' of tea an' the syrup of squills; an' no matter how hard you hit it it'll never hit you back. It's lots too mild for a Son of Temp'rance like me. No; gi' me a full jug an' a shuck-pen to crawl into, an' you may have all the wine, red or yaller."
But the fine old claret was thoroughly enjoyed by those who could appreciate the flower of its age and the flavour of its vintage; and when dinner was over, and Captain Falconer was on his way to camp, he felt that, outside of his own home, he had never had such a pleasant experience.
In the course of a few days orders came from Atlanta for Captain Falconer to turn over the command of the detachment to the officer next in rank, and proceed to Malvern, where he would find further instructions awaiting him. When the time came for Cephas to be off with the Captain, you may well believe that his mother saw all sorts of trouble ahead for him. She had dreamed some very queer dreams, she said, and she was very sure that no good would follow. And at the last moment, she would have taken Cephas from the barouche which had come for him, if the driver, following the instructions of Mr. Sanders, had not whipped up his horses, and left the lady standing in the street.
As for Cephas, he found that parting from his mother was not such a fine thing after all. He watched her through a mist of tears, and waved his handkerchief as long as he could see her; and then after that he was the loneliest little fellow you have ever seen. He refused to eat the extra tea-cake that his mother had put in the pocket of his jacket, and made up his mind to be perfectly miserable until he got back home. But, after all, boys are boys, and the feeling of loneliness and dejection wore away after awhile, and before he had gone many miles, what with making the acquaintance of the driver, who was a private soldier, and getting on friendly terms with Captain Falconer, he soon arrived at the point where he relished his tea-cake, and when this had been devoured, he felt as if travelling was the most delightful thing in the world, especially if a fellow has been intrusted with a tremendous secret that nobody else in the world knew besides Mr. Sanders and himself.
For as soon as Mr. Sanders discovered that the Captain would be willing to have Cephas go along, he had taken the little chap in hand, and thoroughly impressed upon his mind everything he wanted him to say to Gabriel, and he was not satisfied until Cephas had written the message out in the dog-latin of the school-children, and had learned it by heart. Mr. Sanders also impressed on the little lad's mind the probability that the Captain would be curious as to the nature of the message; and he gave Cephas a plausible answer for every question that an inquisitive person could put to him, and made him repeat these answers over and over again. In fact, Cephas was compelled to study as hard as if he had been in school, but he relished the part he was to play, and learned it with a zest that was very pleasing to Mr. Sanders. Only an hour before he was to leave with the Captain, Mr. Sanders went to Cephas's home, and made him repeat over everything he had been taught, and the glibness with which the little lad repeated the answers to the questions was something wonderful in so small a chap.
"Don't git lonesome, Cephas," was the parting injunction of Mr. Sanders. "Don't forgit that I'll be on the train when the whistle blows. I'm gwine to start right off. You may not see me, but I'll not be far off. Keep a stiff upper lip, an' don't git into no panic. The whole thing is gwine through like it was on skids, an' the skids greased."
Usually there is a yawning gulf between youth and old age; but in the case of Mrs. Lumsden and Nan Dorrington, it was spanned by the simplicity and tenderness common to both. Whether any of the ancients or moderns have mentioned the fact, it is hardly worth while to inquire, but good-humour is a form of tenderness. Those who are easy to laugh are likewise ready to be sorry, and they have a fund of sympathy to draw on whenever the necessity arises. Simplicity and tenderness connect the highest wisdom with the deepest ignorance, and find the elements of brotherhood where the intellect is unable to discern it. It was simplicity and tenderness that bridged the gulf of years that lay between the old gentlewoman and the young girl. Age can find no comfort for itself unless it can make terms with youth. Where it stands alone, depending upon the respect that should belong to what is venerable, there is something gruesome about it. It quenches the high spirits of children and young people, and chills their enthusiasm. All that it does for them is to give notorious advertisement to the complexion to which they must all come at last. "You see these wrinkled and flabby features, this gray hair, these faded and watery eyes, these shaking limbs and trembling hands: well, this is what you must come to." And, indeed, it is an object lesson well calculated to sober and subdue the giddy.
Now, age had dealt very gently with Gabriel's grandmother; it became her well. Her white hair was even more beautiful now than it had been when she was young, as Meriwether Clopton often declared. Her eyes were bright, and all her sympathies were as keenly alive as they had been fifty years before. She had kept in touch with Gabriel and the young people about her, and none of her faculties had been impaired. She was the gentlest of gentlewomen.
Once Nan had asked her—"Grandmother Lumsden, what is the perfume I smell every time I come here? You have it on your clothes."
"Life Everlasting, my dear." For one brief and fleeting instant, Nan had the odd feeling that she could see millions and millions of years into the future. Life Everlasting! She caught her breath. But the vision or feeling was swept away by the placid voice of Mrs. Lumsden. "I believe you and Gabriel call it rabbit tobacco," she explained.
Nan had a great longing to be with Mrs. Lumsden the moment she heard that Gabriel had been spirited away by the strong arm of the Government. She felt that she would be more comfortable there than at home.
"My dear, what put it into that wise little head of yours to come and comfort an old woman?" Mrs. Lumsden asked, when Meriwether Clopton and Miss Fanny Tomlin had taken their departure. She was still sitting close to Nan, caressing her hand.
"I thought you would be lonely with Gabriel gone, and I just made up my mind to come. I was afraid until I reached the door, and then I wasn't afraid any more. If you don't want me, I'll soon find it out."
"I can't tell you how glad I am, Nan, to have you here; and I can guess your feelings. No doubt you were shocked to hear that Francis Bethune had been taken with the rest." The dear old lady had the knack of clinging to her ideas.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Grandmother Lumsden. I care no more for Mr. Bethune than I do for the others—perhaps not so much."
"I don't know why it is," said Mrs. Lumsden, "but I have always looked forward to the day when you and Francis would be married."
"I've heard you talk that way before, and I've often wondered why you did it."
"Oh, well! perhaps it is one of my foolish dreams," said Mrs. Lumsden with a sigh.
"Your father's plantation and that of Francis's grandfather are side by side, and I have thought it would be romantic for the heirs to join hands and make the two places one."
"I can't see anything romantic in that, Grandmother Lumsden. It's like a sum in arithmetic."
"Well, you must allow old people to indulge in their dreams, my dear. When you are as old as I am, and have seen as much of life, you will have different ideas about romance."
"I hope, ma'am, that your next dream will be truer," said Nan, almost playfully.
That night, Nan lay awake for a long time. At last she slipped out of bed, felt her way around it, and leaned over and kissed Gabriel's grandmother. In an instant she felt the motherly arms of the old gentlewoman around her.
"Is that the way you do, when Gabriel comes and kisses you in the night?" whispered Nan wistfully.
"Yes, yes, my dear—many times."
"Oh, I am so glad!" the words exhaled from the girl's lips in a long-drawn, trembling sigh. Then she went back to her place in bed, and soon both the comforter and the comforted were sound asleep.
As has been hinted, the moment Mr. Sanders discovered there was some slight chance of getting a message to Gabriel, he became one of the busiest men in Shady Dale, though his industry was not immediately apparent to his friends and neighbours. Among those whom he took occasion to see was Mr. Tidwell, whose son Jesse was among the prisoners.
"Gus," said Mr. Sanders, without any ceremony, "you remember the row you come mighty nigh havin' wi' Tomlin Perdue, not so many years ago?"
"Yes; I remember something of it," replied Mr. Tidwell. He was a man who ordinarily went with his head held low, as though engaged in deep thought. When spoken to he straightened up, and thereby seemed to add several inches to his height.
"Well, it's got to be done over ag'in," remarked Mr. Sanders. "It happened in Malvern, didn't it?"
"Yes, in the depot," replied Mr. Tidwell. "We were both on our way to Atlanta, and the Major misunderstood something I had said."
"Egzackly! Well, it must be done over ag'in."
Mr. Tidwell lowered his head and appeared to reflect. Then he straightened up again, and his face was very serious. "Mr. Sanders, has Tomlin Perdue been dropping his wing about that fuss? Has he been making remarks?"
"Oh, I reckon not," replied Mr. Sanders cheerfully. "But I've got a mighty good reason for axin' you about it. Come in your office, Gus, an' I'll tell you all I know, an' it won't take me two minnits."
They went in and closed the door, and remained in consultation for some time. While they were thus engaged, Silas Tomlin came to the door, tried the bolt, and finding that it would not yield, walked restlessly up and down, preyed upon by many strange and conflicting emotions. He had evidently gone through much mental suffering. His face was drawn and haggard, and his clothes were shabbier than ever. He took no account of time, but walked up and down, waiting for Mr. Tidwell to come out, and as he walked he was the victim both of his fears and his affections. One moment, he heartily wished that he might never see his son again; the next he would have given everything he possessed to have the boy back, and hear once more the familiar, "Hello, father!"
After awhile, Mr. Sanders and Mr. Tidwell came forth from the lawyer's office. They appeared to be in fine humour, for both were laughing, as though some side-splitting joke had just passed between them.
"There's no doubt about it, Mr. Sanders," Lawyer Tidwell was saying, "you ought to be a major-general!"
"I declare, Tidwell!" exclaimed Silas, with something like indignation, "I don't see how you can go around happy and laughing under the circumstances. You do like you could fetch your son back with a laugh. I wish I could fetch Paul back that way."
"Well, he'd stay whar he is, Silas," said Mr. Sanders, with a benevolent smile, "ef his comin' back had to be brung about by any hilarity from you. Why, you ain't laughed but once sence you was a baby, an' when you heard the sound of it you set up a howl that's lasted ever sence."
"If you think, Silas, that crying will bring the boys back," said Mr. Tidwell, "I'll join you in a crying-match, and stand here and boohoo with you just as long as you want to."
"I just called by to see if you had heard any news," remarked Silas, taking no offence at the sarcastic utterances of the two men. "I am just obliged to get some news. I am on pins: I can't sleep at night; and my appetite is gone."
Mr. Sanders looked at the man's haggard face, and immediately became serious and sympathetic. "Well, I tell you, Silas, you needn't worry another minnit. The only one amongst 'em that's in real trouble is Gabriel Tolliver. I've looked into the case from A to Izzard, an' that's the way it stan's."
"That is perfectly true," assented Mr. Tidwell. "We can account for the movements of all the boys on the night of the killing except those of Tolliver; and he is in considerable danger. By the way, Silas, you said some time ago—oh, ever so long ago—that you would bring me a copy ofBlackwood's Magazine. You remember there was a story in it you wanted me to read."
"No, I—well, I tried to find it; I hunted for it high and low; but I haven't been able to put my hands on it. But I've had so much trouble of one kind and another, that I clean forgot it. I'm glad you mentioned it; I'll try to find it again."
"Well, as a lawyer," said Mr. Tidwell, somewhat significantly—or so it seemed to Silas—"I don't charge you a cent for telling you that your case wouldn't stand a minnit."
"My case—my case! What case? I have no case. Why, I don't know what you are talking about." He shook his head and waved his hand nervously.
"Oh, I remember now; your case was purely hypothetical," said Mr. Tidwell. "Well, yourBlackwoodwas wrong about it."
"That's what I thought," Silas assented with a grunt; and with that, he turned abruptly away, and went in the direction of his house.
"I'll tell you what's the fact," remarked Mr. Sanders, as he watched the shabby and shrunken figure retreat; "I'm about to change my mind about Silas. I used to think he was mean all through; but he's got a nice warm place in his heart for that son of his'n. I declare I feel right sorry for the man."
Before Cephas went away, he was not too busy learning the lessons Mr. Sanders had set for him to forget to hunt up Nan Dorrington and tell her the wonderful news; to-wit, that he was about to go on a journey, and that while he was gone he would most likely see Gabriel.
"Well," said Nan, drawing herself up a little stiffly, "what is that to me?" Unfortunately, Cephas had come upon the girl when she was talking with Eugenia Claiborne, who had sought her out at the Lumsden Place.
Cephas looked at her hard a moment, and then his freckled face turned red. He was properly angry. "Well, whatever it may be to you, it's a heap to me," he said. "I hope it's nothing to you."
"Cephas, will you see Paul Tomlin?" asked Eugenia. "If you do, tell him that one of his friends sent him her love."
"Is it sure enough love?" inquired Cephas.
"Yes, Cephas, it is," replied Eugenia simply and seriously—but her face was very red. "Tell him that Eugenia Claiborne sent him her love."
"All right," said Cephas, and turned away without looking at Nan. She had hurt his feelings.
This turn of affairs didn't suit Nan at all. She ran after Cephas, and caught him by the arm. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Cephas, to treat me so? How could I tell you anything before others? If you see Gabriel, tell him—oh, I don't know what to say. If I was to tell you what I want to, you'd say that Nan Dorrington had lost her mind. No, I'll not send any word, Cephas. It wouldn't be proper in a young lady. If he asks about me, just tell him that I am well and happy."